in the eye of the hurricane | self
WHO: Mason McCarthy, various family members. Feat. @snixxem and the Berry Men.
WHERE: McCarthy residence, Berry residence
WHEN: Thanksgiving Day, a few days post-thanksgiving
SUMMARY: thanksgiving with mason’s family -- his mother’s side. tainted by mourning, he then continues on a tradition with rachel’s fathers.
It was official. Mason hated the holidays.
Sure, there were a few good moments; his grandmother arriving the night before Thanksgiving with presents in tow from the past two birthdays that she just so happened to miss, but it seemed that his mother’s mother was stuck in the past -- instead of say, something he could use for his job, in her wake was a baton that he could’ve used very well back when he donned the Cheerios uniform. Madison always received her usual, but well -- creative arts can last a lifetime. She can use those tools anyday -- he didn’t have much usage for a baton or a new curling iron.
Especially since... well.
His grandmother wasn’t happy when he walked through the door the morning of Thanksgiving with his freshly-growing in buzz-cut. He wasn’t the last to arrive, nor was he the first; his cousins littering the household and making it seem full again. And despite his desperate attempts, it hadn’t felt full since his father’s fiasco. Even after they moved, it never felt full.
Various family members asked him how things were going, and they tried so hard to check up on him, but he brushed them off. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about anything. Not to his family, at least. Maybe to Madison, but well -- Madison was never her friend. He hadn’t talked to Madison properly in weeks, anyways. A few more hours ( read: days ) wouldn’t do any damage.
His aunt was discussing whatever high-end job his uncle had gotten within the past few years, and how they were doing a lot better since moving to Washington D.C. A part of him ached; he only wished his family was doing that well. With the uprising of tablets and e-books, it was only a matter of time before the bookstore closed it’s doors for good. It was still sometimes a shock to him that his mother could afford the house she lived in, still keeping everything she wanted to keep and refusing to take out a mortgage. And yet, here his family was: basking in the awe of smartphones and six-figure salaries.
It made him sick to his stomach.
But maybe that was the third glass of wine in the past hour talking.
It was always his mother’s side that attended Thanksgiving, and most other holidays; never his father’s side. They didn’t talk to or about his father, or whatever family still felt like talking to them on that side. It was always at his mother’s house, because according to his grandmother: “It’s the biggest, and the closest. We can all fit like the happy family we are.”
Happy.
Bullshit.
Mason hadn’t been happy in a while.
But yet, he put on the smiling facade he was supposed to don come the holiday season, and sat at the kitchen island next to his mother while silently listening in on the conversation. He could hear his uncle and his grandfather in the living room, yelling at the television -- he may have been a Cheerleader, but football wasn’t his thing. He was more of a watcher of the players, not the actual game itself. But ever time he brought that up, well --
“Some things are better left unsaid, Mason.”
Sometimes he really, really disliked his grandmother.
He was hoping this year would be different. Hoped that maybe, just maybe, his family would be off his back. That his grandmother wouldn’t be pulling at the back of his collar, begging him to find something suitable for a wife and family, as if there wasn’t even the chance that Mason could find a husband. That his aunt wouldn’t be rubbing it in his face how Johnathan, the cousin only a few months younger than Mason and Madison, was two months away from a top-of-the-line promotion at a law firm in Virginia. That maybe Devin, the sixteen year old brother of Johnathan wouldn’t sneak off to the park down the street only to come home twenty minutes before dinner smelling like pot. That maybe his grandfather wouldn’t drink himself stupid, to the point where he felt no problem throwing every hateful slur Mason’s way because he decided to wear a dress to his aunt’s wedding.
He was only thirteen. He didn’t see it as a bad thing. He just wanted to look pretty like his mom.
Mason could hear his cousins upstairs in the guest room -- if one could even call it that. It had been renovated so many times, Mason lost count. Once, it was a study. Another, a small library to hold the books that couldn’t go in the bookstore. One time his mother even tried to take up crafting and turned it into a walking art store. Eventually it was settled upon storage, so who knows what palace of junk the younger kids got themselves into.
Damn his aunt and her six freaking kids.
It was on his fifth glass as he helped his mother fluff the stuffing that Mason decided he really, really hated the holidays.
But, then again...
Rachel always loved them.
Rachel loved coming over in the morning of Thanksgiving, helping his mother with the vegetables because she refused to touch the meat. They’d engage in conversation about whatever was going on at school; be it the musical, the play, student council -- whatever Rachel wanted to talk about, his mother would listen, and Mason would watch on in awe. He never got to tell her, but Mason’s mother damn near considered Rachel family -- she was at the house often enough.
If anyone asked him shortly after Mason met her, he’d say that one day, she would be a part of the family.
But that was saved for his journals.
Now, instead of watching in awe while Rachel helped prep his family meal before returning to her own, he watched on as his mother did it alone. He helped where he could, but the women in his family were always the better cooks.
