#why did they have to go and make this so gut wrenchingly sad and dreadful

[modgirlyreposts-revamped]

Hitting my bestie who I just infected with brainworms for one of my new favorite series with angst of the series

[et-in-cinerem-reverteris]

The Sweet Release of Death - 3k

A fic where Dan never quite makes it to therapy and Phil’s liveliness isn’t natural.

Genre: Heavy angst with a happy ending

While ‘Class of 1953′ is the main fanfiction I’m working right now, I’ve also had this one on the backburner for a couple of months. It is very different to Co1953, and also fairly harrowing. Reader discretion is heavily advised.

If you’re interested I strongly recommend that you read on Ao3 as I have included some important messages there, but if not, it’s here below the cut.

CW: Death, depression, drug use, overdosing, blood, stroke, referenced homophobia, suicide, heaven, Christianity/Catholicism.

Every morning starts the same. Dan wakes up at midday, already tired, already exhausted, already feeling pathetically miserable. As crushing gloom seeps into his ribcage, along comes the ooze of worries and regrets that trickle into his brain and muddy his thoughts.

Was it a good idea to drop out of uni? 

Should I have done it?

Could I have pushed through the pain and continued with my course? 

How stable is my future now?

Can I really make a career out of Youtube?

Am I going to be successful?

Did I make the right choice? 

Am I happy? 

The weight in his chest deepens after that one.

Then it gets worse.

Is Phil happy?

Am I a burden to Phil?

Am I too much for him to handle?

Lying in this slump for what feels like forever, he drifts in and out of consciousness as he desperately tries to escape from this world and land into a dream where things don’t feel so messy and confusing. 

He checks the clock. 10 minutes have passed. He closes his eyes and falls back asleep. He checks the clock again. 20 more minutes have passed. He’s starting to get sick of this.

As he rolls over, the cold bed is empty beside him. For the past couple of months, Phil has been sleeping alone in the other room. The ‘other’ room. ‘Phil’s’ room. The filming room. The excuses had changed week by week, getting more and more distressing as they became more and more honest. 

“The last thing I want to do is disturb your sleep and make your insomnia worse, so I think it’d be best if I slept in the other room for now” turned into “I know you need time alone at the start of the day, so I want to give you space to think” which turned into “It breaks my heart to see you look so empty in the morning, I can hardly bear to look at you” which ended last week with “I just can’t cope with it any more, so I think going to become permanent. I’m sorry.”

So that was that. Dan didn’t have the willpower to argue. Phil was right anyway - Dan doesn’t want to be seen when he’s at his worst. He never wants Phil to see him like this. He hates the idea of being a burden and letting his emotions affect others, but judging by the withering light in his partner’s eyes, Dan has a sinking feeling that it might already be too late.

Half an hour in bed later, he scrapes up any shred of motivation he can get to finally pull himself out of the covers and start the dreaded day. As he makes his way to the kitchen he comes across Phil in his room preparing to film a video. The door is ajar, the studio lights are on, and the black haired man is hunched over his chest of drawers carefully fussing over something that appears to be small and fragile. Dan already knows exactly what it is. AmazingPhil never starts filming without it.

“You’re not still doing that are you?” the brunette asks with a mixture of concern, irritation and sorrow in his voice. 

Phil turns round and twitches, nearly dropping the credit card that sits between his fingers.

“Dan. I’m trying to cut down on it, I promise. Look, I’m only doing two this time,” he assures, tilting the card downwards towards two small white lines. “It just keeps my energy levels up for the videos. You know that.”

Dan sighs from the doorway and remains silent.

“You’re always welcome to join me,” Phil purrs, with an innocent yet mischievous glint in his eye.

Fuck. How on earth Phil manages to look so perfect when he’s doing something so fucked up will forever be a mystery to Dan. Yes, he’s upset. Yes, he wishes Phil would stop. But hey, we all have our vices, right? Dan doesn’t blame him for needing something extra in order to get him through the day. Must be hard living with a depressed boyfriend who clings to you even if he knows he’s dragging you down along with him.

