As you can see I have decided to turn this into a chapter fic seen as that was the overall vote. I plan to make every chapter this long (around 2000 to 3000 words) and I hope that I will have time to update this regularly. Btw if you read any of my other fics don't worry as I will try and update those too. Thank you SO much to wonderfulfun, witbeyondmeasurexox and OwlSky15678 for reviewing and helping! It means a lot. I hope you enjoy, here you go;
Phil's POV
The howling winds encircle me, taunting me and tugging at the uplifted collar of my coat. They whisper against my cheek, cold words that make me flinch as my blue eyes face downwards. A circle of orange leaves spin around my feet, like a flame or a firework, lighting up the dark and gloomy path that I walk. With a shiver, I pull my coat closer around me. I soak in its warmth and hold on to it like a life jacket, my one flicker of hope among the endless stormy seas. My eyes are still fixed onto the ground.
As I stare, a parchment as white as a ghost floats its way into my vision, knocking against my shoe like a phantom at the gates of hell, shivering in the wind. I look up. Through the blurriness of my watering eyes, I see a figure hunched over on the ground, his black coat flying out behind him like a kite in the wind. Paper swirls his heels as he runs a hand desperately through his deep brown hair. His arms dart out as he attempts to gather all the paper, shoving it under one arm the way a rugby player might with a ball. But it is no use, the paper continues to fly, enjoying its new-found freedom, forever lost to the wind.
My heart goes out to this boy and it warms, thawing inside of my chest as I quicken my stride. I walk along the path, the wind's giant hands pushing me back in protest but before too long I make it to the figure, the piece of paper that had flown to me still clutched in my iron grip. Cautiously, as if approaching the devil himself in this barren land that he probably calls his lair, I tap the stranger on his broad shoulder. Only it isn't a stranger, even through the hair that flies chaotically across his face; I recognise him. The boy from the couch, the boy who leapt from the window into the night. His face is taught with tension and his eyes dart impatiently. I hand him the paper and he mutters 'thank you' before his hands scurry back over the ground in search for the documents that remain. He doesn't recognise me. Maybe he doesn't remember at all.
I crouch down, letting my coat fly out behind me, matching Dan's. That was his name wasn't it? It's all a bit of a blur. A haze of slight drunkenness, a haze of time. Since then a few months have passed, burying old memories under the sand like the heads of ostriches in times of fear. How fragile the human brain is, how quickly memories can fall through it. I help to gather the paper up and the boy turns to me, shooting me a quick smile, just a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. A spark of recognition lights his eyes. Maybe he does remember me. He chooses not to act upon it, not to link the spark in his eyes to his tongue, at least not yet.
Eventually, we manage to collect all of the paper. A few sheets had wandered further than the confines of the path and so we had found ourselves running along the desperately soggy grass, our feet slipping and sliding in the mud. After all the sheets are successfully wrangled back into their folder, Dan collapses onto the bench, a sigh escaping from his lips as his body appears to melt into the wood.
"Did you get them all?" I ask, although I already know the answer. I do this quite a bit, ask questions I already know the answers to. I guess I just want to hear his voice some more, to drag out our time together for as long as I can. He nods, using his hands to comb his unruly fringe back to the side where it belongs.
"Do you remember me?" I ask and he nods once more,
"You're the boy with the couch."
"Yes. I have to say I was hoping I would bump into you again. You look tired.. do you want to go for some coffee?" I ask, my voice wavering slightly more than I want it to. Dan's eyes look up at me, the deep brown oak colour the same as the tree that lies just beyond him. There's something swimming in his eyes- something I can't place, hidden behind the gratefulness and slight edge of nerves. It throws me off track and for a second I am scared he will say no, that he will shout, call me every name under the sun as so many before him have done, but he doesn't, instead he flashes me that smile that makes my heart tingle with a thousand possibilities and nods, rising to follow me.
Dan's POV
I don't know how to feel. The boy is like a beam of light within my life, the endless nights of dark corners and dingy alleys and then suddenly here he is, a break from it all, a voice calling out that life doesn't have to be this way. I wish I could remember his name but I don't even bother to try and search the long abandoned corridors that are my memory. It will only fail me like it always does. The winds' incessant howling rules out conversation and the wails that fill my eardrums remove any awkwardness that may have lay in the silence. We walk past the final tree and out of the iron gate, quickly darting across the road before coming to a stop right outside of a coffee shop. To my surprise it isn't a chain, not one of the dominating cafe's that rampage the streets of England. Instead it is small and quaint, a battered sign swinging in the wind announcing 'The Art Café'. Phil looks at me through the tangle of his black locks,
"Is this okay?" he asks and, seeing the warm light dribbling through the front window, I smile,
"Of course." I say. He turns on his heel, the upturned collar and crazy hair reminding me of a certain beloved detective and, pulling my sleeves carefully over the throbbing scars that lie hidden below, I follow him into the light.
