A Hundred Days | Dan Howell x Reader

Chapter 34.

A/N:

Just before we begin (and almost end), a massive thank you:

to redamancyyoongi for your absolutely wonderful comments; you've made my day on numerous occasions
to niasdrumstickk for BANTER and diss tracks
to _SpaceDust_  for the wonderfully uplifting comments
to Valetee3 for endless loyalty (even though I suck at updating :))
to lovelylilbean for the lovely comments
to ALL OF YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT ILYSM

and lastly, to my precious Philly, and my darling Dan ❤️

This is the last full chapter. I'll update with an epilogue after this, and then commence some heavy editing, but then, I shall move on to another project. What it'll be, I cannot say, for I do not know... It'll be strange not to be writing this anymore (single tear). But the road goes ever on...

But it's been fantastic.
You were fantastic!
And you know what?
So was I.

-Tina x

• • • • • •

Daniel James Howell.

The hate burns like stoked flames though your chest and makes you clench your fists and teeth against the memories that flood your mind, as though his eyes on yours break down a wall built within you.

But now, the fire turned turns embers and the embers to ashes.

You can't hate him anymore.

No.

No matter how you try, you can't hate him for loving you, nor for being who he is, no matter how much you have tried. You can't hate his smile and his laugh, and the fact that he's wearing a pastel pink "this is what a feminist looks like" t-shirt. You can't hate the crease of his eyes, or the freckles that pattern his creamy complexion the way stars litter the scope of a galaxy. And, above all, you can't bring yourself to hate the way he makes you happy.

All those little things oudo the big, glaring fact that you never wanted to be in love because it distracts from any other thoughts for but ones of that certain person... and, for the fact that love hurts. It hurts because you're forced to share your heart and your feelings with another person, so that their sadness kills you and their anger becomes infectious.

But the laughter becomes infectious too.
And so does the happiness.
The happiness that is now close enough to reach out for, and hold close to your heart.

You look up and meet those deep pools of obsidian.

Chills rake through your every fibre, your every atom.
It's like that first day all over again.

"Hi", you murmur, unsure of what else to say, though a thousand shouts sear your throat and a thousand emotions your heart.

"Hi", he replies breathlessly, as though he's both nervous and relieved all at once.

Then his face relaxes into the same old, lopsided grin that you love so dearly, and your breath catches, the air you exhale spiralling in plumes when it meets the ground-zero atmosphere of the December streets.

You smile.

Across the space of a single moment, your plans are ammended and your old wounds healed, two broken pasts forgotten, two halves of a heart reconnected, an old flame rekindled.

And you have things to do, apologies to make, plans to cancel. Nothing is perfect, yet at the same time everything is.

The future, your future, is alive with opportunity, and hope, stolen kisses and laughs and dances.

Your heart still aches, but now with love rather than sadness.

And suddenly, you cannot help yourself as you run forward and throw your arms around him, standing on your toes to nestle your cheek in the crook of his neck. You feel him lean into you as his arms surround you.

"I can't believe it's only been a hundred days", he whispers.

You raise your head, disturbing only the snowflakes drifting through the air. Now, the bustling New York City seems quiet, in comparison to the thrum of your heart that is caught between your throat and your chest.

"It'll be a hundred more years before I let you go again", you reply, and your voice is quiet, but with underlying tenacity.

His gaze falls to yours as you draw apart to arms' length. The boy holding you does not move. The snow is falling thickly.

Then it dawns on you.

You cannot breathe.
You cannot breathe until you have said it.
Your mind is devoid of thoughts, of words, all but those.
You do not blink.
In fact, you cannot blink.

No, really, it's physically impossible for you to blink; the snow is making your eyelashes stick together.

You wipe at your face with a small laugh. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dan smile softly.

"What, miss me so much that the sight of me makes you cry?" he shakes you gently by the shoulders, making you grin.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Daniel Howell", you laugh with a lightness you have not seen for weeks.

"Well, obviously, but who could resist this, anyway?" he makes a horrible face, crossing his eyes and raising his upper-lip so as to resemble a beaver, simultaneously batting his eyes.

"Stop it", you whack his shoulder with a huff to hide the fact that you're choking on laughter. "Stop it right this instant, or I won't tell you I love you".

The humourous expression is gone instanly, replaced by a slack jaw.

This time there is no hesitation, only the slight shiver of your shoulders in response to the cold.

"I love you". The wind almost carries the words astray, but from the way he pulls you closer, he's definitely heard them.

He arcs his neck, and his breath tickles your skin as his lips brush your ear. "I love you too, Y/N".

And in one swift movement, his lips are upon your own, skin touched to skin as gently as the snowflakes flutter down from the heavens, an open sky above you, your frozen-numb fingers and toes forgotten with the heat spilling through your veins. He tilts his head ever so slightly as he kisses you with a longing tenderness, his curls brushing your forehead, his hands poised on either side of your face with such delicacy it's as if he's afraid to break you. And in a way, you realise, he's already broken you, and you've broken him. That's the beauty of it. The brokenness. It's what's made him, and you, the people that you are today.

And it doesn't matter, you think as the kiss too is broken, his fingers caressing your cheek and yours wound up in his curly hair, that a book has a tatter in its pages, that a mare is of speckled coat, or that home is not a place but several people. In fact, it is the faults make those things all the more unique, and thus, the more precious.

It has only been a hundred days, but you would never have it any other way, for the hundred days represent the hundred thousands more to come.

Your world had been a flurry of tears in darkness, and a million mistakes wrought in black and white.
But now you have come to love your brightened world.

And he stands there before you, technicolour.