Chapter Six - Phil
“Fuck,” I mumbled, my fingers getting caught in the frayed belts I was tightening. I leaned forward, hands braced on either side of my car, the top of my head resting against the the open hood.
It was Christmas Eve, the season when cold gusts of wind slipped through the cracks- like tonight through the garage door. I shivered as I felt the breeze tickle the sweat on the back of my neck.
This was definitely one of the hardest things to get used to in Manchester- the brutally cold winds. My hands were unbelievably chapped, the backs of them cracked like uprooted sidewalks.
I rubbed them together, smearing the thick, black oil I’d accumulated around my finger, as I blew humid breath on them.
Everyone was out for the evening, at some pretentious dinner party hosted by one of my dad’s work friends. I’d opted out, not really looking forward to long boring conversations with a bunch of geezers, drinking £100 champagne, and eating gluten-free finger sandwiches. It wasn’t really my thing, plus- I detested suits.
I tweaked couple more things under the hood of my Benz, trying to avoid letting my thoughts wander like they had been for the past couple weeks.
I hadn’t seen Howell in a while- my last image of him standing on his porch with that sad, heart crushing look on his face engraved into the backs of my eyelids. That day I’d barely made it to the end of the block before I’d felt the lump in my throat, and the familiar sting in my eyes.
In my defense I’d been confused- so confused- even more so when Howell hadn’t shown up for school the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Or the week after that.
Everyday the guilt got worse and worse, that gnawing regret like agony in my chest.
My pride prevented me from checking on him at first, but over time things just became more muddled, as my heart became heavier with the weighted shame.
I didn’t understand anything. Howell and I were not what one would call friends, nor were we what someone would call enemies either. I didn’t know where that left us.
Howell was an anomaly. Despite my Sherlock attributes I’d gained from my photographer father, Howell still managed to elude me from so much.
He made me question things I’d buried away a long time ago- things I didn’t want to think about- feelings I didn’t feel, wasn’t supposed to feel, or just never got the chance to. I’d had a few girlfriends here and there, but they were just momentary flings. Nothing compared what I had with-
I blinked dumbly, as my hands stopped messing with the cable they were caught in.
Since when did the word girlfriend and Howell become connected to the same thought?
Frustrated, I finished tuning the car with haste and slammed the hood, kicking the tires for good measures, and shouting swear words into the empty garage.
What was going on with me?
With a strangled noise I kneeled down, scrubbed my hands over my face, and probably leaving trails of slick grease, smeared over my cheekbones.
I’d never felt so flustered and distressed about anything- much less a boy. I couldn’t stop replaying our conversation in my head, Howell’s cold expression while he signed Well, fuck you Phil Lester.
I wished I hadn’t said the things I had. I’d known they would hurt, but that was what I did when I was caught off guard.
Why didn’t you agree with Logan and Eli?
The question had hit a little too close to home, past images of those three young crows resurfacing in my memory- things I’d tried to repress.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, my vision becoming speckled with purple and black. Slowly, I retracted a hand, reaching into my back pocket and taking out my wallet. I thumbed out a worn business card, the edges faded from being handled absentmindedly over the past two weeks.
I stared at the ten tiny, black numbers, my thumb tracing over a patch where the ink had bled. I’d had this card for almost a year, and had never even thought twice about looking at it- willing to let it be forgotten like the woman who’d given it to me.
But now- with Howell- it seemed important, like the only one with the answers to my burning questions, was on the other line.
And they were waiting for me.
“Fuck it,” I said, standing up and walking over to the passenger side of the car. I pulled open the door and flopped inside, retrieving my phone from the glove compartment.
I punched in the numbers from the card, and placed the phone to my ear. I leaned my head on the head rest, my eyes drifting close as I listened to the ringing.
“Hello Phil Lester.”
My eyes opened.
“How nice of you to call. Did you want another reading?”
I didn’t say anything as I took in the unforgettable, heavy Russian accent.
“I’m not sure how effective it will be, considering your reluctance last time. Have you changed at all? Or have you called for advice?”
