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Daniel Francis Howell passed away peacefully in his sleep in his London home on June 18th at the age of 82. He is survived by his sister, Lucy, two children, seven grandchildren, and his beloved cat, Aslan. His hilarious commentary and homemade cookies will be missed by his students and colleagues at the University of Oxford.
“Morning, baby.” Dan sounds almost like he’s singing as he emerges from their bedroom and makes a beeline for the coffee machine. He doesn’t need to ask what Phil wants anymore, which is good, because Phil doesn’t think he could answer. He’s sitting at the dining room table with his head in his hands, hunched over the obituary of a man he never met. There’s something striking about it, something horrifying.
Obituaries: Daniel Howell.
Phil wants to throw something, or throw up, or cry.
He wonders how the surviving family of this professor would feel if they knew that some random man was on the brink of tears over his obituary, just because he happened to have the same fairly common name as the love of his life.
“I had the strangest dream last night,” says Dan – his Daniel Howell, who is not dead, against all odds, “I was hiking, believe it or not, with my brother of all people. I think you were there too, you must have been, and we were losing our minds, because we kept hearing the anthem of the USSR — hey.”
Once he turns around, Dan notices immediately that something is wrong. That is either a testament to how well Dan knows him, or proof of how visibly Phil is holding on by a single flimsy thread.
“Phil, did something happen? What’s wrong?”
Still, Phil says nothing. He can’t. If he opens his mouth, he’s pretty sure that nothing will come out except sobs and screams.
But he can’t hide from Dan that easily. He feels a bit awful about it. Dan has been so happy ever since the video came out, uplifted by the support that he’s been getting online and in real life. He’s happier and freer than Phil has ever seen him, and as he leans over Phil’s shoulder to see what he’s reading, Phil hates the idea that it might all come crashing down.
He’s not giving Dan enough credit, though. Dan isn’t fragile. Maybe he never was. Dan lets out a soft oh, then pulls out the chair next to Phil.
“We never talked about it,” he says. His voice isn’t quiet, but it’s a very specific tone, something gentle, yet firm and hard to argue with. Phil wonders if this is how Dan’s therapist talks to him, if that’s where he gets it. “About the video, and the, uh… various revelations therein.”
Phil is too sad to laugh, but the corners of his mouth quirk up. “I can’t believe you just said various revelations therein.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m an asshole,” says Dan. He looks at Phil’s hand where it rests on the table, then covers it with one of his hands. Dan’s hand is bigger, and it’s warm in a way that Phil will never take for granted again. “Do you want to talk about it?” Phil nods. “Can you look at me?”
Phil takes a deep breath for five seconds, holds it for five seconds, and lets it out. It doesn’t fix anything, it doesn’t change the fact that Dan wanted to die when he was a child, but it does make Phil feel a bit less like he’s been buried alive right now. So that’s good.
He gets up the courage, finally, to look Dan in the eyes, and it helps immediately that his misery doesn’t seem to be contagious. Dan is steady beside him, his brown eyes sparkling like gold in the midday light of their kitchen. He smiles softly, a comfort and a prompt.
“I’m looking for the right words,” says Phil.
“I’m not sure they exist,” says Dan, “but take your time.”
Phil hums. The first thing that comes into his head is why didn’t you tell me? but that can’t be his first question. It sounds too selfish, even petty, and besides, he’s not actually bothered by the fact that he didn’t know. If Phil had known, he might have been able to help Dan, but that’s the only reason that he resents Dan’s silence, and even then, he’s not sure what kind of help he could have offered. Probably not much more than he’s offering right now.
“Would it sound stupid,” Phil starts, “to say that I’m really happy you didn’t kill yourself?”
Dan lets out a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. “That doesn’t sound stupid at all. I’m pretty ecstatic about it myself.”
“I don’t… I don’t want to imagine a world without you, Dan. But I have been, I’ve been thinking, and now—” He gestures towards the obituary. His voice starts to break.
“Shhhh.” Dan leans over so that he’s almost falling out of his chair, a chair that barely fits him in the first place, and wraps his arms around Phil. “You never have to imagine that, Phil. I’m not going anywhere.”
Somewhere, distantly, a world away, the coffee machine spits and sputters, announcing that Phil’s morning vanilla cappuccino is finished. Neither of them moves to get it. It feels like a stupid thing to even notice in a moment like this.
“Can I ask you a question?” Phil asks, “Something that’s kind of scary?”
Dan nods. “Of course.”
It’s only when Phil has leave to ask that he realizes he really, really does not want to. He’s terrified of the answer. But still, he has to know. It’ll haunt him forever if he doesn’t ask, and he’ll weave nightmares out of nothing.
“When you were struggling with depression a few years ago, before you started going to therapy… were you suicidal then?”
Dan takes a deep breath and lets it out, just like Phil had. And Phil wants to crumple onto the floor. The fact that Dan doesn’t answer immediately tells Phil in no uncertain terms that the answer is not no.
“Short answer, no,” says Dan.
“And the long answer?” Phil whispers.
“Still no,” says Dan, “I had it in the back of my head, but more in the sense of it being something that I absolutely must not do. Does that make sense?”
Phil nods. He tries to match Dan’s energy, although he’s completely baffled by Dan’s ability to address this in a straightforward, honest way, like he’s discussing something with no emotional significance at all. He’s heard Dan talk about British politics with more unrestrained passion than he’s using right now.
Phil asks, “How is that different from how you felt in high school?”
