Barlyle Prompts

"He's Missing." / "You're much too drunk to think clearly."

Word Count: 1631
Warning: vague alcohol abuse, general distress/sadness.
Notes: Aaaah I can't post this on tumblr yet for the person who requested it, sorry! I'll try to get my laptop working ASAP. There was a user on AO3 who named the bartender from The Other Side "Barry." I can't remember their username though, so if you know them, please give them a shoutout! I've adopted that name headcanon. I also merged this with another prompt from Britt's list, so that's two birds with one stone! I hope you guys like this.

Pain gripped his heart like a vice. Its burning touch numbed the alcohol sliding down his throat. The hue of the liquid, soft and warm, sent aches of longing through his soul despite his puzzledness about it, until a flash of hazel eyes the exact same color invaded his thoughts, which explained it all.

Phillip gripped the bottle of whiskey harder, jaw clenching as tears threatened to spill, and hurled it across his living room. The sound of glass shattering was a cacophony in his head, earning a wince and urge to clamp his hands over his ears, but he let loose an angry, incoherent scream instead.

Those hazel eyes had been filled with life and mischief and happiness—until Phillip's had flickered down to his lips. Then they turned confused and surprised and doubtful.

Phillip, why'd you have to go and put yourself out there? Stupid, stupid, you know better than this. You are better than this. He's a man. You're a man. It's not supposed to be that way. You're a freak. And he knows that now, the one person you allowed yourself to fall hopelessly in love with, thinks you're a freak. Sees you as a freak. Not human.

This time, Phillip did clamp clammy palms over his ears. It did absolutely nothing to mute the hate echoing through his head, scornful thoughts rebounding through his skull.

"I—I'm not..." P. T. swallowed hard, blinking. Blushing.

Every ounce of courage that Phillip had built up withered away with those words, his reaction, and his confidence crumbled away just as easily as crushed peanut shells. He wouldn't allow this man, the man he loved, to see him at such a low. So he walked out and didn't look back.

Phillip grabbed his coat, not bothering to put it on before stepping out of his apartment.

—

P. T. hadn't left his office since Phillip did an hour ago. The warm, spring air filtered through the parted canvas flaps marking the entrance of his makeshift office, sending tendrils of air through his curls. It was soothing until he found himself imagining the air as fingers. Fingers that belonged to someone that wasn't Charity, for the first time after they'd parted as friends.

He'd loved no one other than Charity his entire life. They knew each other a short amount of time as children, but it provided a connection that stopped him from giving into the pleasure and temptation of others that would have come along after he and Charity were separated. Many years were spent together once reunited, years full of love and passion and closeness, but as the time ticked on, he came to realize that the love he felt for her, while true and strong, wasn't the same love she felt for him. He sought friendship and the idea of being loved. She wanted a partner, to love in a different way.

The lack of physical contact he'd had since their parting, not lustful and sexual, but pure and intimate, had his heart pinched with loneliness. It was a loneliness that desired warmth, from a body, a strong body. Toned and lean and tan—

The faceless person he'd always imagined having such feelings for, the one he tried to place Charity as, but always felt off for some reason, suddenly came into view. The realization had his eyes widening, tearing up in relief, after years of not feeling quite right, finally being certain of his feelings. Phillip. He had to find Phillip. His approach had surprised, and frankly, scared him. It was new, uncharted territory being with anybody other than Charity. And he'd allowed that to show through his reaction.