twisted (phan) || book #2

one

(A/N: the trailer used to be here but got taken down for copyright bc i used a twenty one pilots song lol)

SECOND BOOK IN THE STAINED SERIES

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P H I L ' S P OV

Ever since Dan shot Wirrow, it's hasn't been the same.

When we came to the UK, it was for a fresh start. But the memories haunted us, and finally when a stranger made a homophobic remark towards Dan, that broke the final straw. He snapped.

He came back and broke things, he smashed mirrors and threw glass, he cried and screamed, he swore and shouted.

And then he stopped. It was almost as if he had stopped feeling. But it was just the shock and guilt that bashed at his brain day and night, and that's what overtook him.

He left the house for hours that night, and didn't come back until around five in the morning. When he came back, it was different. So very different.

He was covered in blood. Blood that wasn't his. A knife was in his hand.

"What did you do?" I had asked.

"I killed him, Philip."

His explanation was that he sounded like Wirrow, and Dan panicked. He doesn't even remember a thing, only that it's his fault the man was dead.

He sobbed in my arms that night, his heart officially broken- and it was because of me. I let him become this. All that was left of him now was just the ashes of stability. Dan had been holding a match and all I did was light it, and thus the fire spread, burning everything he had built for himself.

Like a demon possessing an innocent, he was twisted inside and out. A beautiful mess, the type that stains- the one you can't clean up. Similar to paint stains on the fingertips of his artist: easy to get stuck on, hard to get rid of.

He was a bush full of thorns but roses on the outside.

I remember occasionally reappear on the TV, speaking of our missing reports. They had reported the death of Wirrow and Mrs. Howell. Our names were not mentioned. At least not in that newscast. Our names were said in the report about our disappearance. But that's all.

I remember seeing my mother and father's face on the television screen, microphones held up to their faces and cameras on them.

"If your son were listening to you right now, what would you tell him?"

"I understand I was harsh to you," my mum began. "I wasn't a good mother. I didn't listen to you. I didn't understand you. I tried, though. I-I really did. Just please come home. Or at least let me know you're fine. Phil, come home."

"I wasn't around, nor did I pay attention to you. But I promise, Philip, if you come back I will try my hardest to be a better father. I love you, and so does your mother- I'm sorry if we ever made you feel it was the opposite."

After that discussion, the cameras left them and went to a man. Daniel's father to be specific. The only person left in his family. And God, did he look like a mess.

Bags were under his bloodshot eyes. His hair was messy and uncombed. His casual clothes were wrinkled. Nothing clean. He had grown a beard. They asked him the same question, to which he answered:

"Dan, I know work really took me away from you and your family. But God, I miss you. I miss you, I miss your mother, I miss Mason. It's scary, hearing that first your son is shot then your wife just a few months later. And then your son goes missing. I hope you're alive. I can't lose you too. I'm praying that you're okay. Please come home, son. For me."

Dan had cried that night again, screaming at me that we had to leave. That we had to go back home so him and his dad would be reunited, so his dad wouldn't be so undeservingly lonely.

"Phil, he's all alone. I have to! I have to!" He had cried, pushing at my chest. "You can't keep me away from my own family! He's my dad! This is my choice!" Tears streamed down his face.

I shook my head. "Dan, listen to me! We can't, don't you get it?" I yelled, shaking his shoulders. We no longer bothered to keep our voices down, even though it was around midnight and we were in a busy hotel. "If we go back, we'll only put them in danger."

"I need to see him," he cried, fisting my shirt with his shaking hands. "I have to. Wirrow's dead, he can't hurt us."

"But Bryony is still out there, and who knows what else. We have to stay alive. If you go back there, they'll find you and send you to prison. Or worse. Would you rather rot in a cell or keep running with me?"

He sat down on the bed, defeated. "I'm so tired of running, Phil."

"So am I," I whispered, sitting behind him and wrapping my arms around him. I pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and exhaled, resting my chin on his shoulder. "So am I."

We stayed like that for awhile until he turned to face me, his tear-streaked cheeks silhouetted by the dim lamp in the corner.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you."

"Hey, it happens. Don't apologize. I wanna go home just as much as you do, baby. But for now-"

"-this is our home. I know," he finished. He set his hands on my jawline, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. "Home to me isn't a place."

"What do you mean?" I furrowed my eyebrows. He looked away, staring at the blank wall as if he were looking at a canvas and decided what to paint. And thus, he began to paint with words:

"Home is a feeling, in my opinion. It's where you feel most secure, most at ease and comfortable. It's where you feel okay- like yourself. Where you feel loved and accepted. Home is like knowing that everything is alright and that you don't have to force anything."

He giggled at himself, blushing and looking down. I perked his chin up with two fingers and pressed a kiss to his lips, our mouths parting and moving perfectly in sync.

Dan wrapped his arms around my neck and kissed back, and I could feel him grinning.

I pulled away and smiled, kissing his nose. "And where's home to you, Dan?"

"With you."

But all I've been able to think about is the last thing Wirrow had said.

That it doesn't end here.