Formless
something deep and primal within me begged me to write this. i hope someone else finds something in it for them as well
note - i wrote this in one sitting and i’m not super sure of it so constructive criticism is not only welcome but i’m begging u
disclaimer – i’m not claiming anything portrayed in this piece of fiction as true or untrue about any of the people i’ve used characterizations of in real life
Genre: introspection, reality/non-AU
Warnings: gender questioning, sexuality questioning, bit of gender dysphoria, brief mention of depression, brief mention of homophobia, brief existentialism, lots of queerness
Word Count: too long tbh (4.8k)
Dan wished he was formless.
read on ao3
~•~•~
Dan wished he was formless. Shapeless. Amorphous. Nebulous. He wished he was hazy around the edges. He wished he was open to interpretation, able to sway one direction and then just as quickly to the next. He wished he looked different depending on the light. He wished every time he was seen, he was new. He wished he was ambiguous. Silver in a world of bright colors. Reflective. He wished he was infinite and fathomless and chameleonic. He wished he was a grey area, balancing on a line, living in a pocket to the left of the known universe.
But Dan was just Dan. Just lines and angles and flesh and bones.
And Dan didn’t know what caused him to long for this sense of formlessness. It could easily have been the sadness that occasionally overwhelmed him. The desire to be anything but human. Human with the pesky ability to feel and think and wonder and philosophize.
But that was different. When the sadness managed to take over, to eat at Dan, when the numbness set into his bones, it was different. During these times, he was formless. Not in the right way. In the confusing, fearful, way. When he melted into a puddle and parts of him kept slipping away, and he couldn’t gather himself up quickly enough to become whole again. To become a person again.
And Dan did like being a person. He liked being human. He liked the feeling of fingers trailing over his skin. He liked the way his stomach did flips before something amazing happened. He liked breathing in fresh air when he stepped outside or opened a window. He liked the way certain tastes bathed his tongue and made him feel inside his chest. He liked the way he could express his thoughts aloud, in writing, in art. He liked the way he could experience others’ thoughts through their words and art. He liked that he had a body that felt and a mind that thought.
So, Dan had begun to think that maybe he wanted formlessness only because of societal ideals.
Or, perhaps, that everyone was formless.
Perhaps humans existed in a formless, nebulous, chaotic state, and they forced themselves into molds to create forms that were organized and neat. Perhaps some humans fit those molds better than others. Perhaps some humans overflowed, seeped through the cracks, spilled out chaos.
Okay. Maybe from the moment one was born, molds were placed in front of them by the picture-perfect of the world. Molds made for them and handed to them as if one size fit all. Male. Female. Straight. Society asked humans to fit into the molds. When humans rejected these molds, they found another to try on. Gay. Bisexual. Ace.
But Dan wanted to be mold-less. Formless. He wanted to be an exception. He wanted—
“Dan?” a voice called from across the flat, breaking into his thoughts.
Dan frowned, trying to recapture the thought. Formless. Dan wanted to be formless with no limit to his—
“Dan?” the voice called again.
Dan sighed. “What?” he called back in a monotone.
“Pasta,” Phil replied shortly.
Dan shook his head, and his lips quirked up a little. He stood from the bed and walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
“You interrupted my introspection,” Dan said, knocking his hip against Phil’s as he reached to grab a bowl from the cupboard.
Phil scooped some of the pasta out of a pot on the stove into his own bowl. “Good,” he said, knocking Dan’s hip in return. “You’ve been doing too much of that.”
“I’m doing important reflection on my life and identity so that I can further my career and personal life in a way that stays authentic to my true self,” Dan argued, scooping himself up some pasta.
“I know,” Phil said, taking a seat at their table. “But, you know, I think sometimes you learn more about yourself by living life than reflecting on it.”
“I think I’ve lived a lot the past year,” Dan said, sitting across from Phil.
“Fair,” Phil said before he scooped some pasta noodles into his mouth. “What have you been thinkin’ about?” Phil asked, before fully swallowing his mouthful.
