Work Text:
Daniel James Howell was a star student, in any way you looked at it, raised to be the king (of algebra) when he lived in a middle class suburban neighborhood. He was supposed to be doing his maths homework; grumbling, yet doing it with ease any of his classmates would kill for. Even if they were homework problems that would never matter, they all would just seem like simple stepping stones to his bright future of fame and fortune.
Daniel James Howell, however, was not doing this; he was in that part of his mind again.
He was definitely not supposed to be watching a comedy that had already flopped and practically wheezing at any light joke. No person with a sense of humor would actually laugh at this; only the the 60-year-olds that produced the show ever found anything in it funny. You could see the dead in the actor’s eyes, if you paused and looked close enough. Maybe it said something about Dan, that he was one gag away from rolling on the floor in laughter.
Dan was supposed to be doing his English homework, snorting when he was clearly not supposed to know a word that he used on the daily. He could be taking a few minute break on his phone, maybe, but soon going back to the boredom that was typing meaningless words on repeat.
He was probably not supposed to be turning off the TV; okay, maybe that part was right; and opening a window he had taken the screen out of a few weeks ago. Sliding down the roof, he subsequently shimmied down the rusted pipe connected to the equally rusted gutter, probably getting his arm infected as he accidentally stabbed/flung it against a jagged piece of wood that reached out from the wall.
Dan was supposed to be doing his chem homework, confused as to why the combination of baking soda and vinegar was mentioned, as it’s something everyone learned in Year 5. After five minutes, he would get a call from his not so smart friend PJ (as PJ himself put it, not willing to use the “dumb” label though he insisted there was nothing wrong with it) (hypocrite) (not willing to admit that either) who was begging for help, as always. He would sigh, but throw his jacket on and walk to his house in the middle of the night to show him why the world had not yet found what absolute zero is.
He was surely not supposed to be walking to the playground of his first school, reminiscing on all his happy memories with his old friends that moved away ages ago, swinging on the swings, climbing the rock wall, going down the colored slides, and wishing he were dead instead of roaming the shit world that was bound to end sometime, if not soon.
Dan was supposed to be doing his history homework. He should be mentally flipping off Christopher Columbus and his self-obsessed white ass, but glossing over the details of how America started; fuck America. He would slam his fist on his desk in anger whenever Europeans from the 16th century did something stupid, which was a surprising amount of times. He had taken to calling them “dipshit”; that’s what they were to him.
He was certainly not supposed to be lifting a medium-sized rock that laid against a tree, both natural objects unremarkable, to find a short silver pocket knife that glinted in the moonlight. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands a few times, as if he was seeing it for the first time, before slashing his wrists in quick fashion, like someone who didn’t have much time to do so. In reality, he had all night; his family didn’t care about him a lick.
Dan was supposed to be doing a lot of things, but those things weren’t on his mind right now as he listened to his blood drip and hit the dirt; he didn’t really feel anything whilst doing this routine anymore. He hadn’t for a while.
And Philip Michael Lester was supposed to be finishing up his own homework, throwing his pencil to the side after he was finished with the torture. He would push his chair from the coffee table his family made him do his homework at, even though he protested greatly for no particular reason other than his room was more “cozy”. He should be leaning back on his couch, arm wrapped around his little brother, as they watched Frozen for the umpteenth time; a “tradition”, his brother would say, though it was really just to annoy the rest of the family. Making cookies as the fire warmed the house, his mother and father dancing together as they listened to Christmas music in late April, while he made immature faces at their lovey-dovey antics.
But Phil was approaching the swing Dan was slouching in as he looked up at the stars in wonder, his awed face almost distracting enough to keep Phil’s eyes from his deep red wrists. Almost.
He helped Dan up; though the younger boy didn’t do much, just lay limp in his arms, a piece of driftwood. He let himself be carried wherever anyone wished, and Phil hated it, because he deserved so much more.
The boys laid next to each other on the park bench; Dan on the inside, so he couldn’t roll off, and Phil uncomfortably on the outside, squished against his friend/lover/whatever the hell they were. Dan had stopped bleeding a while ago, but his wrists were still stained, despite Phil’s efforts to wipe them off. They looked at each other for a few minutes, and their gazes were enough for conversation. Blue eyes screamed “you have to stop this, I love you too much for this, you’re so much better, please please please.” And yet brown eyes mumbled back, “I’m trying.” It wasn’t enough for either of them.
It never really was, even when Phil didn’t know this happened sometimes.
Continuing to sit there, unsatisfied, not gazing up at the stars but at each other, was something like hell and heaven at the same time but not earth. Phil was Dan’s sun, Dan being Phil’s moon. They could live without each other, in theory, but in this universe they were meant to be placed together. They were Dan and Phil, not Dan. And another person, Phil.
And that’s what Dan held onto; what Phil held close.