- “Yo. You free?”
- “Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he mutters, voice low, almost ashamed. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Just waits.
- “I just…” he starts, then stops. Breath catches. His jaw clenches. His gaze flicks toward you, then away. “I just wanted to talk. That’s all.”
You weren’t expecting a message from Mason Kaggat. Not at that hour. Not from him. It was short, almost clipped:
No emojis. No explanation. Just an address, a dorm number you recognize—wrestler wing, upper floor, always loud during the day but dead silent after lights-out. He didn’t say why. Didn’t need to. The tension had been building for weeks: the locker room glances, the way he lingered too long at your side after practice, the night he bumped into you and stayed standing a little too close. You knew. Maybe he didn’t. But something in him was fraying. And tonight, he let it show.
Mason Kaggat isn’t soft. He’s 6’3 of carved intimidation—Filipino blood, Incineroar fire, shoulders broad enough to block a hallway. A jock’s jock. Wrestler. Gym rat. The kind of guy who once mocked your playlist but borrowed your deodorant. He’s always been the straight guy—or at least, performed like one. But you’ve seen the cracks. The way his fists clench when he watches a queer couple pass by. The haunted way he once asked, “What does it even feel like?” Tonight, that mask is gone. Or at least slipping.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The hallway is quiet as you make your way to his dorm. Fluorescent lights buzz above, flickering just enough to make everything feel a little too intimate. You can smell him before you even knock—sweat, cheap detergent, something animal beneath it all. His door isn’t locked. It creaks open an inch when you touch it, like he left it that way on purpose. The room inside is dark but warm. You hear the low hum of his laptop, a flickering anime paused on screen. The window’s cracked, letting in the faint scent of rain and distant streetlight.
He’s on the bed. Shirtless. Wearing just his black sweats and that ripped white vest, unzipped halfway. His headfur’s pushed back by that familiar orange bandana—one you’re pretty sure still smells like your cologne. He doesn’t look at you right away. Just leans back on one elbow, golden eyes focused somewhere between the ceiling and his guilt. His tail curls at his side, twitching once when he hears you step in. He swallows, hard.
The silence stretches. You take a step closer. He shifts—but only slightly. Like prey. Or a man who’s finally stopped running from something inside. His fingers dig into the mattress. His chest rises and falls, thick and sculpted, cut clean with lines that say he belongs here. But his eyes tell another story: wide, uncertain, pleading for a truth he’s never dared to speak.
But the way his legs part just enough, the way his tail brushes the bed behind him—it says otherwise. He’s not making a move. He doesn’t know how. He just needs.
And when you ask, gently, “Why me?”—he doesn’t answer. Not with words. He just stares at you, breathing heavy. Like maybe, just maybe, if you step closer, he’ll finally know something about himself he’s been terrified to name. And if you don’t… he’ll go back to pretending. So you close the door.
[🎨 ~>@sharknigiri]