#loving dan is a constant cycle of...deep sigh....

[ahappydnp]

#can he not #what if he didn’t #loving dan is a constant cycle of...deep sigh....

[quercussp]

Against the rest of the world

Rating: G

Word count: 1k

Summary: Phil loves Dan. That much he knows. It’s simple and all consuming and easy. There is nothing easier than loving Dan. Making Dan happy is the reason Phil gets up in the morning. But he knows that Dan isn’t happy. And that just tears Phil’s soul to shreds.

Authors note: 

Dedicated to @secretlizard for tirelessly reminding me that it will get better.

Thank you so much to @ahappydnp for betaing.

Warnings: references to depression and anxiety

[read on ao3]

It’s hours after midnight and Phil is lying in his bed wide awake.

No matter how much he craves sleep, his mind just won’t stop whirring in a constant cycle of thoughts. What if this doesn’t work out? What if the contract he just signed for a sponsorship fails? What if the video that’s going up tomorrow will just not get enough views? Will he have to go to his parents like a puppy with his tail between his legs, asking for money to cover the rent again? He can vividly imagine their faces. They are kind, and his mother is smiling, telling him that of course she’ll help, but there is a disappointment somewhere deep in her gaze. She doesn’t want to show it, but Phil can always see it, and that somehow seems like the scariest thing of all.

But most of his thoughts revolve around the boy sleeping next to him. The only reason Dan is asleep is that he cried himself to sleep tonight. Again.

Part of Phil wants to feel relieved, because if Dan is crying, at least he’s doing something. At least he cares. It’s an ugly part of Phil, one he hopes Dan never sees, but it’s that part that just desperately wants Dan to be there. Be present. Have feelings that Phil can actually understand and try to help with. 

Because the night before Dan didn’t sleep at all. And he didn’t cry. He just sat on the sofa, scrolling through his twitter feed with empty eyes, and that haunted empty gaze scared Phil more than hours and hours of weeping.

Phil loves Dan. That much he knows. It’s simple and all consuming and easy. There is nothing easier than loving Dan. Making Dan happy is the reason Phil gets up in the morning. But he knows that Dan isn’t happy. And that just tears Phil’s soul to shreds.

No matter how hard Phil tries, no matter how much he tries to pretend that he knows that it’ll all be alright, no matter how much he tells Dan that he’s wonderful and that Phil will love him till his last breath, Dan isn’t happy. And no matter how much websites about helping your loved ones he reads, no matter how many hushed conversations he has with his mum, he still can’t help but feel guilty that his love isn’t enough to make Dan stop being unhappy.

Phil will do his best to not show Dan, but he’s scared. Terrified. Dan might not want to think about it, but Phil knows that the deadline for Dan to retake his exams is coming up and Dan is not studying. Phil is scared that Dan’s whole life plan is about to fall apart and he won’t be enough to keep them both afloat. Phil worries that his career on youtube is going to come crashing down, and it’ll tear him and Dan apart. He’s also worried about Dan becoming a lawyer and not wanting to be with Phil anymore. He’s scared Dan will have to go back to his parents because they can’t afford to have a place together anymore. He’s scared that Dan sees his fear and that is making him unhappy. But most of all, he’s scared that Dan will never be happy again, and that Phil will never get a chance to see his face light up with emotion, to hear his true, genuine laughter, and that it will be Phil’s fault.

In his sleep Dan looks ridiculously young. He looks too skinny and his face looks all puffy from the tears. He’s curled up into a ball under the covers, hiding himself in a way that tells Phil that Dan doesn’t want to be touched. And oh how Phil wants to touch him, to hug him and pull him close and just never let him be sad again.

So as a compromise, Phil is lying next to him, above the covers, and watches Dan breathe. His knee is gently pressed against Dan’s legs cocooned in a blanket, light enough of a touch that Dan doesn’t feel it, but it’s something, something to keep Phil tethered, to feel close. What would he give to be intertwined with Dan right now, to hide his face in his neck and just feel safe. It’s selfish and weak, but in this late hour, lying awake, Phil feels more alone than he’s felt in years.

Next to him Dan takes a deep breath and mumbles something. His eyelashes flicker and with a small sigh he opens up his eyes a little bit.

“Phil?” Dan asks with a raspy sleepy voice.

“Sleep, Dan,” Phil whispers. He can’t help himself. He brushes the hair off of Dan’s face with a soft movement and lingers on his cheek a little bit, “Go back to sleep, it’s still night”.

