Page 19 of Someone Like You

Ian had to think about it. “She tolerated him. Would let him pet her and give her treats, but never… I don’t think he ever managed to hold her.”

“That’s a good girl,” Phil grinned as Kibble rubbed her nose into his hand .

The TV was on, the game about to start. Kibble moved back to Phil’s lap when Ian picked up his sandwich, offended that she couldn’t have his full attention. After a couple of adjustments, she curled on herself and laid down her chin on Phil’s forearm, much to Phil’s amazement.

Ian didn’t follow much of the match, mostly because he was more entertained by Phil getting acquainted with his cat.

As the minutes ticked by, Phil got accustomed to Kibble’s presence and grew bolder with her, petting and scratching as instructed by Kibble’s perfectly communicative body language.

The hesitant smile that had formed on his lips gradually took over his whole face.

When the game stopped for the halftime break Ian realised he couldn’t remember anything that had happened on the pitch and half of his sandwich was still on the plate.

The heaviness in his chest had gotten so crushing it physically hurt.

He was an idiot.

A foolish, masochistic idiot.

“Goin’ to have a shower,” he announced, standing up so abruptly Kibble got startled and peevishly ran away.

Phil glanced up at him, a little bewildered, and it took Ian every fibre of his willpower not to bend down and do the most reckless and stupid thing in human history.

“There’s more Pepsi in the fridge,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be right back.”

He had ten to fifteen minutes to get his shit together. Ten minutes to wrench the burning desire to kiss Phil Hanson out of his system and find a way to keep it out, if not for good, at least for the remainder of the night.

Phil was taken. Engaged to be married and deeply in love with his extraordinary fiancée. Ian had no business catching feelings for him. He had no business rejoicing every time he caught that splinter of silent longing in Phil’s eyes when they looked at each other. None of this should be happening .

Standing under the cold water, he struggled to calm the frantic pounding of his heart, sick with shame and guilt because of the reaction his body was having to the mere idea of kissing Phil.

The water needed to be colder — cold enough to make it hard to breathe.

He tried to redirect his thoughts to trivialities: going over the week’s schedule, the materials that needed restocking and the outdated ones he should get rid of.

The store he still hadn’t called back regarding pricing for a job.

Lunch with his father in two days. His granny’s birthday next month.

It worked.

Shivering, he turned the water to lukewarm and finally grabbed the shower gel, but no matter how hard he scrubbed his skin, he couldn’t wash away how unclean he felt.

He was pulling up a pair of fresh joggers when he heard a noise of shattering glass.

He dropped the t-shirt and rushed out of the bathroom to check the living room, which he found empty, save for Kibble, who was loafed on top of the armchair backrest, slumbering.

A distressed sound came from the kitchen.

Ian poked his head in: Phil was leaning against the counter with both hands, panting hard. A glass was shattered at his feet.

“Handsome?”

“Sorry about... the glass,” Phil heaved without turning. His head was bent, knuckles white from how hard he was holding on to the counter. Getting closer, mindful of the sharp fragments scattered on the floor, Ian saw Phil was shaking.

“Fuck the glass. What’s wrong?”

“Panic attack,” Phil gasped out after a couple of failed attempts.

Ian was at a loss: he had no familiarity with panic attacks, didn’t want to accidentally make the situation worse by doing or saying the wrong thing, but at the same time he was desperate to help.

“What can I do?” he asked as softly as he could.

“I just need—”

“What? What do you need?”

“P-pressure.”

Pressure. What did pressure mean ?

Watching Phil’s trembling body, Ian instinctively did the only thing that seemed to make sense and provided pressure by wrapping his arms around him.

“Like this?”

Phil gasped, then stuttered: “Tighter.”

“Don’t want to hurt ye.”

“You won’t.”

So Ian squeezed tight , pulling Phil into his chest until he couldn’t tell anymore when he ended and Phil started. He was afraid Phil could feel his heart hammering against his back, but Phil was too busy hyperventilating to really be aware of anything.

“Still with me, old man?” he asked in Phil’s ear.

“Y-yeah.”

“Nice cologne.”

Phil spit out a choked laugh. “Dior Sauvage.”

“Fancy bastard.”