Dan raised an eyebrow, breathing out a soft chuckle at Phil. “Societal expectations versus individual identity.”
Phil chuckled. “I look forward to—to reading your thesis,” he joked.
Dan smiled. “Or maybe just watch my next video.”
Phil hummed. “Thinking about doing another deep-ish one?” he asked, and Phil always made it sound so simple.
“Maybe,” Dan said. “Haven’t decided.”
“Well,” Phil said, reaching for a napkin to wipe pasta sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Whatever it is, it’ll be great,” he promised.
Dan smiled a little. “What makes you say that?”
Phil swallowed his bite of pasta. “Because it’s you,” he said easily, scooping more pasta onto his fork. “Eat your pasta I slaved over it for hours.”
Dan rolled his eyes, still smiling a bit as he scooped some of the pasta onto his fork.
~•~•~
Dan looked himself in the mirror. He was still half-asleep, but he’d tugged on a t-shirt. And sweatpants, as it was a bit chilly. He hadn’t turned the bathroom light on, planning to try to sleep in a bit longer, but he’d paused when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
He looked at himself, unsure what exactly made him stop. It was him. He didn’t look terrible or exhausted. He didn’t look amazing, either. His curls fell into his face, grown out just a bit since his last haircut. The light cotton shirt he wore hung off his shoulders loosely. His sweatpants were nestled low around his hips. His cheeks were soft and red from sleeping. His lips were much less chapped than usual, red, and a bit plumper than usual.
He liked the way he looked.
Dan couldn’t perfectly put his finger on what it was he liked, but he felt good.
He felt... He felt that sense of formlessness that he’d been craving if only a little. It might have been the messiness. An oversized shirt, unkempt hair. No, no. It wasn’t the messiness. It definitely wasn’t the messiness. He grabbed a comb from the bathroom drawer, flicking the light on.
He played with his hair a bit, pushing it back and combing it forward. No, no. He tried to capture the feeling he wanted, but it felt like it was getting further and further away. No, no, what happened? Where had the feeling gone? Dan felt frustration slowly replace the satisfaction. Tears gathered in his eyes.
Dan heard Phil stumble toward the bathroom, and he opened the door, seeming surprised to see Dan despite the light being on. Phil was obviously still half-asleep, but he noticed Dan was upset.
“Hey,” Phil spoke, voice scratchy and deep. He tried to clear his throat with a cough. “Hey, what’s wrong?” His voice still came out a bit gravelly.
Dan reached up to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, uh, nothing, nothing. Sorry. I’ll let you pee,” Dan said, leaving the bathroom. He was pretty sure that a less-sleepy Phil wouldn’t have let him get away so easily.
Dan crawled back into bed, trying to shake the strange discomfort that had crept up on him and just fall asleep again. Before he could, Phil crawled back into bed beside him.
“Hey,” Phil breathed, wrapping his arms around Dan’s middle. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Dan breathed, not sounding too convincing.
“Hey,” Phil murmured again, dropping a kiss to Dan’s head. “You’re gorgeous.”
Dan didn’t know how Phil knew to say that, but he smiled a little. Gorgeous . “Thanks,” Dan said genuinely.
~•~•~
Dan was thinking about high school. He was thinking about trying to be a scene kid, wearing skinny jeans, girls’ jeans, trying eyeliner, growing his hair too long, straightening it. He was thinking about the emo boys he’d known. He was noticing how the whole scene sort of allowed teenage boys to embrace a more feminine side. They got to mess around with feminine fashion, hairstyles, make-up, and express their emotions.
He was thinking about the kids who’d call him gay, throw rocks, yell ‘faggot’ after Dan and his friends. They’d just laugh at the time or yell something back, but Dan wondered if those things really did leave a lasting impact on his expression.
