Not that I give them anything to look at anyway.
The six of us who came back from Russia drift toward each other automatically. Mason’s as loud as ever, complaining about the food and the fact that there’s nothing to do once the working day ends. “The place is dead,” he says, dropping into a chair opposite me in the common room. “No duties till Monday and nothing worth getting out of bed for.”
“I wish your mouth were dead,” I mumble.
“How about you enjoy the rest?” Collins offers.
Mason snorts. “I’ll enjoy it when I’m doing something.” There’s a brief, half-arsed debate about options, most of which get dismissed immediately. I don't get involved in the discussion. My head is elsewhere, in another country.
It might as well be on Mars.
“The World’s End’s open late,” Collins says eventually.
Mason brightens and pushes himself up from the chair. “That’ll do. At least it’s not here. Come on then, ladies. Shower, shit and shave. Back here in an hour. You too, Varrik. I see you trying to ignore me,” he says while walking away. No one argues with him.
Decision made, I guess.
The World’s End is already loud when we arrive; the busy pub noise spills out every time the doors open. We shove a couple of tables together near the bar and settle in like we’ve done a hundred times before. The pints arrive, Collins orders shots and gets told where to shove them.
Not by me, although I am thinking the same thing.
The conversation loops easily through Russia, the cold, the boredom, and the people. I find myself listening rather than participating in the conversation. What would I even say? The weather was shit; I was never bored because of a certain tall, beautiful, blond menace.
Probably not.
I drink slower than the others, mostly because I don’t trust my mouth once I’m drunk. Also, the last thing I need to be doing is going back to base drunk and crying into my pillow.
A few seats down, someone interrupts a story mid-sentence to correct a detail that doesn’t matter, loudly enough to make sure everyone hears it.
Mason rolls his eyes and heads for the bar, draining his pint as he stands.
As I sit heavily in my thoughts, I can’t help but return to the email. I think it's pretty clear why he wrote it. It’s a window, if I want one. But a window to what? There’s no clear answer, that’s what is eating away at me.
Russia. Ari. How do I keep going without Ari? God, even my own thoughts are making me cringe. No matter how accurate the thoughts may be. I finish my drink, andI’ve now reached the point where staying put feels like a mistake. I push back from the table and go outside for some air.
A few people are already outside, scattered along the pub wall, smoking and drunkenly chatting in little clusters. I lean back against the wall and stay there with my eyes shut, trying to block out the noise.
People eventually begin to drift past me, then thin out. Some go back inside and others leave. I stand there blessedly, finally alone, when a sound from the direction of the bins in the alleyway grabs my attention. My curiosity gets the better of me; I step closer to the sound.
It’s Mason. He’s standing a little distance away, half-hidden in the dark. He’s standing close to someone I don’t recognise at first. I squint until he comes into focus. The bartender? I forget his name, it’s something... Irish. They’re not too close together for a casual conversation, but when the bartender lifts his hand and grips Mason’s jaw, Mason doesn’t move away. In fact, his head tips slightly into it, and he’s smiling.
Maybe it could still be nothing — just two people leaning in to hear each other over the noise. But then the bartender closes the gap and kisses him hard, pressing him up against the wall. Mason’s hands come up around his waist, pulling him in closer. It’s quick, almost messy. There’s no attempt to hide it.
Holy fucking shit balls.
I remain where I am, the shock temporarily freezing me to the spot. I shouldn’t be watching, I know that. But my gaze lifts automatically, scanning the space around me — the door, the corners, the edges of light — checking no one else is here.
I think Mason feels my presence before he sees me. His body goes stock-still, then he pulls back, his eyes desperately flicking around the alleyway until they land on mine. He hesitates, says something to the bartender, who disappears down the alley, then Mason rushes towards me.
Shit.
He stops a few feet away, jittery, like he can’t work out where he’s meant to stand or what to say. “You saw,” he says quietly. “You definitely saw.”
“Yes. No. I mean — I saw nothing.”
He nods quickly. “Right. Okay. Right.” He exhales a short laugh that dies immediately. “Fuck.”
“Mate, it’s okay.”
