blank canvas ;; phan

.:six:.

*major trigger warning: rape, abuse, and graphic depictions of self harm*

Dan checked the thin watch that wrapped his wrist; 8:30. Closing time.

"See ya, Danny Boy." He sent a dimpled smile at his tattoo-clad customer, raising his hand in a goodbye.

After locking the register and the glass door that illuminated his disheveled features (which he swore was mocking him), he kicked off his shoes next to his door and slumped into the couch, the hood of his sweatshirt sticking his hair up in the back. A clang sparked his attention, but it was only the sound of his phone falling out of his pocket. He sighed, reaching for the device on the wooden floor beneath him. Curling his knees into his chest and unlocking his phone, he checked to see if he had any messages.

Not a single one. Not even from Phil.

Fuck, he missed Phil more than he could admit. After the night Phil spent at Dan's after the incident with his father, trying to hide the fact he was crying into Dan's shoulder as the two of them pretended to sleep, he and Maggie moved in with Bianca, where they spent most of their time.

Dan spent most of his free time at the parlor, or at parties avoiding the alcohol but thoroughly enjoying the weed. He didn't want to bother Phil, but he was also terribly worried for him and Mags. He knew Phil was trying his best to include Dan; he'd occasionally stop by and give him updates on Maggie while Dan peppered kisses on his fingers. But it was never enough. He missed Phil. He missed the feeling of his inky hair between his fingers, he missed the way his tongue would stick out of the corner of his mouth when he laughed. He missed those dazzling blue eyes and the way he said his name after they kissed. He missed Phil in every way that he could think of.

But he never, even for a second, blamed Phil for the unbearable temptation in his wrists. He knew the distance was temporary, that things would be back to normal once Maggie got a bit better, but he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe it wouldn't get better. Maybe, just maybe, his three seconds of bliss were over.

He tried everything. Holding ice cubes, giving himself new tattoos, painting anything and everything that came to mind; but whatever he tried failed to take his thoughts off the feeling he yearned for of an open wound.

He grabbed his sketch book from the coffee table in front of him. The thing was old; the leather cover was tattered and peeling, the early pages dating back to his first year of sixth-form. He flipped to the first page. It was a charcoal sketch, an arm facing upwards with crimson, horizontal lines going from below the palm to the crook of the elbow. The fingers were curled as if they were in pain. Dan forgot about this particular sketch. Of course, it had been at least seven years since he drew it.

He turned the page. Sketches of his college friends and of stray cats and open windows filled up the first half of the book. After that, however, it mainly consisted of Phil. He flipped to the drawing of Phil he worked on before Maggie was in hospital. A smile tugged at his lips. Drawing Phil was like drawing the sun; sure, it's beautiful no matter how you go about it. But no matter how hard you try, you can never quite capture all of its beauty.

He looked at his phone, which sat next to him on the cream-colored sofa. He picked it up, looking at Phil's number and wondering if it would be a bad time to ring him. He glanced back at the sketch book, except it wasn't on the page he left it. In fact, he didn't remember ever drawing such an image.

It was an old bedroom, one that he hadn't occupied in almost twenty years. It wasn't very large, in fact, it was hardly big enough to cram in a small bed. The image sent goose bumps up his arms and caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up straight.

He wasn't looking at the bedroom anymore, he was in it. Or, overlooking it. He felt his stomach leap to his throat as he realized what was happening, why those shouts seemed so familiar, why there was a sudden dull ache in his chest.

The door to his left slammed open, and six-year-old Dan stumbled in, eyes puffy with tears. Dan watched in horror as his past self was followed by one of his many foster fathers, drunk and angry like the rest of them. A blow to the face, another to his stomach. Dan couldn't feel anything other than disgust, but he remembered how much it hurt when he was younger.

After he was done with him, Marvin strolled out as if nothing happened. Little Dan crawled under his covers and hugged his wounds, and the only sound was the quiet sobs of Dan's former self. A bleeding lip, two broken ribs, and a shattered heart was only a small issue in his former life.

Suddenly, the scene changed. But this one Dan could recognize immediately. It was the car park behind Dan's secondary school. Even as an adult, this place sent chills down his spine.

He looked older now. Straightened fringe covered his left eye, and a few growth spurts shot him up to almost six feet. His school uniform was disheveled, but Dan didn't give a shit about how he looked back then.

Three boys Dan once called his friends dragged him out of the back of the school by his collar. Although Dan didn't know it then, his former friends found out he'd made out with the only openly gay seventh year in their school. They surrounded him, screamed bouts of "faggot" and "bloody homo" and "go suck your dad's cock, oh wait, you don't have one". And there was Dan, watching himself be beaten out of his self-assurance, his confidence, his sexuality. After that incident, it took years for Dan to come to terms with who he really was. Who he was born as.

Another few broken ribs, another bloody lip, a black eye and a broken arm and other broken, bleeding things. Dan watched himself struggle to stand up against the grey pavement, his school uniform once white now covered in patches of crimson.

Slowly, Dan made his way over to his former self. The boys were gone now, but Dan wasn't going anywhere. He touched his bloody cheek, wiping away one of the many tears coming from his bruised eye. But younger Dan didn't notice. He just kept holding his arm, silent tears dripping from his chin.

And then he was gone. In place of Dan's younger self was a dingy hotel room. A queen-sized bed stood threateningly in the center of the dimly-lit room. Dan almost threw up at the sight.

The door slammed open, and Dan walked in. He looked almost exactly the same as he did now, except for the tattoos and some piercings. Him and his boyfriend at the time blundered in, drunk and horny. Dan didn't remember much of this night, just of what was recovered the morning after.

Prom night, year thirteen. Dan and his boyfriend, Gareth, were connected at the hip all night long. They'd rented a hotel room, and prom night was supposed to be the night Dan lost his virginity. But the mood shifted as they walked into that room.

Jared wouldn't stop. First, he ripped off Dan's tux, and then undid his own. Dan was a horrible mixture of drunk and high and who-knows-what-else to say anything other than the occasional mumble of disapproval. Jared didn't notice the tears in Dan's eyes, or maybe he didn't care. He just did as he pleased.

When he was done, Dan just laid there, staring up at the white ceiling and wanting nothing more than to die right then and there.

And Dan had to relive this all over again.

"Stop, stop, stop," he whispered from next to the bed, rocking back and forth. He couldn't take it. The single dim light illuminated the broken lump of a person under the sheets. "Please, make it stop." Of all the memories to relive, this was the one he wanted the least.

And then he was back home.

Dan didn't know how he got there, but he was sitting in his bathtub, a bloody razor sitting next to his jeans. He looked down at his arms, which were gashed open and dripping a thin stream of scarlet. He carefully searched his pockets for his phone, but found it outside of the tub on the tile floor. Reaching his arm over the rim and smearing blood on the white lip, he found his phone unlocked and in the middle of a message.

With the app opened to him and Phil's conversation, four words were typed in the box but never sent.

Phil, I need you.