A/N: I'm sosososoososososoososo sorry this is so late, a lot came up :(

May 13th

Dan sighed dejectedly, reclining in his creaky office chair. He had no more than six days to submit a short story to The British Writing Community if he wanted to qualify for the 700-pound grand prize that he so desperately needed.

It wasn't a grueling task, a short story ran anywhere from 1,000 to 7,500 words, he could write that much in an hour or so. The real issue was making it more than just 'good.' His entry was going to compete against nearly 2,000 other young British authors, many of whom Dan was sure had degrees in creative writing. If he really wanted to win, he needed something better than 'good', he needed a miracle.

Dan licked his lips, letting out a deep sigh. Hoping his fingers might find the way on their own, he began typing.

"The biting cold stung my cheeks as I waded through the dense snow. I tried—"

Dan balled the paper up, throwing it into the fire. He made several more failed attempts at writing something down before he finally got somewhere.

"My heart threatened to escape my chest as it beat wildly against my ribs. My breath was heavy and ragged, burning my throat as the frigid air traveled down to my cracking lungs. My calves were scorching with a white-hot pain that I was sure would leave its smoldering soreness for days, but I couldn't stop. I could hear the footsteps behind me drawing closer. Though I was sure it was my imagination, I could have sworn that the hot breath of a guard dog brushed against the back of my legs, its jaw open and ready to clamp down on my exposed skin."

It was flawed, but it was a start. Hope rising in his chest, Dan continued writing.

…

An hour and a few pages later, Dan decided to take a short break. After writing the exposition, he had scribbled down a plot diagram in his notebook. The plot wasn't particularly difficult to write, but Dan knew he would have to fluff it up some if he wanted to win.

The writer stood up and stretched, trying to shake the stiffness out of his backbone. Dan turned his attention to the mantle, where he always left his phone before writing. He turned his phone on and squinted at the bright screen. There were a few notifications for emails, but what caught his attention was the text from Phil.

"Hey, I'm in the area and I was wondering if it would be okay to drop by for a bit?"

The message was only ten minutes old, so Phil was probably still in town. Dan looked at the typewriter hesitantly. He had gotten a lot done and he had more days to write…Dan decided he could afford the distraction.

"Sure! Looking forward to it ?"

Phil replied, "Great. Be there in 10."

Slipping his phone into his pocket, Dan looked around the room, noting how messy it was. He busied himself with cleaning, deciding to start by throwing the pile of balled-up ideas into the fire.

…

The muffled thudding of footsteps could be heard from within the flat. Phil's face split in a grin as Dan peeked through the blinds.

"Hey, how are you?" Phil greeted him with a hug.

"Fine, you?" Dan escorted him inside.

"Good, just finished up some shopping. What have you been up to?"

I close up the shop a few hours ago," Dan started as they walked upstairs, "I've been writing my submission for that contest since."

"How's that going?"

Dan shrugged, taking a seat on the couch. "Right now, it's fine, but we'll see when I'm done.

"Can I read it?"

Dan looked up in surprise. "I, um…I haven't edited, it's just a draft."

"I understand." Phil smiled kindly. "Can I just see what you have so far?"

Dan hesitated, biting his lip timidly. After a moment of thought, he got up and walked to his typewriter, gathering his stuff together. "I hate watching people read my stuff," He muttered, handing Phil the documents.

"Then don't watch."

Dan shifted, giving a forced smile.

"Hey, I'm an artist too, I understand it's still a work in progress." Phil reached out and placed a hand on Dan's thigh, giving it a soft squeeze.

The writer smiled. "Thanks."

Phil turned his attention back to the paper. Dan watched nervously as Phil's brows furrowed, his eyes sparkling with interest. The man's eyes flicked back and forth across the sheet, and finally, he shuffled the papers, going on to page two. When he was done, he set the papers on the coffee table, turning to look at his friend. "Dan…" He shook his head, "this is amazing! It's written better than most books I've read, and you're not even done yet! How could you be concerned with losing?"

