"Dan!" Phil shouts from the lounge. I gauge the distance between me and the door. If it's important enough, he'll come to me. "Dan!" Phil shouts after a few seconds, his voice taking on a singing quality. I hear him walking down the hallway and quickly slide my headphones in, giving myself an excuse as to why I didn't respond. He peeks his head in the door, a smile illuminating his face. I look up at him.

"What you listening to?" he asks, walking over to me to see the blank screen. "Nothing. My favorite song," he says, bumping my shoulder with his to show he's kidding with me. I close my laptop and sit back. Phil follows suit, lying down next to me, our shoulders pressed together.

"Are you just pestering me for the fun of it?" I ask him. He laughs and crosses his arms over his chest.

"I have something you will most definitely want and you are going to have to apologize to me before you get it," Phil says, barely concealing a smile.

I sigh and give in, turning my head a little so I can look at him. "I'm very sorry, Phillip." My voice is monotone, but apparently my apology is good enough. Phil grabs an envelope out of his pocket and sits up. He shoves it at me.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Open it." I flip over the envelope and watch as a card falls onto my chest. Under closer examination, I determine that it's a Starbucks gift card.

"Cool. Who's it from?"

"Starbucks," he answers with way more excitement than I think this situation calls for.

"Thanks for that brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I couldn't have figured that one out on my own." Phil shoots me a half-hearted glare and snatches the card out of my hands.

"I mean Starbucks headquarters or whoever actually sent it. You remember when I was tweeting about Starbucks a month or so ago?" Phil asks, sitting up. I nod and roll my eyes. "To say thanks, they sent me this. Which is for free drinks. For a year." I look over at him.

"You're joking."

"I would not joke about something this important." I smile and reach for the card, but he pulls it out of my reach. "Get dressed. We're going on an adventure," he says over his shoulder as he leaves my room.

0.0.0

"I can't believe you're drinking that," I say, shuddering at the sight of Phil's pale fingers wrapped around the frozen coffee. "It's, like, subzero temperatures out here."

"But it's so good!" he says, taking another big sip. I shiver. Just to prove my point, little puffs of snow start to drift down from the heavens. I point up at the sky and give Phil a pointed look.

"See. Even God agrees it's too cold for frozen drinks." Phil laughs and pulls the edges of his sleeves over his hands, awkwardly juggling the cup in the crook of his elbow. He stops in the middle of the empty pavement and stares up at the night sky.

"I love the snow," he says. He closes his eyes against the open sky. I can't help but stare at him; he's so absolutely perfect in this moment. He blinks and starts walking again. I quickly shake myself, a little confused at my thoughts. Phil sucks down the rest of his drink and throws it in the nearest bin. The snow starts coming down harder and I instantly wish I had on a better jacket. I move a little closer to Phil, trying to feed off his body heat. Phil's teeth start clacking together.

"Let's run," he says, his eyes sparkling with barely contained energy. I am 21-years-old. Most people would deem that too old to be running through the streets of downtown London with your best friend. But with Phil, I forget that there's a pile of bills waiting for me on the counter and a video to make and edit in the next 48-hours and that I'm usually lazy as fuck.

"Race?" I ask. I let a bit of my competitive edge sneak out and brace myself.

"On the count of three. One. Two—"Phil takes off down the pavement and I follow close behind. We slip along the icy concrete. I fall forward and catch myself on Phil's shoulder, laughing as he lets out a squeak. We stay vigilant as we run, checking for cars and pedestrians, weaving in and out of them when we have to, ignoring the shouts of angry passers-by.

Tonight, London is ours.

We stop at a crosswalk, staring at the red hand telling us to stop. I look over to Phil and bite my chapped lip. His eyes flick from mine, down to my mouth, then back. We start to gravitate towards each other, warm seeking warm. And then Phil's lips are brushing against mine and my heart is racing from the exercise and the excitement and this should feel wrong but it's only right and I've never been happier and—

The light changes. Phil breaks the kiss and runs across the road, stealing a glance back at me. His blue eyes lock onto mine and I feel alive for what feels like the first time in my life.

We are invincible.

And because of that, or maybe in spite of it, it turned out I was wrong.

It seems like in a single second, Phil went from standing in the road to lying in it. And I can't seem to connect this now Phil to the one he was; to the one who was laughing and kissing me. And I can't seem to make the connection between the yellow cab with the dented hood and the bleeding boy lying in the street. It's like there's a gap in my memory; like I took in the information and my brain short-circuited because it knew that in this moment, I couldn't survive knowing what I've just seen.

I am frozen.

And then I look at Phil, wide blue eyes staring at me as he lies gasping on the cold asphalt.

My brain catches up.

The cabby gets out of his vehicle and starts pacing.

"I didn't see him!" he screams out. "Fucking God. He just ran out in the goddamned road. Holy fuck. Holy fuck."

"Hey!" I shout at him, snapping into action. His eyes snap up to mine and I start running towards Phil. "Call 999." The man stares at me for a long moment, his hands shaking. His is the face of a man paralyzed with fear. And I get it. I really do. But Phil doesn't have time for this. "Now!" I shout at him. He blinks once and pulls a phone out of his pocket.

"Phil?" I say, kneeling on the ground next to him. I brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Phil, talk to me. Please." His teeth chatter together. His pale blue eyes are staring up at me, taking me in. His breathing is shallow, labored.

"C—cold," he chatters. I shrug out of my jacket and cover him with it, clutching onto his shoulders, trying to hide my fear from him. "Dan?" he says, tears choking his voice. I interlace our fingers together. His eyelids flutter, like it's a physical effort to keep them open. He coughs, turning his head to spit blood onto the road.

"Yeah, Phil?" I whisper. My voice is hoarse, broken. This is not happening. Things like this don't happen in real life.

"Back there? I think I was falling in love with you." His words are tainted with a smile, and he is so Phil right now and so absolutely alive. I let out a choked sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and kiss his forehead.

His hand goes limp in mine.

"Phil?" I mutter, shaking his hand. He doesn't respond. I press two shaking fingers to his throat and begin to search for a pulse. "Phil, please wake up," I mutter, my voice turning desperate. I wipe away the tears building in my eyes. My brain falters for a second before starting to run through the pathetic medical training I've had. I tilt Phil's head back and check his breathing. Nothing. I'm going to be sick.

I press my lips over his, startled by how cold they are, and exhale. His chest rises and falls, once, twice, as I force air into his lungs. And then I start compressions. Cycles of thirty, I remember. I fall into a pattern, breathing air into Phil's lungs then pumping the oxygenated blood through his system. Over, and over and over again.

I can't think of this cold, lifeless body as Phil. I hear his ribs crack under the pressure I'm putting them through but I know that if I stop, he will die. Because he is not dead yet. I will not let him die here.

The ambulance shows up.

"We can take care of it from here," a female paramedic says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. I shake her off.

"He's going to die," I mutter, as all of the will leaks out of me. "Oh, God." A pair of strong arms wrap around my shoulders and lift me off of Phil. I struggle against them, but I'm tired and I can't keep fighting so I go limp, letting someone else support me. I watch as the paramedics continue CPR and load him into the ambulance. They let me in too. I'm not allowed to touch Phil, or get in the paramedic's way. The fact that they're still fighting for his life is a comfort to me.

A car drives by, pouring bright white light over my hands. The color looks a bit off. A bit red. I look closer. Blood. Phil's blood. It takes all my energy to keep from throwing up.