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For his part, Phil is having a perfectly nice dream when it happens. He's dreaming that he found a bar of gold in his cereal box. He's in his university dorm. For some reason, Dan is there, looking like he did in 2009. There are a few other people there, blurrier, less prominent, but Phil's pretty sure once he wakes up that he at least remembers PJ and his mum.
Someone suggests trading it in at one of those pawn shops where you can trade gold for cash, but the idea makes Phil sad. In his dream, he just wants to keep the bar of gold on a nice shelf, where he can look at it and show it off to guests.
Then, he wakes up.
Phil gets woken up by the sound of Dan gasping. He has a hand pressed to his chest. Even in the darkness, Phil can see that his eyes are bulging in terror. His hair is unstraightened, curling over his forehead, and now does not feel like an appropriate time to be finding Dan this beautiful.
"Dan?" Phil asks, tentative, "What's wrong?"
Phil knows what's wrong. Dan had a nightmare. Phil knows this because it's the second one this week.
Dan has always been a bit of a fussy sleeper, not like Phil. Phil sleeps like someone installed on off button on the base of his neck when he wasn't looking. But Dan talks to himself in his sleep, tosses and turns, and will occasionally have a dream so vivid that he wakes up thinking he's still in it. And he'll have night terrors, he'll think there's someone in the house.
What he doesn't usually do is wake up screaming. That's a new development, but when it rains, it pours. This is the second time this week. It's Wednesday.
Phil tries to comfort him, bringing a hand to Dan's shoulderblade to ground him. Dan flinches as if he's been burnt, recoiling so suddenly that he almost falls out of bed. He catches himself with a high-pitched yelp, gripping at the sheets. Phil wants to help him not fall, but he's afraid that if he touches Phil again, he'll make things worse.
Eventually, Dan gets himself on solid ground again. The adrenaline of almost falling must have snapped him out of something, because when he looks back at Phil, his gaze is soft and familiar, like Phil is used to.
"Sorry," Phil says, "Didn't mean to scare you."
"Not your fault," Dan says simply. He's still out of breath.
Phil just sits there, feeling useless. He wants to touch Dan, to hold him. He doesn't know if he's allowed yet, but he doesn't know how else to help.
"Do you… want to talk about it?" he suggests.
He knows the answer to that question, too. It's no. Dan doesn't want to talk. Dan wants to forget. He always does. So really, Phil could have predicted what Dan says next.
"It's not helping, Phil." When Phil says nothing, Dan elaborates, as if the problem is that Phil doesn't know what he means. "Therapy. It's not helping."
Phil sighs. It's not as if he didn't see this coming.
Last month, he'd been playing MarioKart alone on the couch when Dan had padded out from the second bedroom in his fuzzy socks and the pyjamas that he'd been wearing for the last three days. He'd been having one of his bad days, though Phil was ashamed to admit that he'd stopped keeping count. The good days were few and far between, and a month later, they still are.
When Dan is feeling depressed, Phil does everything he can do to take care of him. But he's discovered that after making sure Dan bathes, eats and takes at least a few steps outside, it's possible for Phil to overstay his welcome and push Dan too hard. It isn't reasonable for him to expect his depressed boyfriend to behave like a performing seal. Besides, taking naps during the day is good for Dan, since Phil knows he's not sleeping at night.
Which is how Phil ended up spending that early afternoon alone on the couch, playing MarioKart.
Dan looked exhausted, pale and sick, with raccoon style eye bags and a distinct lack of spark in the eyes themselves. He'd laid down on the couch, resting his head on Phil's thigh. Phil had put the controller down. Playing on his own with a group of strangers wasn't as fun, anyway.
"You alright, Danny?" he'd asked, trying his best to sound casual. Dan coming out of his room had to be a good thing, right?
Dan murmured against Phil's thigh. His voice came out muffled, but Phil heard him. "Can't be alone right now," he said, "I'm… I dunno."
"What, Dan?" Phil prompted, close to certain that he knew what Dan is trying to say but needing to hear it anyway.
He could feel Dan swallow, where his throat bobbed. "I feel like I need to be around someone or I might end up doing something really stupid."
Phil had gotten a mouthful of sand. His hands felt clammy. Seventeen thousand emotions hit him all at once. Guilt, for one. What the hell was he thinking, leaving Dan to fend for himself? Fear. Anger.
