Work Text:
‘I am going to kill myself.’
The words repeated in Matt’s head a few times, loosing their weight with each repeat and sounding a little more ridiculous.
‘What the fuck, I can’t do that, Titan.’
Killing yourself sounded so dark, so miserably pathetic. Everyone would be really uncomfortable if they found out he killed himself. He’d be the kid who offed himself, nothing more, nothing less. That’s all anyone would think about when he entered their minds.
Not that his living reputation was all that good, either. Matt was loud, abrasive, annoying, and aware. He knew what he was about. He was sure of himself.
Was, Matt wasn’t really sure of anything anymore. Nothing seemed right. Sometimes he wondered if he was back at “New Hexside” and had cast a large illusion Gus style to cope.
‘This is so depressing,’ he thought glumly, pursing his lips, actions getting harsher.
“Ow! Matt, what the fuck!” Boscha exclaimed, twisting around to look at him. Definitely not an illusion. Matt looked down to see the brush he was holding caught in a knot of her hair. He yanked the brush out and hit Boscha on the head with it. Causing her to scoot away from him with a scoff.
“Why’d we invite him anyway?” she asked.
“Because he’s funny,” Skara answered, from her place on her bed. Celine was beside her, mixing some stupid DIY facemask.
“He’s not being funny right now,” Celine said curtly.
“I’m not your jester,” Matt snapped. The trio stared at him and his face flushed in embarrassment. He grabbed his things, wordlessly standing up and storming out the door.
“Matt, wait,” Skara called. But no one followed. His outbursts were becoming more constant, storming off and snapping at just about anyone was expected. It hadn’t been like that since he was thirteen. Ashamedly, it could be argued all his character development was less and less noticeable.
It was getting harder to talk to anyone. Matt was a natural introvert, despite the facade he put on, but no one could deny he was pulling away from the friends he was finally making.
The second Matt got home he regretted leaving Skara’s house in the first place.
“Asshole, asshole, asshole,” he repeated, pulling on his hair harshly. He briefly debated going back and apologizing, but his Titan sized ego wouldn’t stand for it.
Matt fell asleep that night, tossing and turning as he dreamed of floating stars with eyes and puppets of his friends.
It was 2 AM when the teenager shot awake, choking on his spit and coughing. He sagged against his pillows. Matt summoned his scroll, opening Penstagram.
His profile was crowded with pictures. Him photobombing Boscha’s selfies, group photos of him with Jerbo, Viney, and Barcus. HAS meetings, pictures of him with Gus at the graveyard. Some were of his art, or him with Steve.
“Why do I look like that?” he muttered. Matt wondered why he even bothered, he wondered if people thought his pictures were dumb, if they thought he was a try hard, or ugly, or an ugly try hard.
Matt deleted the pictures off his profile. Relishing in the temporary peace of mind that came with people not perceiving him.
His self loathing transferred to be targeted with his hexts. He reread the messages.
‘Why do I talk like that? Does anyone actually want to talk to me? Why do I care what people think?’
He deleted a few threads.
His finger hovered over Gus’ hext thread.
He deleted that too.
-
Gus wasn’t stupid. He was a prodigy after all, but he was also a social butterfly who thrived on his friendships. And he noticed one deteriorating. And Matt knew Gus noticed.
Matt knew Gus liked him, to some extent at least. He knew Gus cared about him, too. Gus would be sad if something happened to him. Maybe not as sad if it happened one of his other friends though.
He also knew he annoyed Gus. Maybe it would give Gus a little peace of mind if Matt just backed off.
(It didn’t. It was alarming.)
Sometimes Matt acted normal, at least in his normal gremlin fashion. In their shared illusions classes, Gus could get Matt to go on some dramatic ramble, conjure up some awful illusion from the creepiest corners of his mind, or make him laugh so hard his entire face went red.
Gus loved Matt’s unrestrained laugh. It was so loud and bordered on a high pitched cackle, objectively a horrific sound, but it made Gus think, for just a moment, that Matt was fine.
But he wasn’t. Because eventually that laugh drifted off, and a dim look overtook Matt’s face like he was reminded of something horrible.
Gus was worried. He knew that look all too well.
-
“He’s just like, getting worse you know?” Skara said.
“He’s being a brat, but not in the usual Matt way,” Boscha continued.
