more mason mount one shots please! maybe him being a dad?! 🙏🙏
MASON MOUNT ONESHOT - ONLY GOING TO BE ONE PART
( WARNINGS: mentions of vomiting, swearing, Dad!Mason, fluff )
word count: 4.2k
Work parties were almost always a disaster waiting to happen. You mix alcohol with overworked, sleep-deprived employees? It’s bound to end badly one way or another.
And a friend with food poisoning wasn’t helping either.
Rachel — the only person you could really, really get along with and tolerate the most in your office — had her head down the toilet 15 minutes into the party. Apparently it was from a dodgy salmon she had for lunch.
So, being the good friend you were, you abandoned the post near the exit of the floor, and followed Rachel to the toilet, picking up the phone that had fallen out of her bag when she collapsed on the tiled floor and vomited in the toilet.
You’d been holding her hair back for the last fifteen minutes, still able to feel the pumping bass of the music from the main floor vibrating in the walls, and the chatter of your colleagues. There were a few other girls in the toilets as well, wine drunk and taking photos of themselves in the mirrors, barely able to walk in a straight line without stumbling too much.
The bathroom itself was rather clean; and for that you were glad. Your knees were aching from kneeling but you knew you couldn’t complain. Rachel had been doing exactly the same, only with the added trouble of vomiting and stomach cramps. Wisps of hair were glued to her forehead through the thin sheen of sweat, and you’d had to persuade a non-drunk wanderer to fetch a cup of water just to ensure she didn’t pass out from dehydration.
Rachel collapsed against the wall of the cubicle, breathless and groaning in pain.
“This is it,” she moaned, taking a sip of cold water, “I’m dying.”
“Defeated by a slab of fish.” You joked, rifling through your own handbag and pulling out your phone.
Rachel laughed but the simple action caused her to place her hand on her stomach.
“Don’t make me laugh.” She whined, closing her eyes.
You searched through your contacts, and once finding the person you were looking for, you clicked the call button, before lunging forwards to catch Rachel’s hair as she threw up again.
It took a while, but once she’d settled down again, you picked up your phone, lifting it to your ear.
“Hello?” You asked, furrowing your brows when you heard a slight rustle on the other end of the phone.
“Hi,” a breathless but familiar voice sounded, “Are you okay? It sounded like you were being sick.”
“Oh, I’m fine, but Rach got food poisoning—shit, Mase you’re on speaker now.” You said, placing your phone on the floor as Rachel experienced another wave of sickness.
“Is Mummy sick?” A small voice echoed through the line, and you heard Mason reassure your son, whispering that you were fine.
“He didn’t hear me swear did he?” You asked, slightly concerned that your son would pick up in the language used and think it appropriate. Five year olds were very impressionable with the words they heard.
“No, he heard me ask if you were alright, that’s all,” Mason answered, a grin on his lips at your distressed voice.
“Can you do me a favour?” You questioned, pressing your lips together in anticipation.
You knew it involved a lot more faffing on Mason’s part, but you had no money on your person and Rachel caught a lift with someone else in the office so she was out too.
“Yeah, anything,” he answered without hesitation, bringing a smile to your face.
“Could you come and pick us up? I know it’s Eli’s bedtime, but I don’t have any money and Rach is too sick to walk.” You explained, cringing as another wave hit the base of the toilet.
“I’m puking up my guts here, Mount.” Rach yelled, earning an amused laugh from Mason.
“Yeah, I’ll come pick you up. I’ll take Eli for a quick late night drive on the way too, he might be more willing to sleep later on.”
You nodded, then remembered that Mason couldn’t see you, before voicing your answer.
“Do you need anything before I pack up?”
“Do we still have those sick bags from when we went to Monaco?” You asked, having to yell when someone opened the door to the toilets, letting in the booming sound of music.
“Yeah, I think they’re in the twirly cupboard...hey, Buddy, I need you to pick your pajamas, okay? Whatever you want...I’ll get it for you, no problem.” Mase chatted to your son, some of the conversation drowned out by the intensity of the sound; another group of rowdy drunks seemed to have decided to invade the bathroom.
“Just the sick bags?” Mason asked, foraging through the bottom of his old sports drawer, the phone tucked tightly between his shoulder and cheek, with his other arm holding onto Eli, letting him pick which shirt he wanted.
“Maybe some baby wipes and a bottle of water?” You suggested, taking the phone off speaker and placing it against your ear as Rachel let out a breath, her side pressing into yours with exhaustion; being unable to support herself properly.