Dan hums. “I guess it’s not, really. But the reasons that I wasn’t going to do it were different. When I was a teenager, I was pretty much only not going to kill myself because it would make my grandma sad. Which, don’t get me wrong, is perfectly valid. I mean, whatever keeps you going at the end of the day. But during the time that you’re remembering, it was like… one of those really hot lamps that’s kind of interesting to look at, and then right as you’re about to touch it, you feel that it’s too hot, and it’ll burn you if you do. I would think about it for maybe three seconds, and then immediately stop, because I did have faith that things would get better. It’s… how do I explain this? Before we met, I was terrified of living but kept doing it anyway. But I promise you that even when I was in the deepest pits of depression, I didn’t want to die. Not when I had you and our life. Even in my darkest times, I still had something guiding me towards the end of the tunnel.”
“I’m sorry,” Phil blurts out, “I’m sorry that… that I didn’t notice, that I didn’t know bad it was, I—”
Dan interrupts him. “Phil, stop. You did notice. You did know how bad it was, and you encouraged me to get the help I needed.”
“I wish we’d met earlier,” says Phil, who has never been one to let go of a subject once he has his teeth in it, “I wish we could have been friends in school, or even fallen in love back then.”
“Are you still four years older than me in this alternate universe?” Dan asks, a smile playing at his lips, “Because that’s a little problematic, Phil.”
“Don’t be a dick,” says Phil, laughing lightly anyway, “You know what I mean. Maybe I could have… made the kids at your school pick on you a bit less or given you someone to talk to. I mean, I’m not trying to have a weird hero complex, I just… I wish I could have helped you.”
There’s a beat of dead silence in which neither of them says anything. Phil avoids Dan’s gaze, choosing instead to stare down at his hands where his fingers are intertwined, white knuckles on white knuckles. Dan isn’t having it, though. He puts his pointer finger under Phil’s chin, lifting his head just enough for their eyes to meet. Dan isn’t just smiling, it’s as if every single one of his features has opened up. Phil knows how he must be looking at Dan; like the sun shines out of his dimple, which it might as well.
“Phil. Philip Michael Lester, you ridiculous, ridiculous man.”
“I’m being serious!” Phil protests.
“I know,” says Dan, “I know, and I love you for it. Phil, on our very first Skype call, you referred to yourself as gay out loud and didn’t even comment on my jaw hitting the floor. You waited for me at the train station. You spent time with me, you listened to me, you made me laugh. That first day that we spent together, and every day since then, you made me a home. Even when I didn’t feel safe with myself or with anyone else, I always felt safe with you. What world are you living in where you didn’t help me?”
Phil has wanted to cry for the better part of the last ten minutes, so much so that he barely notices when a tear finally makes its way down his cheek. Dan coos softly, and kisses it away. The familiar feeling pulls an unlikely laugh from Phil.
“You’re really not letting me feel guilty about anything, are you?” he asks.
“Because you have nothing to feel guilty for,” says Dan, “The opposite.”
“Then why—” Phil cuts himself off. It’s the question that he promised he wouldn’t ask, because it doesn’t matter, not really, not anymore. If it ever did.
Dan raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t I tell you?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” says Phil, “I can only imagine how difficult it is to talk about any of this, I don't blame you for keeping it to yourself.”
“I know I don’t have to answer it,” says Dan, “But I’m going to. At least, as best as I can. I… I want to. I want to tell you. I trust you.”
“Okay,” says Phil.
“The truth is that I wasn’t even honest with myself about how I felt back then for the longest time,” Dan says quietly, “Because acknowledging how I felt would have meant acknowledging why. Whether that meant being gay, or being depressed, or whatever else I was hiding from, it all would have unraveled.”
“Okay. I get that,” says Phil, “But… you didn’t even want to tell me about it now? Before posting the video?”
“No,” says Dan, “I was worried that if I didn’t get it all out like I’d planned, all at once, it would just stay stuck. Does that make sense?”
Phil nods. It does make sense. “And I didn’t do anything to make you feel like you couldn’t talk to me?”
“Not in the slightest,” Dan murmurs, “I don’t think I ever would have been able to talk about it at all if you hadn’t made me feel like I could. And just because I chose not to confide in you about this particular thing doesn’t mean that I didn’t feel safe doing so. I just decided to go a different way.”
Phil nods again. He feels a bit like a bobblehead, shaking uselessly, unable to do anything more meaningful. “Okay.”
“Do you feel a bit better now?” Dan asks.
“I do,” says Phil.
“Are you sure?” Dan asks.
Dan asks twice, because he knows Phil, better than anyone else. He knows that sometimes Phil defaults to being okay because it’s easier, because it takes up less space or time. Phil wants everything to be peaceful so badly that sometimes, he pretends to have reached that point before he’s really gotten there, just to make whatever terrible thing he’s dealing with go away.
It’s not a smart thing to do, or a particularly mature one. He’s done it less and less the older he’s gotten, which is good, because every time he pushes something down, it comes back to haunt him anyway, usually twice as harshly as it would have been if he’d just been honest with himself in the first place.
Even Phil can’t be whimsical all the time. He can’t pretend to be unburdened while carrying something heavy around on his shoulders. And he doesn’t have to.
“Maybe not,” he admits, and it takes more strength than it must seem to, from the outside. “But I will be. Just… give me some time.”
Dan’s smile is a reassurance. “We have all the time in the world,” he says, “Except that your coffee has probably gotten cold.”
Phil laughs in pure, undiluted relief. “You can make me another one, can’t you?”
Dan sighs, and rolls his eyes. “Fine. On one condition.”
“Which is?” says Phil.
“Give me that.” Dan gestures at the obituaries page, which Phil is still holding. It takes him a moment – he hesitates and struggles, his heart flutters in his chest – but finally, he hands it over.
Dan looks it over for one second, two. Obituaries: Daniel Howell. And then he shreds it right down the middle.