mason alexander bass
She called his name twice. It was dark. Snow fell a paragraph to sum up decades of heat. He had no answer.
She called his name twice. It was dark. Snow fell a paragraph to sum up decades of heat. He had no answer.
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nicknamexxxMase, it's a pretty popular one and he doesn't mind his
friends using it. The only other nickname is using his last name.
birthdatexxx.06/02/2000
zodiac signx.gemini
sexualityxxxxhomosexual, closeted.
occupationxxlifeguard in the summer
codenamexx.Boss Bass
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dialogue codexxx#6495ED
thought codexxxx#8A2BE2.
face claimxxxxxxxjustin crichlow
song inspirationx"And over there, does the air taste
differently?"
after high school,/pre-medical student at Stanford.
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xxxxgeneral style
seasons
Mason settles with brightly-colored swim shorts in the summer, putting on thin tank tops and sandals when he has to. In the winter, Mason always has on a nice, thick sweater or some sort of sweatshirt. He gets cold easily and likes to bundle up.
casual and formal
He puts on a front for most of the people at school. He tends to care a lot about his appearance, slaving over perfectly gelled curls and a perfectly coordinated outfit. His wardrobe mainly consists of muted t-shirts and dark wash jeans he spent hours shopping for. When he's with his family, or friends he's very comfortable around, he stays in a comfy pair of shorts, sometimes even without a shirt. He will swear a hoodie at any given moment just because he likes when his house is cold.
anything else
He has a tattoo he got for his graduation present, a reminder to be present and not worry about things he can't control.
Going out on his family's boat. Summer; his sister,
though the season is also good. Old t-shirts. Scruff
and the feeling of it on his face. Kissing someone.
Laying out by the pool, letting the sun soak in his skin.
Studying until he feels prepared and colored flashcards.
Going fishing with his dad and sister. Grilling. A nice,
hot shower after a long game. White winters when the
the snow sticks to his hair and his sweater. Lazy days
where he can bundle up in a sweatshirt and his glasses
and relax for once. His old treehouse in the magnolia.
him; scratch that, anyone not liking him. Bad grades.
Getting sick and having to be taken care of. Too little
sleep. Snoring, even though he softly snores. Partying
too much. Horror movies, unless he has someone to
hide behind. Large crowds in small rooms. Mexican
food. Being alone in any situation, it gets him paranoid.
Unsalted popcorn. Someone who doesn't take the
responsibility for their actions. Clothing that is too tight
on him. Boys who think they're better than they are.
Being away from nature for too long.
It is easy to be the Boy Next Door.
Get up. Carpool friends to school, blasting the radio out the windows of an all-American truck. Pay attention in class, but socialize too. Eat at the lunch table everyone wants to be at. Club meeting. Baseball practice. Study group. Family dinner. So much homework, but valedictorians always do their homework. After everything's been done-
Panic. Panic. Panic. Panic. Panic.
Mason's mind runs a mile a minute, keeping up with a perfect facade and calculating every move so no one has to worry about him. He is the bodyguard of his friends' emotions, too wrapped up in his job to take his own mental health seriously. Only the orange bottle with his name on it will clue anyone in to the fact that he's very much not alright. And there are those who have seen past this figure of Mason, been shown the fidgeting, hyperventilating Mason that will have a panic attack over a text message. He has his own protectors, the people who will sit him down and tell him he's not alright.
If he pretends to be, someone will believe it.
His protectors are few and far in between because of Mason's performances. The flash of a pearly smile and a soft conversation of how you're feeling can make even the strongest of worries disappear. Stanford would not wait for his breathing to slow, valedictorians don't let a prescription stop their all-nighters. Mason would be someone else every day if it meant he could become what everyone else sees.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxhistory
@b_ass
Life has never been all too hard for Mason Bass. Whether a gracious offering for always trying to be a friend, or the complex mix of genes that came from two high-achieving people, his life is the suburban golden spoon. Learning came easy to the little boy-next-door, intelligence sparkling from ever curious, ever wide eyes. Jocelyn and Emmett didn't have problems with their first born, save the pack of children he always seemed to bring home with him. Mason had a habit of bringing home children Jocelyn knew she never carried but could believe it so from the way they looked at her. Her sweet Mason just wanted friends, lots of friends.
A similar group of kids continued to inhabit the Bass home like a sanctuary, wasting summer days up in the old tree house or splashing into their pool. He always had a special look on his face around his friends, one that Jocelyn clung to in her memories when she experienced Mason's first panic attack.
A similar group of kids continued to inhabit the Bass home like a sanctuary, wasting summer days up in the old tree house or splashing into their pool. He always had a special look on his face around his friends, one that Jocelyn clung to in her memories when she experienced Mason's first panic attack.
@masonbass
This was not the Mason his friends knew, no Mason that his family had ever experienced. Watching the overachiever, the baseball captain, the member of so many different clubs it was hard to remember which one was on which day, shake uncontrollably and heave for his next breath. A golden 1st place trophy with a crack down the cup, Mason hid the signs of weakness behind long, busy days and tucked into a lover's arms so no one else would have to see how much their trophy had rusted.
His anxiety-ridden mind has created a veil for those who don't understand the wisdom of rust. To those who expect him to still be the valedictorian, the Stanford man, the golden boy, he has never seemed more on his game. But he finds solace in those who cherish a broken item as an antique, with a personality like none other and only a burden to those who do not see its value.
There is no solace where he is now. Only an unending ache he fears has broken him for good.
His anxiety-ridden mind has created a veil for those who don't understand the wisdom of rust. To those who expect him to still be the valedictorian, the Stanford man, the golden boy, he has never seemed more on his game. But he finds solace in those who cherish a broken item as an antique, with a personality like none other and only a burden to those who do not see its value.
There is no solace where he is now. Only an unending ache he fears has broken him for good.
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