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll be there in about 20 minutes.” He replied, picking up a few last bits for Eli, before sliding his shoes on.
“Thank you,” you sighed, feeling the anxious edge melt away at the prospect of help arriving soon.
“I love you...bye.”
“Hey, say it.” He insisted, and you closed your eyes, your head thudding against the wall of the cubicle.
“I really don’t--”
“For the sake of our child?” He said, and you knew you couldn’t exactly get out of not saying it when he pulled the Eli card.
“I love you too.” You relented, rolling your eyes as you heard him let out a quiet yell of triumph.
“Ok, I’ll see you soon.” He said, and you heard Rachel huff a laugh from next to you, the echo of the phone still being heard.
“Bye.” You ended the call and as soon as you removed the phone from your ear, Rachel took the opportunity to speak up.
“Coming from someone who’s just...you know? You two are sickening.” She said, raising her eyebrows with a tired smirk, “But I love it.”
“You must really be out of it if you’re saying shit like that,” you said, breathing a laugh.
“Of course I’m out of it, I’ve been barfing for the past...I don’t know, hour?” She asked, pulling a face.
You winced, and at your expression, she turned to you with a questioning look.
“Try 17 minutes,” you offered, shrugging.
“Fuck off.” She muttered, her eyes wide with disbelief.
The rest of the time waiting, Rachel spent drinking the water from the cup and mouthing the words to the songs from the main floor. She seemed to be a lot better, but you had a sneaking suspicion that it was because her body had nothing left to give, and you could see the exhaustion slowly intensify as her eyelids began to droop.
It wasn’t until the door to the toilets banged open that she snapped her head up, swaying slightly as she succumbed to a bout of dizziness.
“Y/N?” A voice whispered, the sound of it ringing across the now empty bathroom stalls.
You reached up and slid the bolt across the lick of the door, and it swung open with a creak, the noise causing Mason to turn his head in the direction of the sound.
You stuck your head out, smiling in greeting as his footsteps got closer.
“What have you done to Eli?” You asked, noticing the 5 year old wearing one of Mason’s old Chelsea jerseys. It was so large on him that it looked as if Mason had had to tuck the bottom of the shirt around Eli’s legs like a blanket to prevent him getting caught in it.
There was a pair of large black headphones covering Eli’s ears, and a previously unused eye mask hiding his eyes and from the way his arms were slung over Mason, clutching to his shirt on the back, it was obvious the child was fast asleep.
“He fell asleep halfway here and I didn’t want to leave him in the car so I found these old noise cancelling headphones in the boot…here.” He explained, passing you the brown paper bag for Rachel.
You thanked him, before standing up in the cubicle, gripping Rachel’s hands that she offered, and pulling the blonde up onto her feet. She stumbled, blinking rapidly and you caught her by the shoulders.
“You good?” You asked her.
“I think so.” She said, and she took the bag off you with a grateful smile.
You slung her arm over your shoulder, ignoring Mason’s attempts at getting you to switch roles so he was supporting Rachel, and you vaguely heard him mutter something about ‘stubborn women in my life’ and ‘don’t know why I bother’ but the sounds were quickly drowned out by the music in the main room where the unofficial official party was taking place.
Drunk, overworked employees covered every square inch of the place. There were a few fallen asleep on the tables, some stumbling on the dance floor, limbs flailing as they attempted to coordinate their bodies in movements akin to dancing, but the alcohol in their system seemed to be preventing that. Some were sitting at the bar area, casually sipping on pints of beer or steaming mugs of coffee, and you noticed your boss at the top of the room, standing next to the DJ desk, seemingly keeping watch like a teacher would at a school disco. They were extremely sober and the unimpressed upturn of the nose as they watched the people try to ‘dance’, the very embodiment of displeasure painted on their face.
You ducked your head, avoiding their stare because you knew that a limp Rachel with her head in a bag wasn’t going to paint the reality clearly, and so you tapped Mason’s back in an attempt to hurry him along the other side of the room to leave the building altogether.
“How is Eli not—” Rachel hiccuped, “waking up?”
“He has a habit of being able to sleep through anything and everything,” Mason shouted over the music, breathing in a fresh breath of air once the doors slammed shut behind you.
“I wonder how you figured that out,” Rachel muttered under her breath, and you rolled your eyes not having the heart to argue with her at that particular moment in time.
