a song from under the floorboards // phan

prologue

"I'm fine," Phil said firmly, meeting PJs stare without flinching. "I am. It's just... it's almost been a year, you know?" He didn't have to say anything because PJ gave him this sympathetic look that was probably supposed to be comforting but was kind of annoying. "It's only memories."

"Alright," PJ said, and smackef his leg before standing up again. "You're a shit liar, but okay, I'll leave you alone to your brooding. The shop opens in an hour though, so you have a time limit."

Phil scoffed and saluted with his middle finger. PJ stuck his tongue out, and only once he had left and shut the door behind him did Phil relax.

He loved PJ. PJ had been the only person who could possibly understand what Phil was going through, and the only one who knew when Phil didn't want to be antagonized about it. But no matter how close they were, Phil couldn't muster the energy to be okay all the time around him, could barely manage it on his own.

He didn't get to choose when to smile and joke, or when to cry until his throat was raw and he couldn't breathe. And he didn't need someone over his shoulder trying to make him see his own unhealthy coping mechanisms because then he just got mad and pushed people away. And he definitely didn't need to be alone.

The paradox of it all wasn't lost on him.

The song skipped, and then restarted, and Phil rolled over and dug under his mattress until he found the small notebook and pen that was clipped to it. The pages were all worn and frayed now, and the cover had coffee stains and cigarette burns decorating it's surface, but it was only about half full. Phil didn't have much to say, which was weird because he sure had a lot to feel.

He flipped it open to the next clean page and sighed heavily at it before touching the pen down and writing,

Dear Martyn,

--and that was as far as he got before the words in his head disappeared and left him with the frustration and guilt that was always lurking there in the mornings.

He couldn't remember where he'd seen it, but somewhere a few months ago he had read that writing letters was a good way to let go of some of the emotions he didn't talk about. Even if it was angry ranting or useless questions, it was supposed to help.

[ So far, Phil had written his brother three letters, and none of them had helped; the first was mad scribbles full of accusations and cursing that Phil had written with tears streaming down his face at four in the afternoon, a good ten pages long. The second was a wish, a desperate wish to change the past and not be here, now, with his messed up head and a chest full of thorns. The third was short, half a page long, and probably the ugliest thing Phil could have said, but he'd woken up at 2a.m. from another nightmare and couldn't keep the words trapped in his mind. ]

He had no idea what to say right now. He didn't want to write about his dreams anymore, and his life was boring enough to keep off the pages. Even if no one else would ever see what he wrote, he felt like it needed to be meaningful, for his brothers sake.

With a disgruntled noise, Phil shut the notebook and shoved it back under his mattress. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lit one, taking a deep drag and letting his mind shut down again as the music played on.

__

Dan

The smell of eggs and bacon was drifting under his door, warm and enticing, but Dan closed his eyes and told his stomach to shut the fuck up and ignore it. He wasn't going to be so weak.

They were trying to make him come downstairs, trying to bribe him into one of their weird 'talks', where his dad expressed his deep disappointment in the direction his life was taking, and his mum shed a few despondent tears down her cheeks and told Dan she loved him and wanted the best for him and asked why he was doing this to all of them.