Eventually Mason did fall asleep, and surprisingly he managed to keep everything in his stomach while doing so. Sometime during the night, Rube had put a blanket over him, and given him a pillow; no flourish to it, no making it out to be the sweet gesture it actually was.
For a very long time, however, Rube didn't fall asleep. He hovered around the place, stopping to do some of his work, re-writing the assignment sheet onto separate post-its. That was his job, every night he had to write the name, place of death, and final hour of the people who would be reaped the next day - and social workers thought they had it rough.
Normally he would sit down and complete all of the post-its in one go, but that night in particular he was restless, and though he would never admit to it, it was because he was stopping to occasionally check up on Mason.
Eventually he sat himself in one of the elaborate red velvet chairs that decorated his elegant little apartment, and just sat for a while. After that, he fiddled with a Rubiks cube for all of five minutes - four sides were finished now - picked up a tome, and began to read. It didn't last very long, because eventually his eyes drooped, and he fell asleep, Voltaire's 'Candide' open in his lap.
And the sun began it's ascent, glazing the world in a gold light, and Mason began to dream. In all honesty, he couldn't remember the last time he'd dreamt, and it may have had something to do with too much alcohol, too little food, and a different environment, but the dream was very vivid.
It involved - hands. Two large, warm hands on him, sliding over his chest and stomach, calloused palms, gentle fingers. A voice murmuring things to him, things that made even Mason go a little red in the face. And then the hands dipped lower, and Mason woke up, because there really was a hand on him.
On his shoulder, though, no where else.
Mason looked up from the couch cushion he'd had his face pressed against, and found himself staring dimly at Rube's crotch. Apparently he was staring too long, because Rube cleared his throat, and Mason finally looked up and closed his mouth.
"You were squirming." Rube said, looking vaguely uncomfortable before he crossed over to the kitchen.
"I feel like i've got sand in my mouth." Mason said, and put his head back down onto the couch to stop the shooting pain going through his temples.
"Cottonmouth; you're dehydrated." Rube said, and brought over a large glass of water, setting it onto the floor beside the couch.
"Thank you," Mason said, and he moved to sit up, but the movement brought into a harsh light the fact that his dream, however brief, had affected him in ways that were only just beginning to subside. He gave a little grunt, and chose to stay down until he could - stay down.
"We've got an hour until we have to meet with the others," Rube said, still puttering around the place.
Mason realized then that he had been holding his breath; waiting for Rube to say something to him about what he'd done, the fact he'd been drinking too much again, and showed up at Rube's doorstep so drunk he couldn't even stand on his own.
He would be waiting for Rube to mention just how pathetic he was, to resort to alcohol every time things got too hard for him to handle, and how horrible it was that he couldn't find some other, more useful outlet for his stress.
But Rube didn't say a word about it. He just gave him that look, with those eyes, and that expression, and didn't say a damn word about it.
And somehow, that was worse.
He would have felt much better if Rube had just yelled at him, maybe smacked him around a little like Roxie liked to do once in a while. That way he could have been satisifed Rube got it out of his system, and that he could go on with his own undead life, and get back to ruining the gray matter rather than using it.
But with Rube clamming up about it, it meant Mason would be waiting. Just waiting and waiting for the bomb to drop, for Rube to say something about it, bring the subject up at some point or another. Which meant he would have to stay sober until then, or else Rube would be right.
Of course, he knew Rube was right; both of them knew Rube was right, it was just, if Mason went and got drunk, and recieved the speech during or after said drinking spree, it would just throw into a harsh light exactly how correct Rube was, and Mason would have to face it as well. It was a simple evasive tactic; if there was no full-on proof that the previous night hadn't been a fluke, a once-in-a-while thing, then Mason could go on thinking he wasn't doing anything wrong. He could keep fooling himself, even if he wasn't fooling anyone else.
And yet Rube said nothing.
He probably knew, too. The bastard was probably well aware of Mason's dilemma, and the fact that the Englishman wanted more than anything to have and maintain Rube's respect. But he would probably keep that innocent expression, do that thing where he kind of shrugged, raised his eyebrows, scratched his nose, and pretend he didn't know anything.
At that point, Mason wondered how he had become so aware of Rube's little quirks. He could probably write that off as a complication of the hangover.
As well could he write off the fact he was currently staring at Rube's ass, and thinking about how good he looked in those tan chinos. How good he always looked in chinos, or jeans, or anything else for that matter. He also found himself wondering if Rube owned anything leather; seemed a bit frivilous, though, for a guy as conservative as -
No, that wasn't right.
That wasn't right at all.
Mason blinked once, twice, then groped around for the water glass beside the couch and took a deep drink, though a quarter of it missed his mouth.