Horribly, and not for the first time, he really wanted to shake Dan and tell him to get his shit together. And of course, that was awful. He knew that that's not how depression works, and that none of this was Dan's fault.
All of this rushed through him all at once. The good news was that Phil did a really good job of not voicing any of it. The bad news was that what he did instead was gently stroke Dan's sweaty curls — he didn't know how long it had been since Dan had washed his hair last — and mutter, "It's alright. I've got you."
Useless at best, patronizing at worst. Dan didn't respond to it at all.
"I don't think I can live like this anymore, Phil."
He elaborated just slowly enough that Phil's heart had time to fall and break into pieces. His gentle hand in Dan's hair became more of a grip, as if he was afraid that Dan would disappear if he wasn't physically holding onto him.
"I think I need some help."
Immediately, Phil's terror was overtaken by just as much relief. "A doctor, you mean?"
Dan nodded. He sat up, leaning his head against Phil's shoulder this time. Phil snaked an arm around Dan's waist.
"Yeah. Just someone to talk to. About… stuff."
Phil had smiled weakly, wishing that he knew what stuff meant. He'd picked up bits and pieces over the years, mostly past midnight on nights when they couldn't sleep, or when both of them were feeling emotionally vulnerable for one reason or another.
He knew that Dan had had an impossible childhood, that no one was as kind to him as he deserved. He'd told Phil before that he hadn't felt like he had a space that was truly safe until he'd walked into Manchester Piccadilly in 2009.
Maybe that's why the idea of Dan seeing a therapist makes Phil feel a bit jumpy. He's always been the person who takes care of Dan. There's a difference, though, between the things he feels and the things he acts upon. Phil can acknowledge that Dan seeking professional help is a good thing. Both for Dan, who deserves support from someone who actually knows what they're doing, and for Phil, who isn't a one-man support system and shouldn't be treated as such.
Even if it makes Phil feel useful. Even if stepping away makes him feel a bit like he failed.
Two weeks after that, Dan had walked into his first therapy session. And two weeks after that, he's sitting here, in their bed at what can't be five in the morning, saying that therapy isn't working.
"I think you just need to give it more time, Dan," Phil offers.
Dan scoffs. He's been angrier recently, too. "It's not even that it's not working, Phil. It's not that I'm not getting my desired results, it's that I'm actively getting worse."
"I know," says Phil.
"I mean, does that make any sense to you? That I was doing better before I went to therapy than I am now?"
Phil can't help it. Before he has the chance to stop himself, he lets out an incredulous snort. Dan looks at him like he's been wounded, which doesn't seem fair. If he's allowed to be a dickhead, Phil should be allowed, too.
"Dan," he says, gently but firmly, "You were not doing better a month ago than you are right now."
"Phil, I'm terrified and I'm angry all the time," says Dan, "I know you've noticed."
"And before, you were completely numb. You barely got out of bed. I worried all the time that you were going to do something to hurt yourself."
Phil's not sure he meant to say that, especially when Dan's face crumples with guilt, but he doesn't regret it. He had to say it eventually.
"I'm sorry," Dan mutters, "I didn't want you to worry about me."
"How am I supposed to not worry about you, Dan?" Phil asks, "I love you." And apparently, loving someone who's sick means staying up late in an empty room, hoping and praying to a god you've never believed in to take all his pain away, even if it has to end up on your shoulders. "And I don't want you to apologize, either. I just want you to feel alright."
"I don't know how to do that," says Dan.
"Well." Phil keeps his voice gentle, but he's not sure there's a nice way to say what he needs to say. "You could start by going to therapy for more than two weeks."
Thankfully, Dan laughs. Phil realizes, in a way that doesn't quite feel real, that he hasn't heard Dan laugh in a long, long time. It's one of his favorite noises. He wishes he could bottle it up and save it for the next time he needs a boost.
"Okay. Point taken."
"Can I — as someone who has no idea what the hell I'm talking about — offer my theory of what's happening here, and why you're not doing well?"
"You mean, other than the fact that it's only been two weeks?" says Dan.
"Yeah, besides that," says Phil.
"Go ahead," says Dan.
