Give Me Some Of That Bass // phan

Cheap Shots & Setbacks

"So forget it, you're forgotten in a world so disenchanted
Always asking, never knowing
Is it just you or everybody else?"

***

"And all he does is play the ukulele and scream," Chris said in clear frustration, digging through his bag as he talked. An almost useless attempt,  because the halls were crowded with students, all shoving and bumping into him and Phil as they headed to class. "But it works, I mean, I don't know how he does it, but it sounds good. Never thought I'd see the day when I get goosebumps from a mini guitar."

"Mhmm," Phil muttered in agreement. He wasn't too invested in the conversation, as bad a friend as that made him sound, because he'd already missed half of what Chris was talking about and it was pointless trying to figure it out now.

He'd been lost in his head the whole morning, a distracted mess of the usual emotional and stress inducing ideology that school always seemed to leave him with, plus the newer and even more distracting thoughts he'd acquired about pretty much every aspect of his life. He couldn't look Chris in the eye without imaging him and Elliot in some compromising situations, and no matter how queer he was, it wasn't exactly something he wanted to be thinking about. Grayson had been avoiding all of them still, and he hadn't seen Dan in person since last week.

"We need to start being a bit more serious about practicing," Chris continued, stopping at his locker. "FTC is way too close for comfort, and I know our lives have been like a fucking soap opera lately with all the weird ass drama, but we have to be ready."

Phil didn't respond. He'd nearly forgotten about FTC completely, and the thought of it now left a nauseating mixture of dread and excitement in his stomach. "Have you heard anything new about it?" He asked.

Chris sighed, dropping his bag to the ground by his feet and leaning against the row of metal lockers. "Not much, only that it's gonna be soon, and that we need to start preparing." He clenched his jaw. "And that TCE is gonna be one of the first sets."

"We need to start putting our set together, then," Phil said with a shrug. "Figure out which songs we're doing, and when."

"God, I hate this," Chris muttered wearily, holding his head in his hands as if he had a headache. "We don't even know who we're up against, how are we supposed to know which ones work best against our competition?"

Phil patted his shoulder. "That's the whole point of this crazy game, Chrissy."

"Piss off," Chris shoved him away, and turned to open his locker. "Hey, do you have the notes from last English class, I swear I had them but I can't-"

But he never finished speaking, because when he swung open the door of his locker, there was a sound like a vacuum cleaner and then he was covered from head to toe in what looked like black paint.

There was a moment of stunned silence, where everyone in their general vicinity paused to completely process what had just happened, before the hall erupted in excited chatter, pointing at the scene that had interrupted their usually dull school day.

"Holy shit," Phil muttered, looking at Chris's unmoving form, and then at his locker. Everything inside was also coated in black, his textbooks and papers and extra sets of clothes. It wasn't pretty.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Chris growled, and reached out to rip off a sheet of paper from the door of his locker that Phil hadn't noticed before. Even covered in paint, he still managed to look terrifying in his anger. Phil read over his shoulder:

You're an exceptional artist, babe, but
you won't get far with a temper
like that.