Chapter Text
Ever since Owen Giutivi was very young (two years, three months, and five days old, to be specific), he’s always known almost instinctively that there was something different about him, something a little weird, a little off. Maybe it’s something in the way he tends to always be mentally leagues ahead of the rest of his class, maybe it’s something in the way he’s always been able to understand subjects most adults would have no idea how to begin to go about comprehending. Throughout his formative years, Owen was always pushed to go further, work his incredible mind as hard as he could, whether by his well-meaning but demanding parents, or the teachers and child specialists who were there to witness it when he was reading 500-page novels in first grade.
Yeah, there’s really no doubt about it: Owen has always been extremely, if not astoundingly or even scarily smart- he’s been labeled a genius, a prodigy, a million words that honestly couldn’t mean less to him. The most important part, the only part that really matters, is that he almost never meets someone who gets it , who doesn’t act as if he’s some freak because of his intelligence. And he supposes that’s why he gravitated towards Charlie: a part of him can tell, even from a first glance, that there is something strange, something more unusual than what you see in a typical middle-schooler, about Charlie too.
Owen first met Charlie Sickle when they were both twelve, almost thirteen, at the start of Seventh Grade. Charlie was the new kid in school, and Owen sat next to him in Social Studies (the best class, no one could ever convince him otherwise). Obviously, they hit it off right away- he was a refreshing blast of fresh air in the face for Owen, with his strange habits, ridiculous energy, and always over-excessive swearing. Charlie is, hands-down, the funniest guy he’s ever met. Within minutes, he’ll have Owen laughing so hard he feels like his stomach is going to split in two, aching with howling snickers that carry over the whole room when they’re supposed to be reading quietly, earning glaring looks from other students and loud shushes from their teacher.
But Owen doesn’t care, because he’s around Charlie. And Charlie never cares about anything anyway.
And it’s incredible, because for the first time, Owen has someone who understands him, who’s willing to be his unwavering partner in crime, through thick and thin. Charlie brings out a part of him Owen thought he had lost, he lets Owen be a normal kid again- when he’s with Charlie, he isn’t the genius, the freak, the quiet kid who all the teachers adore, when he’s with Charlie, his intelligence isn’t his defining trait, his only trait.
When he’s with Charlie, he’s just Owen- and he’s happy. Charlie and Owen, Owen and Charlie- they became a conglomeration, never one referenced, by children and adults alike, without mentioning the other. Within a month of meeting each other, they became inseparable. Owen’s parents don’t approve of their friendship- of course they don’t. Charlie is extroverted, and an undeniable loudmouth; basically, everything Owen isn’t. Charlie breaks him more out of his shell every day, he lets Owen be something more than the perfect prodigy everyone adores.
Owen supposes the old saying, opposites attract, really is true- because where Charlie’s outgoing and boisterous, Owen is studious and quiet. Where Charlie has no qualms going up and asking whichever person he currently has a crush on out on a date, Owen can never even bring himself to say more than two words to the people he’s attracted to. Charlie skips classes and blows off quizzes and has the worst grades in the class, if not the entire school- and yet, Owen never gets anything less than perfect marks and straight As in all his subjects.
But somehow, through all this, Owen’s grades have never slipped, and Charlie has learnt when it’s best to be loud and when to hold in his jokes- because the thing about Owen and Charlie is that they only ever rub off on each other in the best ways possible. Owen means it when he says that, quite literally, there are almost no downsides in their friendship. They’re thick as thieves (and twice as crafty), and though they are shunned and generally unpopular, it doesn’t even matter.
Neither of them really have any other friends, but they don’t care because it’s enough to just have the two of them, brothers in all but name, a bond between them that no one could break. Charlie is quite literally the only reason Owen managed to get through middle school without completely pulling into himself, and for that, he is forever thankful.
It is because of Charlie, of course, that Owen regards Seventh Grade as the best year of his life.
Then, Eighth Grade came.
——
It’s the first day of Eighth Grade, and Owen is a jumbling ball of nerves. His worries mostly stem from a wondering if things will be the same between him and his best friend, who he hasn’t seen all summer- Charlie was at an all-summer camp that he’s always spoken of vaguely throughout their friendship, and hasn’t been able to properly contact Owen the whole summer. They had sent a few half-hearted letters, but they both felt it wasn’t the same, and broke off correspondence.
