arms // {phan}

chapter six - phil

Chapter Six - Phil

“Fuck,” I mumbled, my fingers getting caught in the frayed belts I was tightening. I leaned forward, hands braced on either side of my car, the top of my head resting against the the open hood.

It was Christmas Eve, the season when cold gusts of wind slipped through the cracks- like tonight through the garage door. I shivered as I felt the breeze tickle the sweat on the back of my neck.

This was definitely one of the hardest things to get used to in Manchester- the brutally cold winds. My hands were unbelievably chapped, the backs of them cracked like uprooted sidewalks.

I rubbed them together, smearing the thick, black oil I’d accumulated around my finger, as I blew humid breath on them.

Everyone was out for the evening, at some pretentious dinner party hosted by one of my dad’s work friends. I’d opted out, not really looking forward to long boring conversations with a bunch of geezers, drinking £100 champagne, and eating gluten-free finger sandwiches. It wasn’t really my thing, plus- I detested suits.

I tweaked couple more things under the hood of my Benz, trying to avoid letting my thoughts wander like they had been for the past couple weeks.

I hadn’t seen Howell in a while- my last image of him standing on his porch with that sad, heart crushing look on his face engraved into the backs of my eyelids. That day I’d barely made it to the end of the block before I’d felt the lump in my throat, and the familiar sting in my eyes.

In my defense I’d been confused- so confused- even more so when Howell hadn’t shown up for school the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Or the week after that.

Everyday the guilt got worse and worse, that gnawing regret like agony in my chest.

My pride prevented me from checking on him at first, but over time things just became more muddled, as my heart became heavier with the weighted shame.

I didn’t understand anything. Howell and I were not what one would call friends, nor were we what someone would call enemies either. I didn’t know where that left us.

Howell was an anomaly. Despite my Sherlock attributes I’d gained from my photographer father, Howell still managed to elude me from so much.

He made me question things I’d buried away a long time ago- things I didn’t want to think about- feelings I didn’t feel, wasn’t supposed to feel, or just never got the chance to. I’d had a few girlfriends here and there, but they were just momentary flings. Nothing compared what I had with-

I blinked dumbly, as my hands stopped messing with the cable they were caught in.

Since when did the word girlfriend and Howell become connected to the same thought?

Frustrated, I finished tuning the car with haste and slammed the hood, kicking the tires for good measures, and shouting swear words into the empty garage.

What was going on with me?

With a strangled noise I kneeled down, scrubbed my hands over my face, and probably leaving trails of slick grease, smeared over my cheekbones.

I’d never felt so flustered and distressed about anything- much less a boy. I couldn’t stop replaying our conversation in my head, Howell’s cold expression while he signed Well, fuck you Phil Lester.

I wished I hadn’t said the things I had. I’d known they would hurt, but that was what I did when I was caught off guard.

Why didn’t you agree with Logan and Eli?