Phil
The tiny record player in the corner of the room was playing Blister In The Sun on repeat, but Phil was too lazy to get up and fix it. His bed was far too comfortable, even if it was just a bare mattress on the floor, and the heat from outside was already making him feel slow, like he couldn't possibly do anything productive.
It was still early, hours before he would need to be downstairs to open the shop, so he lit another cigarette, closed his eyes and let the music circle through his blood stream.
The first day of August had dawned exactly the same as the days before it, humid and bright and full of potential, the kind of day you could do anything with; meet new people, try new things, fall in love even.
Phil hadn't done much since summer had begun. Discovered a few new bands maybe, and gone to a concert PJ had dragged him to. The sun made him feel sluggish after a while, and painted his skin a painful red that took weeks to disappear, so he preferred staying indoors as much as he possibly could.
He wasn't a fan of summer, and she didn't like him much either.
The song skipped, made a vague scratching noise, and then started over again for what had to be at least the eighth time that morning. It was a good song, at least, one of Phil's favorites at the moment. He'd get tired of it in a week and move on to some other audible obsession, but for now he was content to let it play until it drove him insane.
A knock on his door made him open his eyes. He gazed at PJ warily as his friend stepped into the room carrying two mugs of coffee and wearing a scowl.
"If you're not gonna fix it, turn it off," PJ said, even as he sat down on the smallish bed and handed one of the mugs over. Phil didn't even bother sitting up, just rested the hot ceramic against his stomach and finished his smoke. "We're gonna get complaints."
Phil rolled his eyes. "Complaints from our nonexistent neighbors? Or the imagined pedestrians who have superpowers and can hear the music from two stories up?"
"Fuck off," PJ muttered. He reached over and snatched the cigarette from Phil's mouth. "I thought you said you were gonna quit?"
"Yeah, maybe next year."
PJ hummed and didn't say anything to that, even though they both knew Phil was lying. Phil was used to having this faux argument, where PJ called him lazy and full of bad habits, and Phil said he deserved to have those habits, and PJ told him he was full of shit. But this time, he let it go, and Phil knew there was something worse coming in it's place.
Phil hadn't even started smoking until last year, and once he'd started, there was never any chance of stopping. It was a vice he didn't want to control, and if it killed him along the way then there was no one to blame but himself. That was the way it should have been.
"You're having nightmares again," PJ started with no preamble, leaning back on his elbows and narrowly avoiding Phil's legs.
Phil closed his eyes again, breathed in, and told himself not to kill his friend. Do not kill PJ, do not kill PJ, you can't kill PJ. "They're not bad."
"They sound bad, Phil." And he knew that PJ was just worried because that's what friends were supposed to do, worry about you, especially if you woke them up at odd hours of the night screaming about your dead brother, but Phil sometimes wished he could deal with his grief alone. That he wasn't stuck in this box of a flat with the only other person in his life who would ask him those personal questions he never wanted to answer, or talk to him about how he was feeling and if he needed to take the day off.
He was angry and sad and hopeless and self-deprecating, and he had no idea how he was even supposed to start processing all of that, let alone talk about it.
"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.
But it wasn't about all of them, no matter how much they wanted it to be. It was his life, and his decision to fuck it up if he so pleased. Not that they would understand or ever agree.
Dropping out of school hadn't been a sudden thing. The first three years had sucked the life out of him, and he couldn't possibly bear another entirely new, even more complex tier of it, let alone another four years. University seemed like an impossible nightmare that Dan wanted no part of.
For the last few months, his teachers had been pressing all of their overstressed teenage minds, about the future and careers and opportunities they wouldn't have access to without a degree, and pushing the idea that any job they got otherwise was shameful and unprofessional, as if they didn't benefit from these 'menial' jobs themselves.
And towards the end, a couple of weeks before graduation, Dan had given up completely. He'd stood up in the middle of an English lesson, ignoring Ms. Garners shouts for him to come back, and walked out of the front doors without a second thought. His mum had already been home by the time he got there, having got a call from the school about his performance, and had immediately torn him to shreds about it, and then waited for his dad to come home and do the same.
They'd interrogated him, and threatened him, and guilt tripped him, but Dan hadn't given them a reason, because there was no reason. He just didn't want to do it anymore. And after two hours of his silence, they'd let him go, and he'd shut himself in his room since then and not come out until he was certain they were gone.
That was four weeks ago. He hadn't seen his parents once in that time, and they'd tried everything they could to convince him to come out, but he refused. He didn't need their judgement and lectures. He didn't need their logic or reasoning, or pleading in his mums case. He didn't owe them anything.
Last week had been his birthday, and he'd spent it staring at the wall in silent contemplation, wondering what he was going to do next. If he wasn't going to school, then he had to do something; his parents would kick him out eventually, he had no money to his name, and 'high school dropout' would forever be apart of his record. In the long run it was probably a disastrously impulsive move, but right now he felt fucking free.
With a frustrated groan, Dan shoved the thin blanket down to his feet and yanked his shirt off, tossing it to the floor. It was disgustingly hot, outside and in his room, and sweat was sticking his clothes to his skin with a stifling awkwardness. The T-shirt and pants he'd worn to bed even were too much.
Just as he was debating on sneaking across the hall to dose himself in cold water, a sharp tap! sounded at his window, and Dan jumped and glared at it. He could ignore it, but he knew it wouldn't work. As if to prove his point another tap!, and then another, and he crossed his room and shoved it open without grace.
"Please stop throwing things at my window, you'll break the glass again," he said grimly.
Chris beamed up at him, dropping the small stone he'd been holding and most likely been about to throw. "Ah, such fond memories. Your mum literally chased me with a pan, remember? Almost hit me with it, too."
Dan had suffered a month long house arrest after that and been told never to lay eyes on Chris Kendall again, but he'd never been good at following orders. 'Problems with authority', his guidance counselor had said last year, and he really had to agree. "What are you doing here, they're gonna see you."
Chris rolled his eyes. "They won't. They never do. You're just insanely paranoid." He shoved his hands into the pocket of his shorts casually, like he wasn't having a conversation with someone hanging out of a second floor window. "And I'm here to rescue you from yourself. You've been locked in your house for weeks, that can't be good for your mind."
"My mind is fine," Dan huffed. "You just want to annoy me because no one else will pay you any attention."
"It's not just me!" Chris complained. "Carrie says she hasn't seen you in ages, and to tell you you're a bad friend for not even telling us about your awesome walk out scene, and then ignoring us indefinitely."
Dan sighed and knew he couldn't argue with that one. "I didn't really have a plan for—,"
"No, nope, stop," Chris held up a hand. "You can tell us when you get dressed and sneak out of your window, eh?"
"I can't just—,"
"You can, and you are."
"Chris, seriously, you—,"
"Just do it, man!"
Before Dan could get anymore protests in, Chris saluted him with two fingers and dashed around the corner of the house, ducking wildly under the kitchen window so Dan's parents wouldn't see him.
There was no arguing with him when he was set on something, so Dan pulled back into his room and did as he was told.
—
i can't believe im still writing this shit. also ill probably never update :)