Luckily, Charlie was back in town in time to receive his schedule, and through texts he and Owen have managed to figure out that they share most, if not all, of their classes. Owen is elated, of course- and from what he can tell, Charlie is too (Charlie always gets so excited at the stupidest things, Owen loves him for it). But that doesn’t change the underlying anxiety that bubbles under the surface as he gets ready to see his best friend for the first time in nearly four months.
(Honestly, Owen doesn’t know why summer breaks have to be so long. All that one can do during that time is have way too much time to think- and Owen wishes vehemently he had less time to do so. He would rather be in school, reviewing stupid math equations he learnt years ago.)
Stepping out to the bus stop, backpack weighing him down anew, binder slung over his shoulder by its strap, Owen notices a chill in the air uncharacteristic for early September in Philadelphia. The sky is overcast, the color of the clouds similar in hue to Owen’s favorite blue-gray sweater, of which he has donned at the moment.
The other kids at his bus stop consist of some eighth graders like him, some seventh, and a couple giddy sixth graders excited beyond belief for their first day of middle school, and Owen takes stock of them all, plastering his face with a familiar dulled-out expression. He doesn’t have the heart to tell the sixth graders that there really isn’t anything super exciting about this, doesn’t have the heart to tell them they’ll be burnt out by the time the month is even up. He stands lazily by the bus stop sign, leaning against the familiar metal pole as he has so many times before, eyes grazing across the scenery, a stagnant scene he knows like the back of hishand- a street corner washed in swathes of gray, the only color the specks of green and yellow drifting across the tops of trees.
A wind gusts past, and Owen shivers. If the bus doesn’t come soon, by god, he’s gonna- like- swear, or something. He stifles a snicker at his imagination, currently painting a picture of Charlie, shaking a fist down the empty street, cursing at the sky and blowing puffs of condensation out of his pouting mouth with every breath.
(The fact that no one speaks to him at the bus stop is so stupid. He genuinely does not need more time to think about anything, especially how lonely- how lonely he isn’t . He’s fine. Owen’s fine. Why would anyone ever think anything else?)
The bus does come eventually, ten long minutes, punctuated only by the music blaring through Owen’s headphones, later. He huffs out a sigh and yawns, stretching up to the clouds, before resigning himself to his fate and clambering up the steps onto the already-crowded bus.
Immediately, a familiar face pops up from behind a seat in the back, his green eyes bright and smile contagious. Owen feels a similar expression begin to worm its way across his face at the sight of his best friend, and he quickens his pace, sliding into the schoolbus seat beside Charlie as if no time has passed.
“Owen! Owen fuckin’ Giutivi! It’s been a while, hasn’t it!” Charlie ruffles Owen’s hair, giving him a quick hug, and Owen sticks his tongue out at him, relief washing over his body like a summer rainstorm.
“Hey, Charlie,” Owen grins back, affection blooming within him as he flicks his best friend across the forehead. “Hope your summer was well good, mate!”
“Oh my god, I forgot you were so… British,” Charlie mutters lightheartedly to himself upon hearing Owen’s accent, slamming his head back into the fake leather of the seat with a half-laugh. “My summer was great, you?”
“Meh,” Owen answers truthfully, shoulders still permanently slumped as he leans back to join Charlie. “I stayed at home a lot, there wasn’t much to do. Maybe someday I can come to that fancy camp of yours.”
It was just an offhand comment, but Charlie’s face brightens immediately, his smile somehow growing even more. “Holy shit, dude, that would actually be amazing. Hopefully you fit the camp requirements, I think you’d really fit in there.”
Owen stares at him incredulously, the corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smirk. “Charlie Sickle. In all the long long months you’ve known me, have I ever been the type to fit in anywhere?” When he doesn’t respond, Owen sighs and speaks again. “The answer to that, by the way, is no.”
“No, but I’m serious! I actually think you would love it there.”
(Owen mentally recoils at this, unconsciously folding into himself. He’s not- he’s not that kind of person, he’s not like Charlie- he can’t just make friends wherever and whenever he feels like it. Owen is so drawn into himself, it’s honestly a miracle he hasn’t disappeared entirely at this point. Doesn’t Charlie understand he’s his only tether to the rest of the world? Doesn’t he realize that without him, Owen might as well be a robot for the amount of living he’s actually doing? Can’t he see that the majority of Owen’s summer has been spent staring at the same spot on his bedroom wall in silence?
