"Hey, mate, are you okay?" A stranger, a young man who looked like he was in his early twenties, a similar age to himself, looked down at him, a look of concern mixed with wariness on his face. Phil didn't bother looking up from where he sat on the cold ground.
"Yeah. I'm fine." He offered no more information as to why he was sitting on the ground, in a rundown park on a Thursday night, alone. Phil saw the man shrug from the corner of his eye, and listened as the footsteps died away. He hugged his knees to his chest, searching for warmth, comfort, anything. He found nothing. Looking for all the things he had left behind, with the person who meant the most to him in the whole world. A single tear fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek, splashing onto his jeans. Memories filled him, happy ones, but he found no joy in their existence. They made him ache, a dull ache consuming his entire being with longing, longing for Dan. "He never wants to see you again, idiot." Phil muttered to himself. Angry now, rather than upset, he punched the ground repeatedly, achieving nothing except splitting his knuckles. He watched the blood run down his fingers, not caring about the pain. He deserved it. "You idiot." He whispered again. He pushed himself to his feet slowly, unsteady on his legs. He had nothing, nowhere. Blood still trickling down his fingers, he began to walk. He had no particular destination in mind, his legs taking him where they wanted to go. Stopping, he looked up, actually taking in his surroundings. Across the street, he saw groups of teens staggering along the pavement, drunk out of their minds, bottles in hands. And suddenly, he knew where he wanted to go.
"No. I haven't seen him.. I thought maybe he might have said something to you? No? Okay. Just…just let me know if you hear anything." Dan let the phone fall, burying his face in his hands. Where was he? Where was Phil? He'd been gone when Dan had woken up this morning, bed made, everything in perfect order, as if he hadn't slept there at all. For all Dan knew, maybe he hadn't. Phil wasn't answering his phone, for anyone, whether it was his parents, his other friends, or Dan. Nobody had seen or heard anything from him. Images flashed through Dan's brain, images of Phil lying in an alley, his icy blue eyes glazed over and lifeless, or Phil not looking where he was going and running out into the road in his devastation, being hit by a car, lying still on the road, dying. It was too much. Dan ran to the bathroom and was sick, crouching over the toilet. Shaking, he slowly stood up, catching sight of himself in the mirror, and he looked a mess. Even with his tanned skin, he looked unhealthily pale, ill. His eyes were bloodshot and slightly swollen from crying, and looked like they wouldn't open properly. His hair was a mess, not his natural curly hair, but not straight either, somewhere in between the two. He hadn't bothered straightening it today; he'd been preoccupied with worrying about Phil. It stuck up at odd angles, like he'd just got out of bed. Sighing he walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. He didn't care about how he looked right now. All he cared about was getting Phil back.
"What can I get you?" The woman behind the bar asked him. Phil looked up from where he'd been staring at his fingers, tapping them on the edge of the wood, lost in thought.
"Hmm? Oh, um... Whatever will get me drunk the fastest." He replied. The woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She poured him a shot glass full of a clear liquid and slid it to him.
"That ones on the house. You look like a man with a problem." He smiled weakly at her in thanks, then took the glass and downed the whole thing in one go. He sighed and slid the glass back to her. "Wow. Want to talk about it?" She asked, in the middle of pouring him another drink.
"No." Phil said. The woman shrugged, and passed him his drink, and he downed it again. And so the night went on. She didn't push him any further, and for that Phil was grateful. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to forget.
"Hey Phil. I know you think I'm mad at you, but I'm not. I'm so sorry. I'm worried about you, everyone is, your friends, your parents, me. I hope you're safe. Please come home." He ended the voicemail. It had been three days since Phil had disappeared. Just three days? It felt like years to Dan. It wasn't the same without Phil's stupid jokes, and constant comforting presence. It felt wrong, watching the door, waiting for him to walk through it, knowing that he probably wouldn't. Dan didn't belong here without Phil. He was an intruder. Everywhere there was Phil; memories of him, his possessions, all of them had a story, special to the two of them. Tears began to fall from Dan's eyes, and he curled up in a ball on the sofa, his face buried in a pillow. "I miss you Phil." He whispered, his words muffled and inaudible to anyone but himself. He lay there for goodness knows how long, in a sort of trance, whispering Phil's name. A vibration in his pocket alerted him to his surroundings. Almost comically fast, he sat up and wrestled his phone out of his pocket, desperately praying it was Phil. It wasn't.
Heard anything yet? PJ
Quickly, he replied:
No. Still waiting. Tell me if you hear anything. D
He heard the reply, but didn't check it. He didn't want to know. As worried as PJ may be, he would try and make Dan feel better, which would only make him angry. Phil was the only one who could make things better. Leaving his phone where it was, he slowly got up and walked to Phil's door.