a/n: I have no clue where this is going. enjoy the phan, and hopefully stick with me for the ride.
phil doesn't belong here. he doesn't belong at parties, where the music rattles his eardrums and the flow of conversation drifts in one ear and out the other. he doesn't bother listening, and his shyness prevents any possible chance at initiating conversation with a nearby stranger. phil doesn't do parties. he doesn't do mindless chatter, flirting, pouring himself a third drink that night- the running burn of an unknown drink down his throat. he doesn't dig morning headaches, loss of memory or the chance that he has created a long list of regrets the night before that will stay with him for the rest of his life. nevertheless phil can't refuse the pleading eyes of chris kendall; he has a policy to 'help a friend in need'. even if he struggles to see how accompanying chris to a party two streets away from their party is 'helping', he's too obliging and agreeable to strike a chord with chris and blatantly refuse. he's not a six year old who throws tantrums and stomps their feet to get what they want- he's a twenty seven year old londoner, who's been to about four parties in his lifetime. (and even the first two don't count, as they were birthday parties for his grumpy ten year and eleven year old self).
so far he's spent the majority of the night on the sofa in the darkest corner, that'll attract the least attention, sipping at a tall glass of water. while people exchange stories, jokes, even drinks- phil does what he does best: keeps himself to himself. he hears the floor-shaking, shuddering music inched up a fraction, and winces. his ears are sore enough already, a few more decibels and he predicts they'll burst. not accustomed to the volume of party music, his ears are too young and weak to endure this for very much longer. so phil picks himself up off the sofa- being careful not to knock into the couple next to him furiously tasting each other's faces- and stumbles his way through groups of people, who glare and mutter the occasional comment about him. he's relieved when he reaches the somewhat light hallway, less crowded and less dark. there's still a scattering of people hear, who murmur among themselves quietly and flirt. the back of a dark head, he recognises. it's chris. he wants to reach out and tap him on the shoulder, ask him for the apartment key so he can head back, but there's two problems with his plan: one, he doesn't want to interrupt chris and the stranger he's talking to's conversation, and two he highly doubts chris will let him leave. he's chris' only transport home, as he doesn't drink and will be the only one sober enough to see things clearly, and not shaking. in his head, he envisions how the conversation will go:
"you're leaving? why?"
"not really my scene, chris, you know that."- though it's likely phil will mumble this bit, embarrassed.
"all I'm asking is for you to stay the evening. is that too much?"- and chris will be hurt, his tone will scream hurt.
"no, but-"
"one drink. just one drink, c'mon phil."
"I don't drink-"-pleading, desperate phil sees himself as. in other words, pathetic.
"let me show you how fun a party can be."
one scenario leads to him being coerced into drinking, becoming drunk after the second glass or third- phil's a lightweight, his body can't handle with alcohol easily- and the next morning will be a handful of headaches, aspirin and apologies, spilling over from the brim of chris' mouth.
so phil doesn't tap him on the shoulder, no, phil hovers by the door, hesitant. if he leaves now he can escape, escape without chris' notice and have the chance to relax on a friday night, like he's used to. only problem is he doesn't have the key, chris does, and he'll just end up waiting in the dark outside their apartment for chris to stumble home on the shoulder of a helpful stranger. phil watches. although he can't hear too well, his ears are still aching from blaring speakers, he can hear chris' slurring voice and a lighthearted, joking tone. the stranger sounds sober. this unsettles phil. if he's sober and chris is drunk, only imagine how easy it would be to take advantage of him. scenes of flickering videos shown in phil's year nine pshe classes play out in his mind. 'stay safe. don't drink and drive.' 'consent is everything. thisis rape.' not the cheeriest of videos, granted. edging on the severe side, he's always thought. still, no matter how extreme the situations shown to them were, the thought of chris in trouble and coming to harm has his heart thrumming out a fast beat in his head.
when he sees chris' head lean in and step onto his tiptoes, the stranger's head duck down to meet him, he's about to burst and pounce on the two, save chris from what he's too drunk to realise. phil takes deep, rib tremouring breaths, which sound shallow and shaky to him. clenches his fists. the colour of red pounded out from his heart, running through his veins and into his head; he sees red. phil steps forward, and-
"whoah. easy there, it's all good." a hand has crept out from nowhere, and now has landed smack-bang in the middle of his chest. preventing him from moving forwards any further. "pj doesn't bite." phil's head swivels and turns; to find the source of the voice. his eyes flick to the left of his shoulder, and lands on the owner of the hand. his mouth goes dry, and the red is drained from his head, runs out of his body and bloodstream. all he can do now is close a mouth dropped open slightly.
tall. dark haired. dark eyes. dark eyelashes. dimpling cheeks. a teasing grin. kissable mouth. strong. and mainly, what he notices- cute. "dan," the stranger offers the hand that phil realises has dropped from his chest. he takes it, cautiously, shaking. "no need to act like a deer in headlights, I don't bite either." all possible words to say dissipate from the tip of his tongue. a few beats of silence, and dan's dimple deepens. "not much of a talker, huh?"
"phil." he clears his throat, nervously, he never was good with introductions- "I'm phil. over there is my friend chris." they both cast a glance at 'chris' who's currently a little occupied on pj's mouth, arms wrapped around him.
