Chapter 34

I'm not sure how I ended up out here.

It's the middle of the night, but you wouldn't know that by the flurry of activity going on around the hotel, both inside and out.

News vans.

Tents.

Flashing red and blue lights.

Back here though, for whatever reason, it's quiet.

Empty.

Dark.

I stare ahead, the entrance to the hedge maze seemingly growing taller and more daunting with each passing second.

"What are you doing?"

Blinking, I turn my head, but not fully, not enough to actually see him.

Footsteps draw near, coming up behind me.

A hand grips my shoulder, whirling me around, and I jump back.

Mason's eyes widen on mine, darting all over my face. "Jeremy?"

He said my name.

Touched me.

I'm still here.

"Jeremy, what the hell are you doing out here?" His brow is furrowed deeply. His gaze drifts just past me, and his throat bobs. "You shouldn't be here."

Shadows cling to the skin just under his eyes, and I wonder if I look as ragged as he does. I imagine it's been even longer for me since I slept, seeing as I waited until morning to call him. And the only reason I did, was because they found that broken heel, and I knew…

I knew…

"Come on," he mutters, and goes to turn away.

"They gave up."

At my words, he pauses, straightening.

"She could still be in here. Hurt."

"Jer…the dogs…" He turns to face me, eyes creased. He shakes his head, looking all around me. "She's not in there."

His words have a searing pain shooting through my chest. "She is!" I shout before I can stop myself.

His eyes widen as he rears back.

I didn't even realize I took a lunging step forward.

Seething through my teeth, all I can do is stare at him. "She is."

Slowly, he nods. "You…you feel her." Not a question.

Everything in me stills.

He rushes forward suddenly, stopping mere inches away from me, gaze darting wildly over my face. His desperation is a living, breathing thing when he asks me, "Do you feel her?"

My lashes flutter, and I start shaking my head. "I-I don't…I don't know."

Fierce determination solidifies his features, and he nods strongly. "Let's go."

"What?"

He storms past me, entering the mouth of the maze.

"Mason…"

Twisting his head over his shoulder, dark green hedges and a black night closing in around him, he levels me a knowing look—the kind that holds a level of faith I'm not sure I deserve.

"If anyone can find her, you can."

When we getto my house, it's dark—quiet—with the exception of the dimly lit table lamp, the familiar creaking of pipes pumping water to and from the furnace, and our strained breaths as I carefully guide Mason inside.

Leaning him up against the bannister, I quietly turn and close the door, shutting out the cold. At the last second, I remember to lock it. No point leaving it open tonight.

I go to throw Mason's arm back over my shoulders, silently praying to whatever God may actually give a damn that we actually make it up the stairs without waking the whole house—when a voice coming from the other room stops me.

"Jeremy? That you?"

My eyes fall shut. Shit.

I was hoping my parents would be in bed by now, or at least too distracted to pick up on me sneaking back in. But a glance over my shoulder at the grandfather clock in the corner shows it's only quarter to eleven.

"Wait here," I mumble.

Mason slumps back against the bannister, arms wrapping around the railing, and he rests his head against his bicep like it's a pillow. I'd push him down to sit, but then I'd definitely have zero chance at all of getting him up the stairs.

Sending another silent plea into the universe that Dad keeps this short, I steel myself and turn for the hallway, quickening my steps to try and get to my Dad before he gets to me.

But no such luck.

Dad appears around the corner, his dirty blond hair rumpled, glasses skewed. Telling me he was in his office again. Likely fell asleep at his desk.

He spends all his time in there these days, scouring the internet and throwing Izzy's name and picture out on any relevant forum he can find, hoping for some kind of lead. A bite. A sighting. A sign. Anything.

I only know this because I had to print something for school one day, a couple months ago, and my printer had run out of ink.

Windows upon windows of open forums and articles were scattered across his screen, like a condensed murder board.

I think it's safe to say he hasn't fared any better than the FBI these last six months.

"Hey," I say awkwardly. Hanging my head, I keep my gaze downturned, and run my fingers through my blond hair, twisting the dead ends that curl messily around my cheeks.

Dad's socked feet shift along the runner going across our foyer.

"Hey, kid," he whispers roughly.

I flit my gaze up through my lashes, watching as his brows knit when he takes in the wet, rumpled figure slumped against the bannister behind me.

"Everything okay?" Dad says in a faint, distant voice.