And the fact that Charlie seems so sincere only serves to make his statements even more ridiculous. Honestly, he should know by now that Owen is about the most antisocial guy out there. It’s one of the constants of his life that he doesn’t fit in anywhere .)
Owen hums noncommittally, pulling out his earbuds and sticking one into Charlie’s ear as well as his own, as is their tradition. “You choose first?” he asks, deftly changing the subject, and Charlie nods vigorously (completely oblivious to Owen’s discomfort, but that’s fine, he’s fine), grabbing Owen’s phone and opening Spotify. Within seconds, a song is screaming through Owen’s headphones, and he reaches for his phone to turn down the volume, cringing as the noise only increases. Of course he had pressed the wrong button. Charlie rolls his eyes and helps Owen out, lowering the volume significantly until he can relax again.
“What’s the song?” Owen asks. Charlie is bobbing his head to a ridiculous degree, exclaiming loudly whenever the beat drops.
“Sex Sells by Lovejoy,” he answers, stretching. “Fucking banger, right? It’s by my friend Wil’s band- he also goes to my summer camp. I think you’d like him.”
(Maybe Owen would like him, but no one ever likes Owen. Except Charlie. There’s a reason why Owen has never made any friends in his life other than the boy sitting obliviously next to him right now, humming along to a tune only the two of them can hear. Charlie is his fucking lifeline.)
“His music is good, anyway,” Owen half-agrees, trying to mask his surprise at the rememberance that he is not, in fact, Charlie’s only friend in the world.
“Yeah, he’s usually the main leader of this, like, campfire singalong shit we do nightly, along with the other members of his cabin, cuz they’re all kind of music dudes. They like to flaunt it too. Fuckers,” he mutters, clear-cut affection in his voice that causes Owen to squirm with a kind of unprompted jealousy. Charlie clears his throat, continuing quickly. “Anyway- yeah, Wil has a really nice guitar- it was his dad’s and its sound is, like, really fucking good. Feels like it carries for miles, and that’s even without a mic.” Charlie’s head is still bopping to the music, and Owen belatedly realizes that he’s doing the same, albeit less ferociously.
“I’ll give you an eight out of ten for that,” he admits, and Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up in satisfied surprise.
“You hear that, boys?!” he yells, those in the general vicinity shooting annoyed glances his direction, and Owen snickers under his breath at his friend’s ridiculousness. “Charlie Sickle wins again!”
Their conversation continues lazily on the way to school, taking turns choosing new songs to play for the other.
(The rules of their game, one Charlie invented some time in the first few months of their friendship, are as follows: the two of them take turns choosing a song- it has to be a new song they haven’t ever played for the other yet, as well as one the other has never heard. Then, the person who isn’t choosing takes a listen and rates the song on a scale of one to ten, which corresponds to the number of points the chooser gets. At the end of the bus ride, the person with the most points wins for the day and gets the other’s cookie at lunch.)
Unsurprisingly given his strong start, Charlie’s won for this day- as he and Owen step off the bus, the wind carrying on it the scent of something foreboding, Owen tacks up their final scores at thirty-one for Charlie versus twenty-three for Owen, and he resigns himself to a cookie-less lunch.
“Hey, Owen, do you remember who our homeroom is?”
Owen sighs, exasperated, and rolls his eyes- because honestly, it is just like Charlie to not know. “Did you, like, leave our schedule at home or something?”
“Pff- fuck, are you, like, accusing me? You think I could do something like that? Jeez, dude, I’m hurt- gonna have to find a new best friend, I guess…” Charlie trails off, and though there is no fire behind his words, Owen can’t help it as his heart picks up speed at the thought of having to do all this alone, he knows Charlie’s making a joke, but Owen doesn’t want to be alone -
“We have a Mrs Pemberton,” Owen notes for Charlie, trying to get himself under control, and the shorter of the two nods before the two boys lapse into comfortable silence, just two best friends against the world. Or at least, Owen hopes that’s what they are, hopes that’s what Charlie sees him as. He doesn’t know what he’d do if it’s not.