He was thinking about the other night, the vague rightness he had seen in his reflection for a split second. He was thinking about how he knew, objectively, that he was a good-looking guy, but he was still unsatisfied with his appearance. He was thinking about his curly hair. He was thinking about his old reading festival bracelets. He was thinking about nail polish. He was thinking about his relationship with Phil. He was thinking about his fear of being labeled gay. He was thinking about the time when he was in uni and grew his hair out a bit long, straightened it, and put in earrings. He was thinking about the time when he cut his hair, styled it like every guy he knew did, defended himself, guarded himself, and shoved a few pieces of himself into the recesses of his being. He was thinking about the change between those times and the change between then and now.
Dan was thinking quite a lot.
He was thinking quite a lot about sexuality, gender, and identity.
He was thinking about it, because it wasn’t so scary at the moment, and he needed to take advantage of that.
There was a time when Dan wanted to be seen as anything but gay. Anything but feminine.
But, had Dan ever really felt masculine?
So, Dan thought about that. Had there ever been a time in his life that he had really felt like a boy or a man?
During his childhood, before gender or sexuality or appearance mattered, Dan would live carelessly. He would wear tiaras and tutus and sing spice girls into plastic microphones. He would climb trees and skin his knees and ride his bicycle around the neighborhood. He took piano lessons. He refused to play rough and fight with the other little boys. He made friends with girls. He ran through parks, rolled down grass hills. He hugged his grandma and kissed her hello. He was never good at sports. He loved video games.
And, no, he’d never felt like a girl . But, had he ever felt like a boy? Dan had never given much thought to gender. He’d always just been Dan . Dan with boy friends and girl friends. Dan who liked girls and liked boys. Dan who cursed at video games and cried listening to Cancer by My Chemical Romance.
Dan had felt gay before. He’d felt queer.
He often felt queer.
When he laid his head against the flat, broad, chest of his boyfriend. When he kissed the firmer lips of a man, his man. When he fell into bed with his lover, pressed himself into him, let him press himself into Dan. When Dan’s gaze toward a man lingered a second. God, when Dan looked in the mirror. He always felt queer. That was irrevocably a part of him. A part of him he’d learned to take pride in.
Alas, beyond that vague queerness, Dan had always struggled to define himself.
Dan stopped running, leaning against the wall and catching his breath. He looked around at the scarcely populated streets. The sun was just starting to properly light up the sky. Dan almost felt like the only one alive. He wondered when he became a morning person, but it was so peaceful. So still.
It was easier to think in the morning. He had a blank slate to work with. He wasn’t quite afraid of the world yet, because it wasn’t awake yet. It wasn’t bustling and busy and chaotic yet. In that, it was the same as staying up until two, or three, or four in the morning. The difference was in how Dan felt, how the world felt.
Three am was full of people ending their days. Full of people hurting, thinking, crying, fucking, falling in love, feeling . There were anxieties about the morning lingering in the air. Time moved faster. There was something so heavy about the early hours of darkness.
The morning was light. It was full of fresh starts and hope. Thoughts didn’t weigh so heavily on the mind, because there was the entire day to sort them out. Getting up early was already an accomplishment. The world was quiet, and time moved slowly.
At least for Dan.
He smiled a little.
Maybe Dan wasn’t entirely a man. He had never even felt too comfortable calling himself a man. ‘Boy’ has been okay. ‘Man’ was too…masculine. Too definitive.
Maybe he was just overthinking like he always did. Maybe gender roles meant nothing and Dan just refused to give into them. Maybe being a man was whatever he wanted it to be. Or maybe gender identity was just this vague and confusing feeling. Maybe Dan was a little bit formless. Maybe he couldn’t fit into any of the molds. Maybe he craved the same label-less formlessness for his gender as he did his sexuality. Maybe these thoughts would become terrifying in a few hours.
That was okay. Mornings were full of ‘maybe’s. Maybe he’d make breakfast. Maybe he’d crawl back into bed and fall back asleep. Maybe he’d look through old video idea files and see what he could update to match his current self. Maybe he would just watch the new Queer Eye episodes and play the piano and laze about. Maybe he would look in the mirror and say ‘maybe I’m not a man.’
Dan looked up at the sky again before changing the playlist on his phone to play the more upbeat instrumentals he had compiled for these runs. He set of jogging again.
