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If you needed a costume, there were worse places you could end up in Toronto than Malabar. Just off Queen West, taking up the whole corner of a retail building, it looked like something out of the old New York broadway days. Or, anyway, that’s what Matt assumed it was going for - he’d never actually been to New York, but he’d seen enough movies to get the gist and, honestly, what’s the difference?
He convinced Owen to take the trek down with him, saying they could use some legit costumes for The Dirties instead of the mishmash of old clothes they found at thrift stores and Mike’s hand-me-downs. It didn’t take a lot of convincing - what else was Owen going to do all afternoon? But Matt sweetened the deal anyway by saying they could use whatever cash they had leftover to hit up the comic shop and then see what bootleg dvds they could find on Spadina for movies they definitely were not supposed to watch. Make a real day of it.
He convinced Jared to come by telling Jared to come. All the behind-the-scenes process stuff is for the movie, so.
The main purchase Matt was really gunning for was the fake blood. The Dirties had shootouts, ergo, they needed blood. He made a beeline for the goods as soon as they got through the doors. “What if they have actual squibs?” Matt tugged at Owen’s sleeves, practically vibrating.
Owen snorted, rotating a display of Halloween prosthetics, “Muldoon’s just going to tell us to take it out.”
“You don’t know that. Have a little faith. Have a little artistic integrity.” If you’re making a movie, you should put in the extra effort to make it look real. That was just common sense. There’s that whole suspension of disbelief.
“School project?” An employee greeted the boys from behind a counter.
Matt bit his tongue and smiled warmly up at them, “short film, actually. We need the good stuff - you've got that, right? Like, what’re you gonna give Cronenberg when he comes in for blood fx? We need that.” Owen pointedly did not engage.
The employee hummed, “everything we’ve got is out here.”
“Yea, but, if someone were to look in the back room..?” Matt pressed.
“They’d find the same things. Let me know if you need any help choosing for your film,” they smiled politely and walked off to help another customer looking at hats.
“Theatre kid moron,” Matt looked to Owen for approval and found he had apparently wandered off to rifle through the medieval costumes hanging in rows around the store. Jared tracks Owen and then seems to get distracted capturing useless b-roll of vampire fangs and displays of sunglasses. Again, as always, it was up to Matt to keep everything on track.
So, did they want tacky blood or dripping blood? What if The Dirties oozed black goo instead? Or what if they went totally over-the-top, raining buckets of blood, Evil Dead style? Or, dare they, Evil Dead 2? Matt squinted at his options, do they even come in bucket sizes?
He picked up a small jar of blood capsules and started absently juggling it from one hand to the other - having something in his hands usually helped him think - and stared into the middle distance, trying to imagine the different scenes.
“Fuck it,” he grabbed what he could hold and scanned the store for Owen. They’d just have to get it all and figure it out at the shoot.
He spotted Owen’s dumb windbreaker around the corner of one of the many rows of clothes near the back and called out to him as he jogged over, “how much cash did you bring? Just - trust me - it’s going to look -” Owen is standing there with the dumbest smile plastered on his face. Matt instantly hates it. “What is that.” Not a question.
Owen’s smile falters only slightly, combs his fingers through the shaggy blonde wig on his head, “what’s what - what’s this? Check it out, who am I?” He tilts his head from side to side in case Matt is missing any angles.
“I don’t know, Owen, who are you?”
Owen laughs, “come on, Matt, what? I’m Matt!” Owen slaps Matt on the arm, makes a goofy show of it. Matt wants to throw up. He feels the moment Owen second guesses his choices at the same time he realizes Jared is filming from behind another rack.
It’s easy to forget sometimes, Matt’s usually pretty good about it. He suddenly feels wholly unprofessional. He feels like an imposter. He feels like his skin is crawling and he hates it and he wants to shove Owen and leave the store. He considers it, in the way he considers how every beat rolls into another beat rolls into another one. The same way he thinks if they need sticky blood or running blood.
