Craft (Dan & Phil)

Cat Whiskers

Dan's nightmares became more frequent now. He would wake up after endless dreams of being lost, suffocating, agony pulling at his bones. In his dreams he would find white lights blinding him and he would be lost under the sheets, the fabric tightening around him, restricting him. He would wake up, drenched in sweat in the quiet and comfort of his room and wrapped in the darkness. Sometimes he wasn't sure if a reality without Phil was any better. Somehow it seemed to be killing him far more subtly.

Even in the daylight he would hallucinate. Walking down the street he would catch glimpses of Phil in puddles on the street and for a moment Dan would try to catch on the image, but it would dry up.

In fact, Dan had begun to lose all hope in ever seeing Phil again. Eventually, Dan realised that he would have to make a video again soon if he wanted to earn anymore money. Reluctantly, Dan took out his camera and set it up.

The process was longer and more laborious than ever before. When he was finally done, Dan sat in front of the camera miserably, his posture dramatically slouched.

He took at deep breath, straightened up, smiled, and pressed record.

"Hey Internet," he began with a cheerful wave. But his heart was not in it. "Um... as most of you probably know by now, Phil recently passed away. That's- that's been really hard," he continued, losing momentum. "I haven't been on the Internet much lately. So- uh- I'm sorry if I don't, uh- post much really, anymore. I mean, for a while." Dan trailed off.

"Anyway," he continued pulling out a black marker. "So I thought- in memory of Phil- I'd draw cat whiskers-" He stopped. He had, at least, not lost the sarcastic tone to his voice. His face fell and he carefully drew on a nose and six whiskers onto his face.

"Tada," he said flatly.

He looked up at himself in the mirror.

His face became sour and he despised his reflection. No, it wasn't him that was the problem. It was Phil. There was no Phil.

Dan blinked and suddenly caught sight of Phil in the camera lens.

"Phil!" Cried out Dan, shocked almost falling off the bed.

"Dan," said Phil. "Dan- what's going on?"

"I don't know," began Dan. "I-"

He heard a sound. The sound of clattering cutlery. Dan froze, fear prickling through him. The Phil in the camera lens was gone and Dan slowly rose off the bed.

His heart thundered inches chest as he walked slowly and cautiously out the door, the marker pen still clutched in his hand.

"Hello?" He stammered.

"Sorry!" Called Phil's voice loudly.

Dan's heart leapt and he dropped the pen.

In came a dishevelled looking Phil, dirt smeared on his cheeks, a amused smirk on his face, his cheeks slightly pink with embarrassment.

"I knocked over the pan," he said with an awkward laugh. "I told you not to leave the handle hanging over the edge."

His grin faltered as he saw Dan's face pale.

"Dan-"

"Phil," cut in Dan this voice level. "How did you get here?"

"I walked," said Phil as if it were obvious.

"From where?" Asked Dan slowly inching towards his friend, his hand held up as if to touch him.

"The cemetery," answered Phil leaning back slightly at Dan's odd behaviour.

"You walked from the- fuck," Dan turned away, unable to look at him.

"Dan, are you alright?" Asked Phil concerned.

"Phillip Lester, you fucking died!" Shouts Dan spinning around to face Phil. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"I came back," said Phil, his expression calm and sad. "I came back for you."