He fumbled through his messenger bag, clumsy hands searching through pockets to find what he needed.
It hurts.
His hands closed over a smooth object, and he pulled it out- it was a Swiss army knife, but not the right one; so he shoved it back in and continued his search.
The looks, the stares, when he wears long sleeves and pulls out his first aid kit- nobody should just have a first aid kit in their bag.
His fingers ran over engraving, and he pulled it out to find an army knife with smooth letters on one side, 'The pain never hurts as much as you think it will', and he thinks that statement's never been truer.
He knows why they stare, and he ignores it- it doesn't matter that they know, it just matters Mabel doesn't; that she'll never know.
He pulls the tools out, one by one, searching for the right blade, desperately pretending that he hasn't done this so many times that he's memorized the blade's placement- he thanked his dad when he first got it, but now he curses the man for starting the deadly addiction- but that train of thought's stopped once he finds the blade, the blade; he pushes the rest down and stares at it for a second.
It was originally just a way to get everything out- carve a symbol then slash it out, get the voices out of his head- but now he was addicted, the sting and the little flood.
He blinks, then takes off his jeans, scrabbling madly and shoving them off like they burned- and in a way, they did, he'd forgotten to bandage one of the hairline cuts and it had stung all morning- but that wasn't important.
He'd been addicted from the minute he'd first held a knife to his own skin- the fact that he could actually feel something besides the throbbing of his thoughts and voices was spectacular and beautiful to him; and he guessed that was why hd was an addict. Not for heroin or crack-
He sat down on the filthy public toilet, swinging his left leg up and resting it on his other knee to display his latest 'canvas'- his left calf.
But for pain.
He lined the knife up with a previous cut, pressing down just enough, and watched as the well opened, his skin parting easily and letting the red flood out.
For the sight of blood.
He pulled, making the cut longer by about an inch, and pulled the knife away, absentmindedly cleaning it with toilet paper as he watched the cut bleed.
He'd also recently discovered that he liked giving it as much as receiving it- some asshole had called his little sister a slut [they were only thirteen, for chrissakes] and he wasn't gonna take that lying down.
He sighed, before grabbing some more toilet paper and staunching the blood, before pulling his first aid kit towards him- he was glad he had decided to take it out beforehand, he hated it when he had to use unsanitary supplies to clean cuts.
What had he even been mad about this morning- oh, right. He and Mabel were going to be going to their Great Uncle Stan's house for the summer; not even given a week's notice.
He grabbed the disinfectant out, pouring some on the wound; next pulling out bandages and gauze to keep it from bleeding through the night- contrary to popular belief, he wanted the cuts to heal.
He hoped their relative wouldn't be nosy- or at least that he and Mabel would have separate rooms; don't get him wrong, he loved Mabes, but it'd be nice to... get a break.
He finished wrapping the bandage and secured it, putting all his supplies back neatly into the kit, and then putting the kit into his bag.
Maybe he could find a mystery or something to keep him busy... maybe a cute guy?
He pulled his jeans back on, then gathered up the bloody tissues and put them into the toilet.
He hoped Mabel wouldn't try to set him up with another girl, he's tried to explain that he's not interested in girls, but it seemed like she hadn't grasped the concept entirely- and besides, he wasn't entirely sure he was wholly gay.
He flushed, then re-slung his bag over his shoulder and exited the stall, stopping in front of the mirror to fix his beanie and wash his hands of the blood- didn't need Mabel getting worried.
He'd never actually had a boyfriend, after all.
Flipping off the homeless guy that'd taken over the handicapped stall, he left the shitty public bathroom and joined the throngs of mindless sheep going about their day and pretending that reality wasn't just a buggy half price bargain bin video game that should have died decades ago.
He'd thought about it, sure, but how did a gay guy even find someone to date?
He stopped at terminal 4, like usual, and had a nice chat with Stacy- stop flirting, please, Stacy, u nice but u a hoe- as he bought his usual 3:55 ticket for Grand Station; the dirtiest one that statistically had 9.67 more homeless people per square six feet.
He was already bullied, he didn't need the extra call of 'faggot' down the hall- he was already called that, but Rich Grantley didn't need to know it was true.
He took his (already dirty- how was that possible?) ticket from Stacy and made his way to platform 9 (3/4) to wait for his train.
What kind of sick irony did an asshole like Rich need to have to get his name- I mean, he went to their highschool, some rich preppy place, on exactly what he was named after, a grant.
He pulled out his burner phone (he had 3) and checked the time just as the train pulled in- two minutes late, per usual.
Even more irony, the founders of the grant were Mason's great-great-grandparents, and the grant was named after them, too- The Stonewall Grant.
As soon as the doors opened, he stepped inside, claiming his seat and observing as everyone else got in- Ms. O'Malley and her cat, Jeff; Ralph Goodblum, who was an accountant for a lawyering firm; the Jane twins, neither of which were twins but both were named Jane and they were the best of friends; three homeless people, they changed every week (he thinks they might be couriers for the nearby drug cartel, based on how they hold their stuff [and the things he hears Homeless Bathroom Guy mumble on his trips]); and Marcy Jones, a cop who's been trying to take down said drug cartel (he may have slipped some notes into her files one day while pretending to report a stolen bike).
Sure, the family name's changed from Stonewall to Pines, but it's still the family grant.
