I SWEAR I AM GETTING THERE (we've hit 15k. Idk man.) BUT WE ARE GETTING THERE AND IM BASICALLY HEALTHY ITS ALL FINE OKAY
Quin spluttered a laugh, “Are you threatening the safety of my clothes? To make a point to a toaster?”
Obi-Wan was perfectly capable of mimicking a species with twice the limbs when it suited him, and wound Quinlan all up in himself. Rubbed his heel affectionately along the back of Quin’s thigh in a way that did make him wish rather desperately to not be wearing his pants. “Threat is such a harsh word, Quin, I’m suggesting. For the quartermaster’s sake.”
“Maybe you should suggest more bluntly, Obi,” he said, and paused to let suspicion flutter in that ridiculously soft frown, let his smile turn wicked, “Hard to say no to you when you get crass for me.”
The vase gleamed dully at him, covered in artistic red sweeps that were not the runes that had been spotted on the real article, and he swallowed his curse. Breathed in deep, deep, deep, and held the breath until the release of it loosened his back and shoulders on the exhale.
Quinlan doesn't miss on many of his missions, but this one slips through his fingers - for now, at least.
How interior decorating choices start a series of events that save the galaxy.
Several minutes later, a cloaked figure swept into the streets of the spaceport. He tucked his ‘padd deep into his pockets, keeping the new files of passenger data from the transport safe, and headed for the station manager. He wanted to know as much as he could about arrivals and departures in the last three hours, and he knew just the sapient to ask.
***
Rolling on one heel, Quinlan shifted the little bouquet of yellow-eyed irises. He’d made a point of collecting the ones with the brilliant sungold heart drowning in the blue - that Obi sighed over when they started blooming each year – and they made a pretty contrast against his dark green tunics. Humming anticipation, he tapped decorously at the door with the back of his knuckles.
Instead of the expected – always thrilling – vision of his best friend appearing in his doorway with an arched brow and hands ready to twine with his, he got a distracted, “Come in! I won’t be a moment.”
Horrifying images of a hostage situation ran through his mind as he looked down at the buzzing device and winced. “I don’t know the code.”
“If it’s him-”
Obi-Wan gave him a serious nod, and accepted the call. It was audio-only, and they were braced for the very worst – although, he had to admit, Anakin didn’t feel distressed on the other end of their bond.
originally written February 2015 / i can’t remember if i posted this or not
Word count: 1,400+
Summary: Hugs make everything better.
To say that Dan was having a bad day is a bit of an understatement.
Rather, Dan reckons he must have murdered Jesus in a past life to deserve the kind of day he’s having.
Objectively speaking, he supposes it’s not all that bad: no illness or serious injury, no life-threatening or traumatic experiences, no thefts, crimes, or murders. No, it was a collection of little things—every possible ‘little thing’ that could go wrong going wrong, creating a domino effect of unfortunate circumstances that currently has him two seconds away from crying out of sheer frustration.
His alarm hadn’t gone off that morning, and misplacing his Oyster card ensured that he’d be late for his meeting at the BBC for the newly-reinstated Dan and Phil Show. Thankfully, he was (barely) punctual enough to be considered fashionably late and the meeting had gone quite well, until one of the assistants accidentally spilled coffee on his leg. He of course proceeded to excuse himself to clean up in the toilets, only to slip on god knows what and fall on his arse when he got there.
With his butt sore and pant leg sticking uncomfortably to his skin, he went to get lunch, which was luckily uneventful. When he got back to the BBC with the intention of saying goodbye, Aled had asked him with to stay and finish some paperwork—half of which he barely understood because hey, paperwork is usually Phil’s job.
On the way home, his phone’s battery had died, meaning he couldn’t ring Phil to let him know that the Tube had been delayed, forcing him to get home later than he already would have been. By the time he finally got off at his station and started the five-minute walk home, it started pouring. At this point, Dan felt like the punch line of a bad cosmic joke, seeing as he left that morning with no umbrella and a hoodless coat.
And so here he is now: trudging along the streets of London, getting soaked to the bone in the rain.
Most people would be running as fast as they could to find shelter or a roof, but with the day Dan’s having, he figures any sudden movement would send him slipping off the sidewalk and into oncoming traffic. Instead, he takes the time to walk extra carefully; a mantra of god, I wish Phil were here repeating itself in his brain.
Phil had been feeling poorly yesterday, and Dan had insisted that he’d stay home and rest. It was nothing serious (really, Phil was just tired), but Dan had ignored his protests.
