Free Tag Team by SJD Peterson Page A

no intentions of leaving and giving Mason some peace. “What can I do to convince you that doesn’t involve a trip to the psych ward?” he implored.
    “Why are you so against talking to someone?” Bobby asked. “There is nothing wrong in asking someone for help, and there is no shame in talking to a psychiatrist.”
    Mason squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as the throb in his head flared painfully. “I don’t have anything against psychiatrists, I’ve seen enough of them—”
    “You’ve tried this before?” Rig asked in horror.
    “No!” Mason said adamantly. “I’ve never been depressed. I’ve always been a pretty happy-go-lucky guy for the most part, but you know what? Having your fucking whole life ripped away from you in the blink of an eye, having to fight people you don’t even fucking know to make sure the last wishes of someone you love are granted and lose, and having your other lover’s ashes sitting on your fucking kitchen table, that does shit to a man,” Mason shouted angrily.
    The anger propelled him up and off the couch. He needed to move, he was shaking so hard, pulse speeding. Mason paced, his infuriation evident in each heavy footfall as he stomped in the small space of his living room, arms flailing around wildly as he continued to voice his fury. “I fucked up! I made a goddamn mistake, but given the circumstance I think I was entitled to a meltdown. I had my pity party, I deserved it and I took it too fucking far but I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it! I won’t do it!” he screamed.
     
     
    M ASON continued to stomp and scream and rage. Rig moved from a relaxed stance to instant rigid tension as Mason screamed. Rig’s fingers curled against the leather of the recliner, his knuckles white with the effort to keep himself in the chair. The deep scowl on the man’s face told Bobby his partner was having as difficult of a time as he was to sit quietly and not wrap Mason up in a hug or say something that would make this whole situation better. But, there were no words that would help and nothing they could do that would make it so. They sat there watching him silently, helplessly, until Mason ran out of steam and fell back onto the couch, breathing harshly, and hung his head.
    Rig stood and Bobby looked up at him questioningly, but he just shook his head and headed to the kitchen without a word. After another long moment of watching Mason struggle to compose himself, Bobby couldn’t stand it, and he moved closer to the man. He wanted desperately to hold Mason, give him a strong shoulder to lean on, but Bobby clenched his hand into a fist to stop from reaching out and touching him. Instead he sat close, quietly letting Mason know he wasn’t alone.
    “I really am okay,” Mason murmured hoarsely. “I know it didn’t sound like it just now, but I honestly am.” He fidgeted with the hem of his shorts, picking at a loose thread. “I’m just full of surprises today,” he said with a sad-sounding chuckle.
    “What do you mean?”
    Rig came back in before Mason could answer and handed him a glass of water. Mason looked up at him with a slight smile and accepted the glass, thanking him. Rig sat back down in the recliner again; he was still tense, and Bobby could see the muscles bulging in his neck, but he no longer had that wild, hopeless look in his eyes. Mason took a few sips of water before setting it on the coffee table and turning slightly to face Bobby.
    “I don’t normally talk to strangers very well, and I try to avoid getting that worked up since it usually sends me into a panic attack.”
    “Is that what you saw the psychiatrist for? The panic attacks?” Bobby asked gently.
    Mason nodded. “They started when I was a kid and they got really bad after I left home, could barely make it through the day without at least one to some degree. They weren’t always like full-blown attacks; some I could manage on my own. Anyway, I went to therapy for years