I'll Leave You With The Outtakes // Phan

Part 9

Dan's family finds out on Christmas. It's the first time he's seen them in months. His mum and dad seem to know that something is wrong the moment they bluster into the flat. Phil's parents end up there twenty minutes later and rooms are filled with small talk, political discussion, and domesticity. Dan is overwhelmed, all of the smiles and hugs seem more suffocating than comforting. His arms feel too heavy, his smile too stiff. He wants to lock himself in his room until they all go away. He wants brisk fresh air to sting his lungs, and the street noise of London to wash over him, gentle as spring rain. Instead he's stuck inside. Next to Phil. Surrounded by holiday décor, food, and the crooning of Frank Sinatra Christmas songs. His breath is shallow and mind swimming with thoughts. And it's not until the parents, and Martyn and Adrian are all clustered in the kitchen doing something related to food that the reality of what he has to do finally hits Dan.

He and Phil are finally alone, the silence made so much louder by the annoying background Christmas carols.

"Do you want to tell them?" Phil asks quietly, but his voice still startles Dan, making him flinch. He stares through his lashes at the Christmas tree that is rested in the corner of the room, watching the lights run together. Lines of white-blue dancing in his vision. Dan doesn't think he can tell them, he wouldn't know what to say. Finally, Dan shakes his head. It's probably not fair to give Phil this burden, especially since it shouldn't be Phil's job. But—he's having a hard enough time breathing, much less speaking.

"Okay. I will," Phil clarifies, stiffening against the couch. Like he's steeling himself for battle somehow by fixing his posture. He calls towards the kitchen, trying to round up the various members of family and get their mums to stop chatting. Dan's counting again, saying the numbers in his head as a mantra to keep him same. It worked with the tour, surely it will work now. He's in the thousands before Phil has everyone's attention.

They stare at him worriedly from the couch. Dan thinks if he met his mum's eyes he'd break.

Phil takes a long, deep breath, and says simply, "Dan is sick."

Everyone starts talking at once. What does Phil mean by sick? And he's going to be okay, right? Has he been to the doctor yet? What about the hospital? Why are they waiting so long to mention it? Is he not going to be able to go to America for the worldwide version of the tour?

It's Adrian who asks,"Is it serious?" Dan nearly rolls his eyes, because of course it's serious. If it wasn't he wouldn't bother with all of the hubbub that he's causing, and he wouldn't be telling Phil's family for fucks sake.

"He's—,"Phil starts, but the words seem to catch in his throat.

"I'm dying,"Dan blurts out, without realizing he all but shouted the words and suddenly the entire room is sucked of sound and life. Dan closes his eyes after that because he can't stand their ugly, horrified expressions, the pity and shock in their eyes. He doesn't want pity. It's embarrassing.

And he can hear everyone talking at once but his brain refuses to turn their words into anything but rambling. Phil's thick voice is the only one registerable in the cacophony. Dan hates himself for letting Phil explain, for letting Phil play the part of his friend—or god forbid—significant other.

And they are all touching him after that, his mum is crying (and Phil's mum is crying) and Dan can't really tell who's arms are wrapping around his shoulders because he's stopped feeling.

He knows he should feel loved, that he should feel sad, or grateful to have such a supportive family.

But he doesn't feel loved.

Dan is just empty.

And weak.

-

"I wish I could go back."

Phil looks up from his laptop screen at the abrupt statement. Dan doesn't meet his eyes, he keeps staring straight ahead, his gaze not quite focused on the array of items placed across their mantel, or the Christmas tree that is still perched in the edge of the room even though the holiday ended yesterday. They'll have to pack all of the decorations away again soon. Or not—Dan supposes they could just leave them up for the entire year, only because the glimmering lights and little touches of red and green are nice to look at.

"What do you mean?,"Phil asks, he sounds cautious, almost like he's afraid to hear Dan's answer.

"I wish we could go back to 2009,"he says quietly, letting the words sink between them before carrying on,"Better yet, I wish we could just start over and forget everything that has ever happened and I don't know—begin all over again." It's something that Dan's been thinking about all too much lately. What it would be like if everything had been different, if nothing had gone wrong. How would it all have changed?

"Me—me too."

"But we can't,"the words feel like lead on Dan's tongue. They seem to heighten the contrast of the room, pulling the shadows darker and the twinkling lights of the tree vivid.

"We can't,"he repeats,"And as much as I want to, I can't. I can't Phil—can't pretend that we're suddenly okay just because I'm—I'm..."

"Sick,"Phil says flatly. Dan would've said dying, or rotting away, but no—he's sick.

"I can't forget everything that's happened, even if...I want to." Dan's soft breath punches at the soupy air. He waits for acceptance. Anger. More yelling and tears. More of something.

"I know." And what Dan gets is defeat.

"I understand...I really do."

"But you'll still cry about it later won't you?" Phil physically flinches at the words, flung at him like weapons. It seems like every word they share is a knife or a sharp blade, something intended to hurt. And they are both just so damn used to it.

"Just shut the fuck up, won't you."

"God, you're so annoying."

"Do you actually think I give a shit about what you think?"

"Look, we have to be on stage in four minutes so get over whatever you're mad at me for this time and pretend you actually enjoy my presence or we'll have much worse issues."

Dan wants to blame the twisting feeling in his gut on his new pill regime and loss of appetite. He wants to just walk away. Get out of the oversaturated room. Instead, Dan changes the subject. It's the other thing he has to tell Phil. The other revelation. "I—I made a list."

"A list?"

"Of all the things I want to do. Before...well." He can almost see each of the bulleted points running through his head, an internal list as well as a physical one. Some of them are impossible—he knows they're impossible. And a few of the goals he will never complete. Even so, he has to try.

"Dan--."

"I want to start crossing things off."

-