Phan One - Shots

My Fault

A/N - I'm working on three other AU one - shots, so just have this one for the meantime, okayyy?

Summary - Dan and Phi have always been happy, but Phil's had a horrible past. Just a touch will trigger him. Dan forgets this, and tickles Phil. Phil freaks out a bit too much...

Warnings - major character death (ugh again), suicide, swearing, mentions of abuse, mentions of depression, blood

Genre - Angst all the way

Word Count - 1332

(Third person PoV)

        Dan sighed softly and smiled as Phil snuggled up to him. He knew how Phil had had a terrible childhood, and wanted to help him as much as he can; Phil was so close to full recovery. Dan smirked, his head full of a single idea that overtook the reason not to do it. Dan raised his hand silently so that Phil wouldn't notice, and tickled his neck lightly. Phil squeaked, and fell off the sofa, shuddering and eyes wide. They heard a smash, and both Dan and Phil realized what happened. Phil had knocked off Dan's favourite mug, spilling tea and smashing the mug everywhere. Dan felt a sudden surge of anger, shoving the guilt of touching Phil's neck without his permission to the back.

        "WHAT THE FUCK, PHIL!!!" Dan screamed, his vision turning slightly blurry and more red as he became angrier and angrier. Phil curled up into a ball, whimpering and beginning to cry. Dan didn't care for that moment. Phil had broken his favourite mug. Deep inside, he knew that it was a stupid reason, but he was angry and frustrated and stressed out, so he kept on going.

        "YOU'RE SO IDIOTIC AND FUCKING CLUMSY! SUCH A STUPID REASON TOO, WHAT, YOUR DADDY HIT YOU WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER? YOUR FUCKING DAD FUCKED YOU WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG? FUCK YOU, PHILIP!" Dan yelled, glaring at Phil the whole time. He sighed, held his head, and let out a mad growl.

        "You know what? I'm going out." He hissed, and stomped out, seething. He crashed the door behind him, and Phil shuddered even more, tears now streaming down his face. Worthless. Idiot. Clumsy ass. Stupid. Waste of air. Die. Die. Die. Words kept on running through his head, flooding and taunting him. He let out a sharp shriek, before clapping his hands over his mouth. If you scream one more time, I'll stab you. His father's voice rang through his head, making a cold shiver run down Phil's spine. Phil could feel his heart twisting and tightening, his breathing getting heavier, and a sharp pain stinging his legs. Then, a dull pain echoing through his body. Then, agony and fire reaching his face. Blood flowing everywhere. But he didn't scream. If he did, his owner would kill him. His father. Phil's heart started to physically ache, feeling like a bony hand was squeezing the life out of his thumping heart. Phil still didn't dare scream. After this, peace would come.

No, peace never came.

Phil couldn't handle the pain surging through him anymore. Just when he was about to scream, the pain loosened and he felt serenity flood through him, cleansing every other emotion that remained in specks inside of him. Phil smiled, though his tear - stained face became darker and more depressed.

        "I'm sorry..." Phil whispered, tears threatening to spill over once again. He whimpered, remembering Dan's words. It was his fault, not Dan's. He shouldn't have reacted so badly. He should man up and get out of the past and start living in the present. It was all his fault. Phil scuffled slowly into his room, head hung. He gently opened his wardrobe, and took out two bright red spary paint cans. He wistfully smiled as he thought of his carefree life, drawing everywhere before Phil's mother died. That was when the abuse started. Phil dusted those thoughts off. He grabed some pieces of large white paper and tape, sticking them all over the house. He was finished in an hour. Shaking one of the cans along with his head, he pressed down on the button, spraying red letters onto the covered walls. It was going to take him 30 minutes - 30 minutes to write all over the house. When he was done, he looked at the time. 10:30 PM. He had penty of time. He ripped off one piece of paper out of his notebook, took his favourite pen, and scribbled a note. You deserve this. You deserve to die. You made Dan angry. You are unwanted. Phil thought to himself, and grabbed the sharpest and the biggest knife in the house. He needed to die as painfully as possible. He grabbed some sleeping pills, and taking one last look at the scene before him, he swallowed at least twenty pills. Right after, he stabbed his ankles and his wrists. He sliced his leg skin, fire scorching through him. He stabbed his own stomach, losing blood quite quickly now. Just before he fell, he twisted the blade into his heart. The flames were still blazing, but he felt cold. He felt peace. Something he'd never felt before. He felt happy, and he felt like he was in Cloud 9.

No regrets. Dan got what he wanted. The world got what he wanted. My father got what he's wanted since mother died. The world didn't need me. I didn't need myself.

So farewell, and goodbye.

Never see you again.

        Dan ran into the flat. He made a mistake. After he'd cooled down, he realized what he'd done. Phil was probably broken by now. Tears forming in the corner of his eyes, the brown haired boy stormed through the door, but he halted when he saw that the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, was covered in pure white paper. They had red writing all over them. Dan didn't stop; he'd read the letters later. He had a bad feeling. He ran into the living room, which was completely covered in the same white and red paper. He went into Phil's room, where it was the same scene. Finally, he checked his own room, terrified to step into it. Gulping, he quietly made his way to his bed. It had a gigantic lump in it. Maybe Phil was just sleeping. Gosh, Dan thought, there's this paper on the fucking bed. He bit his lip, and softly moved the covers off the lump. Then and there, Dan crumped to the ground. Tears made their ways down his throat. No. Dan trembled, clawing his way back up. It can't be. Philly. Dan climbed onto the bed, gently taking Phil's head onto his lap. Phil's black hair was slightly tinted with dark crimson, the colour of blood, and when Dan raked his fingers through it, he felt the wet liquid on his fingers. He saw the knife stuck in Phil's heart, eyes widening. His hands moved down to Phil's cheeks, cupping them and feeling the coldness against his own hot hands.

        "Phil." His voice cracked, gazing longingly and hopefully into Phil's face. His pale face. Dan's eyes trailed along Phil's body, and saw the damage done to his beautiful boyfriend. There was a long, deep cut in each leg, a deep wound on each ankle, scars littering Phil's arms, oozing stabs in the wrists, red marks and bruises everywhere, blood trickling down his body. Then, Dan saw the words on the ceiling. I'm sorry was repeated everywhere.

        "No, nono! Don't be sorry! No! It's my fault!" He cried out, desperately searching for any signs of life in the limp, pale body that used to be his boyfriend. Knowing that it was futile. Finally, his eyes saw the crumpled up piece of paper in Phil's hands. He had a tight grip on it, and Dan had to harshly ease it out of his hands. Dan's eyes filled with horror as he saw the message, knowing that these words would echo through his ears forever.

It's my fault.