“You know,” I said ignoring her frightenly accurate questions, and the fact that she knew it was me on the phone. “I never got your name.”
She made a dismissive noise into the phone. “How foolish. If that is all you wish to know I must be-”
“Wait!” I said sitting up a bit straighter. “No- no, you were right- that wasn’t why I called.”
I felt her smile smugly from across the line.
“I think- I think I may have found him- the guy- but I don’t know… I just- I can’t-”
I fisted my free hand in my still disdainfully blonde hair, my dark roots now sneaking through. How could I make her understand?
“Phil calm your mind. Your energy is agitating the spirits.”
I overlooked the spirit mumbo-jumbo, and took some deep breaths.
“Now,” she said. “Tell me about this boy.”
I did.
I told her about the day I met him- about Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I told her about the fight with him, and the fight with Logan. I told her about our car rides together. I told her about his smile that could give the sun a run for its money. I told her everything I could remember about the past four weeks I had know him.
“My,” she said. “Someone’s been busy.”
“Do you think it’s him?” I asked, urgently.
“Sounds pretty, the boy,” she said, avoiding my question. “Pretty things are always so sad, so fragile.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I pulled down the visor, sliding the cover off the mirror.
She paused for a moment. “May I offer some advice, Phil Lester?”
“That’s why I called wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it was,” she said thoughtfully. “A woman by the name Adrienne Rich- beautiful poet, do you know her?- well, she once said ‘the door itself makes no promises. It is only a door.’”
I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked tired.
“The cards are not the answer, Phil Lester. The cards are merely mirrors- a reflection of yourself- your past, present, and future. It’s your job to decide how you go from here.”
I sat there looking at the dark circles under my eyes.
“And I would start, with taking a look at why your eyes are such that sad grey color. Almost like- a bubble?”
I closed my eyes.
I listened to the silence on the other side of the line, realizing too late that she’d hung up. Even after, I stayed, phone pressed to my ear, eyes darting around on my boney facial features. I saw a pale boy, with grey blue eyes, a crooked nose, and unnaturally blonde hair.
I didn’t see answers. I didn’t see how I should go from here. I didn’t see anything helpful.
All I saw were two blue eyes that’d turned grey over the years.
“This is bullshit,” I mumbled, shoving the phone back into the glove compartment, and exchanging it for a pack of soul sucking sticks.
I pulled one out and tossed the pack onto the dashboard.
I let myself think about all my past encounters with Howell- most of them ending with angry words or a fist to the face. I thought about all the trouble I’d gone to befriending him- all the emotional conflict he probably had no idea about. Unlike him, I’d had years to practice schooling my features into a black mask- each new town like a fresh start- new game.
I thought about his hands- how much time I’d spent looking at them- his only means for communication.
I thought about Howell’s face when I’d walked into the showers that day- an expression of raw destruction, the kind that was so deep it rested in the lines of your soul.
I closed my eyes again.
I saw that blank face he’d be wearing in the bathroom, engraved behind my eyelids along with all his other fragmented faces.
Like the his face as I’d driven away the day I’d found out one of his most tightly held secrets.
The face was hopeless.
Lifeless.
Crushed.
The face one wore when crows like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, picked on bubbles like Howell.
For one brief moment, I let myself think about those three crows in my old life. I let myself think about what they’d done to their bubble. How the bubble had felt. What the bubble had done.
Regret kept on gnawing.
I got my keys.
* * *
I stood on the porch- the same spot Howell had stood only many, many days ago.
I breathed out, my breath coming out in little white puffs, my hand raised to knock.
I did.
Twice.
The door opened to a tall man with guarded eyes, and a woman by his side, wringing her hands. They looked like they belonged in this town of futuristic Downton Abbey’s. They looked like they should be in apple pie baking country, where everyone wore plaid and grew wheat in their backyard.
I felt their eyes sweep my person, judging and debating whether or not I was a threat. By the looks of it, I wasn’t entirely winning them over.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, um, I came to see Howell.” I said.
Their brows furrowed.
“Dan.” I corrected.
I saw the man’s hand tighten on the door, the woman letting out a small noise.
