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The party was shit.
Phil messed up his lines a few times during his speech. They were barely noticeable but each time he fumbled, he saw minutes of his free time draining away.
The politicians and CEO's he spoke to were either boring or drunk as hell. He was trapped between a conversation that made him want to break his fingers and a conversation that could end with his fingers breaking.
And some of the things they said...
It makes his skin crawl.
He stands in front of the elevator waiting with Wilbur and some of the kids from floor 6.
They were attending an event for merch that they were putting out. Tiny little statues that Phil enjoyed making. His family and friends would get a free one and his little sister sometimes teased him by showing a stupid little shrine in his house that held all of Phil's figurines.
It was much creepier when powerful people in the Capitol had the same thing, except it was not a joke and they were much too eager to talk to him.
In long and short, he was tired and his skin was crawling.
Wilbur sighed next to him.
"Elevators taking forever," He muttered shifting his weight.
Phil nodded and he feels his heart thrumming in his chest.
Too quick, calm down.
He starts trying to count backwards from 100 by 9, but his ears are ringing too loud for him to be able to think.
Fuck, not right now. The fucking kid's man. The kids are right there.
His stomach is churning.
He's sweating through his shirt.
He feels bile rising in his throat and walks away from the group, as nonchalant as he can manage.
He reaches the bar, where he knows is a trashcan and vaults over the counter. He promptly empties his guts into the trashcan.
Wilbur reaches him first and Ted follows in a close second. Charlie and Carson are close behind.
"Phil?" Wilbur's voice comes out tentative and somewhat meek, and it makes Phil feel even worse about this.
Be stronger than this, the fucking kids are here. Pull it together, the kids. The fucking kids, Phil!
But he can't help it. It's a physical reaction to mental illness. Most of the time, he can hold it off until he's alone, or hide it so no one knows it's happening.
Sometimes if he can't hold it off, he'll force himself to disconnect from his body. He finds that it seems to work just fine. His body goes on autopilot and he can still do his job. It protects him, it protects the kids, and it works well enough. Of course, there are many cons to this, but he has to be strong and this allows him to be.
But right now he is weak and vulnerable and he has to make sure the kids are okay and he has to take care of the kids and he can't do that if he's puking.
He hasn't eaten anything all night, so he's vomiting up water and stomach acid.
The kids are standing behind him, and they're debating about what to do.
Wilbur is silent and Phil starts to worry. Then he feels a warm hand on his back. He flinches away from it but relaxes into the touch.
Wilbur pats him on the back, somewhat awkwardly, and tries to replicate what Phil has done for him when the roles were reversed.
Phil coughs and dry heaves for a few more minutes before he can stand up.
He does that with Wilbur's help, a clasped hand grab that is common in District 9.
"Are you okay?" Carson asks.
Phil waves a hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. Didn't eat much and I had some fucking lemon drink, so the acid didn't sit well in my stomach."
The group makes their way back to the elevator.
Phil can tell they're all concerned. He doesn't think they quite bought his explanation.
Doesn't matter now. He's a bit too far gone to care.
He beckons over Daniel, an older Avox, who was deemed one of the most passive Avoxes there was, which is why he was allowed to carry a lighter.
Daniel pulls out a cigarette and Phil puts it in his mouth. Daniel lights it and Phil signs thank you to him.
Phil breathes in the smoke. He knows its bad for him, he knows. It just lets him calm down.
It doesn't help that he was addicted as a kid. Most people were in 9. Smoking took the edge off, tore the bite away from the hunger. When cigarettes cost too much money, people peeled bark off trees and ripped pages out of textbooks. Anything to fill your stomach.
Charlie coughs.
"Yeah, don't breathe in the smoke, kid. Not a good idea."
"You're doing it," Charlie says.
"Yeah, cause I'm old enough." Phil flicks some ash off of his cigarette.
He watches it float down to the floor and it thrums in his head.
I've seen that before...
It was in his games and he-
Fuck, don't think about it!
He ruffles his hair, trying to ground himself.
But time is nothing more than a thick fog right now.
And when he looks at Wilbur he struggles to see just him and not his little brother.
Wilbur tries to talk to him and Phil waves him off.
"I can't focus on shit right now, feel too sick."
He falls asleep at night with a bucket by his head and a rock in his heart.
You cannot be weak. You must be stronger. You must put them before you, because what other purpose do you have?