(Dan P.O.V)
Phil still isn't back yet. How could I have been so monumentally stupid? My mouth tastes foul. I'm such an idiot.
My brain tries furiously to process the shit-storm that was tonight, but I'm too tired. I tried to go to bed, but my brain absolutely refuses to turn off. I can't sleep without figuring things out and I can't figure things out without sleep. Talk about a Catch-22.
I end up sitting on the stairs, staring at the front door and thinking more than I want to.
I think of Jamie's face, seconds after I proposed to her. Horror and regret. Like the thought of being married to me was repulsive and she regretted not breaking it off sooner. Which is of course exactly what she felt. I should be thinking only of her, the girl I spent the last year loving. That's what any normal man in my situation would be thinking.
But my thoughts can't help but drift to Phil.
Phil, who looked at me today with both so much love and so much agony that anything I feel—or felt—for Jamie seems dull in comparison. The diamond ring lying on my bedroom floor isn't even fractionally as important as the silence left without Phil. Did I ever really love Jamie?
I feel nauseous, but there's nothing in me to throw up.
It's three a.m. and Phil's not home.
I've tried calling him, but he won't pick up.
I'm so tired.
I'm so heartbroken.
Where the hell is Phil?
0.0.0
(Phil P.O.V)
One of my favorite things about London is that there is a pub three blocks from the flat where the only thing that matters is exactly how hammered you want to get. The bartender can tell when you need to talk and you need to be left alone. He's also very good at keeping a steady flow of alcohol coming, which is nice if that's all you want.
I don't really want to drink tonight. I just want to be somewhere where I'm allowed to be sad.
I go home when the bar closes, any alcohol I'd consumed already burned off. I don't want to forget tonight yet. Maybe later. But not now.
When I switch on the light to the flat, I see Dan, asleep on the stairs. He nearly gives me a heart attack. I want to leave him there. I should leave him there. But right now, he looks so innocent that I can almost forget everything that's happened tonight. Almost, but not quite.
"Dan," I say, sucking as much emotion out of my tone as I can. I shake his shoulder gently. His eyes blink open, and when he sees me, he smiles.
"Phil," he says. "I was worried about you." I avert my eyes. Maybe I should have gotten drunk. Maybe that would have made things easier. I walk past Dan, not bothering to reply to him. "I'm sorry, Phil," he says, staggering to his feet and wiping the sleep out of his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. He looks rumpled and adorable. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone revealing the skin of his chest; his rumpled hair falls almost to his eyes.
I want to take his apology and set it on fire. I want to push him against a wall and give him physical bruises to match my emotional ones. I want to kiss him. I want to cry.
Instead I just keep walking.
"Phil, please talk to me," he pleads. Even now, I can't deny him.
"Why did you say those things?" I yell, turning on him without warning. He collides into my chest, then staggers back, looking shocked. I don't blame him. I'm never this confrontational.
"I—I was upset."
"And you took it out on me?!" I ball my fists, digging my fingernails into the flesh of my palms.
"I wasn't—I wasn't thinking—"
"Of course you weren't thinking, you idiot!"
"I'm sorry, Phil!" he says, his eyes watering. I would do almost anything to take away that look. It's not fair, the effect he has on me.
"I know you are," I whisper. I can't look at him right now.
"I can prove it," he says with his Dan-like determination. I was just about to ask him how when he answers me without prompting. He takes a step forward and crushes his lips to mine.
The world comes to a jarring stop. My brain processes things at an accelerated rate, every nerve in my body coming alive under Dan's hands, under his lips. I didn't expect them to be so warm, so strong. I didn't expect his hand to sit so comfortably on the nape of my neck. I didn't expect my eyes to flutter shut, like I was a teenage girl in some sappy romance story.
I didn't expect to ever in my entire life be kissed by him. And it was wonderful.
But it was also wrong.
"What the hell?!" I say, shoving him away. I catch only a glimpse of the day-dreamy happiness on his face before it's wiped away.
"I thought you…?" He looks shocked and confused.
"Do you have any idea what you just did, Dan? I love you." The tears that have been building finally come pouring out. I wipe them angrily away.
"I know. That's why—"
I clench my jaw and force my words to come out strong. "No, Dan. I love you. I don't want you to kiss me because you made a mistake. I want you to kiss me because you want to kiss me. Because you have to kiss me. I want it to be real."
"Phil," he grabs my hand and pulls me towards him. My palm lands flat over his heart. "Who says it can't be?" His arms are warm around me and he is so solid and Dan and everything in me wants to give in and give up and let myself be loved by him. I allow myself half a second to imagine a world where we're together. Half a second for fantasy. The rest of my life for reality.
I tear myself away from him. "You broke up with the girl you were planning to marry less than 24-hours ago, Dan." I make my voice soft, barely a whisper. "You're suffering from some sort of breakdown—"
"This is not—"
"I'd appreciate it if you'd not bring this up again." I walked to my room without looking back at him. My resolve was already wavering, and I was fearful that one more tiny look would break me.
That night I locked my door for the first time since I moved in with Dan and cried myself to sleep.