“He’s not here right now,” he said cooly, beginning to close the door.
I did a quick mental check of what I was wearing that could possibly cause this reaction- as if I had come to beat the shit out him, or egg their house.
White shirt.
Black jeans.
Cigarette.
Piercings.
Tatoos.
“Wait!” I said, jamming my foot into the door frame to prevent it from closing. “Sorry! I forgot that- nevermind. I was just- I’m not here to- I’m just looking for Howell.”
They looked at me like I wasn’t making sense- which I wasn’t.
“I’m Phil,” I said and stuck my hand out. “Dan’s friend.”
Their eyes changed slightly, the man opening the door a little wider.
“Phil?” he said, looking at the woman who was smiling now. “That sounds familiar. No doubt Phil Lester, right? The Phil Lester?”
“The one and only, sir.” I said smiling, trying- and failing- to hide the happiness I felt that Howell had told his parents about me.
The man shook my still outstretched hand.
“Dan’s told us all about you. You’re all he ever-” the woman faltered. “-... talks about with us.” she finished, smiling sadly.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sure what I was apologizing for.
“Oh no honey,” the woman said reassuringly. “It’s fine, he’s just-” she paused again trying to find the right word. “- he’s just Dan.”
I nodded as the man stepped aside, becoming me inside. I thanked him and slipped in, following them into the hallway.
“Sorry, we haven’t properly introduced ourselves. I’m Mary and this is Andrew,” the woman said, gesturing to themselves.
“Nice to meet you both,” I said politely. Despite my rough appearance, I wasn’t a complete asshole. Most of the time.
“Would you like a cookie or something?” Mary asked, as we entered the lounge, their cozy house lit in an golden yellow glow, their brightly covered Christmas tree standing in the corner.
I accepted, munching as we sat on two copper-orange sofas, my eyes trailing around the room.
“Why aren’t you with your family?” Mary asked, taking Andrew’s hand as he sat next to her. “Dan tells me their very nice.”
I sat across from them, and tried to form a coherent sentence.
“Well, my parents and siblings are at this art party hosted by one of my dad’s co-workers, and I decided to see if Howell wanted to spend the evening with me. There was this church- my dad was taking photos of it the other day- and they’re having a service. So I was thinking…” I trailed off.
Mary and Andrew looked at each other, thoughtfully. Then back at me. Then back at each other again.
“I know Howell’s been skipping school, and I feel like I’m partially to blame… we didn’t- I didn’t- I said-” I covered my mouth with my hands, trying to keep the words from tumbling out.
“-I… miss him.” I admitted through my fingers.
They were silent.
I peeked at them over my fingers, watching them as they focused on something behind me.
I turned to look warily over my shoulder, to see what they were staring at.
There, at the bottom of the wooden staircase, was Howell- looking flushed and rumpled- like he had just woken up from inside a dryer.
His eyes were glazed with sleep, his hair an upset of stands, not sure where they were supposed to go. He was barefoot, wearing only a short sleeved t-shirt and boxers.
Even with Howell’s parents in the room, I couldn’t stop myself from staring at all the exposed skin- it was wonderful and dangerous having so much of Howell completely bare. I wanted to wrap him up inside a blanket to hide him away from the world. I wanted to see more patches of his wide plains of sun kissed skin. I didn’t know which I wanted more.
“-isn’t that nice?” Mary said.
I tried to tune back into the conversation around me, tearing my eyes away from Howell’s naked limbs.
I looked up at him, his cheeks still flushed as he shuffled from one foot to the other.
What is he doing here? Howell signed.
I could tell Mary and Andrew were exchanging confused looks- as if asking each other-“I thought they were friends?”
"I came to spend Christmas Eve with you,” I said softly, my tongue seemingly unable to tell lies today.
Howell looked stunned.
I bowed my head- in shame and mercy- hoping with everything that he would be gentle. I didn’t how much more of Howell I could take- my thoughts of these past couple of weeks, how high I’d been getting on my own misery. I was so tired of him not understanding.
