Relapse (Phan)

FOURTEEN

"Hey! Can I help you with something?" I could hear Paloma's sugar-sweet "dealing with customers" voice coming from the front of the shop. She sounded a bit exasperated, which was understandable. Her only employee was high as a kite and we'd been busier than usual, only mostly with people trying to escape the freezing rain.

"Yeah, I'm just, uh, looking for a friend," a man's voice said. "I think he works here, but honestly I'm not sure I—I don't have much to go on really I—I probably shouldn't even be here but—" Immediately my heart began pounding. I peeked through the crack in the door and, sure enough, there stood Dan fucking Howell, his hair beginning to curl from the rain. "His name's Phil."

Please, I crossed my fingers, please no.

"Phil? Phil Lester?"

Shit. Please.

"Uh, yeah actually. Is he here?"

No.

"Yeah! I'll go get him!" Paloma said with a smile, turning and heading toward me.

Fucking great.

"Hey Phil; some guy here to see you," she said, poking her head through the door.

I sighed, plastering on a less-than-convincing smile, mumbling "Thanks," as I pushed past her into the shop.

"What do you want?" I asked, not looking at him.

"It's good to see you," I could hear the smile in his voice but I continued staring at my shoes.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, coldly, "I told you I didn't want to see you."

"No you didn't," he replied, "You told me you didn't think it would be appropriate, but you didn't say anything about not wanting to."

"What, so that gave you an excuse to stalk me?" I spat.

"I didn't—I mean I'm not—will you just look at me?" He shot back, obviously growing more and more irritated by the second.

"Just go," I said, turning away from him toward the back room.

"Phil—"

"Please, I don't w—"

"Look at m—Oh my God!" He grabbed the sleeve of my jacket in attempt to stop me from walking away, but, being the clumsiest person in existence, it just resulted in me tripping over my own feet and landing on my hands with a hard thud. "Sorry," he apologized, offering me his hand. I stared at it for a minute before taking it reluctantly, allowing him to help me to my feet.

"Thanks," I mumbled, straightening myself up.

"Phil, what the hell—" he reached out and I thought about resisting, but I gave in, allowing him to touch his hand to my cheek, meeting my eyes for the first time. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Please don't ask me that." Even now, I knew I couldn't bring myself to lie to him. Not to his face. My eyes began to water as he took a step forward, rubbing my cheek gently with his thumb.

"Did he do that?" he asked, staring at my bruised eye. I didn't say anything.

"Phil."

"Hm?" A tear fell, but I didn't bother to wipe it away.

"Tell me he didn't do that to you," he said. His voice had a sharp edge to it now that, if I hadn't known better, would have thought bordered on defensive.

"I—" I sighed, pushing his hand away from my face, "Please, please leave."

"What the fucking hell Phil?" he wailed, a mad look in his eyes I'd never seen before.

"Dan, please, it doesn't matter, please just--"

"Doesn't matter?" his fist came down on a table so hard the crates sitting on it shook, knocking a few records to the floor. "Maybe your fucking life doesn't matter to you, but it sure as hell matters to me!"

"Why?" I was shouting now too, my fist slamming into the same table Dan's had seconds before. "Why do you care so much? What the hell does it matter to you what happens to me?"

"Don't make me answer that."

"Leave," I repeated. "Please Dan," I lowered my voice. "Please leave, Dan. It—it'll be easier for everyone."

"Easier," he breathed, "Yeah." He turned to go.

"Please don't try to call me anymore."

"Don't count on it." He didn't turn around.

"Please—"

"I'll call you when I get home. Please be safe."

"Dan—"

But he was already gone.