Bluebird; Phan

V

  As it were, the next few days travelled by apathetically. Dan kept his head down in English class, and Phil got scolded once for not paying attention when he'd gotten himself too lost in the boy seven desks in front of him. They walked home together everyday, sometimes in a requisite silence, sometimes not. Sometimes they spoke about school, footie, books, and sometimes they didn't.

Whatever way, it was okay.

Martyn moved out into another room. They saw one another less, and when they did, it was often in the company of Lent. But that was okay too.

On the string of uneventful afternoons, Dan and Phil read together. Occasionally, when he'd get bored of playing outside, Harrison would wander in and find humour in the way Dan's legs crossed over Phil's. He'd spew hurtful comments towards the both of them, but often just to Dan.

"Oh, lads, we're living with a couple of queers!" he'd sung, clapping his hands in synch to the beat of the sickening words. Phil watched the way Dan had extracted all his limbs back to himself again at 'queer', and remained considerably quiet for a long time, even after Harrison had lost interest in them and left the room.

Phil considered, for a moment, asking him what it meant. He didn't. He also considered asking him about his arms, which he'd caught sight of again and again over the course of the week but he didn't do that either.

Despite the distractions, Phil read six whole chapters of Bridge to Terabithia. Dan joked that he was a slow reader, and that he'd finished it in two days. Phil shrugged it off, with the promise that he was really enjoying it. He was. Jesse and Leslie reminded him of two people he knew but couldn't place, whom lived in a wonderful world that existed only for them.

On Wednesday, Dan finished Winnie The Pooh and started reading another. And he dug his copy of The Giving Tree out from his shelf, for Phil.

Phil's heart warmed when he took the beaten copy from him and inquired, "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Dan had smiled and continued onto another subject, chugging words out at the speed of light. Phil kept the book safely in his drawer, between his socks.

As promised, on Friday, they got their ball back and were told by Miss Leer that they could play after school. But, as luck would have it, it rained. Hard. Dan sat scowling on his bed as Phil read his next chapter.

"Can you believe it, Phil? It's sunny all week and then rains the one day we don't want it to. I hate England," he grumbled. His shoulders were slumped back against his headboard, a perfect analysis of his mood.

"Don't worry about it. We have all day tomorrow," Phil said, eyes batting up and down, between Dan and the book.

"That isn't the point," Dan said, pathetically glum. "We don't have all the time in the world, Phil. Really, we don't. You're probably leaving soon because your uncle's your best friend and he wouldn't leave you here and I still can't play footie and—"

"Dan, Dan, hey," Phil sat up, sparked with concern for Dan's pessimism and the honesty in his words. "What are you talking about? It'll be okay, don't think like that."

"How can I not? You are leaving soon, you said so yourself."

"Maybe not for a little while," Phil whispered back. He hoped Dan heard over the room's volume and the noise of plummeting rain.

"You could leave tonight," Dan said, and his eyes found Phil's with a rushed intensity. He lost balance across syllables as he blurted, "You could, couldn't you? In the middle of the night and I wouldn't know—You wouldn't leave without saying goodbye, right? You wouldn't, right?"