Didn’t he know? Don’t you know Howell, I’m only nice to you.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, small, fragile fingers gripping my t-shirt and tugging at me.
I stood up, letting myself be drug off the couch, away from Mary and Andrew, and up the wooden stairs.
I could feel Howell shaking. I could feel it in his hand as we climbed the last of the stairs to what was probably his bedroom.
We walked inside the dim lit room, Howell releasing my t-shirt from his grip as he slammed the door.
I jumped, startled at the noise, and gazed longingly at Howell. He pressed his face into the door, shoulders tense, hands fisted against the door by his head.
“Howell?”
He spun, his face blotchy with anger, his eyes upset. His face was tormented, his mouth open in an ugly shape, as if he was crying out- as if his entire being was screaming- only no sound was coming out.
I stared in horror at his face, completely petrified.
Then he started moving, his lips taking horrible shapes, spitting words that would remain unheard. Every once in a while, Howell would let out a choked noise and continue his rapid fire rant I couldn’t hear.
It was horrifying.
“Howell,” I begged. “Please- stop.”
He stopped.
We stared at each other- both trapped in different sets of agony.
He raised a hand, his chest rising and falling like a current, his heart the ocean.
I clutched his hand, squeezed it gently, and pressed it to my forehead.
“Please, Dan.” I said desperately. “No more. Just- come with me for the evening and pretend- pretend with me that everything’s okay. Pretty please?”
He looked at me, the war inside him bright and hurried, secrets surfacing like messages in bottles.
He nodded.
I let out a breathy laugh, pulling Howell into my chest, and wrapping my arms around him tightly.
“Oh Howell,” I kissed the top of his head as he clutched my torso. “Merci.”
He nodded again, his forehead nudging against my fast beating heart. I felt him trembling in my arms, my forehead rested on the top of his head, his skin burning into mine.
I tried to sync our breathing as I thought about the strange psychic woman on the phone. What she had said had been startling, but true. I never want Howell to know the feeling of when a bubble like him was popped. Because that feeling, it was brutal, and crushing, and I don’t know how much grief he could endure.
* * *
We drove in silence, the dark of night licking up the glow of the headlights as we traveled to the church. We hadn’t said a word since we left the house, worry growing in my gut as each moment passed.
“I feel like we’re in the end of a Supernatural episode, and your Dean and I’m supposed to be consoling you about your psychotic, demonic behavior.” I said, turning to look at Howell. “You haven’t gone dark side have you Dean?” I said, mimicking Sam Winchester’s soccer dad-like voice.
Howell snorted, trying to smother his weird half laughing with one of his hands.
I’m fine, Sammy. Never been better. I just need to get back into the game. Howell signed.
I laughed at Howell perfectly capturing Dean’s “everything’s fine” attitude.
“I’ve missed this,” I said, the words coming out more serious than I had intended.
Howell paused.
Why did you have to say that? He signed sadly. All I could think about for the past few weeks were those words you said to me in the car. Why did you have to say that?
I felt the guilt I had been building up, now inside my lungs.
You were the only one, Phil. The only one who wouldn’t do things like that. The one who I could count on. The one who always had me, the real me.
I could feel the guilt traveling through my throat.
Why did you have to go and ruin everything, Phil? Howell signed, fiddling with something in his lap.
“Why did you have to go and ask me questions I didn’t want to answer, huh?!” I said, my guilt changing into anger. “Why couldn’t you just let everything be, and not go and fuck it up. God!” I said slamming on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a crow in the road picking at something indecent.
“I just- Je t'aime tellement ça fait mal parfois!” I said, slipping into french to let out the pent up guilt. “Et je ne sais pas quoi faire jamais! Je ne sais pas comment canaliser ces sentiments ou quoi faire avec eux. Je vous adore complètement et je ne sais pas comment vous le dire! S'il vous plaît!”
Howell looked at me blankly, not understanding my confession, and I didn’t bother to fill him in. Because I was a coward.
“I’m sorry Dan, I can’t tell you what I just said,” I said solemnly looking at the road. “But know this. I will tell you one day when I’m ready, but for now- please just trust that I’ve got you.”