“It’s just a meeting,” he said, sliding next to Phil under the duvet and kissing him on the cheek. “I can handle it.”
Yeah Dan, you’re handling it real well, he thinks, regretting his insistence that Phil stay at home today. Not that he wanted Phil to share in his misfortune; it’s just that he could usually handle a crisis better with Phil at his side.
--
By the time Dan’s finally made it into their flat, his anger and annoyance had completely dissipated, leaving him utterly tired and sad. He sniffles a bit as he toes his shoes off, making his way up the lounge and leaving a trail of rainwater in his wake. As he reaches the hallway, he stubs his foot on the radiator, letting out an irritated groan.
“Dan?” he hears Phil call out from the kitchen, and under normal circumstances, he would’ve smiled. He’d have traipsed into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend; pressing a kiss to his cheek and asking if they had any more hot chocolate mix left. Phil always liked making hot chocolate when it rained.
Right now, though, he can’t even be bothered to reply—keeping his head down and staring blankly at the carpet as he hears footsteps drawing near.
“Hello you, how was the—” Phil stops in his tracks as he reaches the lounge, wide-eyed as he takes in Dan’s appearance. The younger man is positively soaked; drops of water clinging to his fringe, eyes downcast and cheeks red from the cold.
Dan’s worrying his lower lip—something Phil knows he only does when he’s trying not to cry—and Phil feels a pang in his heart at how bad he must feel right now. He takes a few steps closer, reaching a hand out to flick Dan’s fringe off of his forehead. He gives Dan a small smile when he looks up, stretching up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to his temple.
“Let me grab you a towel.”
He walks past Dan to the hallway cupboard, pulling out a fluffy grey towel and practically running back into the lounge. He’s a little surprised to find that Dan hasn’t moved a muscle; still staring down at the carpet as though he were willing it to open up and swallow him whole.
Looks like it’s been a really bad day, Phil thinks with a sigh.
He sets the towel down on the table and begins to work on the buttons of Dan’s coat, slipping it off and making a face when it lands with a wet thud on the floor. Gotta clean that up later.
He picks up the towel and helps Dan dry off; ruffling it through his hair before wrapping it around his shoulders and smoothing his hands up and down Dan’s arms to warm him up. Dan stays quiet, but the corners of his mouth are turned up into a grateful smile, and Phil counts it as a victory.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Phil asks once Dan is no longer dripping rain water onto the carpet. Dan shakes his head.
“Maybe later,” he says quietly. He mumbles out a few more words, too low and quiet to really be understood, but Phil thinks he’d heard the word ‘hug’ in there.
Wordlessly, Phil takes another step closer and wraps his arms around his boyfriend, burying his nose into his neck. He feels Dan tense for a moment before letting out a deep sigh and looping his arms around Phil’s waist. He hooks his chin over Phil’s shoulder and pulls him close, breathing in the scent of coffee and laundry detergent and Phil.
They stay wrapped around each other for a few more moments before Phil pulls away, pressing another soft kiss to Dan’s cheek and patting his arms lightly.
“Get yourself out of these clothes and into the bathroom,” he says, smiling. “We still have a few bath bombs left, and you deserve one right now.”
--
It’s about an hour later when Dan enters their bedroom, hand flicking through his hair in an attempt to keep it relatively put together. Phil is on his laptop browsing lazily through tumblr, having already cleaned up most of the mess in the lounge.
“Feeling better, GrumpyFace?” he asks, looking up when he hears Dan shut the door.
“Much,” Dan replies, sitting cross-legged next to Phil on the bed and looking at him expectantly.
They lock eyes, and Phil blinks a few times before realizing what Dan was getting at. With a chuckle, he sets the laptop aside and re-positions himself against the headboard, throwing his arms wide.
“C’mere,” he says, and Dan grins, moving to lie next to his boyfriend. Phil loops his arms around Dan’s waist, pulling him closer as the other boy lays his head on his chest.
Dan gives a contented hum, tilting his head to press a soft kiss to Phil’s jaw.
“Thank you,” he says, and Phil smiles.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, “do you want to tell me what happened?”
Dan shrugs and snuggles further into him.
“Rough day,” he says, and Phil can’t restrain the snort.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he jokes, laughing when Dan hits him playfully on the chest.
“Shut up,” he says, laughing as well, and Phil is glad.
“I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he says once they’ve stopped laughing; a hand reaching up to play with Dan’s still-damp hair.