It was still early.
~•~•~
Dan set a bottle of base-coat nail polish, a bottle of black nail polish, a bag of cotton balls, and a bottle of nail polish remover down on his desk one by one. He turned on a light and sat down.
He untwisted the top to the base nail polish, wiping the brush on the sides to get rid of the excess, and brought the applicator to his fingernail, slowly painting a line of the clear polish onto his nail, messing up the moment he had to fill in around his skin, and painting over his skin.
Dan took in a breath. He reached for a cotton ball and the nail polish remover, cleaning his nail off.
He tried it again.
He messed up again, this time after a few more swipes of nail polish.
He took in a breath, wiping the nail polish away with a wetted cotton ball.
He tried again.
He didn’t mess up until he got to the black polish. He painted insanely messily and out of the lines, covering his skin and cuticles in the polish.
He took in a breath and reached for the nail polish remover.
He tried again.
Paint went onto the nail. It was messy. It was outside the lines. It wasn’t right.
Dan didn’t allow himself to get frustrated. He took another deep breath. He wet another cotton ball.
He tried again.
It was understandable that the nail polish wouldn’t stay within the confines Dan had created for it. But, Dan wanted to find a way for something to fit right. He wanted the polish on his nails to be perfect. He wanted to get good at it. He wanted it to be normal and to feel second nature.
Once he could do this, he could do the next step.
Dan didn’t know what the next step was, but he knew he wanted to get there. He needed to get there.
So, he wiped his nails off, until he did the first one perfectly, none of it on his skin or cuticles. Then he moved to the next finger and did it again. He bit his lip as he focused, painting over and over until he got it perfect.
Then, once that was dried, he repeated the process on the other hand.
~•~•~
“Look,” Dan said, holding his hand out to Phil.
Phil spared a small glance. “Cute,” he said because this was normal.
“No,” Dan said. “Look.”
Phil perked an eyebrow, but looked again, taking Dan’s hand and holding it in the light to look them over. “Very pretty,” he said.
“I did a good job, yeah?” Dan asked because Phil was clueless and he needed the reassurance.
“Oh! Yeah, yeah, they look great,” Phil assured. “Perfect, actually,” he said, looking them over.
Dan rolled his eyes and sat back. “Took a few attempts,” he said.
“Well, you’re getting good at it,” Phil said.
Dan smiled. “I try.”
Phil’s gaze remained on Dan’s face for a moment.
“What?” Dan asked, blushing . He was fucking blushing, he could feel the warmth in his cheeks. Phil Lester had spared him many a long glance with similar amounts of affection. Still, Dan felt his stomach flutter just a bit. Dan didn’t know why it felt different in the moment, but it did.
“Nothing,” Phil said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You’re just. Dunno. You look very pretty.” He turned back to his laptop.
Dan smiled, looking away. “Thank you.”
~•~•~
Dan was scrolling through the Instagram of Ben J. Pierce and trying to remember when they’d ended up in a mutual following.
There was something lovely and inspiring about these queer creators he followed. The pride they took in their identity and expression was comforting and inspirational. Still, Dan managed to find sadness in it. He couldn’t help but feel strange. Ben, for example, was only just twenty years old. When Dan was twenty, he was entering the throes of repression, about to spend a year or so trying to change himself, to make himself more desirable to the audience he felt he wanted. Yet, there were so many younger than him who seemed to be so aware of themselves. So proud of themselves. And so loud about it.
Dan looked at the lipstick painted across Ben’s lips. The dresses pulled over his chest. The colors around his eyes. The shimmer on his cheekbones. Dan loved it. He loved it for Ben. But there was also a sort of longing in his chest as he looked at these pictures. Make-up seemed like a lot. A dress seemed like a lot. But, still, he wanted it. He wanted to be comfortable with the idea of his face covered in makeup and his awkward body stuffed into a skirt or dress. Not just in front of the mirror at home. Not just for the sake of trying it.
Maybe he would be someday.