Phil frowns. He must have guessed what Dan was thinking.

“I love you.”

Dan sighs. “I love you too.”

Phil gives him a sad, comforting smile, turning towards the chest of drawers and bending down. Heart heavy with guilt and regret, Dan withdraws into the kitchen before he accidentally catches a glimpse of his boyfriend in the act.

He hates the whole ordeal. He hates it so, so much. When Dan first found out that Phil’s bubbly temperament came not from his personality but from inside a little piece of twisted plastic, he felt that he’d been lied to. Like he had just found out that his favourite teacher was a paedophile, or that his best friend was a rapist, or that his teenage idol was secretly addicted to cocaine...oh wait. Most of it made sense to Dan, because nobody could naturally be that hyper, and it’s not like he had exactly stayed away from drugs himself. What made him feel sick to his stomach was how it affected them both. How it changed the man he loved. How it gnawed at their finances. How it fucked with Phil’s health. The headaches, the hallucinations, the anxiety, the nosebleeds - the list went on and on, and had only worsened over the three years that they’d been together.

Phil’s bedroom door clicks shut, and a few seconds later the talking begins. Dan looks into the dry cereal that sits in his bowl, sighing. Two boyfriends - one gut-wrenchingly depressed, and the other with a cocaine addiction. Great!

Milk poured and spoon located, he sits down on the sofa, turns the TV on and begins to flick through the channels. Channel after channel after channel. All pure shit. Tossing the remote to the side, he eats another spoon of cereal and chews it and chews it and chews it until it turns into a stodgy lump of grey glue. Stale. Tasteless. The cereal is claggy and he can barely swallow it. He’s not even hungry, but if he caves in to his appetite loss he knows he’ll feel even worse in a few hours. More tired and more exhausted and more pathetically miserable. At this point, it’s barely even worth finishing the fucking bowl. Why bother eating when everything tastes the same? Why bother with anything at all? 

He spends the next 15 minutes drowning in his suffering, staring out of the window as the television plays some automatically selected daytime TV. 

It’s the loud thud that snaps him out of his wallowing. 

“Phil?”

No reply.

“Phil.”

No reply.

...

“PHIL?”

Dan lunges up from the sofa and storms down the corridor, pausing in front of the filming room. He raps his knuckles against the wood, calling the other man’s name.

No reply.

His heart thumps through his ribcage. What if something’s gone wrong? What if Phil’s not okay? Horrifying visions flash before him. Not this. Fuck. Anything but this. 

The metal handle is cold as he pushes the door open.

“Phil? Are you okay?”

The six-foot man is lying on the floor, slumped against the bed with his spine at an angle that can’t be comfortable. 

“Phil? Phil! Fuck.”

He clambers over to the bed, clawing at Phil’s body. Okay. This sort of thing has happened before. Just once before. The memories of that night are painful, stinging, and Dan winces as images of his unconscious boyfriend come flooding back into his mind. 

He finally turns Phil’s body over. 

“Oh my God!”

Blood is everywhere. Blood is streaming out of Phil’s nose, down his white skin and seeping into his green t-shirt as spit dribbles down his slack jaw, mixing with the blood into a pool of pinkish red that drips down his face...his face... 

The left side of his face sags downwards.

“Oh shit, shit shit shit shit shit please no, Phil please, say something,” Dan pleads, slapping his boyfriend’s cheeks as he desperately tries to bring him back into consciousness. But Phil’s not responding, oh God Phil’s not responding to anything. Drawing in a shaky breath, Dan lifts two fingers to the man’s neck.

Waits.

And waits.

But there’s nothing there.

And so Dan checks Phil’s wrist.

But there’s nothing there.

And so Dan places his ear against Phil’s chest, trying to look for signs of a heartbeat, or breathing, or anything, just anything at this point.

But there’s nothing there.

As he lifts his head, hot tears prick his eyes and pour down his face.