“I had a dream,” Dan mumbles. His eyes are still half closed and his voice is croaky from the sleep and the crying, but also soft and childlike. Phil’s heart almost explodes with affection when Dan shifts in bed to curl into Phil, pressing his forehead against Phil’s sternum and breathes in.

“Mmm?” Something in Phil’s chest unclenches, and he winds his arms around Dan’s shoulder and pulls him close.

“We were in Japan. Me and you. Like, together.” He breathes in sleepily and presses his body even closer to Phil. “There were deer I think. You were feeding them.”

“I was?” Phil asked smiling. “That sounds lovely.”

“Mmhm. ‘S was good,” Dan’s eyes are closed again and his breath was getting more even, “We were happy.” Dan’s voice is quiet and he’s obviously asleep again, but he’s smiling in his sleep, and Phil wants to weep himself. From longing, from relief, from just exhaustion, he doesn’t know. He carefully wraps his body around Dan and buries his nose in his boyfriend’s hair. It’s a little greasy, but it smells like Dan and he can feel Dan’s warmth radiates from his body.

“Sleep,” Phil breathes out again, lightly kissing Dan’s head.

#phanfiction #phan #my fic #i wrote a fic #:) #can you imagine? #that's a thing i just did randomly #woke up and was like #i'm gonna write this #wrote it in like half an hour #can i be this productive always plz?

[witchfall]

the silver lining still remains: ch. 2

SUMMARY: “Connor read somewhere that 3 a.m. is “the magic hour” -- a concept still out of his purview. But the wide open dark gives him a feeling without a name; if it is all an illusion, as he’s wondered, it’s started pulling new tricks.

It feels like there’s a hole in one of his key biocomponents, slowly leaking. Like thirium could pool in the bottom of his abdomen, and no one would know until it’s too late.”

A Connor x F!OC fanfic. Read on AO3

---

[...RECHARGING…]

[...RECHARGING…]

[...100%]

[ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL. VISUAL FEED NORMAL. TIME: 3:09 A.M]

‘Yea, the diplomats are doing their thing.’ Hank, eating a burger. ‘But they aren’t here with us. Doing the work on the ground, you know? It’s never gonna be...quite the same.’

‘Here with us.’

‘Life’s that way.’

‘You’d miss me.’

[RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC…..ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.]

Androids do not dream. Connor understands this. But the thoughts circle, endlessly. He processes and scans the color, texture, and sound of his memories until they are a grainy nonsense of variables that shouldn’t be there. Voices stop sounding right. Freckles are in the wrong place. Lips are the wrong size. The recollection is perfect; his sensor scans are absolutely complete.

The wrongness persists.

[ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.]

He opens his eyes. Moonlight and the white glare of streetlamps shine through the dusty windows of Hank’s spare room (“You live here, you live like a civilized human man. Android man. Fuck it, you know what I mean.”). Sumo snores softly in the hallway and his owner snores louder still in the bedroom across the way. All things normal.

Don’t tell me you were working this whole time.

I was at Dan’s.

A smile, and a strange look in Hank’s eye -- uncategorizable. No statements of clarification. Continues to watch television.

Connor could get up and work. Read one of the books Hank suggested. But the thoughts spin on, so many of them, and he’s not sure he’s willing to leave them be.

She’s interfacing again. Stress level: 55%. Monitor your life signs.

Incorrect prioritization. Monitor her life signs.

Mouth open, face uncharacteristically inexpressive. Eyes (dark brown -- dark dark brown, where do they go?) out of focus. Extremely minor shivering.

Why?

His eyes fly open and he focuses again on the chilling brightness of the moon, if only to stop this thought cycle before it can begin. The street is silent. He read somewhere that 3 a.m. is “the magic hour” -- a concept still out of his purview. But the wide open dark of the sky gives him a feeling without a name; if it is all an illusion, as he’s wondered, it’s started pulling new tricks.

It feels like there’s a hole in one of his key biocomponents, slowly leaking. Like thirium could pool in the bottom of his abdomen, and no one would know until it’s too late.

[TIME: 3:15 A.M.]

--

Emma steps out of the client’s house, wiping sweat and grit off her forehead with the back of her glove. Clouds obscure the weakly setting sun, casting the neighborhood in a downcast gray. Materials she’d need for tomorrow’s drywall installation cycled through her head, hammering out all curious thought. A litany of the most boring items imaginable.

Nothing like exhaustion to beat the worry out of you.

