Chapter Text
From above, London by night was stunning.
It was a labyrinth of blazing street lights and velvety darkness and pin prick cars scuttling along. More than anything, though, it was home. As soon as he saw it, Phil sighed with contentment and lounged back in his chair, letting his mind become filled with the soothing sound of the La La Land soundtrack. His journey hadn’t been too long, but he could feel himself growing sleepier by the minute.
Once the announcement had been made that the plane would land soon, he removed his headphones and carelessly slung them on the seat beside him. Though his work required him to fly frequently, he still couldn’t handle the landings, and even listening to music could make bile rise in his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles turned white and hummed feverishly to try to distract himself.
As it turned out, closing his eyes also made things worse, so he resorted to staring out the window and trying to breathe calmly. The lights from before were growing wider, and they left phosphenes glaring in his eyelids whenever he blinked. When the plane had nearly landed, the ambers and golds of the city faded into the twinkling red and orange lights dotting the runway.
Shortly afterwards, the plane's wheels hit the ground and Phil exhaled sharply. He’d been doing this for as long as he could remember and it never got any easier. Rummaging through his bag, he found his phone, which was buzzing with a rush of incoming messages.
Your taxi’s been booked for 10:45. See you tomorrow! Peej
The time on his phone read 10:13 and he frowned. He knew PJ appreciated punctuality, and Phil always checked into flights so early that his suitcase was bound to be one of the first on the baggage carousel, but even this was pushing his luck.
As soon as passengers could leave, Phil grabbed his rucksack and half-walked half-ran off the plane, hastily thanking the flight attendants. He was immediately greeted with the icy winds of England, which whipped his hair as he made his way down the steps and towards the warmth of the airport building. He sighed and watched as his breath dissolved like sugar crystals into the air. If there was one thing he hadn’t missed, it was the weather.
He’d almost made it to security when something felt off – his neck was unusually bare. Wherever he went, he always wore a pair of headphones, and for some reason they weren’t there. Feeling increasingly panicked, Phil unzipped his bag and felt for anything vaguely headphone shaped. There was nothing, which meant he’d left them on the plane. Shit. Looking at his phone again, it now read 10:21, and a small part of him feared he’d miss the taxi altogether.
It was safe to say Phil and exercise didn’t get along too well, which he was painfully reminded of as he sprinted back towards the plane, throwing out haphazard apologies to confused pedestrians and wishing he could sink into the ground. His heart was hammering in his throat and his lungs were on the verge of exploding. He had no idea how anyone found this enjoyable.
There were still some passengers getting off the plane when he’d made his way back. In most other situations, he would be polite, but he was so pressed for time that he fought his way back up the stairs, wheezing heavily and trying to ignore the numerous death glares pointed in his direction. Once he was on the plane, he weaved inbetween passengers down the rows until he finally found the row he was sitting in.
In the middle seat were his headphones. Phil had never felt so equally relieved and frustrated. They were hastily shoved in his bag whilst he got off the plane for a second time, ignoring the same angry stares from before.
To his relief, the queue for security was shorter than normal. Once he had his passport out of his bag, he shuffled along and tried to tune out the cacophony of voices surrounding him. There was a mother with her screaming children and it took some serious resolve not to yell at them all to be quiet. He knew she was probably just as stressed as he was, and looking around, he saw how everyone else in the queue looked just as exhausted. He felt a pang of sympathy. There was always something lonely about airports, something bittersweet in how everyone was just trying to get to where they were meant to be.
The security officer had a kind, wrinkled face. Her voice was sweet whilst commanding authority, and Phil answered all her questions easily before bidding her farewell and hurrying along, partly because he was running out of time, partly because he was scared she would change her mind and send him to prison for something. She had kind eyes, but they seemed to penetrate him. He felt like she knew every terrible thing he’d ever done and was judging him for them.
When he was at baggage reclaim, it was after 10:30. His previous worries of missing his taxi suddenly became far more real, and staring at suitcase after suitcase was beginning to drive him crazy. The eternal optimist in him hoped that some unknown deity would take pity on him and let him be on time. Running back to the plane had worn him out even more, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with his new Stephen King novel. There was nothing quite like a good psychological thriller to put your mind at ease.
His eyes suddenly zeroed in on a suitcase that looked like his. He’d been wearing contacts for a concerning length of time, and his vision had become slightly blurry, but he could recognise it from a mile away: a sleek, petite sized black Samsonite. He hurried through hordes of waiting passengers, grabbed it as fast as he could and ran.