CPR? The Heimlich maneuver? Defibrination? What did he do last time?

Last time?! Last time this happened Phil hadn’t fucking...hadn’t fucking... 

Hadn’t fucking died. 

“Phil...Phil, no please...Phil…”

He begins to weep. Hopeless, helpless, all he can do is pull himself closer to his boyfriend’s still-warm body. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real. It’s not real. It’s not real. But the empty silence of Phil’s chest and the sad droop of his left arm are telling him otherwise. His breathing quickens.

It’s not real. 

It’s not real. 

Phil’s still alive. Phil doesn’t do cocaine. Dan’s not depressed. Dan doesn’t wake up every day teetering on the brink of suicide, wondering how long he can go on for before something pushes him right over the fucking edge and cause him to finally make use of those knot-tying skills and-  

Defeated, he lets out a deep sigh. This might be it. This just might well be it. The love of his life, his first best friend, his first true lover, the man who met him at Manchester Piccadilly station three years ago sat here, dead in his arms. His soulmate. He looks at Phil’s face again. It’s cold, stark, and lifeless. Staring at the emptiness feels like a kick to the stomach, and it’s not too long before Dan breaks out into an agonising, desperate sob.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours pass. Dan is still sitting on the floor, still clinging to Phil’s corpse, passed out from the sheer exhaustion of having cried for so long. 

*beep beep*

His eyelids flutter open, and he’s immediately confronted with the sight of his dead boyfriend. Fresh tears spring to his eyes, painful, raw, and he buries his head back into Phil’s blood-stained shirt.

*beep beep*

He cocks his head upwards, squinting as he’s confronted by the glaring studio lamps. A light on the tripod is flashing red, and with a wash of nausea Dan realises that the camera was recording all this time.

Fuck.

Videos.

How on earth is he going to return to his career as a Youtuber? How is he going to explain what happened? How is he going to turn on his camera and say “Hello Internet, now, I’ve got some news to share with you. First of all, newsflash, Phil and I had been a couple for the past three years, but since he’s just died of a cocaine overdose, you’ll never see him again and I probably won’t be able to make any videos for a while. So yeah, that’s that. No sexy endscreen dance today, sorry!” to millions and millions of people? How is he going to tell his mum? His dad? His brother? His nan? They don’t even know that he’s gay, let alone that Phil is - was...was his boyfriend. What if he tells them and it all goes horribly wrong? What if they decide to disown him? Then he’d really be alone. Alone in the world with nobody to talk to.

Oh God.

It’s too much.

It’s all too much.

Oh God.

There is, really and truly this time, nothing left to live for.

He dislodges himself from his boyfriend’s dead body and stands up to turn the camera off. The bright lights burn his eyes. He turns them off too. 

A heavy silence sits in the apartment like a muggy cloud. Ghostlike, trudging, aching, he wanders into the kitchen to begin shutting everything down. 

Fridge off.

Oven off.

Microwave off.

Dan looks at the screen as the light on the touchpad fades away. He remembers how he once tried to convince Phil that the word ‘microwave’ was onomatopoeia. Good times. So innocent and carefree. 

How horrible life feels in this moment. He bows his head, and continues with his task.

Lamps off.

TV off.

Curtains closed.

Through the faint glow still illuminating in the room Dan can still see the sofa crease where he spent a pitifully large amount of time scrolling away the void that gnawed at him, mindlessly staring at a screen while Phil was asleep in his own solitary bed. At least there won’t be any more of that now. Perhaps that’s for the best.

He drags himself to his own bedroom, weary eyes flitting over his possessions as he tries and fails to conjure up happy memories. Fails to conjure up one little reason not to do it. Ah well.

Switches off. 

Curtains closed.

Door shut.