He scratches Jeff's chin when the old tabby wanders over to him, and watches as Homeless #1 nudges Homeless #2 and #3, gesturing vaguely to where Marcy sits- maybe; it's really packed in their car, like usual. It's not the first time he's seen the three guys take notice of her, so maybe it's time to warn her that she should vary her routine.
Mr. Michaels comes on the next stop, I'll offer him my seat and go warn her. They'll stay put for today, at least.
The train screeches to a stop, and I watch as the passengers pour in. Mr. Michaels is last on, and like Mason thought, he doesn't have a seat. He offers Mr. Michaels the seat, and the old man gratefully accepts, thanking him like he always does. While the cars are stopped, he goes towards Marcy under the guise of looking for a seat. Lucky him, there's one right next to her.
Okay, breathe, be careful. She doesn't know you, you gotta establish ethos.
He sits down next to her, and waits for the train to start again before speaking. "Hey, miss. You probably don't know me, but I take the train every weekday home from school, this train, and I've noticed a few things. I know you're a cop, and three homeless guys take this train every week. Before you freak out, I'm trying to help, and I'm thirteen. These guys, there's a different three every week, and they're couriers for a local gang. I figured out that the couriers are starting to notice you, and that you're a cop working to bring down the cartel they work for. They're probably planning to jump you, maybe rob and or kill you. I can read lips, and know some signs that they use. I just wanted to warn you, bring a coworker home with you, they think you're an easy target and I'd hate to feel like it's my fault."
"How did you figure all that out, kid?"
"I've been studying under my uncle, he's a PI, and I've been observing the behavior of all the regulars on this train for the past two years. I also hang out with a bathroom druggie and he talks way to much when he's high. I've seen you come home on the same train every night for the past six months or so, and the couriers make the same signs and say the same things when you've come on for the past two. And I've been told I'm too smart for my age."
"Impressive. Thanks for the warning, kid. I'll take Grantley home with me the next couple of weeks for drinks and stuff."
"Grantley?"
"Yeah? What, you know other cops too?"
"No, I think I go to school with his kid. It's ironic because Rich buys drugs off the two homeless kids in our school, who are also sellers for that gang you're trying to bust. Don't tell him you found out from a kid who went to his school, he'll know it was me."
The train screamed to a stop again, and Marcy got up. "Well, it was nice meeting you..."
"Dipper Pines. It was nice to actually meet you too, Marcy." He shook her hand, and she got off, just as another flood of people got on. Only Homeless #3 actually got off with her, but one of them always sells there, so he thinks she'll be fine.
The train launches into motion again, and Mason contemplates his fate.
"I'm home!" Mason calls, for once relishing in the silence he gets back. He checks his actual phone for the time- 4:28, as always, and takes off his shoes before making his way to the fridge. He pulls out the milk, sees the half emptiness of it, and shrugs before unscrewing the cap and chugging from the gallon container. He then rescrews the cap, puts the milk back, and delves into the freezer for his hot-pockets.
He pulls them out, then spins to the cupboard holding the plates, grabs one, spins back, and dumps ten of them on a plate that is just barely big enough. He covers the microwavable concoction with paper towel and microwaves it.
In the minute until he has his food, Mason flips on the kitchen light, then goes to the door and turns on the outside light, before finally racing back to the kitchen, sliding on his knees to stop in front of the silverware drawer and grabbing a fork before popping the mimicrowave open just as the timer reads 0 and grabbing out his hot-pockets.
There's a beep as he shuts off the timer, and then he sits down at the kitchen counter, scarfing hot-pockets as he checks his tumblr, hearting a shitpost about some yandere anime before chiming in on a discussion between a feminist and a manly man, denouncing the guy's not all men speech with a simple 'it might not be all men, but it's enough that the female population has to be scared of all of us, and that says quite a bit, dont you think' before shutting off his phone and washing his dishes, loading them up on habit and then grabbing his phone off the island counter and making his way upstairs, messenger bag still on his shoulder.
In his room, he pulls up YouTube and ques up a livestream of relaxing death metal, pulling out his luggage from beneath his bed to Avenged Sevenfold screaming in his ears. He packs up to Brompton Cocktail, and shoves his toiletries in to Pain by Three Days Grace. He finishes just as he hears the garage door open, and he jams headphones into the jack before sprawling out messily on the bed with his already completed homework for AP lang.
He waits, but it's not long until Mabel's bursting into his room and pulling him into a hug with a call of 'Dip-Dop!' that he can hear over his songs, and he thinks briefly that the loudness could maybe pop the head off a zombie before pulling off his headphones and listening to her rant about her band recital and how her solo went.
God, he loves Mabel, but he'd like for her to just shut up please.
Maybe his prayer was answered because Mabel stopped talking and asked him about his day, to which he gave a typical teenage response, 'It was okay.'.
She smiled, figured out he wanted alone time, and then gave a cheery goodbye before slamming his door and getting doted on by their parents. What was it Mabel had called herself when she had realized she was taller than him? Oh, right. Alpha Twin. The better one. She was better, Mason supposed. Wasn't broken, wasn't picked on. Loved by or was envied by everyone she met. Never, ever hated by anyone but the guy who was supposed toto always have her back. Now that was sick irony. Mason both loved his sister and hated her, to the depths of his core.
Or maybe that was just him hating himself for being the imperfect, unwanted second twin with the odd birthmark and strange voices.
Buf that was okay.
Because she loved him enough for the both of them.