kept in the drafts

'fog' (dan and phil FF)

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( TW suicide ????? i didn't remember getting this deep with it)

(also another massive time jump)

Phil sighed as he picked up his bag from the back room of the store, wanting to go home and forget his life more than anything. "Hey Ron," Phil called out to his manager, who was grabbing the keys before locking up the store. "I just wanted to tell you I'm going to have to take tomorrow off. I'm going somewhere tomorrow."

"Oh?" he questioned. "Where to?"

"Nowhere important. Just spending some time with my dad. So I'll have to take the day off but you can take the money out of my paycheck if need be." Phil smiled at his obviously annoyed manager as he slumped his bag over his shoulder.

"Alright, sure thing. Have fun."

"Thanks!" he called as he left the store. Phil's legs, tired and sore, carried him to the car. He threw his bag in the backseat, jammed the key into the ignition, and drove off.

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11:36; the number gleamed above the stovetop as Phil entered through the front door of his house. He glared at the numbers, confused as to how it was so late already. His bag scratched against the hard, wood floor as his eyes searched for his dad. Nowhere to be found.

Phil pulled his phone out of his pocket, opening his missed calls. His eyes skimmed across the screen before noticing an unheard voicemail.

"Hi Mr. Lester. I'm calling about your father who attended our AA meeting today and gave this number as his ICE. We're just calling to confirm that this is correct and that you are aware-" Phil tapped the stop button, and threw his already cracked phone across the room. He was so full of anger, hatred. He didn't want to be mad at his dad, but the fact that he had lied about his alcoholism pissed him off.

Feet sore, Phil brought up enough energy to walk up the stairs to his room, where he quickly collapsed on his bed and let out a sigh. I'm done, he thought. I'm fucking done.

His legs brought him down the hall, into the bathroom. Where, he thought. Where are they? He started digging through the cabinets, the garbage can, the tiny plastic drawers on the countertop until he found it. Mum's. He took it in his hand, slowly, staring at the shining piece of metal between his fingers and took it to his wrist, horizontally. He breathed in deeply, taking in the smell. His nose filled with the coin scent of the blood dripping from his arm. He put the razor down on the countertop, considering filling the bathtub. No, he thought. Not like that.

His body rose from the ground and chased his feet out the back door, across the wide lawn and towards the neighbour's house, two houses down from the park. He didn't take the street, not wanting to be seen, but snuck through the backyards and gardens of his neighbour's houses until he reached the park. In front of him was the lake, dark, deadly. His eyes were captivated by it's silky smooth surface, how perfect it was. He threw up his bloodied wrist to check his watch. 12:03AM.

His feet carried him closer and closer to the edge of the water, deeps breaths filling his lungs with every step. The water glistened in the moonlight, shining like nothing Phil had ever seen. This astounded him, captivated him. He heard a sliding door open behind him.

The neighbour next door to the lake park had heard him jump over the fence, and began staring Phil down, confused on what the boy was doing so late at night. Phil bolted from his gaze, pulling a blank page and a pen from his jean pocket, and began scribbling on the page sporadically. He then folded the page and placed it on the bench near the children's playground before continuing toward the lake.