“’S not your fault,” Dan murmurs, letting out a small yawn. “You’re making it better.”
Phil hums in response and Dan starts to feel his eyelids drooping; the result of a long day and Phil carding his fingers soothingly through his hair.
“D’you want some dinner?” he hears Phil ask after a moment, and he shakes his head softly.
“Mmm, later; ‘m tired,” he replies.
“Get some sleep, bear,” Phil says, pulling away slightly. Dan wasn’t having that, of course—whining slightly and pulling him back to bed.
“We can order takeaway,” he bargains, “stay?”
Phil laughs lightly and positions himself back under the younger man, resting his cheek against his hair. His hand traces swirling patterns against Dan’s hipbone, chest rising and falling with every breath and helping lull Dan to sleep.
REPOST / originally posted February 2015
Word count: 3,500+
A/N: i have no excuse for this i’m sorry // there are ideas for a sequel, so hopefully i get to that over the holidays!!
He snaps his mouth shut and backs out of Phil’s room slowly, allowing himself to cling to the hope that in the next moment, Phil will stop him and tell him to stay.
Instead, he hears the soft click of Phil’s door being locked.
"Get out.”
Phil’s voice is cold, distant, and Dan feels his heart break into a million pieces.
He’s never used that voice on him before; only ever uses it when he’s really angry or upset. And Dan did that—Dan caused that. He’s hurt Phil so much that the man can’t even look at him; asking him to leave him alone, with a voice colder than ice.
“Phil, I—”
“I said get out, Dan.”
He snaps his mouth shut and backs out of Phil’s room slowly, allowing himself to cling to the hope that in the next moment, Phil will stop him and tell him to stay. He’ll pull him into a hug and tell him that it’s okay, they’re okay; and Dan will cry and Phil will cry and they’ll hold each other, murmuring apologies and forgiveness in the space between kisses as they lie in bed later that night.
Instead, he hears the soft click of Phil’s door being locked.
And that’s when he knew he’d messed up beyond belief.
Over the course of their six-year relationship, even when they weren’t dating yet, Dan and Phil have never had a reason to sleep in different beds. Their relationship is far from perfect—fights come along and hearts inevitably get wounded—but even their most disastrous of arguments don’t go unresolved by the time the sun goes down. Regardless of who started it or what they were fighting about, apologies will be whispered and forgiveness mumbled in reply. Lips will press against lips and things will go back to normal.
Not once in the last six years did Dan and Phil ever have to slip into separate beds for any reason other than physical distance. And this is why, as Dan stands face-to-face with Phil’s closed bedroom door, he knows he’s messed up.
Dan Howell has absolutely messed this up, and he hasn’t a clue how to fix it. So he takes the coward’s way out tonight; grabs his wallet and his phone, shoves them in his pocket and shrugs on his coat. He slips out of the flat and all but runs down the stairs, managing to make it to the street before he allows hot tears to stream freely down his face. He hails a cab and clambers in; giving the driver directions to the first place that comes to mind.
A small piece of paper is tacked on Phil’s door—an old receipt; crumpled and torn at the edges from being shoved in his pocket with keys and spare change, five simple words written in haphazard, barely-legible scrawl at the back.
I love you. I’m sorry.
--
“H’llo?” PJ slurs into the phone. It’s only about five to 10pm but he’s absolutely exhausted; filming for the project he’s been working on has been insanely brutal, and he wants nothing more to just crawl into his bed and die. But the voice on the other end sniffling out a pathetic “Peej,” is all it takes for him to jolt up, wide awake.
“Dan?” he asks, voice laced with concern. “What’s hap—are you okay?”
Dan chokes on a sob, coughing slightly before speaking again.
“I fucked up. I’ve fucked up and I just—” he pauses to take a heaving breath, and PJ feels his heart tighten at how pained his friend sounds.
“I’m at Victoria,” he says, and PJ can hear the faint whistle of a train that’s just rolled in. “The train for Brighton leaves in ten minutes. Can I stay with you for a bit? Please. I just—please.”
--
It’s half past midnight when Dan climbs out of the cab, mechanically handing some money to the driver before walking up the small path and knocking on the door. A bathrobe-clad PJ pulls it open and he slips in without a word, walking past him and heading straight for the spare room upstairs.
Dan knows he’s being rude. PJ has questions and he needs to answer them, but he’s just so tired that he figures it’ll all just have to wait until morning. He kicks his shoes off and crawls into bed, curling into himself under the duvet and willing himself not to cry. And PJ doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s going on, but he sets a fresh set of spare clothes and a new toothbrush on the desk all the same. Taking one last look at his lump of his friend on the bed, he closes the door and retreats to his own room.