I stare at him, biting back the retort licking up my throat. No, Dad, nothing is okay.

If the wince breaking across his face before he quickly shakes head is anything to go by, he too must've realized how stupid that question is.

He rubs a hand roughly across the lower half of his face. His beard is thicker and more gray than it's ever been. There's a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes that makes me think he hasn't noticed how unruly it's become.

"It was easier to just bring him here," I explain stupidly, the lie rolling easily off my tongue.

Dad nods distractedly, his gaze far-off like he's no longer here.

Sucking in my cheeks, I nod. "I'm just gonna…" I let my voice trail off and wave a hand in the air.

I turn away, just as my dad whispers, "Okay, goodnight," and I hear his footsteps padding across the floor, heading back the way they came.

I don't even know if he sleeps in their bed anymore. Whereas Mom rarely leaves the room these days, Dad's like a ghost appearing and disappearing randomly throughout the downstairs. If he's not pacing from room to room, he's holed up in his office, or standing in front of the sliding back door in our kitchen, staring off into the distance.

One night, I found him there when I came downstairs around midnight to get a glass of water for Mason.

When morning came, he was still there. Standing in the exact same spot.

"JJ?"

Blinking out of my thoughts, I pause at Mason's side, and twist my head over my shoulder.

Dad's standing against the doorjamb with his hand gripping the wooden frame, knuckles whitened, like it's all that's holding him up. I didn't hear him come back.

My pulse spikes when our gazes connect.

His face is weathered like he's aged ten years in the last few months, made even more prominent by the way he crumples in this moment. Devastation mingled with guilt shines back at me from reddened brown eyes.

"Happy birthday," he chokes out.

Pain, sharp and fleeting, rips a gash down my chest. My jaw trembles, and I sink between my shoulders on instinct, like I'm bracing for an attack. All I can manage is a nod, before I whirl around, and hurriedly make my way to Mason's side.

Distantly, under the roar thundering in my ears, I hear my dad's steps retreating.

He doesn't even comment on Mason's state, the fact he's here, or offer to help me get him upstairs. It should bother me, probably, but all I feel is grateful to be free of the devastation radiating from him like sonic waves.

So caught up in the acute onslaught of emotion barraging through me, it doesn't immediately occur to me how tense Mason suddenly is. So tense, that he doesn't even wait for me to help him up the stairs. His fist is clenched at his side, reddened and puffy from Clay's cheekbone. With his other hand, he grips the railing, using it to heave himself up the stairs, feet dragging loudly—too loudly. Not that it matters anymore.

His hair has started to dry some, and it falls around his head in a curly, floppy mess that just begs for a brush. Or fingers…

Mouth dry, I keep a safe distance behind him as he trudges his way to my room. He pauses just as he reaches my door on the right, and I imagine him doing this every night he sneaks over.

He just stands there for a long moment, staring seemingly straight ahead. Really, he's staring at the closed door just up ahead.

It's been six months now since either of us have been in there. Not since that first week back from Florida.

Mom goes in there to dust the furniture and air it out, but otherwise, as far as I'm aware, everything remains untouched, waiting for the person that room belongs to to return.

Mason abruptly cuts a right , disappearing inside my room.

I swallow tightly and follow him inside.

Keeping my head low, I head for my dresser.

"Don't get on the bed," I tell him, brushing past him, just before he can flop down and crash, when he's still in damp jeans and smelling like puke and vodka. "You're all wet and gross."

He doesn't respond, but does as I say, and just stands there in the middle of the room, waiting for instructions.

On autopilot, I dig through the bottom left drawer of my dresser where I stash the clothes he's somehow managed to leave here over the last six months. Figuring they'd come in handy eventually. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any spare shirts currently—he must've went home with both last time he changed here—so he'll have to borrow one of mine. As for boxers…

Well, that's the one thing we never had an issue with until now.

"Fuck it," I mutter, yanking out the top drawer where all my socks and underwear are.

They're gonna be so tight.

Gritting my teeth at the images threatening to burst across my vision, I grab two pairs, and then two shirts—an oversized black Pearl Jam one that will probably not be oversized at all on him, and for myself, an faded gray Marvel tee that has holes around the hem and sleeves, but is so soft, I can't bring myself to part with it.

"Here," I mutter, dropping what he needs unceremoniously on the bed next to where he stands. He's so still, and surprisingly steady, I almost wonder if he somehow fell asleep standing up.

