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“Actually, I gotta get rid of these guns,” Matt says.
The summer prior, Matt and Owen had taken a day trip up to Canada’s Wonderland. It had been an unreasonably hot day, even for July, and Matt had made it his mission to get Owen to ride the tallest coaster in the park, needling him in that way that only Matt could get away with, toeing the line between endearing and annoying. He had brought along his shitty little handycam; said, c’mon man, we could get some really awesome footage at the top, and, well – Matt usually got what he wanted. As their car crested over the peak of the tracks and Owen’s stomach fell out through his seat, he clung to Matt who laughed and clung tight to his little camera, and he thought: fuck Matt for talking me into this.
Matt gets about ten paces down the hallway before Owen picks up his jaw and says, “Hey, wanna skip class?”
Owen doesn't have a plan. But getting Matt out of school sounded like the best idea at the moment, so. Matt's mom is long gone, having already left for work, and they end up in his basement, like always.
“It looks different in here,” Owen says. They didn't speak much on the short ride over, something that didn't seem to bother Matt. Instead, Owen tried to focus on the brisk Toronto chill, the feeling of his bike slicing through the air, Matt's dirty blond mop of hair in front of him – anything other than the dread in the pit of his stomach, feeling heavy and weightless all at once. Too afraid of saying the wrong things in the wrong order.
“Yeah, well,” Matt shrugs the duffel off of his shoulder, unclasps his watches – plural – and says, “I didn't really think I'd be coming back here. Made it a little easier for my mom, at least.” He says it so matter-of-fact, only mildly inconvenienced, like a restaurant had offered him Coke instead of Pepsi.
Owen feels sick.
Matt's basement is stripped down to its bare essentials. Movie posters, comic book covers, and Magic cards are gone from the walls and tucked neatly into little plastic bins. The Nintendo 64 is absent completely. Owen realizes that he's never even registered the color of the walls before – a stark, impassive white – and the feeling is dizzying; wrong. The whole thing has him off-kilter, like he's in some bizarro world where Matt never existed at all.
Matt is crouched down next to the television, shuffling through stacks of DVDs organized neatly on neighboring shelves, when Owen asks, “What are you doing?”
He looks over his shoulder to lock eyes with Owen, who realizes he's forgotten to move, standing stock still at the entranceway of the room. “I'm finding a movie for us to watch? Unless you'd rather play video games or Magic or something, I’m cool with whatever.” Owen had seen genuine panic on Matt’s face back in that hallway, but he’s eased back into that faux nonchalance somewhere between the school and his house, smiling his easy Matt smile, pretending like nothing’s wrong.
Owen’s always been the worse actor between the two of them. Of course, the dam bursts.
“How can you act like this right now?” It comes out too loud, too shaky. “You walked into school with a bag of guns, Matt! I mean, what was the plan? Don't you think I want to know what the fuck is going on?”
“Dude, I told you,” Matt says, actually looking a little annoyed now, “I was making The Dirties for real. Jared was gonna film the whole thing.”
“Just walking in and shooting up the school – jesus, what the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”
“I wasn't gonna shoot up the school, man,” Matt has the nerve to laugh. “It was just The Dirties that were in danger – we're just here for the bad guys, remember? I ordered shirts but they didn't get here in time, maybe it's a sign it wasn't meant to happen today, after all.” He goes back to thumbing through DVD cases, like this line of reasoning makes all the sense in the world.
“Are you – what the fuck – do you even hear yourself right now? Are you fucking crazy?”
“Aha!” Matt turns around again, thrusting a finger at him like he’s actually proven some kind of point. “So you admit that I am a psychopath!”
“You – no – I don't know!”
Matt’s face is falling and Owen realizes suddenly that he's shaking, blinking away hot tears. He's so, so angry – angry that Matt is doing this to him, angry that he didn't see it coming, angry that they're standing here in an empty basement, that Matt didn't plan on coming back.
“You were gonna leave me,” Owen finally says, wet and pitchy and embarrassingly needy.
Matt flinches. Some dark and ugly part of Owen thinks, look at what you did to me. You should feel bad. But Owen feels guilty about that, too.
More gentle now, Matt says, “I was doing it for you.”
“You were doing it for your fucking movie! I don't want–”
What does he want? Would it be such a bad thing if Matt really killed those guys – if Owen didn't have to worry about being pushed around and called a faggot and have rocks thrown at his head? Not really, he thinks, and manages to not even feel that bad about it. It's the prospect of losing Matt that has him so shaken; the idea that Matt believes this is what Owen would want.
Owen hasn't cried like this in front of Matt since maybe grade school – it's humiliating.
He feels far away from himself, out of his own body; but Matt is in front of him, then, saying things like Owen, hey, don't cry and it's okay, closing the distance like Owen's some wounded animal he's afraid of spooking. Eyebrows furrowed, he reaches out with careful hands to wipe at Owen's tears.
There's a feeling in his stomach, sharp and hot and unnameable and he feels like he's going to vomit. He’s so fucking tired of Matt making decisions for him, of feeling powerless and pathetic and completely subject to his whims.
Logically, Owen knows it's just the two of them in Matt’s house, but even now he feels like he's being watched, naked and raw in the viewfinder of Jared’s camera. Like this is another scene in Matt’s movie that Owen won't get a say in. He wonders how Matt would spin it in the editing room: Owen's face blotchy and red and covered in tears and snot, hands fisted tightly in the fabric of Matt’s shirt to keep himself anchored – Matt standing tiptoe to wipe Owen’s cheeks clean without the risk of putting a thumb through his eye, muttering affirmations, his face the picture of concern. Two best friends in an empty basement.
This close, he can feel Matt's heart beating jackrabbit-quick beneath his ribcage. Some part of Owen wishes he could crawl inside, know everything there is to know about Matt. Become a part of him so inextricable that Matt can't leave him behind.
Instead, he clings tightly to the front of Matt's shirt, drops his head into the crook of his neck, and says miserably, “I'm staying over tonight.”
“Yeah,” Matt says. “Okay.”