--
Stop acting as though none of this is your fault! God, grow up!
You are absolutely hopeless. Honestly, why do I even put up with you?!
I just don’t know if I can keep doing this anymore.
Dan blinks awake and flips over; the clock on the nightstand telling him it’s a quarter past seven am. He lies motionless in bed, drifting in and out of sleep for another half hour before taking the clothes PJ set out for him and padding to the bathroom. He makes quick work of showering and brushing his teeth, scrubbing a hand down his face when he sees himself in the mirror.
He looks like utter shit is what he looks like—curly hair sticking up in strange places and dark circles prominent under his eyes. He looks like he cried himself to sleep (accurate) and like it’s taking everything in him not to constantly burst out in tears (also accurate). With a sigh, he slips out of the bathroom and makes his way down to the kitchen, where he’s greeted by PJ plating up some bacon and eggs on toast.
“G’morning,” he mumbles quietly, taking a seat at the table and tucking a leg up and under himself. PJ slides a plate in front of him and hands him a steaming mug of coffee.
“Thanks,” he says gratefully, taking a large sip. Wordlessly, PJ slips into the seat in front of him, staring at him inquisitively as he sips from his own mug.
“Start talking,” he finally says as Dan sets his mug down. Dan sighs.
“I’m an idiot,” he says, as though those three words completely explain everything. “I was… I was angry, and stressed and confused about so many things and I just lashed out,” he rushes out, voice rising with panic at every word. “And now I think I’ve potentially destroyed the best thing that has ever happened to me and—”
“Dan, breathe,” PJ cuts in, laying a hand on Dan’s where he’s nearly clawing at the table. Dan takes a shaky breath and PJ speaks up again. “Let’s start from the top, okay: what happened?”
“Phil and I got into a fight—” PJ snorts.
“No shit,” he says sarcastically; that much he’d figured out.
“Right.” Dan mutters. “It was stupid, really—something about a sock in the wash or something, I don’t even—we just blew up, Peej; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so upset. So then obviously I just had to get angry and defensive and I… I said some things. Horrible things that I’d give anything to take back.”
He groans, trying desperately to block out the echoes of last night and blink back the new wave of tears threatening to fall.
“He hates me,” he says after some time, pushing his plate away and knocking his head on the table. “I could be dead in a ditch right now and he wouldn’t care—”
“We both know that’s not true,” PJ cuts in, sliding a hand to push Dan’s head off the table. “And his last few texts beg to differ.”
“He texted me this morning,” PJ adds in explanation at the look of bewilderment on Dan’s face. “I let him know you’re here. Told me he’s glad you’re safe and to let ‘im know how long you’re staying for.” He gives Dan a small, reassuring smile. “He loves you, you idiot. Some stupid fight’s not gonna change that.”
“But it’s not just some stupid fight,” Dan says, sighing. Knowing Phil still worried about him gave him a bit of hope, but the memories of last night’s argument make it difficult to stay positive. “I essentially told him that he was an immature child and I didn’t want to have to put up with him anymore—God, I’m such a fucking spork.”
“Don’t you?” PJ asks, and for a moment, Dan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “What?”
“Don’t you want to be with him anymore?” he asks again, completely serious, and Dan wants to laugh.
“What do you—are you—of course I do!” he nearly yells, as though the very idea of having to ask the question is absurd. “Peej, I know I’m an idiot and I said some horrible, stupid things, but I love him. It’s the only thing in my life I’m sure about.”
And it’s true—Dan’s spent so much of his life asking why and how and what if x or y; not being content until he gets a straight answer. And because the universe rarely gives any straight answers, he’s constantly been unsure. Unsure about going to uni, starting a YouTube channel, moving to London, working for the BBC…the majority of his life has always been shrouded in uncertainty.
But in the midst of all of that, there were just some things that had made perfect sense.
Getting on that train to Manchester Piccadilly in October 2009. Kissing Phil at the top of the big wheel that night. Filming collabs with Phil. Living with Phil. Building a merch shop and a career and a life with Phil.
In the midst of the chaos and uncertainty of his life, Dan has always had one constant: Phil.
“So tell him,” PJ says nonchalantly, pulling Dan out of his thoughts. He takes a sip of his coffee, raising his eyebrows at Dan’s confused face.
