Bluebird // Phan

Chapter 2: II

II

When Phil awoke, everything was significantly warmer. Sunlight filtered in from outside, crooked interruptions of morning sheen that disrupted his peace. He lifted his small hands up to his face and rubbed the obscure clouding from his eyes. It felt easier to breathe in his first glimpses of a new day.

"Hello."

It was a voice. Small but defiant, not yet amicable but strangely inviting.

Phil flopped against a great lump atop of the sheets as he rolled over on the mattress. He followed a pattern of curves and corners upwards and identified a boy in a long shirt, the sleeping boy from the bed beside his last night.

Phil propped himself up on his elbows, trying to decipher a reason for this stranger to be sitting there. Right there. The boy smelt of a sugary sweetness, like pancakes drizzled in golden syrup. He was mellow in the soft glow of light.

"Um, hi?" The intended friendliness was vague behind the scepticism and uncertainty in Phil's voice. The greeting was more of a question.

The boy was staring at him as though he'd just crash-landed into his back garden and appeared out of a broken spaceship, asking for a map. It was a little off-putting but not enough to pile bricks up high in defence around himself.

"Who are you?"

"Phil. Phil Lester. I'm staying here for a bit," Phil replied. He'd fallen back against his pillow and was stringing up the smudges of hazel in the boy's eyes like a dot-to-dot puzzle. The bursts of discolouration reminded him of autumn, a bed of brittle leaves, auburn branches and orange skies.

"For a bit? Nobody stays for a bit, I'm afraid, mate. Did you sneak in through the window last night? Why are you wearing your clothes? Do you want me to hide you?" Travelling through the sentence, the boy's voice dropped an octave lower.

"No, I didn't sneak in. And you don't have to hide me. My uncle dropped my brother and I off last night. These clothes are just-Well, I didn't have time to change when I arrived. I'm not an intruder, I'm not bad."

The boy bit his lip, brooding. Then, just like that, he was holding his hand directly above Phil's face and extending a finger.

"Pinky promise?"

Phil found his smallest finger, linked them together and nodded. "I promise," he echoed, unsure.

That was evidently enough for the boy, when he reached down from the bed and retrieved a tray. On it, there was a small cereal box, an empty bowl, a spoon, buttered toast and a mug filled with tea.

"I got this for you this morning. It's eleven already, so you missed breakfast," he said and slid the tray over to Phil, mumbling a small, "Here."

Phil stared down at the collected food and felt himself begin to smile. In his chest, there was an overflow of intensity, and it made him feel like he was sitting before a fireplace. As if the gesture had warmed his heart, or something. The flames licked and danced in flattery and gratitude.

Phil sat up properly in the little bed, returning the consideration. "Thanks."

"I couldn't get you milk. They'd have probably noticed if I dragged a carton up here with me, so I hope you like it dry. Sorry."

"It's okay," Phil dismissed with a rise of his shoulders, voice easy. His next thought catapulted into him and shattered his nonchalance into a thousand tiny pieces. "Oh, am I not allowed food up here? Maybe I should take it down-"

"No, don't be stupid. You won't get in trouble. I'm the one that did it, after all."

Phil wasn't sure. He was so observant of his behaviour, trained onto the way his feet moved and his breath caught and he felt like a puppet in a theatre. He was set on doing everything right at this orphanage and even speaking of stepping a foot out of line tethered his stomach. It was just that this place was something new, fresh, and these people didn't know him. He could be anything he wanted and he'd decided on the journey down that that would be a good thing.