For a while, we just walked.
It seemed like forever. My lack of experience with excercise was catching up to me, clenching my side as we, still hand-in-hand, climbed over branches deeper into the woods. The singsong bird whistles were becoming less pretty and more annoying the further I heard it.
"How much longer?" I asked.
"It's only been five minutes," he informed me.
"Yes," I groaned. "But how much longer?"
Phil didn't reply. What felt like eternity, but, in truth, was probably only two minutes, passed before he stopped. I leaned down, slipping my fingers from his and holding myself up against my knees, bent over like an old man.
"I really need to work out more," I grunted.
He nudged me, and I looked up.
"We're here."
It was odd, to say the least. Not at all what I expected him to drag me so far for. Although I didn't particularly expect anything specific, this, still, was a stretch of reasoning.
An old building. A house, presumably, though archaic and crumbling at the edges. It was made solely out of brick, side from the door and windows. Window panes fell away, glass dirty but not cracked. Two flower beds sat on either side of the door, overflowing with vinery and weeds. A cracked path broke off just at out feet, tiny blades of grass sprouting in between the individual stones.
"Why did you want to show me this?" I asked.
Phil began walking, and I followed close beside him. He, almost to my surprise, opened the door and gestured me to walk inside. As if he lived there, and this were no more than an ordinary visit. I obliged, stepping up onto the wood flooring and looking around. I heard him come in behind me, closing the door, an old sound echoing off the broken walls as it shut.
For a house that was falling apart, it looked rather well kept on the inside. Floor was clean enough, though footprints dirtied it from what appeared as countless times walking over. There was furniture, minimal but there all the same. A table, wooden, with one chair. A tattered wicker couch that was broken in half and missing its cushions. The remnants of a rug covered the hallway, which I followed. It led into a kitchen, one that seemed to truly tell the house's age. No fridge or stove, and a large china cabinet with a door broken off and all but maybe two glasses entirely shattered. I stepped over the shards that were precariously scattered.
"Where's the bedrooms?"
"There's only one, and it's downstairs. I don't go down there, just because it's really dirty, and the walls look ready to cave in," he told me.
Aside from the original decor, I noticed other personal touches. A stack of cards on the table, empty bags of chips, miscellaneous everyday items that were falling in piles. Books, a latern and flashlight. All a rather fresh gleam to the antiquities.
"Is this where you're at all day?" I wondered.
Phil shrugged. "Most the time. I really like it."
I smiled gently. "I do too."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smile. This time, I could have sworn it was a little less sad. Nowhere close to the pictures, but all the same not as gloomy. The thought of making him smile like that, so bright and heartfelt, someday made me giddy for some reason. It was strange, as if Phil was a project I was working on, wanting more than ever to get everything right.
"What do you do here?"
"Sit, mainly. I think a lot."
I faced him. "About what?"
"Dying." He walked into the living room where the couch was.
I stared for a moment before walking after. When I got there, I noticed something I hadn't upon first seeing the room. Along the wall opposite the couch was several multicolored smudges. This wall, unlike the others, was made of flattened stone instead of bricks.
Phil handed me a piece of chalk. "Want to draw?"
And so that's what we did for a while. Sitting in silence, drawing on that stone wall. I wasn't very good, but Phil was. He drew all kinds of things, animals and trees and flowers. Tiny cartoonish people walking around. I just did scribbles.
There wasn't much to talk about, so we didn't. I didn't want to know Phil's story. Not yet. I suppose he didn't want to know of mine, either, or lack thereof, to his knowledge, at least. For several minutes we just sat and listened to the scratches of chalk to cement.
"What do you think of James?" I asked after a while. It was the only subject I could think of that was safe for elaboration.
"He's okay," he said, coloring in the leaves of a tree green.
"That's it? Just okay?"
Phil sideglanced at me. "Yeah. Nothing special. Another drop of water in the ocean. Another face to forget."
"Don't think like that," I mumbled. "Everybody has something special about them."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I scribbled blue until the stick of chalk was a nub. Layers upon layers built up, amassing dust over top more dust to the point that, if I were to blow on it, it'd scatter everywhere. After a little longer, Phil spoke again. Quiet and more timid than before, though still not nervous.
"What about me, then?"
"What about you what?"
I heard his breathing, soft and normal yet somehow sticking out to me. "What's special about me?"
I examined indentations in the wall, then set down the remaining bit of chalk onto the ground and faced him. He was still looking at his drawings, touching them up quietly. His delicate, porcelain colored fingers lightly holding the yellow. He spiraled the sun, creating bright flames in the drawn-in sky that had no blue but still clouds.
I watched him. "A lot of things."
Phil paused mid scribble, glancing over at me with an actual expression of surprise. I could tell he didn't know what to say. His mouth was opening, closing, like a fish trying to breathe air. Eventually he just closed it and stared at me, looking like he could cry at any given moment, though not sad at the same time. It was like seeing a professional actor practice their expressions, all different kinds.
I stood up, not wanting, and desperately hoping against, to see his pretty face stained with tears, wiping chalk off my jeans. It didn't work, instead smudged more onto them, but I didn't care.
I held out my hand. "Why don't we head back? Lunch should be soon."
Phil nodded, standing on his own without accepting my hand and walking past me, dropping the chalk and letting it clatter. He didn't even try to wipe himself off, instead leaving the mess. I hesitated before following.
When we got to lunch, Peej and Chris went ballistic.
"Where the hell did you go?" Chris asked, attempting to stand up from where he sat with Peej. James wasn't there.
Phil and I, tray in hands, neared the table. Peej looked up and choked.
"I thought you went missing," Peej said. "Are you okay? And what's that all over you?"
Chris sat back down, though still looking a little shaken. I sat down next to him, Phil reluctantly at my side. I could tell that, despite him warming up to me, he was still very uncomfortable with others. I thought back to the picture of the three of them laughing. Were they friends before?
Today's lunch was either a chicken sandwich or a thin slice of pizza. Phil and I got pizza, and Chris and Peej got the sandwich.
"I'm fine," I told them. "I was with Phil."
It was only then that the two of them seemed to notice his presence. They both leaned forward and glanced his way, making him look down nervously. Slight awkwardness circulated for a short moment.
"Okay. Well, what's the mess?" Chris cut in.
"Chalk." I took a bite of pizza.
They book looked at me strangely but didn't question it. We all finished our food, except for Phil, who had only taken one bite. Peej and Chris stood up, looking down at me.
"James and Chris and I were going to go down to the bonfire site to maybe start thinking for decoration ideas," Peej said. "Did you want to come?"
I opened my mouth when Chris quickly interjected.
"It would just be the four of us, by the way." He nodded at Phil, who was staring at his lap, as if to better inform me of what he meant.
I frowned, then looked at my empty tray. That same spark, that will to protect Phil, ignited at the back of my mind again. A fire only to grow.
"No, thanks," I denied, then gestured to my messy clothes. "I need to clean up, anyway. Remember?"
They shrugged. Peej smiled softly. "Okay. See you later, then."
After they left, us still sitting down, I heard Phil speak up quietly at my side.
"You didn't have to do that."
"That's okay. I wanted to. Finish your pizza."
Phil nodded, smiling that almost-smile again. I felt his hand graze mine under the table, and I took hold of it as if to better comfort him. We didn't leave until he was done eating. Even walking from the doors, our hands didn't seperate.
I didn't care about the looks we got.
a/n -
hmm.