"Can you do this yourself?" I force myself to ask, hating how my voice creaks.

It's a long moment before he nods.

Thank God.

"You use my bathroom, I'll use the one in the hall."

And with that, I quickly make my exit, before he can stop me.

I just need a fucking moment.

In the bathroom, I quickly peel off my damp clothes, wrinkling my nose at the musty scent, and the way the tight denim chafes sliding down my legs. The chill brings goosebumps to my flesh, and I quickly shove my legs in black joggers that cinch around the ankles.

Shirtless, I brush my teeth and finger-comb my hair. I avoid meeting my gaze in the mirror, instead focusing on the minty paste foaming around my lips, and the tendons standing out glaringly bright from my neck.

When I'm done and I've washed my face, I roll on some deodorant, since I'm pretty sure I forgot to put some on earlier. Not that Mason would probably even notice or probably care if I stunk, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.

Tugging the clean shirt over my head, I curve an arm around my face, muffling a yawn. Awareness prickles along the back of my scalp as that searing pain from downstairs gives a pathetic little throb, reminding me it's still there, even if it's retreated to the background for the moment. Pacing like a caged tiger, hovering, waiting for a crack in the wall of ice encasing me.

Figuring I've stalled long enough, I grab my damp, discarded clothes, and bundle them in my arms to throw in the hamper. Flicking off the light, I step into the hall, and spare one long glance in the direction of my parents' room at the end.

The door's closed, as it always is anymore.

It's dark inside, so I hope that means Mom's sleeping. Unable to help myself, my ears strain, searching for any sign of life inside. Sometimes late at night, I hear her crying. Sometimes she's praying. Sometimes she's humming, just like Izzy always did when she was obsessing over some piano piece.

Maybe like Dad's forums, music is Mom's way of looking for her. Like maybe her whereabouts could be found buried somewhere in the melody, if only she could decipher what it is playing in her mind.

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I rap my knuckles softly against my door. No response. I inhale deeply, and gently turn the knob, pushing it open.

At first I don't see him. Like before, when he was standing there, he's utterly still. Only now he's not standing, but sitting on the edge of my bed. And he's staring down at something cupped in his hands.

He's changed, and I realize I never gave him any socks.

Before I can ask if he wants a pair, he says, "You still have it."

I frown, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

Taking a step toward him, I follow his gaze down to where he strokes his thumb over a familiar gaudy ring laid out flat across his palm, the silver chain I put it on hanging from where it's curled around his fingers.

My steps falter, the breath momentarily leaving me.

I open my mouth, only for nothing to come out.

Pale blue eyes lift up to my face, shining like little pained beacons. "You kept it."

My swallow goes down like a jagged rock. I manage a short nod.

His face bunches and he shakes his head, his gaze dipping down to my neck. "It's your birthday."

I nod.

"It's your birthday," he says again, more desperately this time, and his hand trembles, the chain swinging.

He doesn't say it, but I hear it nonetheless, woven within each pained syllable:

Too.

It's your birthday too.

I shrug a shoulder, and finally get my feet to move.

He drops his gaze back to the ring and clenches it in his fist. His eyes are squeezed tight, half-hidden by the light brown curls falling over his face. "I'm sorry." His voice is no louder than a whisper, breaking off completely before he even fully gets the words out.

"It's okay," I murmur reflexively.

He's shaking his head. The knuckles wrapped around the ring turn white from where the blood's been cut off, and the bones push against his skin. At least he's not holding it in his injured hand. I doubt he can even form a fist with how rapidly it swelled.

"Can I?" I say, coming to a stop right in front of him. I hold out my hand expectantly.

His throat dips with a hard swallow, and then he's overturning his hand, dropping the warm ring into my waiting palm. That's not what I meant, but I squeeze it anyway once it's back in my possession, welcoming the dull cut of metal engraving itself into my flesh.

"And the other one," I whisper.

He frowns, and his brows pull together in that adorably boyish way they do. Mashing my molars together, I gesture with my fingers at the hand resting loosely on his thigh.

"Oh," he says, his frown deepening when he lifts his hand for me to look at it. He gives his head a little shake, and I wonder if he forgot what happened. If he forgot he was in pain.

Keeping the ring tucked in my fist, I use my fingers to inspect his bruised, busted knuckles, while cradling the heel of his hand in my free one.

"I don't think anything's broken," I whisper.

