Chapter Text
He ignores the first phone call, barely glancing from his controller to see a distorted close up of Phil’s face flash onto his lock screen.
Phil Lester Calling…
“Great timing, loser,” he mutters, grunting a little as he rounds a tight corner towards the mario kart finish line. He frowns as the phone continues to ring, but his face melts easily into a pleased grin when he speeds past the finish line into first place.
He scoops up his phone from where it’s balanced in the crease of the couch, and he startles when it buzzes in his hand. Flushed cheeks and crossed eyes fill up the screen again in Phil’s second call in a minute and Dan feels himself succumbing to concern. He thumbs the accept button.
“Ringing me at the office in the middle of my busy work day, how unprofessional” Dan jokes, tapping anxiously at the table top.
“Is this Daniel Howell?” An unfamiliar female voice questions and he sits up straight.
“Yes, who’s this? Why have you got Phil’s phone?” He asks, and he’s halfway standing without really knowing why.
“I’m afraid Philip was in an accident, auto versus pedestrian earlier today, and we’re overseeing his care here-”
Dan’s head feels fuzzy, each word a cotton ball jammed into his ears, sentences becoming less and less distinct. The TV monitor’s still on but it feels too far away to be real.
His lungs feel like paper bags punched through, and he holds a hand to his chest instinctively.
“I’m sorry - I’m sorry, what? Phil was-” he starts, feeling stupid and numb.
“In an accident, sir, please stay calm, he’s being looked after right now, he’s in extremely capable hands” she assures him in even, soothing tones. Dan’s swallowing too many times over the persistent lump in his throat, and soothing isn’t even touching him.
“How do you have his phone he would-he’d call me, wouldn't… Phil’s almost as weird about his phone as I am, he wouldn’t- are you not letting him make calls?”
“He’s-” she hesitates, and Dan can hear her breath hitch, her next sentence capped off last second. Dan can feel his leg muscles flutter like they’re going to give out.
“What, what is he?” Dan prompts, feeling desperation like honey clogging his throat, clinging and thick.
“He was in no state to call, I’m afraid. Don’t be alarmed please, I’d just like to know your relation to the patient as emergency contact, and if anyone can be down here to sign some paperwork and see him through his surgery, I-”
Dan lets out a high, manic laugh.
“Surgery? Patient? This is…” he trails off, choking on his own fractured laughter and noting for the first time that his face is wet with tears.
The woman hesitates again. He’s struck by the disconnect between them. She sounds young and so, so far away.
“Will you be able to make it to hospital, or…?” she sounds much less rehearsed now.
“Of course, yeah, yes. I’m his flat mate and. Friend. Close friend,” he stutters over the half truth but can’t summon the usual pang of regret.
They exchange information and directions to the hospital and Dan tries not to shatter, wondering why Phil was so far from their flat and what he was doing, why he wasn’t looking. Sobs creep up his throat and threaten to spill out. He can feel that he’s moments away from letting them.
“Is he okay, is he awake?” Dan asks, trying (and failing) for polite composure.
“He’s unconscious. We had to medicate him - he was having trouble breathing due to his broken ribs. We didn’t want to risk puncturing a lung if he started to hyperventilate.”
His facade slips, breath coming out in choppy gasps.
“Right, of course. I-I’m coming, don’t take him into surgery until I get there, please” he gets out, and hangs up.
His phone slips through stiff fingers, bouncing off the couch and onto the carpet.
Dan fists both hands in his hair, gives himself a minute to shake. His heart jumps painfully at the idea of happily playing video games 10 minutes ago.
Panic spikes through him after another moment of stillness, pulsing hot and forcing him into action. His eyes catch on pieces of Phil dotting the space around him, their life together suddenly a horrific taunt that he might lose it.
What would he even do if Phil died? He physically shakes his head, refusing to consider something so frighteningly plausible and refusing to be pulled under the black tide of dread those kinds of thoughts usually bring.
He can’t even fathom how much he would lose.
His professional and personal lives would be demolished in one fell swoop and the response from the world would be exactly as overwhelming as he didn’t need when he was inevitably devastated.
