#cporttask

“Mama?” Tina called out as she carefully stepped over the threshold and into to her old family home; a dark and barbed weight settling in her chest as it tended to do ever since his funeral.

Honestly, she didn’t know how her mother could stand to still live in a place where each room was now a crippling reminder of the sunshine presence that would never fill them again. Hell, it was only last week that she’d been able to put back up her favorite framed photo she had of her and her father ( her, sitting atop his shoulders at 6 years old with a missing front-toothed grin while he laughed and laughed and spun them around ) without collapsing into tears.

They’d both agreed weeks back that Thanksgiving wouldn’t be celebrated this year. The mere idea of it was just too hard to comprehend. Truthfully, there was nothing more Tina wanted than to just stay at home for the night, curled with Salem and a few mugs of generously spiked cider while she watched a mind-numbing series on Netflix. But her mother had asked her over the day before yesterday, and there was no way she could or would refuse.

However, the sight of the small, well-loved living room table filled with gimbap, kimchi, and soju all laid out neatly across its surface was pretty paramount in both startling and confusing the absolute hell out of her.

“What—?” but her voice cut off as soon as her mother appeared from down the short hall. For a long moment, Tina just watched her come closer, incredulous to what was happening, as a rush of blinding anger came to the forefront of her senses. Was this for real? Why in the hell would she do this? Why would she do anything that would make them remember him so soon? Too soon.

“His favorite foods from home that he liked to make,” was all Tanya offered after a tense silence, but it only made the emotions ricocheting inside of her that much worse. What was she thinking? Was she serious?! But just as she opened her mouth to shout and reprimand her mother with everything she had, she found herself beat to the punch yet again.

“Don’t. Please.” Another leaden pause thickened the air like a suffocating smog.

“You know he wouldn’t have wanted the house like this, Tina; filled with this awful silence and sorrow. You and I mourning. You know he would have hated it.”

The harsh words were loaded and like a violent shot to the chest — her breath hitching as she tried to fight back the hot press of tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes.

God, hadn’t she cried enough? Why couldn’t it just stop already? Why did she do this?

Tina opened her mouth once more — to say what, she wasn’t too sure — but the sudden and harsh bursts of fury, sorrow, and loneliness she’d felt coalescing to dangerous heights mere seconds before died out when she caught the open and earnest look reflected in her mother’s own watery eyes; something she hadn’t seen in months.

It reminded her of the days she and her mother and father spent during her youth; goofing around in the kitchen and dancing sporadically to old rock music, or camping out in the backyard as her dad made silly-voiced shadow puppets on the tent walls with a flashlight, and so, so much more. Each moment was filled with the same heartfelt and loving air that she’d always felt and cherished the most from her parents that surrounded practically everything they did. They were the memories ( and everything that came with them ) that she’d so desperately tried to shove down in the aftermath of her father’s death for fear of a complete and utter breakdown. But in that one, singular instance and whispered plea from her equally suffering mother in her old family home, she found that she now, more than ever, wanted desperately to cling to them like a stubborn, spoiled child.  

And despite vaguely wishing she’d been talked to first about the whole set up; despite being ambushed and knowing she had the right to be upset in some form or fashion, Tina looked at her mother, over to the table of food that her father always swore by for the heaviest of hearts, and felt her tight, burning muscles lose all their fight and strain. 

Fine. Fine. She was right, wasn’t she?

Wasn’t she . . .?

Nodding her head, Tina smiled a choppy, but somehow sincere smile of her own as she pushed down the niggling urge to run off and throw up.

“Yeah. Okay. . .”

&&. ___________

It was a mere few hours later, and she was on that pleasant precipice of tipsiness that came just before you fell straight into being drunk. There were only a few traces of food left in bits and pieces on the table as she watched from her place on the couch — whole body warm and uncontrollable giggles tumbling free — as her mother regaled a story about the utter disaster that was her father’s proposal. It was one that she’d heard about a million times before, and yet, it never got old.

The start to their rather unexpected evening had been difficult and somewhat stilted despite the mini intervention of sorts. But once they’d stared to eat and the more they talked and began to laugh and tentatively reminisce ( the more they drank ) the easier and more enjoyable it got. Hearing about her father like this: happy and silly and whole as he ever had been, and from the only other person who knew him so well and loved him just as much as she did was something she hadn’t realized she needed; something she didn’t think would be so cathartic after the endless sad of it all.