A quick glance down at his phone stated it was 10:43 and he felt like his lungs were going to burst into flames. One of the wheels on his suitcase started squeaking, and as he ran he grumbled about airport staff mistreating his luggage and oh god I’m so dangerously close to being late PJ’s going to be pissed if I miss this taxi oh god I can’t feel my feet anymore.
When he could physically no longer run, he settled with walking quickly. There was a group of people waiting behind a metal barrier for passengers to arrive, and his eyes scanned the various signs being held up to see if any had his name on it. Once he saw a sign which read ‘Phil Lester’, he waved to get the man’s attention and nearly fell over from exhaustion.
The taxi driver led Phil to the taxi and took his suitcase from him, frowning slightly at it. Phil got in the backseat and sat with his feet throbbing uncomfortably, watching the world around him spin. Soon the taxi was starting up, and his ears were filled with the thrum of the engine and the tuneless music playing from whatever trashy radio station it was.
Though London from above was beautiful, there was something incomparable to being in it; golden light filled windows and puddles, pin prick cars morphed into roaring machines and there was a certain calmness that came from being in such a bustling city late at night. Phil rolled down his window slightly and let the cool breeze rustle his hair, closing his eyes and feeling content with simply being for a small moment in time. He savoured every moment of it for as long as it lasted, before reality kicked in and he was forced to confront the world again.
“Mr Howell?” the taxi driver asked uncertainly. “This is your stop.”
Phil frowned. “My name’s Phil, not Howard,” he replied with a polite smile. “But this is my hotel. If it was booked in advance it’s £20, right?”
The driver nodded. Phil fished two £10 notes out of his wallet and handed them forward before getting out of the car. Once he had his suitcase, he thanked the driver before making his way inside, shivering in the chill of the night.
Checking into any hotel was a well-practiced routine that he probably could have done in his sleep. Sleep sounded good at that point. When he was finally in his room, he unceremoniously flopped onto the bed and groaned. The mattress was so soft that it felt like his body was melting into it, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he was able to relax.
He must have fallen asleep, as when he opened his eyes, they were bleary and his limbs felt numb. Rolling over, he saw through hazy vision the sunlight spilling through the curtains. Morning light cast a silky glow over the entire room, illuminating all it touched. The only sounds he could hear were his soft breaths and a slight breeze whistling through the window. He felt terrible, but seeing the world around him trapped in suburban slumber filled him with a strange sense of clarity.
Blinking slowly, he let his eyes adjust to his surroundings. His feet were hanging off the bed at a strange angle and his suitcase and rucksack had been left in a corner, untouched. The duvet underneath him was tangled between his legs and he kicked it off before stretching out.
As soon as he stood up, he remembered he still had his contacts in and he sleepily padded to the bathroom. Taking them out wasn’t the easiest process, especially when he was still only half-awake and he kept accidentally poking his eyeballs with his fingers. On the plus side, though, he’d remembered to bring his glasses with him, and as soon as he put them on his vision snapped into focus.
Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he almost jumped. Parts of his hair were sticking up in strange tufts, both of his eyes were bloodshot and his skin had seen better days. In all honesty, he looked like he’d done several lines of cocaine and passed out in a ditch somewhere.
To wake himself up, he splashed his face with cold water and watched as it streamed down his face in icy rivulets. Any signs of sleepiness began to slowly fade away, and feeling significantly refreshed, he went to unpack his things.
Phil was one of those people who had the same password for everything. His friends called it stupid, he called it convenient. Yes, if he got hacked he’d be in trouble, but he figured nobody would bother hacking his twitter when he only used it to tweet about dogs and stalk hot guys he found during late night lurking sessions.
This also applied to padlocks he had on his suitcases. He turned his suitcase over and laid it flat, feeling for the padlock to twist the dials to the relevant numbers. When he couldn’t find any, he frowned. He’d woken up enough to know that he wasn’t dreaming, but something felt wrong. Examining the padlock further, he saw it didn’t have any, but required a key instead. He didn’t have a key. What was perhaps more concerning, though, was the fact that he didn’t own any padlocks that needed keys.
His heart started thumping uncomfortably in his chest. He wanted to pinch himself, to suddenly wake up and realise he’d been asleep this whole time, but he couldn’t. This wasn't a dream. He felt ill.
In the light, the suitcase looked more navy than black, and something bright caught his eye. It was a leather name tag. Phil definitely didn’t own one of those. Turning it over, it read:
Daniel Howell
07276834914
That was when he realised. The squeaky wheel, the taxi driver calling him the wrong name, the slight weight difference he’d noticed, it all made sense. This didn’t belong to him.
The only question was who the hell was Daniel Howell, and how had he ended up with his suitcase?