Phil laughed again. After a few deep inhales, his breath started evening out, and the shaking with it. It was a while before he was able to speak without quivering. Holding on to Ian’s bare forearms, he mumbled: “Please, tell me you’re not naked.”

“Would you not like that?” Ian snickered. “I’m wearing joggers, sorry to break your wee heart.”

Another laugh wheezed out of Phil, morphing the snicker on Ian’s lips into a genuine smile that spread down to his chest, rekindling that sense of sweet constriction.

You’re so screwed, mate .

He didn’t know how long they stood there, motionless and quiet, just waiting.

Ian’s iron grip loosened as the panic ebbed, allowing Phil deeper breaths without depriving him of the support.

When Phil’s hands lowered, Ian let go, stepping back to let him turn around, but Phil wasn’t stable on his legs and lost his footing, collapsing back into Ian’s arms.

“Easy, easy.” Ian guided him to rest back against the counter, cupping a hand around his neck to ground him. A few more deep breaths put some colour back into Phil’s cheeks. “You alright? ”

Phil looked up, a sorrowful pinch in his brow, and Ian forgot how his lungs worked altogether. It took a considerable effort to refrain from wiping away the wet streaks rolling down to his beard.

“Been better,” Phil croaked in a thin, brittle voice that felt like it was holding back more words than it had spoken.

Ian’s hand was still on his neck. Guided by a higher force, Ian tentatively moved his thumb, stroking the coarse beard along the jawline, and the raw emotion that that simple gesture ignited in Phil’s eyes nearly broke him.

He couldn’t make himself let go, couldn’t stop staring at Phil’s mouth, frozen agape on those unspoken words.

Nothing about this was right. Or fair.

There had to be a limit, a line somewhere that marked the border between what was acceptable and what wasn’t.

Ian had never condoned people who meddled in established relationships, stealing someone else’s partner, ruining others’ happiness.

But he understood now. He still didn’t condone it, it was despicable , but he got it: you couldn’t find such a deep connection with someone and just carry on with your life.

No guilt or shame could erase it. But after what he’d been through with Jamie, there was one thing he was absolutely certain of: he would never be the other guy .

His hand fell to his side. The stab he felt in his heart when Phil whimpered at the loss was a shock he would never forget.

“Let’s get you sat down,” he murmured, taking Phil under his arm to steady his walk, fully aware that from now on not a single touch between them, not even the most casual, would ever be innocent again.

He helped Phil ease down to the couch, where he sank with a long sigh, eyes fluttering shut. The game had long since resumed, but no one was interested in it any more.

“I’m going to clean up and come back with some water,” said Ian, who needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and the instincts this man awakened in him.

He took longer than necessary to pick up the glass shards, collecting them one by one rather than sweeping them up simply because it granted him some time to regroup.

It was impossible to know whether the panic attack would’ve happened or not if Phil hadn’t come over, but Ian was glad he hadn’t been alone to deal with it.

It looked like nasty business, nothing anyone would want to confront on their own.

Phil knowing so precisely what he needed to curb it suggested he was used to it, or at least that he’d been through it enough times to figure out what worked and what didn’t.

Either way, it was just further proof of how tough the man was under his layers of self-deprecation and self-pity.

Ian stilled with one knee on the ground, observing the jagged fragments in his palm. An insane, irrational urge to clasp his hand around them seized him. He could do it. He could, and maybe the pain would take his mind off that clutter of feelings he shouldn’t even be having.

A shiver shook his spine, reminding him he was still shirtless and barefoot. After disposing of the glass, he filled up a new glass for Phil and took it to the living room.

“Let me know if—” He stopped on the threshold and nearly facepalmed himself right there: his guest was lying on his side on the couch, hands tucked against his chest, fast asleep.

Kibble had cuddled up to him, nestled in the crook between his belly and his legs, slow-blinking at Ian like someone who knew they’d done a great job.

Ian set the glass down on the table, where he sat with a heavy sigh.

Apparently the entire universe was conspiring against his sanity tonight.

Phil was slumbering peacefully, a thin lock of hair tickling his temple; Ian gently pushed it back and smoothed it down with a caress that was too tender and lingered too long, but somehow not nearly long enough.

This is such a shit move of you, Phil.

