Rent (Phan AU)

Christmas Eve

“Phillip Michael Lester,” PJ said, hovering around Phil and pointing a camera in his face. “Doing what he’s been doing for the past few months.” Phil averted his eyes from his badly-tuned guitar to PJ’s old-fashioned camera. “Tell the folks at home what you’re doing, Phil.” PJ said, zooming in on Phil’s annoyed face. Phil sighed. “Trying to write a song, which would be easy if a certain Liguori and his camera weren’t within 2 feet of my face.” He grumbled, fixing the pegs on his guitar and picking at the strings with his calloused index finger.

 

PJ half-smiled, backing away only a couple inches. "Old posters and flyers litter the ground, showing a loss of a great career. Phil is a year and a half into remission, realizing that drugs were, in fact, bad when his now-deceased boyfriend and him tested H.I.V positive. He quit his job as a pretty-boy lead singer to wallow in self-pity.” PJ added, earning a scowl from Phil. “How much do people need to know, PJ?” Phil said, setting his guitar down beside him. PJ shrugged. “Enough to know that living in tent city isn’t as glamorous as it’s made out to be.”

 

Suddenly, the phone rang. PJ started to go to the phone, but Phil stopped him. “Just let it go to voicemail.” He said. Soon enough, the voicemail message beeped. “Boys!” A male voice boomed joyously. “Shit,” Phil said under his breath. “It’s Chris.”

 

“The rent was due two months ago, gentlemen.” He said as PJ dropped his camera by Phil’s guitar and rushed to pick up the phone. “Chris!” PJ exclaimed, fumbling with the phone in his hands. “You said we were golden on the rent!”

 

“Ah, but times have changed, PJ.” Chris said condescendingly. “CyberArts’ funds are wearing thin, and my investor wanted me to collect the rent.” PJ sighed. “Stop calling your dad your investor.” PJ said, growing tired of the entrepreneur trying to sound more professional than he was. “My investor said there was only one way for you to be able to forgo the rent.” Chris sighed, itching to get to the point. “And what could that be?” PJ said, growing tired of Chris’s deceptions about their rent.

 

“Stop Carrie’s protest next week, and you’ll be scot-free for two years.” Chris offered. Phil stalked over, snatching the phone from a surprised PJ. “She’s protesting about your bullshit, Christopher. We agree with her, we’re not going to stop it.” He said angrily. Chris was silent for a minute. “Fine. I’ll give you a week to reconsider.” He said sternly. “But don’t think I won’t cut you off like that.” He barked with a snap of his fingers. The phone clicked off.

 

Phil sighed. “I can’t believe him. The dude won’t even help his own friends out in a time of need.” He seethed. PJ nodded. “Are we going to stop the protest?” He asked softly. Phil shook his head. “We’ll pay the rent some other way, Peej.” He reassured. PJ nodded. Suddenly, the lights flickered out with a small buzz. Phil scowled. “Fucker cut off the power!” He growled. PJ pouted. “On Christmas Eve too.” He said sadly. “Didn’t he have a heart once?” Phil shrugged. “I guess.”

 

The phone started to ring again. The voicemail hit, but this time a friendly voice sang through the speaker. “Silver bells, gentlemen.” A man said. A smiled bust onto PJ’s face. “Franta!” He said. “Throw down the keys, I’ve got some stuff for you!” Franta grinned. Phil rushed to the balcony to see Franta at a payphone with a bucket full of what looked like wine and cheese.

Phil tossed down the keys, the keys landing in Franta’s bucket of goodies. Franta smiled. “Hurry, it’s cold up here!” PJ called down. Franta nodded and started walking. Phil walked back in to wait for him with PJ. Two men had come up to Franta. They looked poorer than most. “Hey, buddy, got a light?” One of them rasped. He held a cigarette in his other hand.

 

Franta dug through his pocket. “Yeah, man, give me a second.” He said as he pulled a lighter from his coat pocket. The first man muttered a thank you. Suddenly, they made an attempt at stealing all of his things. In a panic, Franta ran the other way towards an alley. “Shit,” He muttered under his breath. Never trust the poor hobos of New York City.

 

They had caught up to him. A gloved fist connected with his face, sending him sprawling down. He winced in pain, his wincing increasing as the second man punched him in the stomach. He let out a small whimper as the two men left with all his possessions, taking off down the alleyway and cackling. He wheezed, the air still knocked out of him. “Dammit.” He muttered under his breath. His nose hurt a lot, and the freezing December wind wasn’t helping him any.

 

“Hello?” A voice said from the end of the alley. Franta looked up. A short person holding a drum was looking around. He… she… he had no idea. The person quickly saw him heaving by the wall and rushed over. “Honey, are you okay?” The person said, pulling a white cloth from their pocket and wiping the blood from Franta’s face.

 

“Sadly not.” He said. The person frowned. “I’m Troye.” He introduced. “Connor. Friends call me Franta.” Franta said. Troye smiled. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He said, grabbing Franta’s hand and helping him stand. “Thanks.” Franta said gratefully. Troye smiled. “No problem, sugar.” He said. “I’m going to a life support meeting later. Wanna come?”

“Life support?” Franta asked. Troye exhaled. “It’s for people with AIDS.” He explained. Franta nodded. “Seems like everyone in this dump is infected.” He chuckled. Troye nodded humorlessly. “Yeah.” He said. “It is an epidemic.” Franta nodded. “Yeah, I’ll come.” He said, looking at Troye. How adorable, He thought, noticing Troye’s tiny smile. “Good. I needed company.” He said, wrapping his arm around Franta’s waist. Strangely enough, he didn’t mind at all. The only thing he was worried about at this point were Phil and PJ wondering where he’s went.