The place feels warm. It feels as if the yellow, glowing light is wrapping itself around me in a welcoming hug. A smile finds its way onto my lips. It is small, the walls whitewashed, with artworks littered here and there, giving pops of colour. On the floor are various sofa's, with little round tables perched in front of them. Some of the tables are topped with artwork too, mini-sculptures, twisted figures of periwinkle blue and cardinal red. At the very far end of the café, tucked cosily in the corner is a coffee bar. It is a deep brown and even from a small distance, I can see patterns swirling in the wood, each one threatening to tell a story. Lining the bar are bell bottomed jars, embodying rich coffee beans. Just to their right, sits display cases, showing off enticing cakes, lovingly arranged into formations to appease the eye. Covering the brown brick wall behind the coffee bar are countless coffee machines, some rusting with age and telling the story of a time long ago and some looking like they are straight out of the page of an Argos magazine. A woman sits on a stool behind the bar, her lipstick bright red and a floral scarf tied into her auburn hair. Other than her there are only one or two other people in here and yet it isn't awkwardly silent, a small chatter fills the room and music plays in the background. The boy walks towards the bar.
"Hi" he says.
"Oh Hi, Phil. The usual?" and he nods. With the addition of his name, other memories come back from that day, his melodious laughter and the ease of our conversation.
"And what about your friend?" he turns to look at me, motioning with his head towards the bar. My eyes quickly flash over the menu chalkboard, seeing a lack of any complicated drinks.
"Just err, a hot chocolate please." I say, hearing the slight shakiness of my voice, I have no idea what is wrong with me today.
"Cream and Marshmallows?"
"Yes please."
"Anything else."
"No thank you." The woman smiles,
"You can go and sit if you want, I'll bring it to you." and then she turns round, tackling the machine that stands behind her.
Phil walks towards a sofa, nestled in the corner, away from the window. I follow him, sinking into the armchair opposite with an unintentional sigh.
"Hard day?" Phil says with a laugh as light as air. I grin,
"You don't know the half of it." and just like that we slip back into conversation, no stilted pauses or awkward stretches of silences, just me and Phil on a Wednesday evening, tucked in the corner of a coffee shop. The drinks come and are drunk and the sun begins to go down. I actually feel happy and just the feeling of it spreading through my core shocks me, I had forgotten that such a thing existed. I had forgotten that you didn't always have to feel like you were tumbling down a six foot well into the oblivion of nothingness, sometimes you could feel as light as air and that's how I feel now.
This is what I am thinking about when the song starts to seep from the speakers, the music filling the air. Bliss by Muse. The smile that was already etched onto my face grows wider as I begin to mouth along to the lyrics under my breath- feeling indescribably comfortable with Phil. His eyes meet mine and they are bright and he is smiling.
"Don't tell me you like muse too?" he says, his face eager.
"They're my favourite band."
"No. Way. Me too!"
"And this is my favourite song."
"You cannot be serious? Are you serious?" And I nod sheepishly, expecting judgement, waiting for the blades to hit me. But instead I just hear the excited cry of,
"This is my favourite muse song too!"
We chat excitedly for a few more hours, ignoring the blinding darkness from outside, ignoring the ticking hands of the clock. As I talk something builds up in my chest, something warm, something that chips away at the blackness that has resided there for so long. Puzzling. Soon everyone else has gone and the red-lipped girl is leaning against a brush, keys dangling from the pocket of her high-waisted black jeans.
"Time to leave I'm afraid boys." she says and we simultaneously blush, reaching for our bags and coats and heading to the door.
"See you tomorrow Phil?" the girl asks,
"Yeah, see you tomorrow Annie." he replies.
Once back out in the biting winds, Phil quickly rushes a 'goodbye' and turns to leave but I catch his arm, pulling him back.
"Umm." I say, shyly "Umm can I have your number?" Phil smiles, his smile almost as warm as the coffee house.
"Of course." he says and he writes it on my hand, waving coyly before spinning around and walking away, his collar against the wind.
In case anyone was curious, (you're probably not) contrary to popular belief ostriches do not actually bury their heads in the sand and it is all a myth so that simile I used in like paragraph 3 that you have all forgotten about is incorrect but I kept it because I liked it and yeah. Thank you for reading and please review if you liked it (or didn't you know either way)