His grandmother’s shrill of a laugh echoed from a joke his aunt told.
The shout of his grandfather still boomed from the living room.
The pitter-patter of feet upstairs still caused the old wood to creak.
But Mason?
He was quiet.
Even when he was asked to give thanks at the table, and to set a prayer amongst their family, he was silent. He passed the prayer on to fucking Johnathan, the family’s apparent pride in joy. And while he sat, doing more sipping at his wine and picking at his food at 2 PM instead of actually eating, he started filling with...
Anger. Frustration. Determination.
Sadness.
But with the sixth glass, the emotions started to fade away into a comforting fuzziness. Each sip took him further and further down that rabbit hole, taking him farther and farther away from the hurt and pain in remembering that Rachel Berry wasn’t there to rescue him from his uncle’s antics. That Rachel wasn’t there to message while his aunt rambled on. That Rachel wasn’t there to compliment his mother’s cooking.
That Rachel wasn’t there.
She wasn’t there.
And she wouldn’t be again.
.....
It was only after his family retreated to their AirBNB’s and Mason was alone in his room that night, surrounded by photos and memories of Rachel being in the same bed as him that he let himself cry for the first time.
------------------------------------------
It was the next day after Mason nursed his almost non-existent hangover that he decided to crawl out of bed. Even though it was the holidays, he was still a teacher, he still had an assessment plan to prep, still had midterm papers on various Shakespearean plays to grade; still had a life to live despite the fact that it felt like he was only going through the motions.
His phone vibrated on the bedside table; the one that held various photo frames lined with sharpie-boarders and sequins haphazardly glued to the edges.
Santana. Again.
He stopped answering after the third call; stopped replying after the fifteenth text message. She had been trying to get a hold of him all break; whether to make plans, or to check up on him. But he didn’t want to be checked up on. He didn’t want to make plans with people he usually saw on the daily. He didn’t want to get out of bed that morning.
What he wanted he couldn’t have. Never again.
But, then again...
He did have something he could have. Something to hold onto, something to bring some sort of happiness to the dwindling cold that he considered himself to be lately. Something to be the shining star in his world of darkness.
Literally.
The Berry’s invited him over for tea and leftover pie.
He knew it was a casual setting. That he shouldn’t be dressing up in a nice shirt and slacks; that he should go just as he is. But Mason didn’t know casual -- not anymore. Not when five out of seven days a week he was wearing business casual. He used to have a great sense of style, but lately... lately he didn’t feel himself. Like a part of him had been missing.
The door to the Berry residence alone felt like an old friend. The door that he once felt was bigger than the world now felt small; like he could engulf it whole if he outstretched his arms. That suffocating feeling was in the back of his throat, threatening to close in on him as he stepped over the threshold. But there they were, both men, dressed nice and classy -- welcoming him in with open arms as if nothing had changed. They welcomed him into their home without a second thought, without a word out of place -- as if he were home.
Rachel’s house always did feel like a second home to him.
“How are you holding up?” Hiram asked, passing Mason a tea cup. It was almost a tradition in the Berry household; a friendly tea following a big holiday. It’s where Mason found himself the morning of New Year’s Eve most years in high school and shortly after, before he’d doll himself up and head out to parties.
“I’m... coping.” Liar. He wasn’t. But he wouldn’t tell Hiram that. He wouldn’t tell Leroy that. He wouldn’t tell either of them that because out of the three of them, Mason was the one who was supposed to keep his shit together. Mason was the one who needed to be strong. Mason was the one who had to keep his head on straight while they were the ones allowed to mourn.
“We haven’t really heard from you since the memorial.” Leroy prompted; Mason let out a sigh.
“I’ve been... Busy. Work, the musical.” Distracting myself from thinking.
“I hope you’re not working too hard.”
Mason gave Leory a gentle smile, “I’m doing whatever I can to make her proud.”
And he held true to that statement. He was doing whatever he could to make Rachel proud -- both in public, and behind the public eye. Continuing what they started; bringing chaos amongst them all in Castleport.
But chaos could wait for another day.
After tea, the Berry men left Mason to his own devices as he wandered the home he had frequented so often. Where his own father was absent, both men stepped in -- he hoped that his own mother was something similar to Rachel. While they occupied themselves in the kitchen, Mason led himself upstairs to the room still shrouded in yellow; still glowing that vibrant color even in what he described as a dark time.
He missed her. He missed her more than he could ever imagine and more than any amount of alcohol could potentially numb. Because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many bottles he drowned himself in, there was no escaping the sound of her voice, or the look on her face the last time he saw her.
By the end of the afternoon he had curled himself atop her still-made bed, plastic-framed photograph of the two of them in hand, asleep. There were tear streaks upon his cheeks when Hiram found him that afternoon.
Yeah, Holidays really, really, fucking sucked.