Tina had just poured two more glasses of peach soju for her and her mother once their mingled laughter finally died down, when Tanya slowly leaned back with a small, satisfied sigh and smiled in that seeking, motherly kind of way.

“. . . How are things with you, though, honey? You know, outside of work. You’ve had so much go on with that poor Rachel girl, and this town’s never-ending need for drama outside of themselves. I haven’t heard much from you about, well . . . any of it lately.”

Well, that was absolutely a conversation that didn’t need to be had.

“Yeah, it’s all fine. I mean, it’s been hard, of course, but I’m . . . you know, dealing. I have Hunter, my friends, and work, so I’m not lacking,” she replied airily as she waved the question off. But Tanya just stared at her daughter for a long, calculating moment, and Tina felt her stomach drop at what she hoped wasn’t coming.  

Anything but that. 

“You should know better than to try and lie to me like that, sweetheart.”

Fuck. Fuck. Of course, yet again, her mother had gone and disarmed her with only a sentence ( paired with the liquor in her system and slew of emotions and issues ) as the repressed realities of the past year came slithering like grotesque vines to grip at her heart. How exactly did one tell their mother that, besides an old schoolmate dying after months of being missing, she and her friends had also been dealing with some freak tormenting them with secrets and blackmail? How she’d been on a rollercoaster with Hunter from the second he’d gotten back into Castleport that finally seemed to be slowing down and in their favor for once, or the nasty fight she’d got into with Santana that left her feeling enormously guilty and murderously irate at the same time? And worst of all, that she’d gotten Sam’s father drunk, took him home, and took a picture of what she’d done in order to save Double C’s from being shut down ( or worse ) after a series of horrible threats?

. . . Then there was her father; the haunting, painful memory of how he’d smiled a ghost of her favorite smile at her as she held his hand tight in hers ( as though that was enough to tether him to life ) before closing his eyes for the final time.

How it felt that she was just a hollow shell — a husk of nothing important or worthy of anything, and maybe she always had been.

Tanya must have seen the clear crumbling wall of emotions falling across her daughter’s face; her own showing nothing but heartbreaking empathy as she gently reached the short distance across the couch they sat on and cupped Tina’s face in her gentle hand.

“내 작은 해바라기가 너무 슬퍼 보인다.”

That.

Hearing her mother speak so gently to her in Korean along with the nickname she’d had since birth was what broke the damn, and hard. There was no stopping it. 

Tina let out an ugly, wrenched sob as she buckled forward and into her mother’s ready, protective, and comforting embrace. Her whole body shook as she cried — cried for everything that’d been her life as of late, and to the one person she knew would just let her, without judgement, without discomfort, without fear or phony reassurances, cry.

There, a daughter curled up with her mother in a heavy home filled with old, bittersweet memories and an emptiness that was felt achingly.  

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. 

Holidays at the Lynn residence was a typically get together, his mother hard at work in the kitchen, his younger cousins putting up the place mats, some cinnamon and vanilla type of candle burning with the mixture of fresh cooked, home made meals lingering in the air. It was nostalgic in a way, bringing him back to times when he was younger, when things weren’t weighing on his shoulders like boulders. Instead of worrying about getting his Thanksgiving outfit dirty from rough housing outside with his cousins, now he was worrying about the death of a close friend and the way he possibly ruined someone he cared about’s life by being a stupid, impulsive idiot and kissing her while she was married. Sam was right, he was acting like an idiot, but he couldn’t bring himself to just stop the way he felt. The only thing he could do was distance himself, to let her breathe...even if he wanted to be the one to help her to her feet.

What kind of fucked up television show had he fallen into.

That, and seeing his father try and be all cheery on the Holiday, acting like he cared about his family as he helped his mother in the kitchen with the turkey he’d worked on all day...it made his stomach churn as he just tried to keep his eyes on the television as preseason for football was beginning. That note, the one that exposed his father for the cheating piece of shit husband he was, still was tucked away in his wallet. The proof was in the pudding, or email that had all the information he needed, and when he wrote to his father they needed to talk, he avoided his son like the plague. It was typical, his dad couldn’t own up when he was cornered. But he couldn’t hide from him for long, and Ryder kept that in mind as he pretended to focus on the TV until one of his random family members came up and started chatting about sports. As usual. 

