Owen Wright hated the way people looked at him. Yeah, sure, he was schizophrenic. Yeah, sure, he was depressed. Yeah, sure, he had an attitude and a half, despite his tiny stature. Yeah, sure, he was a little bit of a freak—more than a little, if you asked anyone other than Owen himself—because he hadn't just gone with the life he'd been handed. Yeah, sure, he was trans. Yeah, sure, he didn't exactly live in the most accepting of areas. Yeah, sure, he had wasn't the best person to be around in general. But was that really a reason to look at him with so much disgust in their eyes, was it? Was that really a reason to avoid him like the plague? Even someone like him deserved at least a little friendliness now and again… right?

Then again, he mused, keeping his head low, it's not like anyone would be bothering him much in a few hours. He had no friends, and he knew that his family sure as hell wouldn't care. As far as they knew, their "daughter" was just going through a rebellious phase where "she" 'pretended' to want to be a boy. As if it was his choice.

Owen sighed inaudibly, smiling a little as he made his way to the back of the school. A few soft mewls sounded from one of the pockets of his backpack and he kneeled down gently, unzipping the pouch. A soft white head, crowned with grey and twitching black ears, peered up at him with another meow.

The redhead gently scooped the kitten up, cradling her to his chest before placing a soft kiss to the top of her head and setting her on the ground. The cat, the only living thing he could ever bring himself to show any sort of softness toward, looked at him with an almost confused expression. Owen fondled her head, a sad smile crossing his face.

"Sorry, Krissy, but I can't take care of you anymore. You need to find someone else, okay?"

The cat mewled and butted her head against his leg as he stood. She started to follow him back into the building, but he shook his head and gently nudged her away from the door. "No, Krissy. You can't follow me, not this time. Not where I'm going."

She sat down on the concrete step in front of the door as it closed behind Owen, meowing and pawing at the unforgiving wood.

He made his way down to the basement of the school, dodging out of sight whenever he came across a person. Luckily, there weren't too many of them; it was the middle of class. No one dared skip, except him and that damned Davey kid, for fear of pissing off Lazaro Palmer, the infamous principal who, supposedly, took absolutely no one's shit.

He shook himself, as if he could physically shake the thoughts of that kid from his apparently too-fucked-up-for-society brain. It wasn't Davey, per say, that got on his nerves, just his damned attitude.

He flicked on the flashlight he had stowed in the side pocket of his bag and scanned it over the walls, looking for a light switch or something for a sturdier light source. He found a switch on the back wall and turned it on, illuminating a tiny bulb in the center of the small room. No one would be down there for a while, so he didn't worry too much about being found. The only reason anyone went to the basement was to deal drugs or get clay for the art room, if that was your thing.

Unless your name was Owen Wilson and you were down there to hang yourself from one of the sturdy pipes that were about three feet above your head. But that was different.

He went about his task almost numbly. It was like he was watching from outside his own body as he climbed on top of a stack of boxes, wrapping the rope he had put in his bag around the thickest pipe he could reach. Sometimes, being a mere 5'2" was annoying. He made sure that the knot and the pipe would both hold for the time it took him to suffocate, tugging roughly on the rope. He tied the noose, the movements fluid and almost instinctual by then. He had been practicing for a few days, learning how to make sure that it wouldn't fall apart in the middle of it. He didn't want to spend too long trying to get it right; it would only increase the chance that he'd be caught.

Owen shuddered at that idea. Being caught—surviving—would mean therapy and pills and pity. He hated it when people pitied him. It wasn't sympathy; it wasn't them trying to legitimately help. Pity was the name for when someone felt sorry for someone else only because they were morally and socially obligated to. It was never anything good.

When everything was ready, he steadied his breathing and slipped the rope over his head. He was surprised to find himself dully afraid, as if he didn't want to die. Well, he didn't, really. No one ever wanted to die. They just wanted the pain to stop, and if that was the only way… well, there wasn't anything else they could do. It was sad, yeah, but sometimes it was necessary.

Owen stood there for a few minutes, hesitating. Was his life really that bad? He figured it would seem petty to an outsider. Hanging himself over a few harsh words, every day misgenderings, and ignorant parents? He sounded ridiculous.

He hesitated too long. The door creaked open and Owen jumped, accidentally knocking over the boxes. That did two things: one, alert whoever was coming in with the crash as the boxes fell; two, making the noose close tightly around Owen's neck.

It wasn't enough of a drop to break anything, but it hurt. It was a hell of a lot more painful than Owen had expected. He clawed at the rope, wincing as the struggle caused it to tighten further. The rope burned as it dug into his throat and he let out a strangled cry.

The mystery person was there almost instantly, it seemed, stacking the boxes back beneath Owen's feet. The rope groaned as the redhead swung slightly, his vision starting to fill with black dots. Suddenly, he had support again, and he put his weight back on his feet instead of his neck.

Cool, gentle hands removed the noose, untying the knot deftly and letting it fall from Owen's throat. To his shame, tears were pooling in his dull grey eyes and trickling down his cheeks. He was scared. He had come so close—too close—to actually dying. He wasn't numb anymore, and it was definitely not a good thing.

He let himself be led down to the cold concrete floor, allowing himself to practically collapse into the warm arms of whoever the hell was holding him. He didn't fucking care. The only thing he could really see was a mop of brown hair and green eyes. Owen buried his face in the other's shoulder, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that it was another male. The brunette's arms went around Owen, who froze. His—what's? Friend's? Rescuer's?—hands were resting right on the lower edge of Owen's binder, which he had ordered illegally from the internet because he refused to go any longer without one. A spike of fear, so potent it was almost adrenaline, ran through the redhead. How would the other guy react? That wasn't good. He knew that he could feel his binder through his sweatshirt; he had stupidly worn a thin one that particular day.