“You can’t stay here forever, Dan. You literally came with the clothes on your back, and there’s only so much spare underwear I can give you.” Dan chuckles at that and PJ gives him another small smile.
“I’m not rushing you—go when you think you’re ready—but you need to go home. Talk to him. You’re Dan-and-Phil, after all; I’m sure you’ll be alright.”
A few moments of silence pass as Dan thinks it over, eventually sighing and nodding in agreement. It’ll be difficult, not to mention awkward as hell, but he had to talk to Phil. PJ flashes him an encouraging smile, kicking him lightly in the shin under the table.
“Now eat your damn eggs.”
--
He decides to spend another night at PJ’s, to give himself some time to figure out how to properly apologize to Phil. It’s a quarter to nine in the evening and he’s using Peej’s desktop to browse through tumblr; the other boy working on a video idea in the other room. He purposely avoids the Dan-and-Phil-related tags—it’d barely been 24 hours, but he has no idea what the internet knows, and he’d rather not find out.
“Hey, Dan,” he hears PJ call out uncertainly from the other room, and he hums in reply. “Don’t panic, but… isn’t it the first Sunday of the month?”
Dan’s eyes widen as he glances over at the time and date on the computer.
“Shit.”
It is the first Sunday of the month, and he’s supposed to be halfway through with the radio show.
“Shit!” he says again, frantically scrolling through his contact list and practically punching the call button when his producer’s name appears on screen. She’s gonna kill him. Phil’s gonna kill him.
“Dan!” his producer greets him on the fourth ring; a little too cheerily considering Dan is missing his show. “How’s your holiday?”
Wait… what?
“Sorry?” Dan asks, confused.
“Your holiday,” she says again, slower this time, and Dan can hear her shifting some papers around on the other end. “Phil told us you were taking some time off. Did you want to call on-air?”
“I—yeah. Yes, please,” he tells her before he can second-guess himself, heart racing at the knowledge that he’d screwed up abysmally and Phil was still looking out for him. He clicks out of tumblr and begins to load the Radio 1 livestream.
“Sure thing, dear; give us a few minutes.”
--
“So since you’ve all been asking about him, look who decided to call! Hi, Danisnotonfire!”
Phil looks… good, Dan thinks; but then again, he always does. Perhaps his smile is a bit less bright, but Dan thinks that maybe he’d grown to be a better actor, because he looks perfectly fine.
Not at all like how Dan feels right now.
“Hey, guys; hi, Phil,” he croaks out, clearing his throat before speaking up again. “How are you?”
Phil gives a short laugh.
“Oh, y’know, same way I was when you left,” he jokes, and Dan flinches. The fans would think nothing of it, of course, but Dan knew.
Dan had left Phil angry, hurt, and upset. His heart constricts painfully in his chest at the thought.
“So how’s the, er, holiday going?” Phil asks, and Dan just tries to play along.
“Alright, yeah,” he says nonchalantly, as though his impromptu trip to Brighton really was just for some r-and-r. “Fresh air, not much internet,” he jokes, and Phil lets out a small giggle. Dan smiles; he’s missed that laugh.
“I miss it back there, though.” I miss you, he wants to add.
“Yeah, there’s something different about London, eh?” Phil asks, and Dan wonders what the viewers are thinking right now. They’ve always had… dedicated fans; someone’s bound to notice how awkward they’re being.
“Yeah,” he replies lamely, unsure of what else to say.
“I forget,” Phil pushes, “how long are you staying?”
Dan allows himself to crack a hopeful smile.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says, watching Phil for any sign of a smile or twinkle of the eye; anything to tell him that Phil wants him back home as much as he wants to be there.
“Ah,” is all Phil says, nodding—it’s not much, but he’ll take it.
There’s a quick beat of silence before Phil speaks up again, using his Radio Voice.
“Well,” he says, “You are on Radio 1; any special song requests? Shout-outs? Dedications?”
Dan barely registers the words falling out of his mouth.
“Immortals, by Fall Out Boy,” he blurts out. “For Male Technician #2.”
Phil snorts.
“Right then,” he says, laughing. “Thanks, Dan! We’ll see you soon.”
Dan shifts his focus to the livestream as his line goes dead and the opening bars of the song filter out. As he watches Phil bob his head along to the music with a small smile on his face, Dan allows himself to hope. Things may not be completely okay, but—at least as far as he knows—Phil doesn’t completely hate him.
--
“…Phil?” Dan calls out tentatively as he shuts the door behind him. It’s just past 3pm and their flat is quiet—if it wasn't for the faint melody of a Muse song streaming from Phil’s room, Dan would have thought no one was home.