The four of you wound your way through the car park, dodging the group of smokers lingering outside the building, and making your way to Mason’s car.
It was a fairly new one and you knew he was going to be slightly anxious at the prospect of a ticking time bomb of sickness sitting in his new seats, but Mason being Mason, you also knew he probably wouldn’t say anything in complaint.
He unlocked the car, Rachel letting out a wolf-whistle — or what she thought sounded like one — as her eyes raked upon the sleek shine of the body.
“Leather seats?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at Mason as he shut the door on Eli’s side after having fastened him into the car seat.
“Yeah.” He nodded, going to Rachel’s other side, his arm slung around her back, fingers tracing your sides as you both moved to open the front door.
“It’s probably for the best, to be honest. It’ll be easier to wipe any vom up that way.” Rachel whispered, and you pursed your lips trying to hold back the laughter, but one look at Mason’s shocked face nearly had you breaking the facade.
“She has a point.” You agreed, fastening her seat belt for her, ensuring it was tight enough.
“Oh, I know,” Mason shut the door with a grin, “I just didn’t expect her to say it.”
“You get used to it after a while,” you said.
Mason opened the next door for you, and you smiled in thanks. Before you could sit down, however, he frowned, grabbing your wrist and raising his eyebrows.
You sighed, leaning over the door to press a kiss to his lips. Once he seemed happy with the attention, he offered a cheesy grin, and you rolled your eyes, hiding your smile behind your hand as you settled yourself into the car.
As soon as he’d put the engine on and put his seatbelt on, Rachel spoke up.
“You two are the grossest married couple I’ve ever met.”
You shared a look with Mason, and Rachel noticed, twisting in her seat, her gaze flicking between you both with narrowed eyes.
“What the—” she glimpsed a sneak at Eli, of who was still sound asleep, before whispering, “fuck?”
You shrugged, and Mason pretended to Lee his eyes on the road.
“You’re not married?” She asked, eyes wide with disbelief.
“No,” you answered honestly, not seeing the fuss.
“What about the rings?” She directed the next question at you, and you lifted your hand round the side of her chair.
“Engagement ring and my Great Grandma’s wedding ring.”
“What? So you’re engaged — to Mason—”
“I hope so.” He muttered, earning a flick to the ear.
“—But you still wear a wedding ring? How does that work?”
“We’re in no rush to get married, but I wear the wedding ring because it’s…y’know, a family heirloom—”
“And you just so happen to wear it on your wedding finger?”
“Yeah, I mean…no harm done, right?”
Rachel dropped your hand, “No harm.” She agreed.
It was quiet for a while as you leant back in your seat, your hand reaching out to move some strands of hair from Eli’s forehead absentmindedly.
The car rolled to a slow stop and you looked up, noticing you were in Rachel’s neighbourhood. You unclamped your seat belt and climbed out of the car, helping Rachel do the same and you aided her in walking to the front door.
After about 10 seconds of knocking continuously, Rachel stepped back, seeing a shadow move behind the door, before it swung open to reveal the sight of her ‘roommate’, who looked both confused and concerned at her earlier than anticipated arrival and her state.
“What—” they started, looking at you as Rachel strode into the house, trying to run up the stairs to go to the toilet.
“Bad salmon apparently,” You informed them, “food poisoning. She’d been throwing up for about 20 minutes. She hasn’t in a while though so she might—”
You were interrupted by the sound of retching, and you nodded slowly, pointing upstairs.
“Point made, I’ll leave you to it.” You laughed, before saying goodbye and making your way back to the car, this time sitting in the front.
“She throw up again?” Mason asked, pulling away from the house.
You nodded, sighing in relief as you leaned back in the seat.
It took just under ten minutes to drive the rest of the way home, the quiet hum of the radio echoing in the background.
You went to unlock the door and take your shoes off as Mason brought Eli inside, who was still fast asleep, and it was times like that you really envied the way he could sleep through anything.
You took him off Mason and made your way up to his room, slowly slipping off the headphones and eye mask as you did, silently laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.
But despite all of that, you still thought Eli was one of the cutest kids you’d ever seen. With his big brown eyes and his hilarious incapability of having neat hair, he was gorgeous to you. You’d pointed that out to Mason, but he’d just shaken his head, adamant that it was because Eli took after him in both of those aspects. You’d pointed out that Mason had neat hair, and he’d responded by ruffling it up.