(Later, Owen will look back and berate himself, because he should have noticed the way Charlie stood shakily, the way his eyes darted back and forth, as if on the lookout for something. He should have noticed the way Charlie’s jokes weren’t as well-thought-out as usual, the way his usual ridiculousness felt forced and fake.
Owen should have noticed that, as they made their way to Mrs Pemberton’s room, Charlie just got worse, sniffing the air and hovering protectively over Owen’s shoulder. But hindsight’s twenty out of twenty, Owen supposes, because in that moment, nothing had seemed amiss to him.)
They step into their classroom and, almost immediately, Charlie freezes in place, his limbs becoming rigid and an expression of barely masked horror spilling across his face, the change as drastic as if someone had poured paint over his head. It’s only then that Owen glances back, concern etched across his features. Charlie’s always been shorter than Owen, but at that moment, he looks like he wants nothing more than to grow to a humongous size and swallow something whole (Charlie doesn’t seem angry, though. He just seems scared). Honestly, Owen is quite put off.
“…Mate, you good?” He asks, brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and worry. Charlie nods a little too quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows, his complexion having turned pale and sickly-looking. Owen follows the gaze of his eyes as they trace across the room, to a big bulldog that, for whatever odd reason, is sitting underneath the teacher’s desk.
It has jowls that rival Winston Churchill, and a glare to match. Its ears stick straight up from its head, triangle-shaped and alert, teeth sticking up from its underbite onto its upper lip. Its fur is matted, a dusty brown color, and Owen can’t help but wonder if it’s well cared for, whoever it belongs to. Also, last he checked, it’s a rule that dogs of any kind are strictly not allowed on school property, so he’s slightly apprehensive as to what one is doing here right now.
If he didn’t know better, Owen would swear it’s staring straight at him.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Oh, uh, shit- I’m fine, just- just a little scared of dogs,” Charlie mutters, the obvious lie grating and rough in Owen’s mind, flurries of worry and possibilities floating across Owen’s mind in a familiar and foggy blizzard. He’s brought back to himself by Charlie gesturing towards the animal under the desk with a jut of his chin. “Let’s just find our seats and stay far, far away from it.”
Owen nods, though to be honest, he doesn’t really understand what the big deal was. As far as he can tell, it is just a neglected, grumpy-looking bulldog that has no reason to be there- and sad and unsettling as that is, he honestly doesn’t understand why Charlie is acting so skittish. That is Owen’s first mistake.
Three minutes later, after he and Charlie have found their seats (right next to each other, by some stroke of luck, and Owen is immediately so relieved that he feels like he could cry) the bell rings and their teacher still hasn’t arrived. The bulldog is still sitting menacingly under the desk, and Owen’s starting to get a little unnerved, as the beast is definitely staring at him- its gaze hasn’t slid from his face the entire time he’s been in the room. Charlie is still acting really jumpy, like, oddly so, and the rest of the class are impatiently waiting, annoyed whispers passing between friends and desk neighbors.
Finally, after several minutes have passed, the door swings open, and a young woman walks in. Her woven and plaited hair is the color of spun silk, a blonde so yellow Owen thinks there’s no way it can be her natural hair color, with skin as pale and freckled as a smoothed river stone. Her lips are warm and pink-tinged, curled up in a seductive smile, with piercing blue-gray eyes that seem to hold secrets deep within. She wears a bright pink dress that looks almost like a ballroom gown, with white and lighter pink accents at the waist, neck, and cuffs, and she seems to slither as she walks.
The teacher has arrived, but she is like no teacher Owen had ever seen. Not in a good way, either- just looking at her causes the skin on the back of his neck to prick up and crawl uncomfortably, and with a glance over at Charlie, Owen can tell he feels the same.
“Greetings, class!” She spreads her arms around her, motioning like she’s hugging all the class, voice like frozen honey against a backdrop of fluorescent lights.
(Owen notices with a slight spike of apprehension the way her smile seems to be just a bit too wide, her eyes are far too blank, staring ahead with a kind of manufactured happiness that Owen sees far too often on his own face. The difference is, however, that on her face, it looks almost sinister.)
