Bluebird; Phan

XXII

  It was such an awful day, the day Dan Howell died. There was a storm on the horizon that never developed into a storm—always just stayed there, holding a grey sky and a thick scent of rain—and it was a shameful attempt at sadness. Phil's phone rang out with seventeen missed calls from Bernie and Elise and then Bernie again, and his voice was all choked with you can't have fucking left me when he finally answered.

"Phil, where the hell have you been?" It was Bernie. Maybe. It was impossible to tell.

"Dad," Phil croaked. The ink at the bottom of the letter was running across the page. "Where is he?"

"Y-You need to get home, Phil—"

"What has he done, Dad? Please, just—What has he done?"

Phil knew he couldn't fix it. He didn't know why he asked. He thought maybe he could try, before he realised that bloody fingers couldn't fix broken glass.

"Just get home, Phil. Your mother, she—She can't lose you, too—"

Phil's fingers were fucking trembling when he hung up his phone. It clattered against the wall and the screen shattered, he heard it go, as he wrapped tight arms around his knees and—

The air was so thick, so merciless. It choked all up in his lungs and squeezed on his insides and he cried there in that stupid fucking hotel room. He didn't know where he was or what to do and for the first time in his life, he didn't want to be. Hopelessness settled comfortably under his skin, used its fingers to mend bricks and cement and fix them together into a little makeshift home. The 'welcome' sign was scratched out, replaced with 'there's no point in you being here' and Phil's heart pounded apology after apology.

He didn't have to hear that Dan was dead to know he was. He stood up from the bed and his balance shook so strong that he stumbled back down.

You made me happy.

"Fuck—" he was sobbing as he scrambled to retrieve his phone from the floor and kick his shoes onto his feet. You'll be sad, of course. He shrugged his jacket on and staggered back to the bed, where the box remained. His fingers were quick in gathering the letters and putting them back into the box and—

Inside, he'd left so much. Albums. Novels. Pages torn out, little phrases highlighted. There was a handwritten page labelled "Seclusion" and a couple black pairs of earphones. Phil couldn't fucking breathe as he slammed the lid over the box and forced it into his bag, dragging the zip tightly across to fix it into place.

He left the hotel room with tears all over his face and whimpers in the back of his throat. He tried the elevator but ten seconds was too long to wait, so he ran to the stairs and raced down all five blocks. I've done what I can. All I can. His footing stumbled on multiple occasions but his fingers were strong around the railing, and he bounded through into the busy reception with not but a scratch. His chest heaved with the weight of the world—everything good and bad and ugly—and he shoved his way through the crowd.

"Hey!" A moderately old man was yelling after his frantic pace. "You better bloody watch where you're going, kid!"

Phil couldn't have cared less for those people if he tried. He couldn't have cared less for anybody still breathing. Outside, he broke off into a run—much to the disapproval of his lungs—and bolted down the little Scottish roads. The anaemic skies looked like how they had done in London, like they were always heavy with cloud and downpour and do you think you could teach me how to play today?

Phil's feet scrambled underneath him. He was fucking choking but he wouldn't stop, wouldn't let himself. The weight of his bag on his shoulders and the pain of his heart smearing stupid memories of friends and forever was too much for his physical capability.