The Chelsea shirt going past Eli’s feet certainly didn’t help the feeling of wanting to melt to the floor because that gesture of wanting to wear Mason’s old shirts was too cute.
You kissed him on the forehead after tucking him into his sheets and you made your way into your room, seeing that Mason was already sprawled out across the bed, pyjamas on and the TV on in the background.
“Hi,” he said, offering a grin as you walked into the room.
“Why did you let Eli wear one of your shirts? It’s too cute.” You groaned, jumping on the bed and turning your head to Mason.
“He chose it,” he laughed, rolling on his side, “really makes you wonder who he got the idea from in the first place.” He said, nodding over to the chair, another of his old jerseys thrown across the back of it.
“That’s different.” You protested.
“Because I wear those on match days and when you’re not here…totally different.” You insisted, sitting up.
“No, it’s not—”
“I’m getting changed,” you interrupted, climbing off the bed.
“You just don’t want to admit that you’re wrong and I’m right.” Mason said, folding his arms behind his head in triumph.
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that—”
“Victory is so sweet—”
“It’s not a victory—”
“Whatever you say—”
“Yeah, whatever I say—”
“You know what this reminds me of?”
“Our first date.”
“I don’t know,” Mason shrugged.
“If I remember rightly, our first date was a trip to the cinemas with a takeaway McDonald’s.”
“I thought we watched Pitch Perfect?”
“We did. After McDonald's. You nearly started crying over Jesse and Becca—”
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did. Because I told you that I was more of a Becca in the way that I shut people out and you started building a tent in your front room out of blankets and then you played ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ and sang along.”
“I did that?”
“You were very drunk.” You laughed.
“Oh, that makes more sense.”
You sighed, turning off the main lights and getting under the covers in the bed, pyjamas on and a face clean of any makeup. You shuffled closer to Mason, placing your head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around your back.
“What’s this?” You asked, pointing at the TV screen at the foot of your bed.
“Oh, I love that movie.”
“You do?” Mason asked, turning his head slightly in your direction.
“Yeah, it’s so good. The one with McKenna Grace, right?”
“The little girl.”
There was a comfortable silence, your eyes fixed on the screen. It wasn’t until Mason sighed for the third time that you knew something was up.
“What?” You asked, patting his arm.
“Does it bother you that we’re not married?” He rushed, the words spoken so quickly they seemed to melt into one another.
“You’re not married?” A timid voice echoed from the bedroom door, and Eli waddled in, tripping over the shirt with each step.
His brown eyes were wide with worry and he was rubbing his eyes, trying to dispel the sleep from his system.
Eli didn’t give either yourself or Mason a chance to explain before tumbling back into his own conversation.
“Because Max said his parents aren’t married because they don’t love each other—”
“Hey, hey,” Mason reached around his side of the bed, heaving the little boy on top of the covers and settling him in between the both of you, throwing a guilty look at you in the process, “Elijah, Max only said that because his parents don’t live together anymore, okay?”
“Sometimes Mums and Dads fall out of love. But your Dad and I aren’t one of those people, I promise.” You assured, running a hand through Eli’s already messy hair.
He relaxed slightly, but his brows were still pulled together in confusion.
“I—We can promise you, right now, that we love each other and that we love you—”
“But why does Mummy not say it to you very often?”
You froze, pursing your lips together as you saw Mason’s shoulders shaking with laughter out of the corner of your eye.
“I’d also like to know that,” he inputted, and from his tone Eli could already tell Mason was joking, which caused that identical cheeky grin to appear in his rosy cheeks.
“Well…” you started, glaring at Mason, “Dad is — what is known as — a softie—”
“I am not!” Mason sat up, his eyes still shining with amusement, traces of the precious smile etched on his lips.
“Yes, yes you absolutely are!” You insisted, pointing your finger at him.
Eli threw his head back, letting out an adorable laughter at you and Mason going back and forth.
“I am not—”
“‘Say it back’,” You imitated, trying your best to deepen your voice, much to the amusement of both Mount boys, “that is soft.”
Mason spluttered, his mouth hung open in mock horror as he turned to Eli, “This is bullying, you hear me? Outrageous.”
Eli did nothing but continued to giggle, and the infectious sound soon had both yourself and Mason in stitches, creasing with laughter.
It took a while for everyone to calm down, in which you wiped the beginning of some tears from the bottom of your eyes. You looked over to Mason after noticing that Eli was significantly more comfortable, and he smiled softly, knowing you were both successful in cheering him up.