Owen starts stammering something out, but Matt cuts him off by shoving an arm full of fake blood at his chest. “Okay, Matt, what are we buying here? What’s the plan?” He knows the lopsided smile he puts on isn’t his best work, but Owen seems to soften a bit. So. There’s that. Matt can be fun - he is - he is fun.
“The plan, the plan,” Owen fumbles with the jars, examining each one intently. He holds up a large jug full of red liquid and sloshes it around inside. Matt can’t tell if that’s supposed to still be an impression of him or Owen’s just mesmerized by it. “Right, I’ve got it!” Owen exclaims, a bit manic, and this time Matt is sure it’s meant to be him. “We get everything they have, we - we need all of it. We put all of it in a tub and dump it on The Dirties - just like in Carrie.” Owen grins widely, adds, “trust me,” for good measure.
In theory, Matt agrees, it would be awesome. Instead he says, “that’s stupid,” just to be a dick about it, because he can.
Owen laughs genuinely, not deterred in the slightest. “Hold on, you’re missing something,” he stacks the blood merch on a nearby shelf and wiggles out of his jacket. Matt thinks he looks like a child doing mischief for the first time, and feels a bit less annoyed about the whole thing.
He still makes a show of narrowing his eyes while he watches Owen come around him with his windbreaker, but he automatically holds his arms out and lets himself be dressed. Matt feels goosebumps up and down his arms for reasons he can’t quite identify. “I know what you’re doing. You think you’re really funny.”
Owen nods, “I’m Matt, of course I think I’m really funny.” He ruffles Matt’s hair like Matt would usually do to him, and says, “looking good in that cool jacket, Owen.”
“I would never say that - I would never think that.” He flaps his arms and swishes the windbreaker, “this jacket? This one?”
Owen shushes him, “would be better if it was falling apart and had giant holes in it, sure - we can work on that - I’ll fix it for you, Owen,” he mimes a pair of scissors with his fingers with the goofiest grin on his face that Matt has ever seen.
Some nights, when Matt had stayed up too late, spent too long staring at whatever screen, and can’t stop his mind from doing its own thing, he wonders if he exists when Owen isn’t looking at him. On some level he knows it’s not true - that his brain just hates him, but he also can’t stop the thought from wiggling around inside him like a parasitic worm. Sometimes it makes him panic, other times it just makes him sleepy - like, sure, why exist? Why worry about anything? Most of the time it just means that the next day Matt will do something especially irritating, like, blowing on the nape of Owen’s neck in the way that he hates, or pestering him with, if I was the last woman on earth - just to make sure Owen still thought about him when he wasn’t around. Just to make sure he still existed.
On the other end, Matt never second guessed if Owen was real - he knew that he was, more than anyone else. All those Ferris Bueller theories were such garbage.
He tugs at the fabric of Owen’s jacket, listens to the synthetic sound it makes. Sometimes, sure, he wondered what it would be like to be Owen - wondered if he could be like that. Truthfully, he didn’t think he could do it. Owen was too natural in a way that he used to try to emulate, but gave up completely a long time ago. Owen didn’t even have to try, that was the thing of it. Owen just was - he was just real. Owen could probably look at himself in the mirror every morning, no problem.
Matt realizes, maybe a beat too late that he’s supposed to be laughing, or - or something. Definitely not staring at Owen like a cowardrobot. He closes his hand around Owen’s scissor fingers and falls back into whatever role he’s meant to have, “I get it, okay, we’re done.”
Shit, he’s really supposed to be better than this.
Owen snorts loudly, clearly impressed and points a finger directly at him. “Yes! That’s a perfect Owen!”
He blinks, resets. Oh, right, he could work with that. He can’t be Owen, but he definitely can do annoyed pessimist.
“We can’t buy all the blood,” Matt starts. “Who’s paying for that? I’m not lugging this all around downtown. You said we were going to Silver Snail - they’re not going to let us in there with all this, this…” He waves his hand vaguely over the jars and vials.
“This,” Owen punctuates, “is a movie!”