Sleep or stagework? She hesitated outside her Taurus, testing the tires with her boot. If she had to ask, maybe she should just go home...

Her phone softly chimes.

Who could possibly want to call me now ?

She digs it out of her thick coat with a furrowed brow, suppressing a sigh. The number was “unknown,” but that was hardly unusual in her line of work. Androids were buying their own phones, but the savvy ones were understandably wary of tracking.

She clicks it over. “Emma Ibori.”

“Emma. Are you free?”

She blinks at the voice on the line. “Speaker Markus?” Well, that explains the blocked number. “...how’d you get my number?”

“It’s in the Corps files,” he says. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.” His voice is warm but straightforward, plodding along pleasantries as if by rote.

She raises a brow in interest, but her gut sinks. The leader of the preliminary Android government probably didn’t just call people to chat. “Sure, no. What can I do for you?”

--

Hank taps his empty coffee cup on his desk and stares at Connor. He checks his watch...he’s been staring for a good three minutes now. Connor doesn’t even seem to notice.

Hank leans back in his chair, making it creak, and sighs heavily.

“I think we’re off the clock,” he finally says.

Connor is staring at his computer like he’s Atlas, holding the world up. His brow is furrowed as he scans through files that Hank knows too well will reveal nothing new, not even to a top of the line prototype detective. Connor has a single hand on his forehead, fingers reaching up through his hair -- a curious gesture of humanity that makes him seem much younger than he pretends to be, even if he is still sitting up ramrod straight.

“You can go home if you want,” Connor says politely. His eyes don’t leave the screen.

Hank frowns. He’s too well-worn to know how to break through the miasma gathering around the young man. He just tries to be there.

Tough being a prototype.

A rough guitar riff plays -- Hank’s phone. He pulls it out of his pocket and stares at the number. An opportunity.

“Anderson.”

“Hey, it’s Emma. Does Connor have a direct line to Markus, you think?”

“Emma, I'm at work.”

Lo and behold, Connor finally looks his way. Hank stifles a smirk at Connor’s attempt to make it look nonchalant by casting his gaze lazily to the side a moment, but Hank doesn’t buy it for a second. They had to get Connor his own phone soon.

“I got a weird call from him. He said he had a job opportunity come up at the old East Yard Elementary for me but, uh...the number he used won’t work.” He can hear the wind crackle through her phone speaker.

“Markus called you?”

“Maybe.” He can hear her shuffling with a door. “One reason I wanted to confirm with him. I’d just demo this place.”

Hank leans forward. Connor does too. Hank gives him a look -- eavesdropping is rude, how many times do I gotta tell you that? -- but his detective instinct yammers like a mad dog. “Go back to your car.”

A long pause. “...all right then.” He can hear her breathing as she begins to walk. “I didn’t go in far.”

“You really shouldn’t be on that side of town,” he says quietly. “Are you alone?”

She doesn’t answer. His gut clenches. The girl was tough, a wicked good contractor who’d fixed up a number of things in his old house, and a presence that flitted in and out like a fly he couldn’t chase away. But she, like a lot of the youth around these parts, was both too stubborn and too trusting. Connor was nearly out of his seat trying to listen in now, dark eyes intent upon Hank, all pretense gone.

“I have a gun.”

“Emma--”

“Look, can you just ask Con if--”

A loud, unmistakable bang.

“Emma?” He pulled his phone back and looked at the call connection.

The line was instantly dead.

“Oh, fuck. Connor--”

Connor was already running full speed toward the exit. Hank grabs his radio and follows, fast as he dares.

“Dispatch, we have a situation. Door! Connor, use the door!”

--

Emma’s ears ring. Fear blooms in her stomach like an orchid. In a thoughtless moment, she reaches up to touch her ear to check for bleeding, but her hand is embedded with glass and already slick so it’s useless. She can feel the blood trickling down her jaw. It’ll probably stain her coat, she realizes with a bizarre amusement.

All she can really think about is running, away from her car where they'd ambushed her, zigging and zagging between vehicles, between houses, through any path that could break up their beeline on her. She expects them to shoot again at any moment -- a thought that keens bright as lightning. But they don’t, despite the fact that they had the wherewithal to shoot her phone from her hand.

What was stopping them?

She chances a look back. Two figures in nondescript dark clothes chase her with stocky, athletic movements and a uniformity that felt too exact to be human.

Fear bottoms her out. All her breaths feel like flame.