Gus and Amity listened as the two explained Matt’s behavior. Talking to Boscha was a struggle, especially for Amity, but they were there for Matt, and that mattered more.
“He kinda reminds me of how he was when we first met,” Gus tilted his head a bit, “but sadder.”
“He reminds me of Luz, over that summer,” Amity said.
The youngest witch looked down, pursing his lips. That’s not good.
-
He knew Gus helicopter parented all his friends to some extent, a trait that caught on after the Day of Unity, but Matt didn’t want any part of that. Nothing bad happened to him. He was fine. If Gus had anyone to worry about it was Luz and Hunter, who Matt knew were mentally fucked the second he encountered them during the apocalypse.
But that was two years ago. And they were in therapy, acknowledging their problems and working to get better.
Matt wasn’t doing that. He didn’t think he needed it.
Gus had been more attentive to him. Softer with him. Matt despised it. He wasn’t a child, he was fine. The idea of Gus treating him as a pity case rather than a friend was humiliating.
More importantly though, eventually Matt would get worn down enough to finally break. And he couldn’t have that.
He’d had a bad day. Hexside was personally out to get him, and after getting into five accidents, Matt genuinely questioned if Glandus was the better option. At least he was getting beaten up by other witches. Despite soon being healed from his injuries, the day didn’t get any better for Matt.
He failed a test, fell asleep in a class, and even got thrown in the detention pit for another fight with Boscha. Who had reluctantly dragged him out the place for whatever reason. Titan, if she was beginning to pity him, he’d truly hit rock bottom.
He only broke down once he was alone in his room. Crying was weak, so he couldn’t do that. Instead, Matt went to trashing the place. Smashing a picture frame, tearing up some drawings, throwing books at the wall. It was fine, no one was there to scold him for his destruction anyway.
Steve had left. His parents didn’t care.
Maybe no one did. Matt didn’t know if he wanted care, anyway.
He slid down the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. His body ached, his head pounded. Matt felt pathetic. As if it was habit, he ripped the blue illusion sleeves off his arms and began to scratch at the skin. Angry red lines blossomed along his wrists, and Matt found some satisfaction in it.
He snatched a pocket knife off his desk, something he only ever used to sharpen pencils, and stared at it. He saw his reflection in the blade. Being met with the miserable site of teary, red rimmed eyes.
“What the fuck am I doing?” he whined, squeezing his eyes shut as he dropped the blade by his feet.
Maybe he was a coward. He couldn’t even cut himself. He banged his head back against the wall. Becoming more aggressive with every bang. It hurt, but it kept him from thinking, and that was a miracle.
Until the door opened.
Gus heard the slamming, at first he figured Matt was punching the wall, not slamming his head against it. Matt’s lip trembled as he watched Gus’ eyes trail over his figure.
“This is embarrassing,” he said.
Gus gave him a shaky smile. “It’s okay, Matty.”
Matt didn’t have the energy to be angry with that soft, sympathetic tone. He buried his head in his hands, shame filling him.
The younger witch sat beside him, discreetly grabbing the knife as he went and shoving it in his pocket.
“You can talk to me.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you?”
“There’s nothing to say,” Matt wiped his eyes, “I’m fine.”
“C’mon, Matty, don’t do me like that.”
“I am,” he exclaimed, “I have nothing to be upset about.”
“Maybe,” Gus said, “but it’s okay if you are.”
His lip trembled harshly, he felt like a caged animal, eyes darting around in search for an escape before finally meeting the younger witch’s gaze.
“I want to die,” Matt admitted, Gus’ eyes widened, pupils constricting.
“I’d be sad if you did.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Matt finally began to cry, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything feels horrible all the time.”
Gus pulled Matt toward him, letting the other’s head fall on his shoulder. “Talk to me, please.”
Matt’s vulnerability came gradually. His complaints drifting from feeling abandoned to his stress over what happened after the Day of Unity, to his insecurities, to his self doubt.
He cried some more. Gus’ shirt was wet. Matt’s wrists we’re still red and his head still hurt. But he felt a bit lighter.
“I don’t want to live.”
Gus wiped his eyes.
“I’m going to tell someone,” Gus said, rubbing circles into Matt’s back with one hand, the other rubbing the back of his head. “You need to get help.”
“Okay.”