Not On Fire (Phan AU)

23 | maybe I should jump

The water stretches out in front of him, a harsh blue color that's murky and muddled so much that you can't even see an inch below the surface. There's a slight dampness to the railing--a result of the rain that had only just stopped ten minutes ago--that he's leaning his folded arms on. The air is still and calm, and rain clouds linger over head, but everything is relaxed. Like the worst is done for and it can only get better from here. Everyone is out now, running around with their kids or hanging out with their girlfriends or boyfriends or whatever they are. There's a playground to the right of him, situated right in the corner where the railing curves to follow the path of the river, and it's filled with moms and dads with their young kids, laughter filling the once silent area.

    This playground isn't rundown like the one near Dan's house, but that's to be expected. It was built to attract more attention to the river that marks the border between Iowa and Illinois. One of the few things that this city actually had that made it more interesting than just another city surrounded by stifling corn. Corn that traps you in, leaves you wishing of the day you'll leave, of the day that will never come. Then again, there are plenty of towns that run along the river, too, which means that they have to have more than just a river. They need to have attractions next to it--like the ballpark, the multiple playgrounds and parks, the sky bridge (which isn't even directly next to the river, just close enough to it that when you park to get on it, you can't help but notice the vast water that stretches out in front of it), and whatever else they can get their hands on to call themselves unique.

    "It's silly to think that we only moved about forty-five minutes away and I haven't seen any of my friends since," Phil says, breaking the silence that had settled between the two of them like a blanket of snow. "Not that I'd call any of them real friends, but still. Is it sad that you and Louise are my first real friends?"

    It's so random, but Dan doesn't question it. Instead, he turns his head just slightly so he can look at Phil (and not just out of the corner of his eye, like he often does). Phil's facing the river. A reminder of his old home, the city he grew up in, which is along the river, too, and like he said, not at all far away from where they are now. He can't help but wonder if it feels like hours away to Phil. Like a distant memory that's hard to focus on, but is always there, in the back of your mind, resurfacing when you least expect it. He doesn't ask, but notices the soft frown on Phil's lips . . . his lips that are always smiling it seems. The slight look of gloom on his face as he glances down at the water. The way only one arm rests on the railing while the other is in the pocket of his jeans awkwardly positioned in a way that would only be comfortable to him. It's like he feels that the worst has yet to come. That this is just the calm before the real storm happens--there may be rocky roads that make you think you've reached the climax, that it'll just dissipate now, but then the feelings and suspense just keeps picking up and eventually, you realize that you still have more to come.

    "I'd say yes, but then again, you're my first real best friend"--it feels weird to say that, but he swallows down the feeling loudly and hopes that Phil doesn't hear--"unless you count Louise. Lately, I'm not sure if we were ever truly friends." He's not sure what possesses him to say that, but now it's too late. He can't catch the words in midair and greedily stuff them back into his traitorous mouth--act like nothing happened.

    He turns his head down and looks at the peeling black paint, the droplets of water that refuse to go away even when he runs his finger over them and tries to wipe them off. It's easier than facing the reality of the situation.

    "What do you mean by that?" Phil says curiously. Dan doesn't look, but he's almost sure that he's tilted his head slightly in confusion, his gaze solely on Dan.

    "It's just . . . ever since I confronted her about being too pushy and we both decided to try and better ourselves, it's like we've run out of things to talk about. Like for the longest time our whole relationship was built on her criticizing me and pushing me to do things I didn't want to do and me agreeing to it, making promises that quickly fell through. Now that we don't have that anymore, we have nothing." He shrugs, lets his words abruptly cut off. He's running, running, running, and then he just stops at the edge of the cliff, debating whether or not to just jump. Into the raging river. The cold water. Everything he had just narrowly escaped.