I look over at Howell, his eyes wide and lips parted.
He contemplated my half apology for a beat.
He nods slowly, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Ich habe dich? He signed.
I grinned. “Always.”
He laughed as we pulled up to the church. Alright Severus. He signed.
* * *
We walked through the archway of doors inside the church, the room smelling of holy and burning candles. We walked down the deep red carpeted aisle, most of the front pews filled already.
I tugged Howell’s arm towards the direction of one of the empty pews in the back corner. It was a bit drafty, a huge mosaic window to the right. We sat down looking around at all the people walking through the doors, and the priests in their funny white robes.
Howell tugged at my sleeve to get my attention.
I didn’t think there’d be some many old people, Howell said, wrinkling his nose as he looked at the pack or white haired geezers.
I chuckled and leaned down to whisper into Howell’s ear. “Christmas Eve service is either reminiscent old fogeys or kids who were brought by the reminiscent old fogeys.”
He giggled adorably into his hand, his eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them.
You know, he signed looking at his lap. Even though I’m still mad at you, I’m glad I came with you tonight.
I smiled, rubbing his shoulder affectionately. “I’m glad too.”
The lights dimmed as the choir began to sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” as some of the white robed men lit some of the candles resting at the altar in the front of the room.
A few more priests followed out of the arched doors we had come through, all of them wearing deep red robes, except one wearing a plum colored one.
The walked down the aisle, eyes straight ahead, an aura of superiority about them.
They group of red robed priests walked to the front of the altar, as the white robed priests finished lighting the appropriate candles, all of them taking seats at the big throne like benches behind the candles.
One of the red robed woman stayed behind, stepping up to the wooden podium between the tables of candles on either side.
“Hello,” she said.
The crowd murmured back softly.
“Tonight we are gathered here to celebrate good news of great joy for all people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ, the Lord.”
“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace to his people on earth!” the crowd responded.
Howell and I looked at each other, both mildly confused and amused.
“Let us pray, for good will and mercy from our God, to forgive the guilty on this night of peace, and to protect the innocent, wherever the two shall be. Amen.”
“Amen.” the crowd repeated.
The red robed woman sat down as the choir began to sing again, everyone standing up. Howell and I joined them as the beginning chords of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” began to play on the massive organ in the balcony.
“How are you liking it so far?” I asked Howell as he pretended to sing along.
I’d give it six out of ten crosses, he signed. Although, I do feel like everyone can just smell the gay on me. Like their all just waiting for me to start making out with one of those pretty church boys over there.
I laughed. “Same, I feel like I’m going to burst into flames at any moment. Did you see that one lady when we walked in? She took one look at my eyeliner and tattoos and looked as though she was going to burn me right then and there! It was like I had ‘sinner’ written all over me.”
Howell laugh in his silent way as the song faded out and we retook our seats.
The Gay One and the Sinner. Howell mulled. That would make a good book title.
I tried to cover my laugh as the plum robed woman walked up to the podium, her golden cross necklace glittering in the candlelight as she stepped up.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice thick like honey and heavy like charcoal.
“In the light of the stars we shine, the night in Bethlehem, the brightest night of them all. For in that manger, hope was born.”
I snorted incredulously and looked over at Howell. His face pensive, sitting a bit straighter in his seat, the gears in his mind spinning wildly.
“In heaven we are at peace; sleep after a hundred years of joyful pain. On earth we are in a beautiful chaos- one we must often step into full force. And in hell, the fire consumes us, leaving nothing but the ashy remains of our biggest regrets. But the light, it is always with us, God’s feathery touch gracing our bodies even in the fires of hell- always looking after us, even after death.”
Her eyes swept the crowd, finding mine for a brief moment before flickering off again.
“Of course you can’t see now because it’s dark, but when the light comes through these windows it’s glorious. It reflects through the mosaics on the window, drowning the room in color.”
I looked between the sermon and Howell, both of them in a trance- in awe.
