Mason couldn’t help it. At the suggestion he was just a figment of someone’s imagination he barked out a laugh. “If I’m a figment of your imagination, mate,” he chuckled, “then you have a pretty fucked up head. You oughta see a shrink or something.”
He cleared his throat to dampen his chuckling and took a drink of his juice. Some nondescript flavour, mixed fruit or tropical or some shit like that. He wet his lower lip and watched the other… uh, boy? Man?
“Pretty sure everyone else here can see me,” he offered. “I can make a scene if you want.”
He shifted up the bench a little, pulling his tray of food - unappealing as it was - with him. He felt a sting of compassion for how confused the other guy looked. Mason, too, felt confused but was doing a much better job of hiding it. Spoke volumes, he figured, about the emotional upbringing they’d had.
Was this some kind of fucked up Parent-Trap situation? He knew he’d been pimped out as a kid, handed off to someone else who couldn’t have kids because his birth mother didn’t want him or something but…
“Hey-" his voice was a little softer now. “Calm down. Look, I’m Mason. Emerson, technically, but call me that and I’ll have to deck you.” He held out his hand across the table. “You are…?”