Matt feels small ants crawling up his back, but continues, he’s Owen he’s Owen he’sOwen, “that’s all you ever want to talk about - this movie! Who cares about the movie, Matt? Your dumb little bullying movie that’s actually going to get us beat up more than usual. No one is going to give two shits about it. You think you’re a fucking director? Fuck the movie!” Matt feels a little breathless, feels a little better, feels a little sick.
Maybe that was too much.
Owen’s just standing there now, just watching Matt. It was too much. Owen was playing with him, Matt ruined it - he does that sometimes, he can’t help it. He wishes he could play along, but he - he can’t be Owen and he doesn’t want to even see himself, so. Matt feels heat prickling the tops of his ears.
“I don’t think - Matt, you know -” Owen starts and Matt turns immediately and heads for the doors. He can’t listen to Owen try to placate him, like he’s an idiot who took everything too seriously because of course he did. Of course he doesn’t know how to act.
Still, when he gets outside, he just sits on the steps in front of Malabar - he’s not actually going to go anywhere. He wants to run away, but he doesn’t want to be away from Owen, so he ends up looking ridiculous, sulking in the afternoon sun. He hears the doors open behind him and recognizes the soft footsteps as Jared pads down to join him on the steps - except on the completely other end of the stairs, obviously, camera angles and whatever.
They sit in silence until the doors open again and Owen tentatively sits beside him. He doesn’t seem at all surprised that Matt is waiting for him, which is honestly a little insulting. At least pretend to be shocked.
Matt continues to stare at the street in front of him, refusing to acknowledge either of them. He feels like the most petulant child, but he can’t help himself - he rarely can. From the corner of his eye, though, he can see that Owen has at least left the wig behind.
“I thought,” Owen starts, stops, picks at his fingers. Matt looks at nothing, expectantly. “They had some cool wardrobe in there. Thought you’d be into… that.” He trails off.
Matt chews his lip, tries to stop himself and ends up blurting out, “it wasn’t right for the aesthetic.”
Owen perks up. Matt realizes he’s lost whatever battle this was.
“It’s, like, more indie if you salvage your costumes,” he continues. “Like, clothes real people wore, they have more depth. Stuff like that,” Matt waves at the building behind them, “no soul.” You know, I bet those golden tickets make the chocolate taste terrible.
Carefully, Matt turns to gauge the response - Owen is grinning again, looking at Matt fondly again, looking like Matt exists for real - and he can’t help it, he feels like sunshine is glowing in his chest.
“Right, that makes sense,” Owen says, fumbling in his pocket and producing a packet of blood capsules. “I guess I should return these then - it’s cheap, right? We gotta do it for real.” He feigns like he’s about to stand up and Matt tugs him back down. Owen beams triumphantly, “what happened to artistic integrity?”
Matt shrugs, “whatever, you spent the money so… Wait!” He gasps, “what are we doing? There’s a whole fucking butchers a few blocks that way - real pig’s blood! Ah,” he stands up and turns fully to Owen, eyes wide and shining, sticks his finger right into his face, “Carrie! Right? That’s what you said!”
Owen grimaces, but he’s still smiling, so that’s a win. “Did I say that? I might’ve been was possessed by something.” The thought of being a ghost that’s attached to Owen flashes across Matt’s mind and he feels himself vibrating.
“Okay!” He claps his hands, skips down the rest of the stairs to the sidewalk. “Let’s go, I don’t want to walk all the way there and find out they’re all sold out of liquid pig.”
“Gross,” Owen scrunches his nose up, but follows with Jared trailing behind them. Once they’ve reached the intersection and Matt is looking back and forth to confirm they’re going the right way, he coughs out, “you’re not wearing my jacket and carrying a vat of liquid pig, by the way.”
Matt looks down, he’d forgotten he was still wearing it. He finds his skin only prickles a little bit, which he thinks is an improvement. “Right,” he shrugs it off, hands it back to Owen and pointedly doesn’t say anything else about it.
It’s always better like this, when Matt knows their roles, when he can count on Owen to be real.