A few years ago, it would have felt like a joke to want such a thing, so at least he was making progress. The idea of being anything but a man would have seemed like a joke.
Dan knew a lot of things now that he hadn’t known back then. He had met people in the past few years that a young, sexually confused and repressed Dan could never even have imagined existing. Young people with bright smiles and grateful words and knowledge of their own identity that Dan sort of envied.
People who looked up at him with bright eyes and said “thank you so much for always using inclusive language,” and “I met people through you that allowed me to find parts of myself and piece together my identity,” and “I’m glad you’re comfortable with traditionally non-masculine things, because I was made fun of for being a boy that likes feminine things.” People who made Dan feel like somehow this silly YouTube thing had a genuinely positive effect on hundreds of people. People who gave Dan way too much credit.
Dan looked down at his nails, painted flawlessly. He remembered the first time he’d properly painted them. The endless support and excitement that flooded in from fans. It had been silly. Love and support for putting a bit of paint on his nails. But, it had also been amazing. He had genuinely been afraid. He’d looked that the bottle of nail polish a fan had given him. A cheap, barely opaque, dollar store bottle. He’d felt the same longing he did now.
That was one thing. Not wanting to conform to gender roles. Life was too short to just live in the box set out for you by society.
The thing that was different was the strange euphoria that washed over him when he looked down at his painted nails. When he wore a too-big sweater. When his hair fell over his forehead just right.
Just the thought of drifting further away from the labels, boxes, and societal rules of gender made something bubble up inside of him. Something distinct from his current queerness but queer nonetheless. After all these months of introspection and striving to live as authentically as possible, Dan was ready to fully acknowledge this facet of his queerness. He was ready to acknowledge that he might not just wish for formlessness, but already be, in a way, formless.
~•~•~
Dan had been quiet and contemplative for a while. He was ready to talk now. He wanted to lay it all out verbally and piece it together in words as best as he could. Dan hated fixed labels, but his mind also hated leaving things nameless. Phil had patient ears, and soft encouragement, and had foolishly agreed to stay with Dan and listen to his contemplation for nine years and counting.
So, Dan walked into the lounge where he knew he’d find Phil and caught his gaze.
“What if I told you I wasn’t a man?”
Phil set aside his laptop, giving Dan his full attention. Dan hoped he wasn’t going to make a big deal, but he knew better. That wasn’t their style. Phil smiled a little and seemed neither startled nor bothered.
“I would say ‘okay,’” Phil said. “And I would ask if you’d like me to change the way I refer to you.”
Dan almost felt as though these were words contemplated by Phil before this conversation. Dan smiled little. Of course. He was stupid. Phil knew. God, Phil had probably known before Dan had even begun to properly question.
“And if I said I wasn’t sure?” Dan asked, sitting down on the other end of the couch so he could face Phil.
“Then,” Phil said easily. “I would say ‘okay,’ and ask if you wanted to talk about it.”
Dan smiled. “How long have you suspected?” he asked.
Phil understood because of course he did. Dan wasn’t sure how people communicated with people who didn’t know them so well. Talking to anyone else about this would have been so much different, so much scarier, and so much harder.
Phil shrugged. “I didn’t know anything for sure, but I hadn’t ruled it out. I just figured if you felt like you needed to say anything you would, and you have.”
Dan leaned back into the couch cushion, smiling a bit, but unsure exactly how to proceed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Phil asked.
Dan looked down at his black nails. “Yes.”
Phil shut his laptop, moved a bit closer to Dan and Dan talked.
Dan talked for a long time. He talked about the stupidity of gender roles, about the articles he’d read about gender being merely a construct. Scientific research studies. Phil mentioned gently and with a chuckle that Dan didn’t have to cite medical journals to justify the way he and many others felt.
Dan talked about being queer. He talked about painting his nails. He talked about catching glimpses of himself in the mirror and feeling warmth well up at the casual androgyny he sometimes found in his reflection. He talked about baggy clothes and small hoop earrings and curly hair. He talked about euphoria and dysphoria.