"friend," dan makes the sound of smacking skin with his tongue, "makes sense. I figured you had some kind of connection to the guy, otherwise there wouldn't be any reason why you'd be shooting daggers at the guy kissing him. unless, y'know, jealousy. 'cause I'd get that too." words gush out of dan's mouth a thousand a minute, and it's hard to keep up. they've only just met, yet dan's acting like they're best friends, gabbling away. a small part of phil envies him. envies his ability to talk to a stranger so easily. it wasn't until year three that phil made his first best friend, and that only lasted two months. phil remembers. he'd always been the oddbody of the class. the outcast. the one people whispered about behind cupped hands, and stared. kids can be cruel. phil's always known that. hell, he'd probably know better than anyone. but he'd never anticipated parents to be just as bad.
nine years old, and he witnessed his first best friend dragged away from him by the hand of an adamant mother who didn't bother to whisper, only hiss as she told her son off for hanging around with the 'weirdo'. he can't remember his exact words. he was too busy swallowing back a lump in his throat, and trying not to cry. he distracted himself with digging fingernails into his palm. a nine year old phil was sensitive. weak. not much has changed these days, except the twenty seven year old phil can hide his upset easily. he'd grown up learning how to.
"and you're friends with pj?" phil asks timidly. he doesn't often start conversation topics, normally waits for the other person to think of something else.
"friends? yes, I had no choice sadly. being forced to room with him, we became friends. like someone looped wire around both of us and tied both ends together. couldn't escape him." phil guesses dan's joking. he guesses so by his undeterred grin, and the slight rolling of his eyes. phil likes dan's eyes. they're not a particular shade of brown, but they're warm and friendly. he also likes his dimples. phil's a sucker for dimples. anything facially unique, and he's hooked. piercings. dimples. tattoos. eyebrows. "I mean, I tried to, don't get me wrong," dan continues on, "but somehow pj liguori sticks with you, whether you liked it or not. me? I had to like it."
phil nods dumbly. it's like his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. he feels like such an idiot, especially in the company of a cute boy he's just met who acts like they're best friends. not that phil minds it too much. two best friends in his entire lifetime, and four parties. not like he's had too much excitement- and this boy screams excitement. it radiates off him. it's magnetic. drags you in.
"how about you and chris, huh? how'd you two meet?" dan nudges him, prompting him for an answer.
"same reason, I guess. roommates and all." phil's mind wanders to the first time he met chris kendall- there he was, first time in london carrying two entire plastic bags of suncream, socks and sandals, and just screaming 'tourist' overall. not like he was french, or exotic- just from the north, lancashire. with the burden of a gigantic suitcase that he could fit inside, he almost collapses when he reaches the university dorm- almost. so close to falling flat on his face, had chris not arrived earlier and was there to give him a hand with everything. things were tense, apprehensive between the two. as are most first meetings, but with phil it's worse. he hates introductions. he hates the stumble of words that come with it, within the first thirty seconds a first impression is formed, and there's always the pressure to make a good one. the tension left when chris cracked a joke- which phil found genuinely funny- it drained away the minute he burst out laughing, and chris stood there grinning, flushed a little. since then, they've just- just kind of become best friends. neither of them know how it happened, but they bonded surprisingly quickly and for that phil was grateful. he didn't want to have to room with somebody he didn't get along with, it was his worst fear.
he relays all of this to dan in surprisingly good detail, and there's not a word from him the entire time. he listens intently. for some reason there's a light layer of flushed pink on his cheeks, and he can't will it away, no matter how hard he tries secretly. phil puts it down to being close to a cute boy who smells good. there's something to the strong cologne dan wears that has phil feeling dizzy, light headed.
"you two have got quite a history, then, huh," dan states quietly, and phil nods. he likes peace. he likes quiet. he thinks- thinks- he likes dan. they have the smallest of connections- both of their friends are now currently 'macking on each other's faces'. "same with pj. I'd do anything for him." he laughs, corner of his mouth tilting, as the dimple makes another appearance. phil badly wants to poke it, but he doesn't have the impulse to, nor the confidence. he just stares at it longingly.
as the night goes on and the streetlights dim outside, soft glowing spots of light in a blackened street, phil spends it next to dan. in the same position as they met, leaning against the wall. but his legs get tired, and heavy, so he sinks down to sit on the floor. dan doesn't question him and copies, their legs stretched out in the hallway, as inconvenient as they like. the night drags on and people get drunker. rowdier. they both decide to go when one man starts an argument with another, and ends up punching him flat in the face. people circle them and chant, "fight fight fight!" the irresponsible ones, that is.
"one minute," dan murmurs, and disappears. phil's about to panic after it ticks past four, but dan reappears with two very drunken adults clinging onto his arm. "here's yours"-and he hands him a staggering chris, who can't stop giggling like a three year old-"and I have mine."
brief goodbyes which involve chris sucking on pj's face one more before dan and phil drag them off each other, and dan slipping a slim, torn piece of paper into phil's pocket. "just in case you wanted to speak again," he says lowly in phil's ear, and walks out with pj. phil takes one look at chris and knows this isn't going to be easy. he's already gushing in slurred words about pj, and how good he smelt, and how good of a kisser he is, bla bla bla already. still. phil's hand brushes against the slip of paper in his pocket and feels a spark of hope.
then he realises. he didn't even catch his last name.