So someone pointed out to me that I accidentally uploaded chapter three twice and labelled it chapter four the second time. My bad! It should have the proper document attached now, and here's chapter five :)
Mike looked surprised, like that was the last thing he'd expected to hear. "It's alright," he said, "if you don't want to talk about it. I understand."
"No," Matt sighed, "you don't. And I can't expect you to. But it doesn't seem fair that I can let you do so much for me without telling you anything about who I am, or why I'm here, or what I've been through."
"I've told you, I don't mind—" Mike started.
"I do," Matt interrupted firmly. "I can't let you do so much for me without giving you anything in return. But I don't have anything else to give." As usual, he was doing a bad job of explaining why this suddenly meant so much to him, how, after he'd come to his decision, it felt like everything that was trapped within him was tearing him apart, seeking for a way out.
He thought that maybe Mike understood anyway, because understanding seemed like something Mike was good at. His kind brown eyes were burning with curiosity but still he said, "If I ask you something you don't want to talk about, you don't have to. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
"It's fine," Matt said, hoping it would be.
Mike searched his gaze for a moment before nodding slightly. He took a moment to think before asking, "Why did you run away?"
It was the simplest and the hardest question he could have asked, and Matt was a long time in answering.
"I was tired of hurting people," he replied at last, thinking that while that wasn't the entire truth it was the easiest part of it. He didn't know if he was ready to tell Mike how he had run away from ghosts, how he had run away because he was scared and guilty and lost.
Mike's next question was spoken softly, gently. "Who did you hurt?"
And that was the trigger; that was all it took for the words to flow uncontrollably, unrestrained out of Matt. He found himself telling Mike, almost unwillingly, about how his best friend and lead singer of his band had started growing distant, had started skipping school and abandoning Matt to hang out with his new friends; how he had seemed to become a completely different person and Matt hadn't done anything to stop it, or intervene, or ask him what was wrong.
He told Mike how he hadn't even known, hadn't even guessed, what was wrong, until it was too late, until his best friend was found comatose on the basement floor with a bag of white powder in one hand and a joint in the other. With tears running down his face, he told Mike how Josh had never woken up again after that, how he couldn't even remember the last words they'd spoken to each other, the last conversation they'd had.
"He was so broken, so hurt, and I didn't know," he said thickly, not sure if his words were even intelligible past the sorrow that clogged his throat. "I never knew, and I didn't care, and I never tried to help. I could have saved him, if only I'd tried. Instead I left him alone with no one to turn to, I left him to slowly kill himself, and I had no idea. He probably thought I hated him, and I never got the chance to tell him any different. I spent all this time thinking about how he'd hurt me, but really it was the other way around. I hurt him, and now he's dead, and he's never coming back, and there's nothing I can do to fix it."
The silence left behind his words was poignant and keening, and Matt found that no matter how often he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his sweater he couldn't get it to stay dry. He couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes to meet Mike's, and see what expression resided there; instead he stared at his palms, tracing the lifelines with his eyes, watching as they slowly filled with droplets of water.
"Oh, Matt," Mike said softly after an eternity had passed, his voice pained. "I'm so sorry."
Matt said nothing. It seemed that now that he had stopped talking, he wouldn't be able to start again; the blockage in his throat had grown, and he was surprised that he could breathe at all.
"It's not your fault," Mike said.
Matt only shook his head. Maybe he hadn't explained well enough. "Then whose fault is it? I was the one who—"
"Your friend—" Mike interrupted.
"Don't you dare put this on him," Matt said, sudden anger flaring, burning past the lump in his throat, raising his watery eyes from their study of his hands. "He doesn't deserve that."
"Your friend is responsible for the choices he made," Mike continued calmly, implacably, his brown eyes compassionate. "You can't—"
"That doesn't mean he deserved to die!"
"Of course not!" Mike exclaimed, his calm facade breaking. "But you can't blame yourself for the mistakes he made!"
"I can blame myself for not being there to help him fix it! I'm his best friend, I'm the person he should have been able to turn to, but I wasn't even there. You can't say I'm not to blame for that!"