“If it makes you feel any better, it bothers me that we’re not married.” Mason blurted, suddenly avoiding your eye contact as he turned an uncharacteristic shade of pink.
As if Eli could sense the sudden tension from the bombshell, he stilled, his eyes flicking between you both.
“It does?” You repeated, a teasing smile on your face as he shrugged.
“Yeah, I mean, we’ve been together, what? Ten years, nearly? Engaged for seven. We’ve put it off long enough.”
You let out a breath, rolling your eyes and casting an ‘I don’t believe it look’ to Eli.
“What was that for?” Mason asked, his lips curling upwards slightly.
“What was that for? Mase, you do know we’ve already planned the wedding, right?”
“We finished planning the wedding nearly a year and a half before Eli, we just couldn’t decide on the date.” You breathed a laugh as he shared a bewildered glance with Eli, who covered his mouth and giggled in response.
“We finished what now?” He said, leaning forwards and pretending as if he missed the whole conversation.
“WE. FINISHED. PLANNING—” you raised your voice, and Eli collapsed into another round of giggles, this time curling into your side.
“Ouch.” Mason winced, “I heard you the first time, but why was I not made aware of this information?”
“You were. Honestly, I forgot myself until you just mentioned it, but all the stuff is in a folder somewhere, we just need to choose a date and hope everything can be booked on time.” You explained, your hand raking through Eli’s hair as he sunk lower into the bed, his eyelids drooping with a sudden bout of fatigue.
Mason chewed his lip in thought, looking at Eli.
“Does the 9th of August sound alright?” He asked, and this time it was your turn to splutter.
“It’s March right now,” you said, and he nodded condescendingly, “we’d have five months to sort everything out.”
“Well done, you know your months.” He said, flashing a sarcastic smirk, and you huffed, rolling your eyes.
“Can we continue this in the morning?” You cast a pointed look at Eli.
“Yeah, of course.” He replied, laying back down and snuggling himself under the covers, letting out a loud yawn as he did so.
You breathed a laugh, and carefully snaked your arm under Eli, lifting him out of your bed and — as carefully and as quietly as you could — tucked him back under the covers in his own room for the second time that night, pressing another light kiss to his forehead before partially shutting his door and making your way back to your room.
“Were you serious about what you said?” You asked, shutting your door and getting back into bed.
Mason took an intake of breath, one arm winding over your waist as he placed his head in the crook of your neck, his eyelashes tickling the skin.
“Dead serious,” he muttered, and you felt around for the remote of the TV, turning it off and placing it back on your bedside table.
“And in 5 months?”
“Whenever, really. Whichever means we can book a massive chocolate fountain and have endless amounts of marshmallows, I’ll be fine with it.” He whispered, and you laughed.
“Chocolate fountain and marshmallows? I can already hear the hyperactive children.” You sighed, gently stroking his arm.
“Who says we were going to invite children?”
“I was talking about the squad.”
“Ah. Right,” he laughed, “the squad...and Eli.”
“You mean we weren’t going to have Eli there anyway?”
“We were always going to have Eli there, weren't we?”
“Not 6 years ago.”
Mason let out a loud laugh, pulling you closer.
“I think we can do 5 months.” You whispered.
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MASON MOUNT ONESHOT
( WARNING: swearing, fluff, little bit of angst? )
word count: 2.1k
‘Are you here yet?’
Yet another text from Ben.
You sighed, picking up your phone to read it, before typing out a response that earned silence from the other side.
“We’re here.” The taxi driver said, pulling up in front of a familiar London townhouse, and an even more familiar figure pacing outside, his attention so focused on his phone that he didn’t even notice the doors of the taxi slamming.
“Thanks,” you smiled at the driver, taking your suitcase from their hands gently, but their gaze seemed to be on the footballer on the front steps.
“Is that—” they asked, stuttering in awe at the sight of Ben Chilwell casually waiting outside.
“Yeah,” you answered, and their gaze flickered back to you, almost snapping out of the adoring trance, “you a big Chelsea fan?”
“My entire family is,” the driver nodded, their eyes flicking back up to Ben every few seconds, who still hadn’t noticed your much anticipated arrival.
“I can introduce you if you want?” You asked, slowly dragging your suitcase up the stairs, your eyes still on Connor, the young driver (he’d told you he was saving up for university and had a couple of jobs on the side to save up money).
“Um…if it’s not too much trouble?” He asked, nervously scratching the back of his head as he fiddled with his keys.