Dan beamed, sighing with relief. "Thank you. But I've met many other writers participating in the contest who are all much better than me. My chances of winning against them are minuscule."

Phil put an arm around Dan, pulling him closer. "Hey, even if you lose, I still think you'll have the best damn entry in the contest."

"But you haven't read anyone else's."

Phil grinned. "Exactly. I don't need to know you're superior."

Dan shook his head, laughing dryly. "I sure hope the judges feel that way."

"It'll work out."

Dan sighed. "You don't understand, I have to win this. That 700 pounds is the only way I stand a chance of paying off my bills."

Phil hesitated, thinking for a second. "When do you have to pay the money by?"

"The 29th."

"And when is the contest over?"

Dan averted his gaze. "The 20th…."

"But that only leaves nine days for the judges to sort through everything and pick a winner…if you win, are you even sure you'll get paid in time?"

"I'm not sure of anything, Phil…" Dan ran a hand down his face, Sighing deeply. "Even if I did win, I'd still be a more than a hundred short of what I owed, and that's not including things like groceries or phone bills. In the slim chance that I do manage to cover the costs, what then? It's just gonna be another month of struggling to make payments and stressing over how the hell I'm gonna make it. The minute I get one thing paid off there's another thing looming over my head." Dan's tone was getting more distressed with each word. "I was doing fine for a while; I actually had enough to make a few extra purchases here and there. Then I f*cked myself over and ended right back up where I was before: pinching pennies and selling my stuff just to buy dinner," Dan spat bitterly.

"Hey," Phil spoke soothingly. "It will work out."

"Shut up," Dan snapped, "you don't know that."

Phil recoiled his arm, surprised at Dan's sharp tongue.

"I'm so sick of all that 'everything will be okay' bullshit. You wanna know why?" Dan scooted away, looking irately at Phil. "Because it won't. It's not like after years of struggling God will drop a million quid in my mailbox. It doesn't work like that."

"Okay, I'm sorry." Phil held his hands up defensively. "I just don't know what else to say."

Dan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know, I'm sorry… I usually don't act like that. It's just—" Dan paused, his throat burning. "I've struggled financially my entire life and I'm just so tired of it! I feel like I can't do anything by myself. And I know I should find a better job with higher wages, but I've been visiting this place my entire life and it's the only bookstore in town. Owning this place was always a dream of mine, I could never give up on it." Dan's voice broke.

Phil, still a bit shaken from being snapped at, watched in alarm as a few tears fell from Dan's eyes. "Dan…Hey, sweetheart..." Phil reached out to pull him into a hug, which gratefully accepted.

"I'm sorry," Dan hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes. "You must think I'm pathetic."

"I think you're reacting the way any of us would. You have a very important deadline and you're crumbling under the pressure." Dan remained silent, and Phil continued. "I know you don't like asking for help, but sometimes we can't do everything alone. Even if you won't let me help you cover some bills, which is an offer that still stands, I want to be there to support you." Phil tightened his grip on the writer's shoulders.

Dan lifted his head up, locking eyes with the painter. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, tender kiss on his lips. "Thank you," he whispered, leaning away. "I'm really sorry."

Phil cupped Dan's face, running a thumb over his tear-streaked cheeks. "Don't worry about it, love."

…

Dan excused himself to the bathroom, taking a few minutes to regain his composure. While waiting for the man's return, Phil felt his pocket buzz. He pulled out his phone and a frown tugged on his mouth as he read the notification.

Dad: You missed the meeting.

Phil sighed, his thumbs hovering over the screen before he replied.

Me: I never said I was coming.

Dad: I assumed you understood how important this was?

Me: This is your job, Dad. Not mine.

Not bothering to read the response, Phil shoved his phone back into his pocket, reclining on the cushions with a sigh.

A/N: Is my writing genuinely good? Don't flatter me, I need a real answer. I don't know if it's because I read it so much or if I'm actually bad, but I feel like I use the same sentence structure over and over again, and I don't add enough detail. Do I need more detail?