Dan talked about the non-binary and binary trans people who showed up to meet and greets. He talked about the queer pride that radiated off of so many of their audience. He talked about all he’d learned about the world in trying to understand his and Phil’s audience, and incidentally, all he’d learned about himself.
He talked candidly about the difficulty he often had equating himself with a man. With maleness or masculinity. He talked about male beauty gurus and gender nonconforming people and drag queens and non-binary genders.
Phil listened. He added comments. He brought up things that he noticed about Dan that Dan hadn’t even noticed. He occasionally asked for clarification, but he knew all of the terms and the ideas and Dan was so glad Phil was quite queer as well.
They talked for hours, between bites of food and snacks. They talked until the sun went down. They talked until Dan’s jaw got tired and they couldn’t keep their eyes open.
“We should head to bed,” Phil said because he knew Dan could stay up and talk despite the tiredness.
Dan nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Did we…did I ever reach any sort of conclusion?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’d say I did,” Phil said, smiling, eyes drooping and hand on Dan’s thigh.
“Mhm?” Dan asked, gently pushing Phil’s hair from his face. “What’s that?”
“You’re you,” Phil said. “And I love you.”
“Gross. Cheesy. I’m putting you to bed,” Dan said.
Phil smiled. “I know you like to think and sort things out,” Phil said, yawning. “But, I think things get clearer with time, you know? We’re moving slowly right now. You can let yourself slow down too. You’re ready, you know? Who you are—your truth—it’ll come to you, yeah? Piece by piece.”
Dan smiled. There were tear tracks on his cheeks because this was a lot. Talking about this was a lot. He was ready. He was finally ready to confront this vague feeling within himself that he’d always dismissed. And he didn’t have to do it alone. Another tear slipped down his cheek, and he swiped it away.
“Just let me know if you need me to change anything, or do anything. I know you’re getting so close to where you wanna be.”
Dan smiled, leaning into Phil. “I love you.”
Phil smiled too, taking in a deep breath before forcing himself to stand. He offered Dan a hand. “Alright. Bed now.”
~•~•~
Dan looked down at their freshly painted nails. They smiled. They’d removed the polish once it began to chip and reapplied it for a few weeks now. It was so strange how such a small thing could make Dan feel so much more in touch with themself.
They supposed for a lot of people, nail polish was just an extra pop of color. To Dan, it felt like a step into a new way of expressing themself. A reaffirmation to themself that their identity was real. That their formlessness was real. That their queerness was good and beautiful. That they were good and beautiful.
Dan walked into the kitchen, finding Phil buttering some toast. “I want you to switch them up,” Dan said.
Phil looked up. “What?” he questioned.
“Pronouns. Any are good. I mean, I don’t mind any. I like them all, so. I’d like it if you switched them up,” they said.
“Oh,” Phil said, smiling. “I will.”
Dan still wasn’t sure who Phil would speak to about Dan using any pronouns other than ‘he/him,’ but that was a question for another day. Dan knew Phil understood that as well, turning back to his toast.
“So, they, she, and he?” Phil clarified, wiping the butter from his knife and dropping it into the sink.
Dan felt a flutter in their stomach at the idea of being referred to as they or she. “Yeah. All good,” they said.
“So, like, ‘you should meet my boyfriend—” Phil started, moving to wrap his arms around Dan’s waist. “They’re beautiful, thoughtful, and talented. She has pretty eyes. She has a few freckles and patches of red. Her lips aren’t chapped anymore, which means they’re even better for kissing.” Phil pressed a short kiss to Dan’s lips. “I love them a lot,” he said.
A wide smile spread over Dan’s lips, they could feel their eyes water a bit, and their stomach buzzed with euphoric butterflies. “Yeah, pretty much,” Dan breathed, giggling a bit. “Although I hope you don’t always talk to people like you’re a fourth grader writing a story.”
Phil smiled, pressing another kiss to Dan’s lips. “I’m proud of you, you know,” he said, grabbing his plate of toast and taking a seat at the dining table.
Dan smiled. “I’m proud of me too,” they said.