"Maybe he didn't want your help."
"He thought that dying was preferable to turning to his best friend?"
"Maybe he thought he didn't need your help."
"Does it really matter?" Matt shouted, losing the last vestiges of control he had over himself. "Maybe he didn't want or need my help, but I still wasn't there to offer it! And that's a mistake that I'll never be able to take back—I could have saved him, and I didn't. And now he's gone forever, and I'll have to live with that mistake for the rest of my life, regardless of whether he wanted or needed me to help him!"
"I—" Mike started, but Matt had already jumped to his feet, pushing his chair back with a harsh scrape across the linoleum floor.
"I told you that you wouldn't understand," Matt choked out, and then he turned and ran—although there wasn't really anywhere to run, and he didn't know where he could go, so he jumped into the first room that opened itself to him, and slammed the door behind him.
Breathing like he'd just run a marathon, he paused to look around the room he'd landed in.
It was obviously Mike's bedroom, and for an instant he felt bad for invading his private space, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the room. The walls were painted a light yellow and bare except for a single Queen poster; a bass guitar was propped up in the corner, near a closet. The windows were covered in white blinds, and a neatly made bed was pressed to the wall beneath them.
Feeling only a little guilty, Matt went straight to the bed and curled up into a ball under the covers. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take deep, steadying breaths, tried to quench the guilt and sorrow that threatened to choke and suffocate him.
Maybe he slept. It was impossible to tell whether he was dreaming or remembering, half-asleep or half-awake.
He lay there, unmoving, until he felt as if he had regained some control over his world. Even then he didn't move, because Mike's bed was more comfortable than the couch he'd slept on the night before, and because getting up seemed like far too much effort.
There was a light knock on the door before it cracked open and Mike peered inside. "Are you okay?" he asked.
The immediate answer was no, but Matt knew that wasn't what Mike was asking, so instead he said, "I'm better, I think."
Cautiously, Mike made his way into the bedroom. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "What I said...I didn't mean for it to come out that way."
Matt sighed and buried his face in the pillow. When he spoke his words were muffled. "I know."
He could feel the bed dip as Mike sat on the end.
"I would have left you alone longer," he said after a moment's hesitation, "but I have to go to work. And I thought—"
"What time is it?"
"About five-thirty."
The news of this surprised Matt so much that he sat up straight in bed, flinging off the blankets and throwing his legs over the edge.
How had he allowed the entire day to slip him by?
"I should be going, anyway," Matt said, only the slightest tremor in his voice betraying him. "Thanks again for—"
"Wait a second," Mike said, laying a hand on his arm. "You're not going anywhere. Not with just half a sandwich in you, and not at this time of day."
"I can't just stay here!"
"Where exactly do you plan on going?"
Matt was silent, stubbornly keeping his eyes averted. The truth, of course, was that he didn't have a destination; he just wanted to get away.
"Look, I know that you can't stay here, and I know you're not ready to go home. I can't say I understand it and I can't say I agree with it, but I'll respect it. I just won't let you go without any food or a plan or a place to stay."
Matt guessed he could understand that. "Then what do you think I should do?" he whispered.
Mike breathed a sigh of relief, like this was the opening he'd been waiting for. "Come to work with me," he suggested. "You're still underage, but my boss won't mind as long as you stay away from anything alcoholic. I can get the cooks to make you some real food and you can sleep on my couch again, if you'd like. And then tomorrow we can talk. Come up with a plan."
Matt turned Mike's proposition over in his mind, thinking about it, before he finally admitted that it was a good plan. One he could live with. "Alright," he said, giving in. "But only because you offered me free food."
Grinning, Mike stood and turned to face him. "Let's go, then. I start at six."
Mike's smile was almost contagious, and Matt found his lips twitching in response. The motion felt unnatural and stiff, foreign, after so long. It wasn't a true smile—he wasn't ready for that yet—but it was a start.
And besides, he reasoned to himself as he followed Mike out of the apartment building, he was still escaping, in a way; just not as fast nor as far as before.