“It’s fine, trust me, he’ll be more than happy.”
You lugged your suitcase up the stone steps, backpack in hand, and it was the nearing sound of hard footsteps that seemed to alert Ben to the commotion of the outside world.
His face lit up in relief and he pocketed his phone, rushing forwards to take your suitcase out of your hands despite your protests, not before pressing a quick kiss on your cheek in greeting.
“Thank god you're here—”
“Wait, before you tell me how amazing it is to see me, Connor — my taxi driver — he’s a massive Chelsea fan—”
At your words, Ben placed the suitcase on the floor, a smile on his face, the woes and troubles of reality wiped from his mind.
“He is.” You nodded, “he was really nice, too, very polite.”
“I’ll be just a minute. Here, let yourself in, I’ll only be a five minute walk away if you need anything. It’s amazing to see you.” And with that, he planted a key in your hand, pressing the cold metal into your palm, and he made his way down the steps, greeting a still-anxious Connor with a smile.
You wasted no time in sending one last wave to the boys at the bottom of the stairs, before twisting the key in the lock, throwing open the door and dragging all of your belongings into the hallway and locking the door behind you again.
At the scraping and the dull think of your rucksack on the floor, you half expected a sleepy Mason to emerge from the top of the stairs, but to no avail.
The curtains were all drawn, plunging the entire floor into darkness, the only slithers of light slipping out from the gaps next to the windows.
You slid off your shoes and shrugged off your coat, placing it on the hook by the door, and with an unexpectedly pounding heart, you snuck upstairs, making a beeline for the bedroom.
Mason was always a reluctant early riser, whether he liked it or not. The early times set for training seemed to have drilled an internal clock into his mind because whenever you stayed over at his, or he stayed at yours, he was always the first one awake. But it was an unspoken rule that he always, always, always had to get out of bed before 11.
That was the first sign that Ben was right, because Mason was still tucked away in the dark, his eyes glued shut and it was half past one in the afternoon.
The second sign: clothes and paraphernalia littering the bedroom floor. It was so cluttered that you struggled to differentiate between the bedroom floor and the various objects. Mason hated too much mess, he said it ‘clogged up his ability to think straight, and if he couldn't think straight how was he supposed to function properly?’
The only thing that seemed to ease your mind was the fact that he was shirtless. No matter the season or the temperature or the weather, Mason hated wearing shirts to bed. If he got cold, he’d pull the duvet right up to his chin and unconsciously search for a heater — which usually ended up being you, but you weren’t about to complain.
The only difference in this room was that the curtain blocking the light was pulled slightly farther to one side, bathing the far side of the room in the light glow of a March midday.
You sighed silently, your heart breaking for the boy curled up in bed, the duvet pulled down to his pants as he laid on his side, face resting in the gap between the two pillows placed across the top of the bed.
You didn’t bother to shut the door behind you as you tiptoed to the bed, half hesitating as to whether you should wake him up or leave him for a little while longer.
You carefully made your way round to the other side of the bed — it was unspoken, but it was typically reserved for you — and you lifted up the covers, crawling across the mattress and placing yourself next to him.
He didn’t stir, his small breaths continuing to tickle the ends of his hair, of which was the messiest you’d ever seen it. Locks were sticking out in all directions, as if he’d run his hand through his hair too many times.
You lifted yourself up on your elbow, glad your hair was tied up and out of the way, before pressing light kisses to his bare shoulder in attempts to wake him up without startling him too much.
It didn’t take long for Mason to stir, groaning as he tilted his head more towards you, eyebrows furrowed. His eyes were still shut and he muttered some incomprehensible babble, still half asleep.
You took the liberty of running your hand through his hair, nails scratching his scalp lightly.
He sighed in satisfaction, slowly peeling his eyes open.
“Hi,” You whispered, pulling your hand away.
He blinked, trying to comprehend you were in front of him.
Slowly but surely, the corners of his mouth upturned, and he offered a sleepy smile, his eyelids still heavy with exhaustion.
“Hi.” He whispered, burying his head further into the pillow and stretching out, before sighing and turning back to you.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, sniffing slightly as he furrowed his brows.
“Am I not allowed to see my boyfriend if I miss him?”
He rolled his eyes, scooting closer to you and interlocking your legs, putting his head on your shoulder as you rolled onto your back.
“I thought you had uni?” He murmured, breath tickling your neck.
“I finished term yesterday.”
You hummed, returning your hand to mess with his hair.