He sniffs and shrugs like it wouldn't make a difference if it was, and despite how numb I am to my own feelings, I feel a jolt of raw heartbreak for him.

He hasn't touched the piano in six months. Hasn't written any new lyrics, or touched any instrument, for that matter. If it was up to him, I think he'd ban music completely. He doesn't even listen anymore.

It's as if he's…afraid. Afraid it means he's moving on. That he's given up.

I can't say I blame him, seeing as here I am, emotionally paralyzed and unable to so much as cry out of fear it will pop this little bubble of ours.

The world won't stop for Izzy, but ours sure has.

As much as I used to resent his love for music—and how it was the thing that initially took him from me, making him Izzy's before I could even so much as hope to make him mine—my friend, my person, mine…

Now it's just wrong. All wrong.

Mason is music.

Him without it is unfathomable…

And yet here we are, going on six months now, proving that even when confronted with such blasphemy—such impossibility—we still can't accept what's right in front of our fucking faces.

There's still hope.

Bitterness gnaws at me at the thought. Who knew hope could be so fucking cruel?

I carefully lower his hand, laying it gently back on his lap. I then go to turn—to put the ring back where he must've found it hanging around one of the Spider-Man action figures sitting on my shelf—but a hand shoots out, clasping my wrist with a surprising amount of grace and precision for someone who was hunched over in a shower vomiting his body's weight in vodka less than an hour ago.

I can't help but wonder if that means he'll remember all this tomorrow.

Or if he's just getting better at carrying himself when he's out of his mind. Becoming acclimated to this dismal state.

"I'm sorry," he tells me.

"Me too."

His eyes crease, and he goes to say something, but I quickly break his hold and cut sharply across the room, to my desk instead. Opening the top drawer, I drop the chain with the ring inside, and am just about to close it when an idea strikes me.

Behind me, I hear the rustle of blankets, and the creaks of the mattress as Mason gets settled in.

I stare unseeingly down at my desk, wondering, not for the first time, how this is my life now.

I've got the boy of my dreams in my bed, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole and die.

I feel him watching me, and I give myself one last moment to stew in my misery and second-guess everything, before slipping the ring from the chain and turning on my heel.

"Here," I say, approaching where he lays on his back.

He frowns, his gaze drifting down to what rests in the center of my palm.

"But it's yours," he murmurs.

"I know. But why don't you hold onto it for a bit?" I shrug. "I don't really need a shield these days, so…you use it." My heart races, and a sweat breaks across my neck. And just when I think he's going to laugh or scoff at my lameness and roll away…

He reaches out.

With clumsy fingers, he swipes it up, sliding it onto the middle finger of his left hand.

His throat dips with a swallow, and he murmurs, "Thanks."

Nodding, I turn away, and make for the door.

"Where are you going?"

I pause, my hand clenched around the knob. With my other hand, I flip the light, bathing the room in darkness. "Nowhere," I say, closing the door, sealing the rest of the world out.

Why I thought I could get away from…this…I have no idea.

Why I even wanted to…

Well that's a lot more complicated.

And most fucked up of all, when I turn around and find the lump that is Mason buried under my covers, hidden mostly in shadows, waiting for me to join him…

I feel relieved.

The bed dips, creaking again, when I climb in next to him.

Tugging the blanket up to my neck, I roll onto my side, facing the door, bracing for the inevitable.

Mason's breathing is all I hear, slow and heavy coming from behind me. And for a moment, hope that he's already fallen asleep rears its ugly head.

But then there's movement, and a familiar arm curling around me.

My eyes fall shut.

A face buries into my nape, knees curling up against my back.

He shudders, his balled up body pressing into me, like if he shrinks himself down enough and gets close enough, he could actually disappear inside all this hollow space I have.

I bite at the pillow, unable to do anything but…allow him inside, to invade every dark and cold, dusty nook and cranny I have.

"Jeremy?" he whispers hotly against my skin.

Just like clockwork…

"Yeah?"

His breath hitches, and I wonder if maybe…maybe he too wishes he had more restraint. Wonder if maybe he hates this as much as I do…hates himself…hates what we've become in this frozen world, where our only comfort is found in the heat of each other's bodies late, late at night.

We're clothed, and yet I never feel so naked as I do as when I'm in Mason's arms.

"Do you still feel her?"

And with nothing but plastic stars and planets as my witnesses, in the arms of the boy I love and who I'll never have—not now, and not ever—I let the lie fall easily from my lips.

"Yes."