Bluebird; Phan

XIV

This chapter features heavy content of a mature nature. It delves into the incredibly sensitive area of domestic abuse. Please be cautious when reading.

Phil didn't say anything else on the way home, nothing but the occasional 'shut up' and 'stop it, Dan' like those insults were insults at all. Phil retrieved the spare key from under the mat when they rounded up at the house and unlocked the door, rolling his eyes when Dan shuffled past him to stumble through. He perched himself on the end of the final step. He put his head in his hands—sleeves over his palms and hair all messy—and gazed down to the floor.

Phil shut the door with a soft click of the lock. He left the keys there on the mantel and peeled his jacket off his back. "Just go up to bed," he muttered. "I'll bring you a coffee up so you're somewhat sober."

Dan didn't move. Didn't speak, didn't breathe, didn't flinch.

"Hey," Phil uttered. "Are you even listening to me?"

Dan rubbed a hand over his face and lifted his head. There were rings of red around his eyes, soaked with a purple discolouration. Sad and tired. The words pulsed through the bittersweet serenity.

"Thanks," he managed, slow and heavy. And then he got to his feet and made it up three stairs before he heaved over and started fucking vomiting.

"Fuck—Dan!" Phil cursed, rushing his hands over his hair. "Dan, just go to the bathroom!"

Dan leaned against the wall and put his hand to his mouth, then dragged his sleeve across the incision of his lips. "Not done," he choked, and stretched over again.

"Just—" Phil darted up the stairs and pushed Dan's shoulders forward. "Go, Jesus—Bathroom, Dan. Go to the bathroom and finish in the toilet."

Dan heaved his feet in a dizzy balance up the stairs and turned the corner, out of sight. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If Bernie and Elise were to arrive back, they'd lose their shit. Phil wouldn't even be able to cover for Dan, not if he woke up with a hangover tomorrow. As much as he liked to believe Dan in that Bernie wouldn't kick him out, he sort-of . . . didn't. So he scrambled for the large bowl in the sink and let the water into it, grabbing the cloth and sponge and heading down the hallway. He flicked on the light and settled below the step where the mess sat to begin scrubbing.

Phil's head pounded Dan, Dan, Dan there like it was taking a prayer and twisting it all up, tinging it with emotion of such depth that it was impossible to focus on reality. He cared for him so fucking much and, in the grand scheme of things, nothing had changed. Maybe they weren't best friends anymore and maybe they didn't feel at all the same, but Phil knew he'd still do anything for Dan and it had been that way since they met. He'd just matured around I'm here for you so he could say I'll always be here for you with evidence.

Phil sat there scrubbing sick from a carpet in a house that reminded him of nothing but what used to be when he should have been at his friend's sixteenth birthday party. And it was all for Dan, only ever for Dan.

When he returned to sit on the top step, looking like he'd been drained, needle injected into his arm, Phil didn't give him the flattery as a second glance. It was silent for the longest time, with Dan just watching the strong movements of the sponge out of the water, against the carpet and then back in.

"I'll make you a drink in a minute," Phil muttered eventually, using his dry hand to brush his fringe out of his eyes.

"Why are you so nice to me?" Dan's question was so fragile. His voice was hoarse and scratched. Phil gaped up to find him sitting there like an ironically lost child and shook his head, squeezing the sponge and continuing on.