I Can’t Swim
i wrote a long angst fic instead of sleeping last night
warning; mentions of suicide
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Dan had been seventeen when they’d first met; Phil had been twenty-one.
He’s twenty-two, now. His flat is a mess and the year is 1997. Phil is sitting on the floor, leant against the peeling wall and there’s a mug of coffee at his feet, but it’s probably gone cold, maybe. He doesn’t really know how long he’s been sat here but coffee can’t wash down a horror like this and the hands ticking away on the clock aren’t helping either, though they say time heals all wounds.
Phil disagrees. He takes a swig of the coffee- yeah, it’s gone cold.