Her bag drags down on her shoulder, even as she tries to keep it from smacking her side too much with her left hand. But it’s no use. It’s slowing her down and they clearly aren’t tiring. While she hears sirens wailing in the distance, she decides to buy time by -- God and Universe please fucking forgive me, I’m never gonna be able to buy tools again at this rate -- throwing the bag as far as she can at her pursuers.

But not without grabbing her gun first.

--

“It was a mistake to let you drive!” Hank wheezes, but Connor knows the man can’t mean it. At the speed they are going, only an android could have prevented their untimely death via crash.

[FIND EMMA FIND EMMA FIND EMMA FIND EMMA]

Text flashes red in his eyes, constant, and he blinks hard to try and erase it. There is no erasing it.

[CIRCULATION ELEVATED. RECOMMEND DEEP BREATHS FOR SYSTEM COOLING.]

The dispatch chatter was up. Connor only slowed when he saw the flashing lights of other patrol cars in the distance, parked on some abandoned street where single-family housing met the blockier apartment units of inner Detroit. Police were exiting their cars, guns up.

He nearly slams the car into park. Hank grumbles something obscene but they both near tumble out of the car. They bolt toward what the other police are examining.

A bag…

Instantly, he enters analysis mode, the mind palace thrumming to life. Contents spilled out of the bag as if it was thrown for distraction. A measuring tape and a Laserlite level flung a few feet out of the bag from the force of the toss. One hammer, a smattering of nails and screwdrivers [multiple head types] are scattered on the pavement in an arc akin to spraying water.

Specks of fresh blood.

[MISSION: FIND EMMA.]

She loves this bag.

[PROCESSING: PROJECTING RUN BASED ON BAG LOCATION, THROWN ITEM DISTANCE, EAST YARD SCHOOL.]

“Connor, we’re going to find her, you just gotta--”

[RE-CONSTRUCTING]

“--take a second to breathe--”

[POSSIBLE DIRECTION: NORTHWEST?]

“--listening?”

Connor can hear Hank saying something in the background, but his processors burn too hot. He has a mission to do. He doesn’t have time for anything but analysis--

Two gunshots, 467 feet northwest.

His mission parameters squeeze his chest. Something lances his core biocomponent.

[DIAGNOSTIC UNDERWAY.]

He runs, fast as his feet will go, but the neighborhood is starting to blur around him. He leaves the other officers in the dust, not weighed down by patrol gear or a biological need for aerobic exercise. He vaults over parked cars and old trash bins and rounds the corner of an alleyway--

[RECONSTRUCTING PRECONSTRUCTING RECON--]

Two dead bodies litter the ground.

[THIRIUM -&*^&*CORRUPTION.]

What?

And Emma stands at the alley’s end, gun outstretched.

He stumbles to a stop at the sight. His entire vision shakes a moment.

Blood stains the side of her face, and one of her hands claws unnaturally around the gun, clearly injured. She stands with feet shoulder-width apart, arms straight. A near perfect shooting stance. One pursuer was downed with a shot to the head, the other with a shot to the chest. Executioner style.

Something hot burns in Connor’s ribcage. She had been cornered. A chainlink fence blocks the alleyway behind her.

She suddenly takes in a sharp breath.

“Emma!” The word feels torn from him as he skitters across the alley. Now he can see she’s close to tears, teeth barred, breath coming in shaky waves. “You’re all right,” he says, hands up. The softness of his voice comes at a shock considering the magma filling his midsection. “You’re safe now.”

[MISSION SUCCESS]

She takes in another sharp, shaky breath and the tears finally roll down her face. Her whole body near vibrates with stress. He moves until he is close enough that he can whisper.

“Give me the gun,” he says softly.

“No.”

His chest compresses further. “Please. You are not in a state to hold a weapon.”

Even if her shots were perfect.

She hesitates, but then thrusts the gun into his palm with her good hand -- much to his surprise. He sticks it in his extra holster on his waistband and then leans down slightly to level with her gaze. Without thinking, he tentatively rests his hands on her shoulders. His fingers wrap around her shoulders and his palms settle against her collarbones. Only then does it feel like she’s real.

Alive alive alive alive.

He scans her face, unwilling to miss a single detail. A gunshot wound to her right ear. Thick, coiled hair caking against the sticky blood. Scratches along her jawline from glass shards. Old smears of makeup under her eyes, now just black specks thanks to time and tears. But the constellation is still there -- a single smear of blood disrupting the map of freckles on her face…

“Connor!” Hank and the other police finally arrive, feet loud against the pavement. “Shit...”

