Him (A random Phan with multiple points of view)

2- Phil

I'd just come out of English. I hadn't meant to stop paying attention, I hadn't meant to be kept after class, I hadn't meant to get detention. I'd been thinking about Dan. He used to love his parents, he'd said. What did that mean? When Mr. June asked why I had stopped paying attention, I hesitated. What was I supposed to tell him? Dan Howell didn't love his parents, so I wondered why, for the whole hour? Because that seems more important to me than Edgar Allen Poe?

Anyway, like I said, I'd just come out of English, texting my mom, letting her know I'd be staying after school to catch up on some work. I know. What kind of jerk lies to his own mother? Well, me. She didn't need to worry about me, she had to worry about the bills, paying off the loan we got for Dad's funeral, Martyn's college debt. Then it hit me. Well, I ran into him. My books scattered across the floor, my phone cracked against the ground. I looked up, my eyes wide with surprise.

"S-sorry," I say quietly, until I realized it was Dan. "Oh, hey, sorry, mate."

He shook his head, "I'm not you're mate. Why aren't you in class?"

"Got myself detention. How 'bout you?"

He pursed him lips into a thin line. "I can afford to miss a bit of art."

He was lying through his teeth. I try to say something, to ignore the fib, but I couldn't find the words. He walked off, stiff. I had art this hour. Did he lie about having art? Maybe I just didn't notice him? But how? He has the most magnificent chocolate hair, golden brown eyes, like a lion's. I decided then that lions were my favorite animal.

I sat at a desk in the middle  of the class, tapping my pencil against my notebook. The teacher pushed up his glasses, and I did the same. Poe was the last thing on my mind, as it was earlier, and Dan was the first.

The door opened, and a boy in a yellow hoodie, like Dan's, the hood up, shadow covering his face, walked in.

"Mr. Howell, do you think it wise to be late for detention?" Mr. June asked, bored.

"N... no sir. Won't happen again sir." Dan pulled down his hood, messing his hair up.

He sat in the back. He knew I was here, but didn't sit next to me.

"I'm not your mate." He'd said.

Then I wasn't to worry for him, about him. I turn back to look at him, but he was lost in his paper. His pencil brushed the paper like a paintbrush. He was sketching, I realized. Sketching what, I wonder? No, I don't wonder. I don't even care. Because he doesn't, so why should I? Why should anyone? How could anyone care for this broken, arrogant, rude boy? This boy who didn't care for anyone but himself, even his parents. How could anyone, family, friends, stranger, teacher, how could they, or anyone love him?