“That is what we are all inside. A mosaic of different pieces of ourselves, God’s light reflecting through us.” the woman said, walking over to one of the mosaic windows, trailing her fingers over the glass.
“Happy memories-” she pointed to the green.
“Sad one-” blue.
“Angry one-” red.
“Envious one-” yellow.
“Ones we wish to forget-” purple.
“The black in between, our regrets, lies, and darkest thoughts patching everything together- the truest things we ever think painted as sins. Where the light can never meet.” she said, as she traced the cement.
I stared at her.
She blinked slowly as she walked back up to the wooden podium.
“Around this time of year, your troubles are put aside for the joy of others- you problems put on hold- ignored.”
I glanced at Howell.
“Make sure you embrace the freedom God has given you on this blissful, peaceful day. Tell your mother you’ll visit her. Call up a friend you haven’t spoken to in a while. Tell that boy you love him.”
My head snapped up and I could see the woman looking in our direction, a coy smile on her lips.
“Don’t just bask in the light- take it as a sign to let God’s light care for bad things surrounding the good. I don’t want you to let it corrode the evil inside- just let it nurture it. It’s one thing to let the grim memories control your life- it’s another to forget them entirely. To forget them is to shatter the glass inside you- the framework that makes you the person you have become.”
She thanked us and retreated to her seat.
The organ began to play and we all stood up.
I felt a jerk on my sleeve, Howell’s wide eyes looking up at me.
Let’s leave, he signed.
I nodded and followed him out the door, the sounds of “Joy to the World” on our heels.
* * *
We sat in the car, neither of us commenting when I didn’t start it.
We just stared into space, both of us taking in what the woman had said.
She’d been both wonderful and frightening, my fear of strange woman growing infinitely with each encounter I had. That and my fear of Howell getting hurt again, I was a mess.
“Oh!” I said suddenly, startling Howell as I reached behind the seat to get my leather jacket.
I pulled the folded piece of paper out of the inside pocket handing it to Howell.
“I snatched it from Logan the day in the office.” I said.
Howell looked at it with surprise and fear. It looked like he might be sick.
“Open it.” I said.
He looked up at me, the anguish on his face evident.
“Do it.” I prodded.
He did so, reluctantly, pulling back the corners to reveal the drawing Logan had torn out of his sketchbook the day of the fight.
I’d looked at it almost everyday- propped right next to the psychic woman's business card. It was a drawing of me, shirtless, the page ending just where my hip bones would be.
It was very detailed, I could tell Howell had spent a great deal of time on it. I could just imagine him staying up late, a lamp light at his desk, his wandering hands in his hair, as he tried to draw me.
I knew I should’ve been creeped out, but really I was flattered.
A tear rolled down Howells cheek as he read what I had written at the bottom of the page.
If only I looked this beautiful in real life. Maybe one day I’ll give you the opportunity to draw a more realistic version.
He looked up at me, eyes wet and bright. Completely full of light.
Thank you, he signed as he squeezed his eyes shut. Thank you so much.
I thought about the sermon and her talk of God’s light. Honestly, I didn’t need it. God wasn’t the one who made me want to show the best of myself.
I looked at the light in Howell’s eyes again, as the church bells started to ring midnight.
“Merry Christmas, Howell.”
AN:
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I'm sorry im like an hour late!!! but yeah im actually pretty happy with how this chapter turned out i thiought it was going to be shit!
also i tried to write the christams survice as best i could from research of different ones ive gone to and tried to exclude any opinions i have on the church and such. also dan and phil in this story aren't religious i just thought it would be an interesting thing to include.
translations:
merci = thank you
Je t'aime tellement ça fait mal parfois!Et je ne sais pas quoi faire jamais! Je ne sais pas comment canaliser ces sentiments ou quoi faire avec eux. Je vous adore complètement et je ne sais pas comment vous le dire! S'il vous plaît! = I love you so much it hurts sometimes! And I do not know what to do ever! I do not know how to channel these feelings or what to do with them. I love you completely and I do not know how you say it ! Please !
love you guys and thank you for waiting! i'll try to be on time next week! (also sorry for any errors!)
-Eddy Xxx