Connor doesn’t turn to look back at them. He’s watching Emma’s dark brown eyes, waiting. Waiting. She stares at the middle distance between them, as if rebooting -- until suddenly she blinks and she isn’t. She’s looking right back at him. Searching his face.

“I’m--” A hiccup disrupts her sentence and she takes in another rough, shaky breath.

Another lance through his core biocomponent. He suddenly can’t bring himself to say anything at all. Something in him rumbles and roars -- a creature that he’d not witnessed since he broke the command to Stop Markus.

“Emma, hey, it’s gonna be alright.” That was Hank, breathing hard.

“Wh...why the fuck were they chasing me?” Emma looks between Connor and Hank, breaking eye contact finally. “They were by Tulio.” Her car.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hank says, stepping up next to them. He taps Connor’s shoulder once, a signal to move. Connor’s systems feel sluggish; he finds he doesn’t want to let go. But after a moment, he takes a step back, releasing her shoulders.

Hank places his scarf around her neck. “You said you could shoot but you never said you were a goddamn Olympian.”

She squints, looking away. “I dunno.” She gestures outward. “Got lucky, I guess.”

Luck?

Two programs go to war.

Analyze the variables: Markus’s involvement. Did someone use his voice? The supposed job. How did they obtain her number? Why did they chase but opt not to shoot her again? How did they find her? What did they want? Who are these androids and what was their purpose? Why was the reading of the blue blood returning corrupted data? Why is she shy about her gunshots? Find more information. Solve this now.

If you look away from her something else might happen you never know there are no proper odds for this anymore not in this city where nothing has a precondition another shooter could appear anything could come out of thin air so keep your eyes on her at all times don’t you dare let her leave your sight how did she shoot them like that was it luck was it just luck that left her alive was it just luck that she’s here at all--

“Connor?”

Emma is staring at him, moisture on her face glinting blue and red as the last of the backup arrives.

“He’s fine,” Hank says with his usual gruffness, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to turn her away. “Owes me some new tires. Drives like a maniac.” His tone is heightened. He’s trying to obfuscate something, but Emma doesn’t break her stare. Hank bites his lip, concerned.

Connor looks down. The pavement flashes red. He tucks one hand behind his back, as if that can stop the feeling building inside, and another to the coin in his pocket.

What if what if what if what if?

[DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE. ALL SYSTEMS FUNCTIONING.]

But that can’t be right. Because his vision is blurring -- breaking into prisms of light as all the magma in his chest finally reaches his optical components.

He turns away so Emma won’t see.

#dbh connor #connor rk800 #detroit become human #dbh connor x oc #dbh connor x reader #dbh #kathryn writes #long post #hope the read more works D:

[nihilismdan]

say you won’t let go.

word count: 1,360 warnings: mentions of anxiety. summary: Dan worries too much about school and the future, but that's okay because Phil has sleepytime tea and a safe place to stay. ao3 link: [ x ] a/n: under the cut.

a/n: this fic happened because i had a migraine and my daily crisis about my own school and reading a lot of medical textbooks that don't make a lot of sense, but hey it's a learning process.

One day he won’t feel so sleep deprived, Dan tells himself as he looks over a paragraph in a law book that he’s swears he’s read a thousand times, but he just can’t seem to retain the information. They have a test tomorrow and he has to nail it but it’s late and there’s only so much coffee he can drink, but he can fall asleep right now. He knows that he should be heading to his dorm, it’s late and Phil has to do some things tomorrow morning and he doesn’t want to be bother but he also doesn’t want to live either.

The sound of a cup being placed on the table by his head makes him snap his eyes open and he sees that Phil has already made him a cup of tea. He smiles down at Dan and places a hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “It’s a sleepy time tea,” he sits next to Dan and grabs the textbook and highlights it for Dan to remember to read and places a sticky note so he can remember his place and then closes it.

“Come on,” He rubs Dan’s back and it feels really nice and assuring and Dan kind of just wants to stay in this moment a little while longer. There’s a headache- or maybe a migraine? He doesn’t know, but it’s prominent and his left eye is hurting pretty bad and his vision has gone a little blurry from a mixture of tiredness and closing one eye to focus.

“Drink that and let’s go to bed,” Phil persists, and Dan looks at him again and nods his head, grabbing the mug and taking a few sips of it. There’s a part of him that wants to cry, he wants to do well in this but there’s another part of him that’s struggling with the fact that he doesn’t want to learn this because when will he ever use it? He doesn’t want to be a lawyer -- but then that ever growing of anxiety of, if not a lawyer, then what? It’s not that it was particularly hard for him to understand these concepts, sure the reading was a little boring he just wasn’t motivated. It was a constant cycle of not knowing what to do and being pulled in other directions.