His mind spirals down dark hallways of thought, crying over Phil’s broken body, holding himself back from cradling his head lest someone be watching. (regretting that decision for every late night after). Watching his perfect stupid lopsided smile fade to nothing. Having to walk out of the hospital and into a life as one half of a duo. Calling Phil’s mum. Falling into a depression, follower count dropping to zero when the world lost interest, having to sell his flat because he couldn’t look at house plants without losing his breath.
Dan shakes his hands out like he can feel a Phil-less reality reeling him in, clammy hands taking his.
He grabs his keys and wipes angrily at his eyes, taking the stairs down to the front door and trying not to slam it behind him.
He can’t usually focus on a good day, but now he’s pocketing and un-pocketing his phone, increasingly horrible scenarios brushing the sides of his consciousness. Waiting for a cab to come and make him feel less still and susceptible to paranoia.
Dan’s eyes skim the oppressive greyness of the horizon and he counts in his head, half trying to calm himself down, half timing the taxi service with increasing worry.
When the driver pulls up beside him, Dan’s a frazzled mess of gangly limbs, short, frustrated sentences and red rimmed eyes.
The trip is impossibly slow, and Dan keeps missing the drivers questions, too busy watching street signs whizz by, waiting for a hospital exit.
He drops a few notes into the passenger seat when they came to a stop, patting awkwardly at the window in some semblance of a thank you. It’s a mad rush after that, adrenaline carrying him through something like exercise, darting through automatic doors and long, narrow corridors, the smell of antiseptic and plastic making him feel dizzy.
Dan can’t recall an instance where he understood tunnel vision so completely, his limbs organizing themselves in some miracle around bustling patients and wheeling carts, eyes fixed on the help desk.
“I got a call about Phil Lester, I was told to come here? I don’t know if he’s okay, I need to see him as soon as possible please” he says, all in a rush.
A stocky man with tired eyes glances up at him from a lap full of scribbles and post it notes.
“Sorry? Oh, patient name?” He asks, sitting up straighter and sliding on glasses along with a modicum of professionalism.
“Phil Lester” Dan says impatiently, drumming his fingers on the countertop.
“Right, sorry uhh, he’s upstairs in prep, can I-”
“What floor?” Dan interrupts.
“Three. Elevators to the left.”
And then he’s back in motion, up shaky looking elevators and down yet more hallways, coming to another desk with a fragile looking woman behind it.
“Phil Lester. Please.” Dan says shortly.
The woman looks startled, dropping one side of the folder she’s browsing so it flops shut.
“Oh. You’re Mr Howell! I’m glad you could make it so quickly,” she enthuses, but the sentiment falls short.
He nods, expectant.
“And… where is Phil?” He asks, voice suddenly small.
“They wheeled him up to surgery, we got in touch with his family for consent. I didn’t realize you were just roommates, I’m afraid you can’t see him until he’s out.”
Dan’s heart sinks. He still doesn’t correct her.
“I just wanted to see him. He shouldn’t have been alone.” He never leaves me alone, he didn’t say.
The woman looks vaguely apologetic.
“If you want to come back in a couple of hours…?” She trails off as Dan shakes his head.
“No, I need to stay.”
She gives him the strangest bittersweet smile, and gestures towards sickly green plastic chairs, spaced too closely together.
He mutters, “thanks” and walks over, easing down and letting his body curl into itself a little, stress showing in every line of his body.
There’s a weird tension between him and the woman at the desk, distance too short to be as silent as it is. He’s starting to get shooting pains up his back from being so tense and the thought only winds him up further, a rope taut to breaking.
He doesn’t want to cry in this shitty waiting area but he thinks maybe Phil would make just the right jokes and knead his shoulders and make this bearable. He exhales through his nose, wills himself not to scroll through their text conversations and peruse his photo roll (70% Phil) just to make himself feel.
He waits, and the sun may or may not be going down, but the light and temperature stay cold and modulated - just like he hasn’t been today. He thinks maybe he’d rather be anywhere else. But Phil’s on this floor somewhere. So maybe not.