Bluebird // Phan

Chapter 7: VII

VII

In the morning, Phil woke first. That hadn't happened yet, not since he'd been here. He was accustomed to Dan waking and seeing him shuffle around the bedroom, scramble for his clothes to cover his secrets.
Today, however, he dressed first and quickly, and sat down on his bed, waiting for Dan to wake. He told himself that if he wasn't at least moving around in the next two minutes, he'd wake the sleeping boy himself. But for now, he sat in silence with his uniform on his back and his bag on his lap.

The boy from the bed beside Phil's had gone. He'd left his bedsheets all messy, half-slung off the edge of the frame, carelessly hanging to the floor. His pillow was still indented with a messy crevice, but he was no where to be seen.

Phil was frowning over at the bed as Dan began to stir. He turned around and watched him as he yawned and groaned, opening his eyes slowly and finding Phil on his own bed.

Dan made a sound as he pushed himself up by his elbows, voice slick with grogginess, "Morning."

Phil smiled at him. "Morning."

"What time is it? How long have you been awake?" he kicked his legs out from his bed and stood up, still waking as he folded his sheets neatly.

"Not long. And we aren't late, we have time to eat," Phil said, watching Dan as he pulled his uniform from the coat hangers in the wardrobe. Carrying the clothes in his arms, he shut the doors and moved back to his bed.

"I'm so tired," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. An early-morning irritation hugged defiantly to his mood. "I should've shown you the attic some other night. Sleep is important."

Phil felt okay. He was reasonably tired, but equally rested. Maybe the excitement of the attic trip was still buzzing in his system, having yet to fade from his veins. It inflicted quite obviously on his demeanour.

Dan kept his back turned to Phil as he changed, like was customary. His elbows moved as he did up his buttons, then he turned, breathing out with a fresh smile that said I have nothing to hide in the most convincing way possible. He moved to pack his books in his bag, and Phil lost interest.

"Hey, Dan?"

He peered up from the floor. "Hhm?"

"That kid, in the bed next to me last night," he paused as Dan's eyes found the correct place in the room. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't made his bed."

"He'll be with Miss Leer," Dan disregarded.

"I suppose. Shall I make it for him?"

"I was going to, but since you offered," Dan grinned, a smudge of cheekiness dancing in his tone and his smile and his dimple. Phil basked in his moment of brightness, beaming as he stood to make the bed.

Phil made a point of sorting the sheets, sliding out the creases and tucking the corners under the pillows. He stopped every time he found a flaw in the material to start over, fanning the covers up and down until they settled.

Turning around, the brown-eyed boy was shrugging his bag onto his back and a posing the question, "Ready?"

Phil nodded his head and they followed one another out of the room.

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"I'm telling you, Phil. Mr. Adams is, like, in love with you-" Dan was saying upon entering the cafeteria. "You could get away with anything."

Mondays at the orphanage were really just bursts of colour, splats of paint. They were harlequin patterns and fragments. Explosions. Flares. Disasters, for the most part. But colourful ones. Memorable.