the thing phil does with his hands :( 

summary: “I left phone number on the bathroom stall wall and you text me about your day and your frustrations for a month & it’s really nice and cute but I still don’t know who you are” AU

words: 12.7k

warnings: smut, mentions of smoking, alcohol/being drunk, lack of imagination as far as fic titles are concerned

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Can you believe this was meant to be 3k?? I honeslty don’t know what happened there. all I know is that I have five exams in less than three weeks that I should be revising for and instead did this. yikes I hope this was worth it. (also pray4me that I don’t fail everything) x

Also on the topic of exams the actual reason I wrote this now was bc I’m kinda not gonna be writing for a while because of Lovely responsibilities and school stuff and revision so I’m gonna leave yall with this before I’m off Working and doing fun stuff that adults do.

I hope this is ok!!

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Dan’s halfway through skipping History when he does it.

He doesn’t know why he did it – he really doesn’t, he was just kind of bored one afternoon and happened to be carrying a Sharpie and hey, it’d just be a laugh, right? In a school like this, what’s the worst that could come out of leaving his phone number on a cubicle wall?

His pen squeaks across the pale blue paint, already tainted with curse words and penis drawings and tipp-ex and “Call _____ for a good time ;)”. He supposes the caretakers have given up with trying to cover up the graffiti – there are still thin layers of paint and chipped plaster coating every inch of the stall walls, at least showing attempted coverage, but people had just written over them, scribbles of song lyrics and “never got caught” tattooing every inch of the previously blank walls. No amount of assemblies or threats of “whoever did this-“, inserts picture of something someone had written about the Maths teacher on the hall projector, “is seriously going to pay” from the head teacher had ever stopped anyone, so, really, what does Dan have to lose? Sure, they could trace the phone number, but that doesn’t prove anything – he could just as easily throw on the ‘innocent’ act and say it was his friend.

07843983276, he writes. He doesn’t sign it off with any comment, nor kisses, not even a smiley face let alone a winking one. He just leaves it there, in a kind-of conspicuous place just above eye-level on the right hand side of the door, eleven digits amidst many others.