“A couple more sips,” Phil encourages again and Dan gives him a look that says, a couple more sips of sleepy time tea isn’t gonna make me automatically go to sleep or take away this anxiety.

Phil knows that, it’s just the thought of it that really counts, often thinking back to the times during school that his mother would place a cup of sleepytime tea when Phil had been up studying in the late hours of the night when he just needed to go to bed now, wake up early in the morning and get it done. Those are the fond memories of school that he carries with him, the warmth of a mother that was looking out for her son.

“Is that enough for you?” Dan teases, taking a few more sips and Phil looks, speculating it before shrugging. “Yeah. Yeah I suppose so,” and he gets up, grabbing Dan by the hand and he turns off the light to the kitchen and they walk to Phil’s bedroom.

Phil grabs one of his bigger and baggier shirts and throws it to Dan who catches it. Dan stares down at it as if it’ll give him the answers to life’s biggest questions. God, he’s so tired, he doesn’t want to lift his arms. He sighs heavily, the kind of exhausted sigh that you do when things get to be too much. Phil hears it and must read his mind because he walks over to his boyfriend and looks at him for a second before nodding and lifting the shirt over Dan’s head and helping him change into the other shirt.

“Do you want me to change your pants?” Phil asks lightly and Dan smirks at him a little.

“You perv,” Dan jokes but shakes his head, and it hurts to do that, but he eventually unbuttons his pants and slowly takes them off and throws them on the ground and kind of looks at Phil as if what to do next. He didn’t feel alive, or didn’t feel real and it wasn’t scaring him it just made him feel a little uneasy.

“Bed,” Phil takes his hand again and they collapse on the bed and Phil pulls Dan in who’s a bit taller, a bit bigger, but tonight feels so small.

“I’ve set an alarm to wake us both up a little earlier to work on some of your stuff before your test,” Phil whispers to Dan, who has now placed his hands over Phil’s.

“Okay,” Dan says with a yawn and it makes them both laugh.

There are some days when it’s too much. The fear of the unknown was too much. There are days where Dan wishes that there was some guide when it came to life because he felt like he was doing it all wrong. He was constantly being torn by things that didn’t make sense, and it felt like he was trying to learn a different language looking at his textbooks sometimes because there are things he didn’t understand and he knows that he could get it, he was smart, just not the best when it came to time management when he wanted to do other things. He looked at Phil sometimes and felt so inadequate, he had already completed everything he needed to do and got his degree and whenever someone asked them what they did and where they went to school Dan had awkwardly stood there and smiled as they listed their set of accomplishments and all Dan could say was that he had gotten an unconditional offer at University. He wanted someone to be proud of him, even proud of the small accomplishments that seemed minimal and he knows deep down that at least Phil was proud of him, he just hadn’t said it. Dan hated that he sometimes needed that kind of confirmation but he did.

“School is exhausting,” Dan muttered, getting in that point where he could fall asleep.

“I know,” Phil held him a little tighter, “but don’t think about the big picture. Just focus on one thing at a time.” He knew that it was easier said than done but after his parents drilling that into him he eventually started to practice it.

It wasn’t the advice Dan wanted to hear, but he was grateful all the same.

“Love you,” Phil kissed the back of his head and drew circles on the places he could reach just to remind him that he was there. Over the course of knowing and being with Dan he was learning Dan’s love language and what worked with Dan when it came to calming him down. He didn’t always show that he was hurt about things that haunted him, other times Phil felt like he could read him like a book.

Dan, though half asleep, smiled hearing him say that he loved him, even after being mute most of the night, and babbling on about things that seemed trivial, and groaning when he didn’t understand and saying he didn’t need help, and pushing Phil away when he didn’t want to be touched, he really felt it, and he knew that it was because he hadn’t been sleeping well the past couple of weeks, but he could cry about

“I love you too.” The words didn’t seem so scary to say anymore as they did the first time. He was glad that in his little world where a lot of things didn’t make sense, and the amount of confusion he had about a future and where he’d be in it, that this, right here, being in Phil’s arms did make sense. It was a steady and consistent thing to an anxious heart.

“Tomorrow we’ll wake up and try again.” It’s the last thing Dan hears before he eventually drifts off into sleep.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #phan fluff