There was acceptance, love, compassion, and admittedly a little fear in Dan's heart. He was broken, torn to pieces in an alleyway that had always been there for him. He held on to the sticky sides, trying to let go of his own mistakes, his sin, before he went down in something less than a blaze of glory.
He was sick, eyes and body sunken in like the damn Titanic. There was nothing left of him other than the hoodie he wore and the blood on his stomach, which stained his shirt and his conscience.
With the last concentration of bad luck flowing through his veins, brought there by syringe, he felt himself fade.
Phil Lester suddenly appeared, lifting him off the dirty street and into his car.
When saving grace catches you by coincidence, it is something you become grateful for until you begin to take it for granted. Dan wouldn't let go so easily of his gratitude. He fell in love with his savior, did everything he asked, and recovered.
It was true, they were in love. Of course, no matter how beautiful a love story, it burns out in the end, whether by death, circumstance, or simple disconnection.
It took weeks before Phil noticed. Dan was gone hours at a time, with no explanation. He would come home, stumbling over his words and his feet, desperately trying to hide his incoherent manner.
Phil wasn't that stupid.
He tried very hard to heal him, but there was no way to help him up. These attempts made everything worse, it seemed, and Dan fell harder and harder. Phil felt helpless, and sometimes wondered if he should just leave him be. He couldn't do it. He loved Dan too much, from the moment he met him.
That moment was gone, and even still, Phil reminisced on their time together. That was a long time ago.
Dan felt very little, as he was always suppressed by addictive chemical compounds.
Three years after recovery, he was back on a habit.-
Phil peeked out of his bedroom's doorway to glance at Dan's unmoving body on the couch. His eyes were still glazed, confirming what Phil had already assumed. He slowly shut the door again, attempting not to make any sound. It was successful; for once.
Where had Dan even gotten it this time? Phil was sure his dealer had O.D.'d, and there was no one else that sold PCP anywhere near London. He'd ask Dan when he was in between high and awake. That was the only time he'd ever reveal that information.
He felt, somehow, this was his fault. Phil had only given him a taste of life, never truly shown him how much better it was to be high on the moment. Regrets that never were resolved continued to surface, duck down, then resurface in his head.
As he thought, he began to tell a story out loud, to himself. Quietly, of course, or else Dan would hear him, but he did. It was a sort of therapy to him, especially when he was afraid in his own house.
"Prince Lester, having slain the beast, returned home to scoop up his beloved fiance. With those deep, brown, gleaming eyes looking up admiringly, Phillip felt like he was on top of the world. His sword in ha-"
Screaming erupted from the living room, causing Phil to jump slightly. He crawled to the closet, in case Dan decided to come in and do something he didn't know he was doing.
Footsteps, in a very uneven pattern, got louder, until they stopped again. A crash, which Phil assumed was Dan falling to the ground, was outside the door. Soft sobs slid through the crack in the door, making Phil's heart twinge with guilt.
At the same time, Phil knew the truth. He didn't want to understand it, nor did he want to think it was truly there, but it was as evident as Dan was addicted. He had to face it, because he did love the shell of a person outside the bedroom.
There was no way to fix it, nowhere to turn. Dan had been to multiple rehab centers, which had failed, and to jail twice. It only broke him more. Phil just had to accept the facts.
Nothing could save Daniel James Howell.