Nothing Burns Like the Cold (Phan)

Chapter Three

The hallways were empty and everything was dark. Phil should be in bed, asleep like the rest of the school, but he failed miserably at that. His mind was full of special ops and fire and restraints.

He emerged into a garden after exiting through a door, the moon lighting up hundreds of flowers and making them expel a blue tint. It was absolutely beautiful and Phil wondered why no one had shown it to him until he stumbled across it himself. There was a small gazebo in the midst of the flowers, white and delicate. It had intricate patterns that made it look as if it was made for the queen herself, too pure for Phil's own hands.

He made his way over to it, his favourite book clasped in his hand. He figured he may as well find a spot to read while he was out, a spot that isn't enclosed between four empty walls that reminded him of just how utterly alone he was here. He'd always been sort of an outcast in his life, especially since he realized that controlling liquid was something that not everyone could do. That was why he eventually kept to himself, enthusing more about books than about human interaction.

The book he brought just so happened to be The Count of Monte Cristo. He absolutely loved the prestigious way it was read and how he could get lost in the pages for hours and hours. He loved the feeling of complete and utter betrayal of the theme, the raw revenge that the Count enacts as a way to get out his vengeance for his colleagues setting him up and being wrongfully thrown in prison.

Phil sat on the bench under the gazebo, shivering at the slight wetness from the dew forming on the wood. His ears were nearly ringing at how quiet it was, the rustling of the book pages like gunshots. He didn't know how long he was out there for, eyes locked on words, slightly drooping the more tired he became.

Eventually, he was nearly asleep, book sliding to his side and head resting on the wood behind him. His eyes were closed and his knees were brought to his chest, arms hugging them close. The only sound was of his breathing.

Rustling, followed by a loud slam, woke him from his daze, nearly falling from the bench in a start. His eyes landed on a dark figure curled up on the ground in front of him, half in the gazebo, half out.

"You okay, mate?" Phil asked unsurely, voice scratchy from disuse. When he received no reply, his heart sped up and he got to his feet. "Hello? You okay?"

Upon closer inspection, he realized it was Dan. His eyes were closed and it looked as if he were breathing shallowly, an angry red mark on his cheek and his black restraint mask resting beside him on the wood. His hair was even curling, which was very unlike the straightness of his typical.

"Dan?!" Phil exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside him. Dan let out a small whimper in response, but otherwise didn't move. He moved the brunet over so that he was lying on his back. That was when he saw large cuts down his neck, like claw marks. He suspected this wasn't the cause of his unconsciousness, though, and he suddenly remembered a lesson his teacher was ranting about the other day.

"People have different lifespans to their powers. Some people's powers are too powerful for their bodies and can eventually lead to their deaths."

Phil's blood ran cold and he grabbed Dan, lifting him into his arms. He didn't mind that Dan was nearly 6"4' or that his arms were shaking, book forgotten on the ground. All he cared about was taking Dan to safety. "Dan? I'm taking you to the infirmary. You need medical attention ASAP."

That caused a stir from the boy, who gasped and rasped out, "No infirmary. Please." He shuddered with each breath and Phil couldn't help the pain in his heart from seeing him like this.

"Where else do you expect me to take you? You're in a lot of pain and probably have to go to the hospital."

"Your room," Dan whispered. He didn't say anything else, but he was quivering pretty badly. Phil pushed Dan's face into his neck, cradling him to his chest much like a baby as he contemplated.