He makes his way up the stairs and across the lounge, smiling softly to himself at the sight of a single blue candle burning on the table—Phil and his bloody scented candles.
He pauses outside Phil’s bedroom door; memories of the last time he stood there flooding back into his mind. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath before tapping his knuckles once, twice, three times on the wooden door. The already soft music is muted even more before a quick “Yeah?” is called from the other side.
With another deep breath, Dan turns the knob.
His heart clenches at how familiar everything is: Phil is sat at his desk editing, an empty mug of coffee at his side and music playing softly in the background. Three days ago, Dan would’ve been lying on the bed, scrolling through tumblr and singing along.
“Hi,” he finally says, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.
“Hey,” Phil replies, clicking a few more keys before turning to face Dan completely. He’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth—a nervous habit, as Dan discovered in 2009—and he looks… tired.
Nonetheless, he’s breathtaking and beautiful and so perfectly Phil.
“I um—I should have called… about the radio show,” Dan blurts out, and he immediately wants to punch himself in the face. The radio show is the last thing he needs to be apologizing for. “Thanks for covering for me.”
Phil just makes a face and shrugs, swiveling back to hit save on his computer before he replies.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says nonchalantly, “I’ve made you host alone before. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Right.”
The awkwardness in the room is palpable, and it is taking everything in Dan not to physically cringe.
It’s only two words, Dan, he thinks to himself. Two words... a long explanation, and most likely a bit of crying. Still, it starts with two words. Come on, Dan. Say it.
“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbles out after a few moments of terrifyingly awkward silence, but Phil just gives a forced chuckle.
“It’s one radio show, Dan,” he says, “not like I—”
“Phil, stop,” Dan butts in, exasperated—honestly, this is hard enough as it is. “This isn’t about the radio show, okay? Although I’m really sorry for that, too.”
Phil looks at him plainly; eyeing him head-to-toe once before quirking his eyebrows up in question.
“I’m listening,” he says. There’s a hint of that voice in his tone—the one he used that night—and Dan is terrified of getting this wrong and ruining things even more… so obviously, word vomit.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he says, walking into the room and dropping down to sit on the floor beside Phil. “God, all I’ve ever done is fall apart and you’re always there to pick up the pieces and I just—I always take it out on you. I was upset and confused under a lot of pressure and I just broke down, Phil—and I’m so, so sorry.”
Tears are pricking at the corners of his eyes but he doesn’t have the energy to try and stop them, because Dan is laying his heart and soul on display and Phil can’t even look him in the eye and his heart is breaking all over again.
“You didn’t deserve that,” Dan says again. “And I don’t deserve you.”
“Dan—”
“No, Phil—just listen, please,” he implores, practically begging at Phil’s feet. He takes a shaky breath and watches as Phil finally looks at him, eyes swirling with a mixture of heartbreak and sadness and pain.
There’s a tense beat of silence as Phil just looks at him, eventually relenting and giving a curt nod.
“You’ve always been too good to me,” Dan continues. “And I’ve always been an ass to you. I don’t deserve you,” he says again, shaking his head when he sees Phil try to interrupt.
“I know that—but I guess I’m a selfish asshole because I don’t care. I love you,” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. “I love you so much. That’s the only thing in my life I’ve never had to question. It’s the only thing that’s ever really made sense. And I don’t want to end this, Phil. I-I can’t,” he chokes out the last word—two days of being without Phil has been immensely emotionally exhausting; the mere thought of Phil being gone from his life for good is unbearable. “You’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been; and I want to be with you for as long as you’ll—”
And then they’re kissing.
Phil has slid off of the chair and is kneeled over awkwardly next to him, the angle is strange and his tears are warm and wet between them, but Phil has his arms around him and his lips are on Dan’s and absolutely nothing else matters. After the initial shock, Dan winds his arms around him, pulling him closer and kissing him back with all he was worth.
They pull away after a moment, and Dan buries his face into Phil’s shoulder, a mantra of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry” falling like a prayer from his lips. And Phil just holds him like he never wants to let go, carding his hands softly through Dan’s hair and trailing kisses from his forehead to his cheeks.
“I know.”
Their lips find each other again and they both know that this is different—Phil’s lips are gentle yet insistent on his, kissing him with the passion and urgency of all the words he’s yet to say; everything he needs Dan to understand.
