The shift doesn’t change. That’s what unsettles me the most. I half-expect someone to clap Mason on the shoulder, to pull him back into the fold with a joke or a half-arsed apology, the way these things usually resolve when they’re nothing.
It doesn’t happen.
I finish my drink and leave before I say something rash or unhelpful.
Later on, I overhear someone say his name in a different tone. It’s the sort of tone people use when they don’t want to be associated too closely with whatever they’re gossiping about. “Keep an eye on him,” one of the ladsmutters, not to me, but it’s close enough and loud enough that I hear it.
“Why?” the other one asks.
“Just… I’ve heard some stuff.” That’s it. There’s no elaboration or accusation. Then the conversation moves on like it never happened.
By the next day, his name comes up less. It’s not deliberately avoided — that I can tell anyway. It’s just... skipped over. Someone asks a question he would normally answer, and another voice fills the space instead.
A job he’s known for is handed to someone else without question. It’s the kind of administrative decision that looks neutral on paper and feels anything but when you’re the one being edged out.
I start noticing who watches him and who doesn’t.
Some people won’t meet his eyes at all. Others look too long; the curiosity is edged with something colder. No one says anything directly. No one needs to. The atmosphere does that for them.
I find Mason behind the equipment shed later that afternoon, sitting on an overturned crate with a cigarette he hasn’t lit. He looks up when I approach, then straightens up like he’s been caught doing something wrong, even though he hasn’t done anything at all. “You’re hiding now?” I ask.
“I’m thinking,” he says. “Dangerous, I know.”
I stop a few feet away, leaning back against the wall. “Are you alright?”
He hesitates before answering. “They pulled me from the rotation. Didn’t even say why.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” he snaps, then sighs. “That’s it. That’s the whole explanation.”
“Did anyone ask you anything?”
“Not directly,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes still fixed on the ground. “They mentioned conduct,” he says eventually. “General stuff. Situational awareness. Whether I’d noticed any changes in the group dynamic lately.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no, because what the hell am I supposed to say?” He laughs, sharp and humourless. “They didn’t ask what I thought they were going to ask.”
“Did they mention the pub?” I ask.
“No,” he says, his head coming up fast.
“Good.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know what it doesn’t mean,” I say. “You need to keep your head down.”
“I am.”
“Lower.”
He swallows hard. “This’ll pass, won’t it?”
I don’t answer immediately. There are a dozen responses I could give him, none of them honest enough to help rightnow. “Probably,” I say instead. It’s the closest I can get without lying outright.
He nods, like that’s enough. “Funny, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. “I didn’t even do anything wrong. It was just a kiss.”