But the brunette didn't seem affected. He just ran his knuckles lightly along Owen's spine, letting him cry. It had been so long, Owen realized, since he actually cried, much less sobbed like he was then. It was amazing how strangely stress-relieving it was.

Eventually, Owen stopped shaking and his tears dried, fading to soft hiccups. The mystery man still held him close, not seeming to care that Owen had just soaked the shoulder of his jacket or… really any of it.

Wiping at his eyes with his palms, furious with himself for letting go of himself in front of a complete stranger once the paralyzing fear faded, Owen glanced at the other male.

Shit. He was attractive. His brown hair—clean, unlike Owen's—fell around his shoulders and framed his face, his green eyes bright as an emerald and swirling with concern. Somehow, Owen couldn't find any pity there. There was a bruise on his cheek, which was a bit strange, but otherwise his face was flawless.

"Hey, you alright?" oh hell. Even the kid's voice was attractive, smooth as silk and gentle as sunlight. Owen didn't know why he was suddenly getting poetic, and wasn't sure he liked it.

"I almost just suffocated; how the fuck do you think I'm doing?" Owen's voice was harsher, crueler, than he had intended, and he winced at the slightly hurt look on the brunette's face.

"Hey, man, I just saved you. The least you could do is tell me your name."

The word resonated in Owen's head for a few seconds. Man. That… that was something that natural-born guys said to other natural-born guys, right? Did this random kid actually mistake him for a guy? Wait, he had felt the binder, Owen knew he did. Did that mean that he respected Owen enough to not misgender him on purpose? Holy hell; Owen was starting to get a headache. He was not up for that kind of thought.

"…Owen," he replied, realizing that the brunette was still waiting for an answer.

Owen was prepared for a laugh, for the whole thing to be a cruel joke. Wait, no, he knew what it was. It was another hallucination, and he was still hanging. That was it.

But the harsh rebuttal never came. "My name's Parker, but you can call me PJ if you want. All my friends do."

Owen blinked up wearily at Parker, leaning back a bit and wrapping his arms around his torso. It was a reflex, like he had something to protect himself from. In a way, he did. PJ's kindness, his acceptance, was a little unnerving to someone who had never been treated with anything but disgust and borderline cruelty.

"Look, Princess, whatever the fuck game you're playing, I want no part of it,"

Better to cut it off while there's nothing that he can use against me, Owen thought.

"What game? Owen, I just walked in on you hanging from a damned pipe. Any decent human being would have done the exact same thing."

"And yet… None of the scumbags who I've ever met would have batted an eye. Hell, they probably would have yanked me so hard that my neck snapped. So what makes you any different?" Owen was still wary, still tense, but he let his voice soften so that, hopefully, Parker would get the hint that he was grateful.

"Because I'm actually a decent human being. Apparently, you've been hanging out around the wrong people."

Parker's smile made Owen's stomach flip, though he kept his face carefully emotionless. "I don't 'hang out' around anyone. People don't like me, and I don't like people. It's better if you just forget this whole thing ever happened."

It hurt. Owen wouldn't deny it. It was a different kind of hurt than getting strangled, but it still hurt like hell. Pushing the one person who'd had the heart to actually be nice to him in God knew how long was fucking killing Owen, but he refused to let it show. I will not be a burden. I will not be a burden. I will not be a burden.

Over and over again, those words ran through Owen's head. He didn't like feeling like that. He didn't like forcibly isolating himself with a shitty attitude and a mile-thick emotional shield. But he had seen it happen before. Some idiot got through, somehow got close to Owen, and he let them. Every damned time. For some fucking reason, he kept thinking, This is it. This one will stay. They won't leave. And then, lo and behold, whether it was days or weeks or, once, an entire month later, they ended up leaving. And every fucking time, Owen wondered exactly why he kept putting himself through that shit.

"No,"

It was simple. A single two-letter word that fell from between Parker's abnormally pretty lips. And yet, it brought Owen's world crashing down around his ears.

He had expected Parker to get mad, maybe upset. He had expected Parker to be disappointed. He had expected Parker to give up like the weak-willed every-fucking-body else Owen pushed away.

But he had refused.

"No? What do you mean, no?" Owen echoed.

PJ rolled his eyes like Owen had just asked the most obvious question ever. "I meant no. I won't forget about it. I mean, I know people around here treat you like shit, but it's the same for me. Micah and I—Micah is my friend—aren't exactly popular, either. I mean, my older brother keeps people from messing with us too much, but we're still pretty much shit on the asshole's shoes."

Suddenly, Owen realized that he knew Parker. He had seen him and his weird Goth friend—Micah, probably—getting messed with a couple times and ignored the pang of pity that hit him in the chest. He also realized that PJ was, of all people, Davey's little brother.

Still, even for that last fact, Owen hesitated to refuse. After years and years of isolation and loneliness, someone was offering companionship. Friendship, even. And with those too-green eyes locked on his, he couldn't find it in him to say no.

"Fine, Princess. Have it your way."

Owen wouldn't let his guard down around PJ. Not yet. But he thought, looking back at that rope that dangled tauntingly from the ceiling, maybe someday. Maybe one day, he'd be able to let someone else actually know how much of a mess he really was. And maybe, just maybe, Parker would stay.