This isn’t just another kiss. It’s I love you. It’s I forgive you. It’s You’re enough. It’s the answer to all of the doubts and insecurities that plague the darkest corners of Dan’s mind.
It’s Forever.
Dan is back in Phil’s arms, and nothing else matters. Dan is home.
REPOST / originally posted January 2015
Word count: 900+
Summary: Dan and Phil go to the movies.
A/N: written for a friend! and i’ve never watched a proper horror film in my life so the film i’m describing is completely non-existent and probably not even scary oops
“I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you.”
Dan groans as he keeps his eyes on the screen, pulling his jumper higher up to his chin. Some sort of demon with an axe is chasing a girl in the woods, and he’s pretty sure he’s two seconds away from a heart attack.
“Who thinks to run away from a murderer by going into a forest?” he whines, tucking his legs under him on the seat. “Who even has a forest joint to their back yard?”
“Shhh, you’re ruining the movie,” Phil chastises him lightly—people talking at the cinema’s always annoyed him. “And I did! Back in Manchester, remember?”
Dan snorts.
“We’re the only ones actually watching, Phil! And you literally lived in the hotel from The Shining—god, I’m surprised you’ve managed to not die.”
He and Phil are currently in a very deserted cinema (there’s only one other person with them, and he fell asleep two minutes after the lights went down), watching the midnight screening of some low-budget horror film Phil’s been dying to see. Dan hadn’t even planned to leave the house this weekend, but Phil had asked so nicely (and bribed him with a bucket of Maltesers) that he couldn’t say no.
Now, he’s always hated horror films—a particularly good one will give him nightmares for weeks—but he could usually handle them well enough. But this? This is downright terrifying; a mix of everything he feared most: supernatural killers, forests at night… it was taking everything in him not to constantly shriek like a ten year-old girl.
He jumps suddenly at the sound of a child screaming, only letting a breath out when he feels Phil’s hand give his own a gentle squeeze.
“You alright?” he asks, looking at Dan with a mix of amusement and concern. He obviously expected Dan to scream in fear every now and then—he hates to admit it, but watching Dan freak out over horror films is one of the best parts of watching them with him—but it’s only halfway through and he’s just so frightened; letting out small whimpers every few minutes. Dan laughs self-consciously.
“We’re two of three people in a cinema at midnight—the only two awake—watching a horror film where bad things happen at midnight. Do you need to ask me that question?” He tries to brush it off as a joke, failing miserably when he flinches at another scream from the movie screen.
Phil gives him a soft smile; bringing their intertwined hands up to press a kiss against Dan’s.
“Dan, if you’re that bothered, we can leave.”
“No,” Dan is quick to say, cursing himself for being so affected. Phil’s been looking forward to this film since he’s seen the trailer months ago; it’d be unfair for him to leave in the middle of it because Dan couldn’t handle himself. He didn’t want to ruin his fun.
“No, it’s—I’m fine,” he promises, cracking a small smile.
“You sure?” he asks, leaning back into his seat. Dan nods.
“H-how much longer?”
“A little under an hour?”
Christ, Dan thinks. “Okay.”
--
He makes it another ten minutes before he lets out another startled yelp, when the psycho killer ends up murdering the new family’s dog in the night (he’s pretty sure tear escapes him, as well, though he’ll never admit it).
Swept up in the events on screen, he gives another squeak when Phil takes his hand again. He gives him another small smile, wordlessly wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.
Cuddling is awkward, what with the arm rest between them, but Dan can rest his head in the crook of Phil’s shoulder and Phil can drag his fingers along Dan’s arm, tracing swirling patterns and calming him down.
It’s nice, Dan decides; Phil would hug him tighter when a particularly bad scene came up, letting him hide his face in his chest and kissing the top of his head when he did. Dan would close his eyes and breathe him in; the distinct smell of coffee and laundry detergent and just the slightest hint of caramel.
An occasional scream would come from the screen, but Dan barely registers the noise while wrapped up in Phil’s arms.
He felt better here. Safe.
“Love you,” he murmurs, snuggling into Phil’s shoulder, giving a soft kiss to the side of his neck. The story’s at its climax now—the middle of a thrilling five-man chase—and Phil doesn’t look away from the screen, but grins all the same.
“Love you,” he replies, resting his head on Dan’s. “And I know you hate horror movies; I’m sorry you have to sit through this.”
Dan laughs.
“It’s okay,” he says honestly. “I mean I hate them, but they seem to make you happy, you giant freak, so I don’t mind.” Phil laughs.
They sit in silence until the movie ends; pulling away only when the lights go up.