Phil chooses his words very, very carefully, not because he's afraid of setting Dan off, but because he wants to handle this issue with the sensitivity that it deserves.
"I think," he starts, "That you've probably spent the last two sessions talking through some things that you've spent a really long time trying not to think about. And that the fact of talking about them has forced you to think about them, and that's what's giving you nightmares and putting you on edge. But I think it will get easier. I know it will, because if it didn't, there wouldn't be so many therapists in the world and they wouldn't be making so much money. Meanwhile, continuing to not address anything isn't an option, which you know, because you're the one who told me that you needed help."
Dan says nothing for a few moments. He takes a deep breath. "I'm sick of feeling like this," he admits.
"I know," says Phil, "I don't want you to feel like this, either." After a few more seconds of Dan saying nothing, he continues, "And if this isn't the therapist for you, or if you want to try another kind of therapy, that's alright. I'll always support you a hundred percent. Even if you're really, really set on quitting, I can't stop you. I just really want you to give it a fair shot. Give yourself a fair shot."
Phil can tell he's touched on something there. Because it's true. Dan isn't really talking about giving up on therapy. He's talking about giving up on himself.
Dan sighs. "What if I keep having nightmares?"
"I'll be right here to take care of you." Phil realizes belatedly that it's a bit presumptuous of him to assume that his mere presence would be enough to calm Dan after a nightmare, but judging by the way he nestles into the crook of Phil's neck, Dan seems at least open to the idea. "I'll make you hot cocoa and sit and talk with you, whatever you need."
A soft hum vibrates against the base of Phil's neck. "Can't be fun for you."
"No," Phil says honestly, "But it's not fun for you, either. We're in this together." When Dan says nothing, Phil fills the silence.
"I am desperately in love with you, Dan Howell. And I plan to take care of you for as long as we both live. Maybe longer, if they let beginners get involved with the embalming process."
Dan laughs. Quiet, a bit resigned, but a second laugh nonetheless. "Oh, so you plan to outlive me, then?"
"You've made it very clear that you have no plan to live to the age of six hundred with me," says Phil.
"We'll see."
Dan lifts his head slightly, just enough to look Phil in the eye. He almost seems suspicious.
He blurts out, "When I was in school, I went to a music festival with a group of friends and one guy threatened to set a tent on fire while I slept in it. That's what I was thinking about when I woke up. I— I didn't even dream about it, I don't think… it was strange. I woke up and I felt like it had just happened. It was fresh on my mind."
Phil tamps down his first instinct, which is to get up off the couch and go find someone to fight. He also tamps down his second instinct, which is to tell Dan that he's okay. Because he's not, and Phil doesn't get to decide that he is.
Instead, he brushes his fingers through Dan's hair, right by the shell of his ear. He considers it a victory when Dan shivers and lets out a little hum.
"I'm so sorry that happened to you," Phil says softly. His voice sounds a bit like he's about to cry, which he might be. "Do you want to talk about it some more?" Dan shakes his head. "How can I help you?" Phil asks.
"Just hold me a little longer," says Dan.
Phil wraps his arms around Dan more tightly, keeping him safe like a beautiful butterfly, just waiting to come out of his cocoon. He's wanted to hold Dan like this since they woke up, and was just waiting to be invited.
He kisses Dan's forehead and says, "I've got you, love," right there, against his soft skin.
Dan sighs. "I'm sorry I've been kind of mean to you," he says.
Phil sighs right back at him. Dan hasn't been mean, per se. Just a bit short, a bit snappier than usual. Dan is angry. And Phil is there. The truth is that they're almost never really mean to each other. Even in their worst of times, Phil can count the amount of actual fights they've had on one hand.
"'S alright," says Phil. It's kind of his default response to everything.
Dan rolls his eyes. "No, it's not. It's not alright and I'm going to do better."
Phil blushes. His Dan. The same man who told Phil not to worry about him five minutes ago. Love makes everyone into a hypocrite.
"Okay," says Phil, "I appreciate that. But I also don't want you to beat yourself up if you say something rude by accident, or if you snap at me after a nightmare. No one expects you to be perfect and put together while you're going through this. Least of all me."
Dan looks at Phil with what Phil can only describe as big brown baby cow eyes. "What did I ever do to deserve you?" he asks.