“So Chilly didn’t…mention anything?”
“He’s worried about you.” You answered, feeling him let out a huff. “So’s Tammy, and quite frankly, I am too.”
“You don’t need to be, I’m fine.” He protested, tightening his grip on you.
You rolled your eyes, scoffing in disbelief.
“So,” you reached your hand into the pocket of your hoodie, unlocking it and scrolling through your recent contacts, “if I ring Dec and tell him what you’ve been up to this week, he’ll also think you’re fine?”
At your words, Mason lifted his head up, scowling as he saw your thumb hovering over the ring icon on Declan’s contact.
“Fine.” he relented, not moving back to his previous position until you’d put your phone on the bedside table and out of sight. “I’m just having one of those weeks where I just feel rubbish and there’s no particular…” he trailed off.
“Reason?” You offered, feeling him nod in agreement.
“That’s it, I promise. You don’t have to worry.” He said, closing his eyes.
“I don’t believe you.”
He groaned, letting out a frustrated laugh at your persistence.
The reaction alone had you pursing your lips to stop yourself from smiling.
He untangled himself from you and sat up, the covers falling to his waist as he ran a hand through his hair and over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Whenever he got himself worked up about something, it was always easier to let him sort it out himself and let him take his time instead of pressing him into giving a reason immediately.
Which was why got off the bed and made your way downstairs, opening the curtains and letting the light flood into the rooms. You entered the kitchen, pulling the necessary pans and ingredients from the cupboards.
You’d made a few pancakes by the time Mason resurfaced and showed his face, basketball shorts on and an old hoodie from the bottom of his wardrobe.
He’d seated himself at the kitchen counter, head in his hands and his eyes fixating on the plate of pancakes in front of him.
“Okay,” he started, and you took a sip of your coffee, placing some pancakes on your own plate and moving to sit opposite him on the stool, “you know how...with Derby and Lampard? He took me to Chelsea and it’s just...what if I’m not worth all the...you know?” He muttered, not daring to look at you.
You froze, your fork halfway to your mouth.
“Sometimes I just don’t feel good enough.” He finished, sighing and reaching to cut up his pancakes.
“You what?” You echoed, heart hammering in your chest.
“I don’t feel good enough,” he said smally.
“Mason, Mason, Mason.” You said, putting your fork down, “You have never been anything but good enough. More than good enough, actually. And if you ask anyone you know, they’ll say the same—”
“But, the fans—”
“Bullshit, the fans don’t know you. They don’t see the work you put into your performance, do they? Lampard picked you because he saw potential, and I’m willing to bet quite a bit of money on the fact that he saw a bit of himself in you. You are one of the most talented people I have ever met, okay?” You said softly, watching as he pursed his lips in frustration, putting his hand up to protest.
“You have to say that—”
“Just because I ‘have to say that’ doesn’t make it any less true.” You insisted, pausing as he softened his expression. “As for being a so-called ‘waste of time’? You’re anything but. Would Chilly have been waiting outside all morning if you weren’t worth it?”
“Chilly was here?” He asked, unable to hide the shock in his tone.
“Who do you think I got the spare key off?” You asked, offering a smile.
“I actually had one copied yesterday—” he knitted his brows together, making the movements to get off the bar stool to go retrieve it for you.
“I’m trying to tell you something important here and you’re ruining it by being thoughtful.” You laughed, stopping him from leaving by catching his hand.
“I’m sorry.” He sat back down, squeezing your hand.
“Don’t be. But before I forget: I was in Manchester last night and I should be in Portsmouth right now, but I’m here, and I wouldn’t be here of all places if I didn’t think you weren’t worth it…or important.” You shrugged.
“That just makes me feel guilty.” Mason winced, scrunching his nose.
“My parents have already had 18 years of me living with them, I think going home can be delayed a little longer.”
“Only if you want me to.”
“Yeah, I want you to.” He said quickly, meeting your eyes.
“Any time.” You smiled.
“You really think I’m the most talented person you’ve ever met?” He asked, a teasing grin on his face.
“You want to go on Britain’s Got Talent?” You dodged the question, taking your hand out of Mason’s grip.
He let out a laugh, one you hadn’t heard in a while. It was hard not to reciprocate.
“So you’re ignoring me now?” He asked, leaning over his plate to try to invade your peripheral vision.
You shook your head, refusing to meet his eyes to hide the smirk on your face, “Your pancakes are getting cold.”
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