“My name is Miss Pemberton,” the woman continues, either oblivious to or ignoring Owen and Charlie’s discomfort, “but you all can call me Madeleine. I’m so excited to get to know every single one of you this year!” She goes off on the classic teacher spiel, the one that never gets more true regardless of how many years it’s repeated, and Owen and Charlie exchange a knowing glance and a snicker- at least this part of the strange woman’s appearance is something they can both agree is somewhat normal.
The rest of the day passes in a dull, stretching swathe of rules and policies, how to read schedules, et cetera, et cetera, as first days back at school often do. When the bell rings for recess, it’s a welcome sound, and Owen can’t wait to get out onto the field, to lay in the grass and banter back and forth with Charlie.
But just as he’s pulling back on his sweater, the sharp and honeyed voice sounds from across the room. “Owen, dear?”
(Her voice sounds wrong when she says his name, there’s something underlying it- a quiet, almost imperceptible sound of static, and Owen can feel his arms erupt in bumping bouts of gooseflesh.)
“Yeah?” He answers, turning back to face Miss Pemberton.
“Why don’t you stay in for a little bit, honey.” It’s not a question, and again, there’s something off about her voice, it’s too flat and lilting- it sounds like a snake’s approximation of what a human sounds like, a good attempt tainted by venom and fangs. Owen begins to feel uneasy, the feeling catching up with him even more than before. The bulldog is still staring at him, beady and unblinking eyes trained on his own.
Charlie speaks before he can respond, his eyes wide and a glaring clarity that Owen doesn’t understand spreading across his face. “Um, no, actually, I don’t think he will be staying in- come on, dude, let’s go -”
Charlie’s hand tightens around Owen’s wrist, and he begins to pull him out of the room. Owen goes willingly, his heart rabbiting illogically, and oh god, he is scared and he doesn’t know why -
“Oh… but I insist,” Madeleine says, her teeth too white, eyes too blank, pupils so small all Owen can see are her blue-gray irises, pulling him in, closer, closer-
Until Charlie’s grip on his wrist jolts him back to reality.
“Uh, just give us a second- I’ll be right with you.” Owen shoots her his best ‘I’m a star student, how could I lie to you’ smile and lets Charlie pull him out into the hallway, where the shorter boy grabs his shoulders and looks him dead in the eyes, more serious than Owen’s ever seen him.
“Owen, listen to me. I am going to give you something, and you are going to go back into that room and deal with… that . I will be right here. I promise.”
“Char- why-” Owen is so confused, he has no clue what’s going on.
“I can’t help you with this,” Charlie mutters, face downcast. “I literally can’t fucking help you with this- shit, Owen, I’m so sorry. But this was going to happen at some point or another- your scent is just getting too strong, there was nothing I could do anymore-”
“My scent? Charlie, what the heck are you talking about?” It has to be another one of Charlie’s jokes, a bit that’ll have them both in tears with laughter when it reaches its end. But for once, Owen can’t see a trace of mirth in Charlie’s eyes; as he searches desperately, he cannot find a single hint that he is joking. Charlie doesn’t say anything, only stares at him with a kind of deeply sincere anger- it’s not directed at him, though, that much he can tell.
And so Owen takes a deep, shaky breath, and nods. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, has no idea what Charlie’s asking him to do. All he knows is that, standing right in front of him, is the only person in the world who he trusts, he would do anything for him.
“Okay. Take this.” Charlie reaches into his backpack and pulls out a moldy, bruised orange, and before Owen can protest, he presses it into the other’s palm.
“Charlie, what the heck?” Owen’s laughing now, the utter ridiculousness of this situation crashing down on him. He assumes that he was wrong, that it is a bit, but when he looks down, Charlie’s eyes are still devoid of any silliness.
“Look, I know it’s really fucking weird,” Charlie mutters. “Definitely wouldn’t be my choice, but that’s what X said to give you, and even if it’s a shitty orange, who the fuck am I to argue…”
Owen blinks, completely lost.
“Right, fuck, sorry. Just… take the orange. You’re a fucking smart kid, dude. You’ll know what to do.” Charlie states the words with a fabricated confidence, and Owen can’t help but think it feels like he’s trying to convince himself as well as Owen.
And then, with a salute, Owen’s best friend pushes him forward, back into the room, with nothing but a moldy orange clutched in his sweating hands.