“Well,” Phil says nonchalantly, getting to his feet and shrugging his coat on, “that was fun.”
Dan snorts and stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“The most fun,” he jokes, extending a hand to Phil. They make their way out hand in hand; respective free hands digging into their pockets for their Oyster Cards.
“But just so we’re clear,” Dan suddenly says, and Phil hums in response.
“If any axe-wielding demonic psychos do end up murdering us on the way home tonight, I swear to god I’m going to kill you.”
REPOST / originally posted Jan 2015
Word count: 750+
Prompt: Dan has a bad dream.
A/N: this was my first ever fic lmao
“No!”
It’s five am and Dan wakes with a jolt; covered in sweat and breathing heavily. He sits up and hugs his legs to his chest, taking shallow, gasping breaths and blinking back the tears threatening to fall.
Dan Howell is no stranger to nightmares. He’d had quite a lot of them growing up, and found that they only got worse when paired with an existential crisis. It got to a point—when he was still in uni—where he’d have one nearly every other night; waking up in his dorm room screaming, confused, and oh so scared.
Still, they’d gotten less frequent over the past few years, and perhaps it was a bit naïve to think that they’d gone away forever. He’d forgotten how bad the nightmares could get: swirling darkness creeping in around them, distant echoes of horrified screams, footsteps getting closer and closer, cold hands pulling him away from Phil, whose normally-bright eyes were wide with terror…
He jumps slightly and chokes on a gasp, getting pulled out of his thoughts by the feel of a warm hand land on his shin. Phil is sitting up beside him, looking at Dan with sleepy but concerned eyes.
“Hey,” he coos, quiet but reassuring. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
The tears finally fall and Dan buries his face into Phil’s chest, clinging onto his pyjama shirt like his life depended on it. He vaguely registers Phil wrapping his arms around him, pulling him closer as he lets himself cry.
Phil begins to rock them back and forth slowly; one hand carding through Dan’s hair soothingly.
“Shhh, you’re okay,” Phil murmurs, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head. “You’re okay. I’m right here, Dan. Stay with me. Breathe with me, it’s alright.”
Phil holds him until the tears stop flowing; helping Dan even out his breathing while murmuring sweet reassurances into his hair. He pulls away from their embrace slowly, tilting Dan’s chin to press a small kiss to his lips.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks in a whisper, afraid to do anything that might upset his already distressed boyfriend. Dan closes his eyes and sighs, shaking his head softly.
“Okay,” Phil says, nodding. “Do you want some tea?”
Dan looks up at him through his lashes, and Phil feels a pang in his heart at just how young Dan looks—all bedhead and oversized jumper, eyes shining with tears and looking at Phil like he’s terrified he’ll break.
“Hot chocolate?” he asks hopefully, cracking a small smile. Phil grins and kisses his forehead.
“Of course.”
--
They shuffle into the kitchen, Phil throwing on his old uni hoodie and Dan wrapped in the blue and green duvet. He sits himself down at the barstool, watching Phil pour some milk in his favourite mug.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at the counter.
“I don’t know what—I just—I thought I was done with the nightmares, you know? I haven’t had a serious one in months and I’d forgotten how bad they could get and—god, Phil, the look on your face when they—”
“Hey,” Phil’s voice stops him; soft and kind but serious and determined. He puts a hand on Dan’s cheek, tilting his face up so their eyes meet.
“Dan, you had a nightmare. That’s not your fault. And you aren’t bothering me, okay? Don’t worry about it.” He drops his gaze and nods shyly as Phil collects the now steaming mug of milk, stirring in the chocolate and handing it to Dan with a smile.
“You just focus on calming down and drinking your hot chocolate, alright?”
“Jesus, you’re too good to me,” Dan mutters, sipping his drink gratefully. “It’s half five in the morning and you’re in the kitchen nursing your pathetic boyfriend back to functioning like a normal human being—literally, how can you put up with this?”
Phil rolls his eyes; Dan’s smiling now—he might not be okay just yet, but it’s a start.
“You’re not pathetic,” he says, sitting opposite Dan and sipping at his own mug of cocoa. “And no amount of nursing will ever make you a normal human being.”
Dan grins at that, and Phil feels like the sun’s come up. Dan is smiling. Dan’s alright.
“Besides,” he muses, “nothing says ‘I love you’ like hot chocolate at half five in the morning.”
They chuckle softly, falling into a comfortable silence broken occasionally by the sound of sipping and mugs being brought against the counter.
