confined ;; phan

chapt. one

PLAYLIST
too good by troye sivan
i walk the line by halsey
6 inch by beyoncè (feat. the weeknd)

the sun.

phil wipes blood from his nose as he struggles to pull himself up off the ground. he licks his lips before downing another shot. the bartender stares at him, astounded at phil's recklessness.

"sir, are you alright?"

phil spits blood onto the counter, supporting himself by leaning on a red leather bar stool.

"i'm brilliant," phil slurs, wiping hot blood from his chin.

"are you sure? you fell pretty hard."

phil shakes his head, wagging his finger at the bartender as he laughs. "i think i need another shot."

"sir, you may be a customer but it's my responsibility to say i think you've had enough," he says quietly, pulling the vodka bottle back from the counter top.

"i said," phil growls, happy and bubbly demeanor disappearing quicker than it appeared, "i need another shot." phil slams his fist on the bar, making the waiter jump in alarm.

without breaking eye contact, the waiter shakily pours a shot of vodka, spilling it on the counter. phil recognizes fear in the young mans bright irises- green and vibrant. he's seen that type of fear before. the same sickening level plagued his own once upon a time. slowly, phil takes a deep breath through his nose, thick blood spurting up into his sinuses. the loudness of the bar has faded to nothing and the only deafening noise is the silence between the two as the waiter slides a shot across the bar.

phil frowns down at it. his alcoholism mocks him, laughs in his face and spits on his shoes. suddenly the burn off the alcohol isn't enough. he needs more. craves more.

"fuck," he roars, smashing the glass sideways off the bar top. "god dammit."

"sir, i think you should leave." the bartender has tears in his eyes. who blames him? he's so young and sensitive and phil feels horrible.

"me too," phil whispers, pulling himself off the stool and stumbling towards the door. everybody stares at him, whispering and pausing a game of pool to watch him leave.

he walks down the dimly lit street. phil has no idea of the time but he continues to walk, letting the freezing winter air sober him. his brain feels like it slams into the sides of his skull as he walks, creating thundering pounds that echo in his head. he feels an overpowering amount of self hatred as he ventures through onto familiar ground of the town that changed him.

he walks for a few more minutes, nearing more suburbia with each step. the houses are tall and strong.

"mansions," phil mumbles, stumbling as he walks.

he hates himself when he realizes where he's ended up almost two hours later. the grass in the front yard is overgrown and the vibrant blue paint on the house is peeling. there's cigarette butts scattered about and he can hear the buzz of a beehive lingering around the corner. smashed up debris of a murder weapon lay next to the footpath.

phil walks up the front steps of dan's house slowly, listening to his shoes hit the concrete. he was dragged down these steps once. beaten half to death and then left on the footpath.

no, phil corrects himself, not left. dan did everything he could to save my life. took two bullets and killed a man.

it's almost been two years since the day phil watched dan get arrested here.

he rips faded yellow police tape off the front door before bashing it down. it bursts open and he falls inside, tripping over his own feet.

he falls backwards onto the lounge, squinting his eyes shut as he sighs. he runs his fingers over the tearing blue material, a loud sob racking through his body as he starts to cry.

two years since they made love on the sofa.

he drags himself up, walking over the blood stains that pattern the floorboards. he ignores that and moves slowly through out the house until he's in dan's bedroom. a double bed is made neatly with silk sheets.

phil sits on the edge of the mattress, feeling the sheets before sliding around to lay down on his side. he slowly hugs his knees to his chest, sobbing loudly.

he falls asleep.