Soon enough, everyone was gathered around the table, and they had to say prayer. But Ryder found it hard to keep his eyes closed, because he was beyond exhausted. He wondered what everyone else was doing, what Bree was doing on her first Holiday alone with her family in ages, what Santana was doing with her mom after the shift in leads for the Rachel case, what Hunter was doing...he really needed to see Hunter soon, maybe he would after he snuck away after the dishes were done. When the thankful speeches began to go around the table, his father of course stood up to start, raising a glass of bourbon before beginning to speak of how thankful he was for his health, for having the family together, and then he looked across the table at Ryder.

“....and for my son, and his bright future in the NFL. You always know how to make me proud son, and I really, really hope you can keep that up. It’d be a shame if you messed up somehow---” He started before pausing, starting to laugh as if he was kidding, family members chiming in, “But you got your youth, which is more than I can say, am I right?” He motioned to the other older males at the table, all joining in with laughter while Ryder forced a smile. But his father’s glare was all too knowing, a warning almost to not run his mouth, because his father had dirt on him. Just as Ryder had dirt on his father.

Then it got around to Ryder in the circle, and he stood up, grabbing the glass of red wine his mother had poured him and raising it. “I’m thankful for my lovely, beautiful mother for making this feast, along with you Aunt Helen, the corn casserole is amazing...” He began light heartedly, clearing his throat before nodding his head, “I’m also thankful for second chances, for being a man when faced with adversity and hardship, for being....loyal to the ones I love. Because at the end of the day, if you aren’t loyal and genuine with those you care for, then those you care for will all disappear. One by one.” His gaze drifted over to his father, who was now shooting him an all too knowing look as he took a large swig of the dark liquor in his glass, “To loyalty.” And everyone echoed, laughing along, clinking their glasses before Ryder nodded and sat down, almost downing half the wine in his glass. 

Soon the food was finished, and as he made his way to the kitchen to help with the dishes, he felt a hand grab his arm, “Ryder, a moment of your time please. I need help with something in the garage.” It was the deep voice of his father, and he sighed as he glanced over to him, not wanting to cause a scene in front of his family so he followed him to the back hall away from the crowd. Instantly, his father gave him a light shove to the wall behind him, it wasn’t the first time his father put hands on him. Even though he was older, Oliver Lynn was still in decent shape and was a tall, threatening force. And it wasn’t like Ryder would ever lay a hand on his own father anyways, it was a lose lose situation, all for the sake of his mother. “That stunt you pulled at the dinner table was unacceptable.”

Laughing under his breath, he shook his head, “You’re joking right? You want to talk about unacceptable, how about we talk about how you’re FUCKING Mrs. Motta-” And then were was his father stepping forward, getting in his space, making Ryder feel small. 

“You don’t want to get involved in my personal business, son. I assure you that, if you do, I won’t be so willing to protect all the fuck ups you get into. And, last that I heard, you seem to also have a thing for married women. A man from my office said he saw you kissing Bree Brown a few months ago...and now she’s getting divorced? Seems rather convenient.” Pausing, his father noticed the way his son’s demeanor changed upon topic of the conversation, and he smirked, “Trust me, you don’t want to turn your back on me and ruin this family. It’s the only thing that is keeping you together, your career, everything. I’m the one person that can make your problems go away, to keep your image clean, don’t fuck that up. Or else you’ll just be able wannabe player who never got their real shot.” 

Ryder felt his fists clutched by his sides, jaw clenched hard enough to see the bone stick out and he nodded, “Right. But don’t expect me to fucking defend you when all your dirty laundry eventually gets out. Mom deserves better than your bullshit.” He muttered, shaking his head before shouldering past his father and quickly making his way to the living room, breathing deep as he silently made his way to the dishes and began working. His mother instantly noting the way her son’s demeanor changed and coming up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I love you son, you know that?” She murmured into his strong shoulder, and he took a deep breath, trying to blink back the way his eyes fogged up with tears, keeping his face to the sink as he nodded.