"Oh, Dan," says Phil, "You do deserve me, for a million reasons. But even if you didn't, I would still be here, because I love you. You don't have to earn that. It just is."
"I love you too," says Dan. The words are muffled against Phil's chest, but he would recognize them anywhere. He's lucky enough to have heard them more times than he can count. "I guess I should go back to therapy next week," says Dan.
"I think that would be a good idea," says Phil.
He wants to say more. He wants to offer to go with Dan, to hold his hand in the waiting room and take him out for sushi afterwards. But they've had that conversation already. It would be too obvious.
Phil's heart hurts.
But he does what he can. He makes sure that food is ready at the house by the time Dan gets home from every session. He holds him on the nights when he can't sleep. He gives him the space to talk when he wants to, and the freedom to stay quiet when he doesn't. Eventually, he reminds Dan to take his anti-depressants in the morning.
It takes Dan time to see it. Phil thinks it must be nearly impossible to read the label when you're inside the bottle, and he can tell that at times, Dan wonders after the point of it all. But to Phil, the changes seem astronomical.
Dan smiles more openly. He has more energy and more confidence to go out and spend time with their friends. He picks some of his old hobbies back up. He expresses himself in ways that would have seemed terrifying to him not so long ago.
Eventually, he comes to Phil with the idea of the Hard Launch. By then, he knows his depression like it's an old friend. Together, he and Phil love the good days, along with the occasional bad.
Dan comes home from his therapy session whistling the chorus of MCR's Famous Last Words. He does finger guns at Phil and immediately raids their cupboard, looking for mint Oreos.
Phil doesn't say anything. He's lost in thought.
"Hey Dan?" he finally says, when Dan is seated with a little bowl full of Oreos, "Do you really think I should go back to therapy?"
He doesn't really need to ask. Dan wouldn't say something like that jokingly. He swears by therapy. The only person he's been more commited to than his therapist is Phil.
"Yes," he says.
"Why?" Phil asks.
"Well," says Dan, "I think you have some extreme people-pleasing tendencies that translate to you not knowing how to stand up for yourself. I think your medical anxiety is taking an extreme toll on you. I think it's actually not normal to dye half of your clothing green when your partner leaves you alone for a few months. And I think your insistence that you can handle everything on your own is just another thing that you should bring up with a licensed professional."
Phil's mouth goes dry. Everything that Dan said is true. And he never quite gives it the time that it deserves, because he does want to be the kind of person who can handle everything on their own. But nobody is that kind of person.
Ironically enough — and he would never say this to Dan, doesn't want him to have anything else to feel needlessly guilty about — Phil thinks that having a partner with PTSD and depression gives him a bit of an out when it comes to dealing with his own mental health. He doesn't have problems like that, so clearly, he must not have problems at all. It's a fallacy, and it's not doing him any favors.
Phil huffs. "Why can't you just be my licensed professional? You seem to know what you're talking about."
Dan grins. "You should know that I'm grossly underqualified. I might be an expert in Phil, but not much else. And I would make you pay me."
"Woooowwww," says Phil, "And here I thought you loved me."
It's obviously a joke, but Dan smiles soflty, sentimental. He gets up from the table and comes over to Phil, kissing his temple. "I do," he says, "I do."
Phil lets himself be serious for a moment longer. "If I hate it," he says, "Or if I think I'm not getting anything out of it, I don't have to go back."
He says it mostly for himself. Not only does he know that Dan would never strongarm him into therapy, but he also doesn't think he's going to wind up in that situation. As resistant as he is to sitting in a room and talking through his problems with a therapist, he also doesn't see himself actually getting nothing from it.
"Of course not," Dan says anyway, "Though I would encourage you to give it a fair shot before you… give up on yourself."
Phil laughs. He loves having a boyfriend with a freakishly good memory.
"And… would you come with me? Just the first time? I think it would help with my nerves if you could hold my hand in the waiting room and take me out to dinner afterwards."
On top of Phil genuinely thinking it would help, he just wants Dan to be there. Because he can be. They can have that now, and Phil is still completely in love with it. Phil wants Dan to come with him and hold his hand at Waitrose.
Dan must have the same thought, because he smiles like the sun is coming out.
"I would do anything for you, Phil," he says, "We'll have Pad Thai."