When the entire apartment has come to a grinding halt, Dan braces himself before re-entering the place where Phil’s body lies. As he adjusts to the darkness of the room, fresh tears burn and sting once more. He flops down next to Phil on the side of the bed, head in his hands. He wishes it was a dream. He wishes that nothing was real. He wishes that none of this had happened, that when he wakes up Phil will be by his side sleeping softly next to him and they’ll be happy and healthy and successful and free of drugs and depression and maybe even be out to their friends and family, living their best lives as just another gay couple on Youtube. But this life is not for him, was never for him. Not for Daniel Howell, it seems. 

Depleted and drained, he slumps down next to Phil like a ripped up rag doll, falling asleep with his head resting on the other man’s shoulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time he arises once more, street lamps are shining through the curtains and creating strips of golden yellow on the white walls.

With the heating off, the apartment is cold.

Phil’s body is cold.

Groggy and grumpy, Dan stumbles upwards, trying to think clearly about what’s coming next.

A tie should do it, right?

5 minutes later the floor is a tip. The carpet is covered in Phil’s props, costumes and clothes, but at last a couple of ties have been found. Dan doesn’t need a tutorial for this. He’s practised countless times before. With his shoelaces, at school. With his lanyard, at work. At any other time of day he might jokingly say that he’s a professional. Now, in the sickest, saddest way, this is the one chance he has to show off. 

After dragging a chair into the bedroom, he positions it under a lampshade that hangs over the ceiling. Stepping up onto his homemade gallows, he looks at Phil one more time.

Strange.

Dan had never really believed in anything that he was taught at Sunday school. But somehow, in his final moments, his last wish is to meet Phil somewhere up in heaven.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue:

The first thought that enters Dan’s mind is that his head hurts.

And his neck too, for that matter.

Feeling hazy and confused, he lets a crack of light into his eyes. It’s bright. Too bright, in fact. Almost as if he were…

“Dan?”

He opens his eyes fully.

Somehow Phil is here right up close next to him, lying on the ground, lying on his side, lying on what looks to be some grass.

“Phil, you’re...your nose is-”

“It happened again, didn’t it?”

As he looks at the blood that smothers Phil’s jaw, tears well up in his eyes.  All he can manage is a faint nod.

Phil sighs. “I thought as much. And did you…?” His looks down towards Dan’s neck.

He nods again. Phil’s eyes wander to the ground as he strokes the side of Dan’s cheek absentmindedly. Wind brushes against his skin, rustling the soft grass that they’re nestled amongst. Branches sway above their heads, and he can hear a stream bubbling away somewhere nearby. It’s a sunny day - neither too hot, nor too cool. It’s a perfect setting, really. Almost too perfect.

“Phil?” He pipes up, voice still choked with tears.

“Hmmm?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are we in…?”

“I was just wondering the same thing.”

“What do you think?” he asks idly, hand wandering across the grass to search for Phil’s.

“I think we must be.” He finds it, and as their fingers intertwine Dan can’t help but get lost in the eyes of the man lying opposite to him. They’re as blue as ever - stunningly striking with lashes long and pale brown. Beautiful from the start, and beautiful now.

“I’m sorry,” Phil starts, voice heavy with remorse.

“Don’t be, it’s all over now. And anyway, I’m equally sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being such a burden all the time. For being so hopelessly depressed. It can’t have helped with your...y’know…”

“Dan. Just like you said, it’s all over.”

“I know,” he smiles. “I know. I feel better now anyway. Lighter. Like my past life was a dream.”

“Are you sure you’re not dreaming now?” Phil jests.

Dan laughs. “Go on then, pinch me. We’ll see if I-ow! Phil!” He cries as the other man giggles mischievously, tongue peeking through his grin. Dan beams. “C’mere.” Propping himself up with his left elbow, he leans over towards Phil and cups his cheek with his right hand. The man below him looks up with a soft gaze, bright eyes flitting over his face and skimming over his lips. Dan leans in, closes his eyes, and kisses him.

“I love you. So much. I can’t believe I get to spend eternity by your side,” he coos, still holding Phil’s face.

“Even if that means I get to spend eternity having fun annoying you?” he smirks.

Dan laughs. “Yup. Even if it means that.”