'i don't have anywhere else to go.' - a sleepy boys inc story

trois

Phil wakes up and checks his red alarm clock by his bed. Its blinking numbers read 2:45 pm.

He sighs. Another day, same old fuckin' shit.

He rubs his face briefly with his hand before sitting up. He hears a yell from the kitchen and remembers what had happened that night. Not same old fuckin' shit, then.

The cold night air when he had opened the door and seen his young friend, the frantic panic he had felt when he fell to the ground. The memories make him feel even more exhausted than he usually does.

He sighs, winded at the thought of having to keep up the facade of... not being exhausted all the time. He lifts a hand to the baggy graphic t-shirt he's wearing and feels his ribs, easily felt through his pale skin, and raises his head to look at himself in the mirror parallel to his bed. His state of tiredness is easily visible by the deep purple bags under his puffy, sleepy eyes and he flicks his eyes away, rubbing his face exhaustedly with his hand.

Locking eyes with his reflection again, he grasps the reality of his situation. Tommy's not okay. Holy shit. He needs me. I'm the oldest, the responsible one. I need to help him.

Making his way out of his room and into the hallway, Phil's bare feet thud softly on the grey carpet.

Grey. That's how he feels today. That's how he feels almost every day.

But he perks up as he comes into earshot of the low voices coming from the kitchen, not wanting to worry anyone, specifically Tommy.

Wilbur, being the only one facing the doorframe, notices the tired man slowly walking forward and smiles at him. "Dad! Hi."

The previously laid-back, amicable atmosphere that was held in the room earlier suddenly drops to a low, cautious, careful blanket that falls over them as the two other young men sitting at the table turn around. The content smiles are slowly wiped off their faces as Phil steps out of the dark hallway, into the yellow light of the small kitchen light bulb, and his gaunt, unshaven face is made visible.

He smiles tautly as he murmurs a greeting and shuffles to the circular wooden table and pulls up a seat in between Tommy and Techno.

"So."

"So?"

Phil's attempt at breaking the heavy silence is just that, an attempt. His American son's stressed reply does absolutely nothing to help the uncomfortable quality in the tiled room.

"So... I dunno." He pauses. "How are you going?"

"How are you going? You look awful dude." Techno retorts shortly. Wilbur whips his head around to look at him sharply, he had clearly thought they weren't going to address Phil's exhausted state. "What? What have I done wrong now?" There's a thump from under the table and Techno flinches. "OW????? Wilbur-"

A bout of monotonal complaining and British arguing arises but Phil is really not in the mood for dealing with the kids fighting today. He rubs his face, still utterly smacked with exhaustion even though he slept almost the entire previous day.

It gets to a point where both of his sons are on their feet, chairs shoved back, yelling about being able to read the room, accusing, accusing, accusing.

Phil is looking down at his feet, not concentrating on the fight and just waiting for it to tide over - as it usually does - until he looks up and sees Tommy, white as a sheet, eyes glazed over and hands balled into tiny fists. He reaches a hand out and puts a hand on Tommy's shoulder. He looks up at the man, eyes still shiny and unfocused. "BOYS. QUIET."

The yelling is immediately silenced by this rare occasion of Phil raising his voice and they look at him, shocked.

"I-I'm, um. I don't think I'm feeling too great, Phil." The words come out in a whisper before the teen's eyes roll back into his head and everything goes to shit.

671 words