Give Me Some Of That Bass // phan

Aftermath

"You're the worst kind of pessimist," Grayson said, and Phil rolled his eyes. "Why do you like him?"

"That's not important."

"Tell me."

"Jeez, I don't know," Phil said, dragging a hand through his hair. "He's...nice. And funny. He has a nice voice, even when he's not singing." He paused, and Grayson gave him an impatient look, waiting for him to continue. "And he's just a great person, okay? He know how to have a conversation without being annoying, and he's not afraid to start an argument about stupid, small thing that matter to him, and he's got the most creative fucking mind, it's absolutely thrilling. And he's gorgeous, and he makes me laugh like no one else can, and he..." He suddenly can't breath around the lump in his throat, and he cut himself off, shaking his head.

"What would you do to get him back?" Grayson asked softly. Phil nearly choked on his answer.

"Anything."

***

He'd been through a lot the past week. Hell, the last two days had been more stressful and emotion-filled than he'd ever experienced before, and it was hard enough making the conscious decision to climb out of bed every morning, let alone make an attempt to try and patch up whatever could possibly be left between him and Dan. It was this constant weight that sat on his shoulders, going over and over and over the good and bad thing that would happen, and he tried his best to shut it out, but to no avail.

And so by the time Friday rolled around, he'd decided he would go to TCEs gig. It was at eleven, only a few blocks away at some club that Phil had never heard of, and it wouldn't be that hard to sneak out. Or maybe he just had more motivation to, for this situation.

He was just also terrified; of getting caught, of getting turned down, of fucking things up even more than they were already. Because what would he do then? This was, quite possibly, the one and only chance he had left to show he was good enough. At least, it felt that way.

He stayed in his room until it was time to go, scared that his parents would pick up on the nervous vibes he was practically sweating through his pores, and instantly know he was planning on doing something outside their bounds of acceptable, and by the time he'd climbed out of his window and into his car, he was a mess of twisted nerves and contradicting thoughts. Was he doing the right thing? Would this make any sort of difference, to anything?

Inside the club was a lot more crowded than he'd been expecting, and he barely made it to the door that led backstage without being trampled to death by the mostly drunk and impatient patrons.

He had no idea where to go, or if he was even allowed to be in this part of the building, but there wasn't much room to second-guess the possible consequences of it.

He passed through hallway after hallway, all twisting and turning like some impossible maze that he would never get out of, and just as he was starting to think this was a mistake altogether and leaving would be the best idea, he suddenly pushed through a set of thick curtains, and he was backstage, surrounded by equipment and wires taped to the walls and floors carefully. It was hot, the smell of sweat permeating the air and the humidity making him start perspiring immediately.

And not ten feet away, all standing as far apart as it seemed possible, was TCE.

He was standing in the shadows of the back walls, hidden by a few tall speakers and heavy looking cases, so they couldn't see him. The sight of Dan, standing by the curtains toward the stage, made him stop breathing for a second. The lights from the main room splashed across his face and the skin of his throat like phosphorescent paint, making him look unreal.