Something inside him started bleeding, warm and quiet and excruciating, swelling a sore lump in his throat. He retreated his hand to scrub it down his face, unable to look away from Phil’s tranquil expression. He might never get to see him like this again. So unguarded. So vulnerable .

He could have sat here all night, content to just watch a man with too many scars and too many struggles sleep with that peaceful expression that was filling Ian with a profound desire to lie down next to him and hold him through the night.

Kibble slow-blinked at him again, the feline version of a smile.

“You like him, eh?”

As a response, Kibble skimmed her nose against Phil’s elbows, over and over again, typical behaviour of a cat claiming its territory.

Ian shook his head. “We can’t keep him, Kibbs.”

Kibble’s chest vibrated with a trill.

“Because he already has a home and a family.”

Another trill, this time accompanied by a whip of tail.

“I know, but there’s nothing we can do.”

Fed up with his objections, Kibble laid her head down, putting an end to the discussion.

There was nothing Ian could do at this point other than accept the situation.

He fetched a blanket from his room and draped it over Phil, then, knowing how cold his flat was at night, fetched another one for good measure.

After turning off the TV and pulling the blinds closed to shut out the lights of the street, there was only one thing left to do.

He went to the kitchen and closed the door behind himself, phone in hand.

The name sat at the very top of his contact list, as easy to find as it was hard to call. He didn’t have much of a choice.

The line rang a few times, then a delicate voice said: “Ian?”

“Hey. It’s about Phil.”

“What’s wrong?” As expected, Abigail sounded worried.

Ian immediately reassured her: “Nothin’ serious, I promise. He had a panic attack.”

“Oh god!”

“He’s alright. He got it under control.”

There was music and noise disturbing the other end of the line. Abigail told someone she’d be right back and seconds later the disturbance ceased, replaced by the muffled whoosh of a car speeding by .

“It hadn’t happened in a while,” she sighed. Ian imagined her running a hand through her dark hair, throwing her head back to stare at the sky. “I’m glad he was with you.”

“I wanted to drive him home,” Ian cut short, his dirty conscience far from comfortable with Abigail being grateful of him and Phil being together. “But, uh… He’s knocked out cold on the couch.”

Silence fell. Another car sped by Abigail.

“Would it be a problem,” she said, “if we just… let him sleep?” A brief hesitation. “I don’t want to inconvenience you, but he never falls asleep without his pills and—”

“No, I agree,” Ian interjected. “He looks so peaceful, it’d be a shame to disturb him.”

“Peaceful,” Abigail repeated.

“Like a baby.”

A shaky laugh ticked Ian’s ear, followed by a sniff. “Thank you, Ian.”

“For what?”

“Being there for him. I thought he needed a friend, but it wasn’t just any friend he needed.” Ian sensed a smile through the fleeting pause. “It was someone like you.”

Ian didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.

“I’m as much of a pain in the arse to him as he is to me,” he played it down, but Abigail wouldn’t have any of it.

“That’s why he likes you. You’re a good man.”

Somehow the compliment managed to make Ian feel even worse. He didn’t feel like a good man. He felt like a backstabber who coveted things that he shouldn’t have set his eye on in the first place. It’d been an accident, a miscalculation, like the very day he and Phil had met.

“I’ll deliver him at your doorstep first thing in the morning,” he said, then, before the conversation got any more awkward, he added: “Goodnight, Abigail.”

“Night, Ian. Thank you again for this.”

Ian felt like shit for so many reasons he doubted he’d ever find any self-respect again. Abigail thanking him for taking care of Phil was too much. Her reaction would’ve been very different if she’d known about Ian’s feelings for her boyfriend. Fiancé .

He needed a beer. He nursed it while sitting at the window, looking out at the street. A light rain was falling, dotting the pavement with dark spots that soon took over, painting the cement black.

He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing as his throat bobbed.

The lump was still there, thicker and sorer than before.

He missed the days when he’d thought breaking up with Jamie was the worst that could happen to him.

It was like life was laughing in his face right now.

Like it was sneering at him: ‘You thought THAT hurt? That’s cute. How about this, though?’

As if that had been fate’s design all along: to preserve his heart to rip it out at the right time and throw it at the feet of the most unattainable guy on Earth.