Outcast ✧ Phan

Thirteen

I shuffled down the stairs to find the broom, mumbling grumpily to myself. I found it abandoned in our storage closet in the hallway, grabbing it by the neck and turning back to go to my room. It would probably be best to clean it up manually, considering my dumbass abnormal tendencies were what got me into this mess.

Just as I was about to put my foot on the first step, the doorbell rang, making my eyebrows scrunch up in confusion. This was odd for two reasons: one, I had no friends who would ring, and two, neither did my dad. Aside from Phil, who had promised to never come by my place unless asking first because of my dad, my father and I were the only people that even entered the house.

I, broom still in hand, hesitantly made way to the front door. In times like these I resented the fact of not having a peep hole, or whatever its called. I'd just have to hope it wasn't a murderer or something. I twisted the knob and pulled it open, startled when Phil collapsed into my arms.

I let the broom clatter to the ground, wrapping my arms around the smaller boy. Shutting the door behind us, I came to the realization he was crying.

"Phil? Phil, what's wrong? What happened?" I whispered, trying to keep my voice calm even though my brain was on panic mode. Phil never cried. Or at least, never cried in my presence. Not to mention how late it was, so what the hell happened?

Phil shook his head into my chest, something I assumed to mean that he didn't want to talk about it yet. I took a deep breath, the lamp remains long forgotten, and lead him up to my room. The couch would have been closer, but I didn't know when my dad would be home and didn't want to take any chances. Before traveling through the stairs, I blinked over to the door and locked it.

We sat down on my bed. Or rather, I sat and he fell over top of me, bawling his pretty blue eyes out. I let him cry, knowing from experience the best thing to do was to not hold back. I tried to be helpful and patted his back. I mean, I'd seen people do it on tv and read it in books, so I assumed that to be the right thing. It really just felt awkward, honestly. Or maybe that was because I was internally freaking out about having Phil Lester cradled up in my arms, so close to me. The closest we've really ever been was our sides or legs brushing. I pushed my mixed feelings towards Phil away, though, trying to concentrate on being supportive.

Still, Phil was upset, and he came to me. How amazing is that?

Phil's heart wrenching sobs soon began to falter into gentle sniffles. He trembled in my arms, and I wanted to hug him tighter. I wanted to squeeze the pain from him, to keep him close to me until all his troubles were forgotten.

But he only stayed a few minutes longer before pulling away. He scooted back, all snuffly, and kept his face hidden beneath his black fringe.

"Feel better?" I asked quietly. He nodded slowly, then turned his face up. I frowned as I took in his appearance, feeling another urge to cradle him. His blue eyes were like an ocean of tears, rimmed red and gray from crying. A blush was painted from one cheek to the other, traveling across his nose. He was staring at his lap, playing anxiously with his hands.

"What happened?" I repeated softly.

Phil took a slow, shaky intake of breath. He looked up and pulled his mouth into the emptiest, saddest smile I had ever seen.

"My parents kicked me out." He whispered. I felt my jaw unhinge in surprise, but quickly shut it afterwards.

"Why?" I asked, hesitant. What on earth could my precious, innocent Phil do to upset his family so much? He was about as harmful as a butterfly and--wait, did I just say my Phil?

"They..." He began, smile dropping, obviously nervous and unsure about this whole exchange. His fingers twisted more urgently in his lap as he struggled to find the courage to say what he was thinking.