Your name is Dan Howell, and you are aren't quite sure how you got up on the roof of your flat at three AM.
All you can recall is waking up at around two-thirty, then ending up here. But you guess you don't mind.
Phil is by your side, like he pretty much always is. He's looking up at the darkish light of three in the morning, studying the fading stars with a serene expression. You stare at his slight smile and purse your lips. He's beautiful. And you want to tell him. You want to tell him that he's amazingly, perfectly imperfect in every way. That it's okay, that everything's okay.
You smile to yourself. You can make him feel better when no one else can. You're one of the only people who knows him better then he knows himself. You have a special relationship, and he knows. You know. Your other friends know. And what you have is beautiful.
You have a feeling of certainty that your friends suspect that what you and Phil have is more than platonic. The fans most definitely suspect. And usually, you'd get really defensive about it, because you are not a homosexual. But you don't care at the moment. For once in your life, you don't care what other people think of what you two have. It doesn't matter to you here, where everything is quiet. Where the only light comes from the fading stars above, everything but you, and Phil, and the stars fades to gray.
And suddenly, you find yourself turning towards him, eyes trailing over his cheekbones, his soft eyebrows, his periwinkle blue eyes. And for a moment, your heart lurches into your throat, and you're suddenly reaching out a hand to touch him. He turns to you suddenly, surprise etched into his features. You feel yourself start to freeze.
And just when you thought you couldn't look at him anymore, he does the totally unexpected, and takes your hand. His eyes flick to yours nervously, as he places your hand, slowly but surely, on his chest. He searches your face, and you feel like spotlights are beaming onto you. You blush, rubbing the back of your neck and turning away. But he touches your chin and turns you back toward him. You gulp.
And suddenly he's kissing you, and you find yourself kissing back, and oh god, he's everything you expected him to be. Your hand presses into his chest, and you feel him inhale through your kiss. His chest expands under your open palm, and he feels so physical, so perfectly human, that it makes you want to cry.
He's alive, and so are you. You've laughed and cried and lived with him, and finally, you're here, kissing Phil Lester, who's been there for you when you most needed him, whose friendship kept you here.
And you smile, trace the bony trails of his spine, and move down to the small of his back, arching his body against yours. You can taste the soft warmth of his tongue between your lips, you can feel the cool of his skin on your fingertips, you can know his every feeling and emotion.
You suddenly break away from him and rest your forehead against his, stroking his cheek. Maybe you aren't a homosexual, but you know one thing. You have definitely fallen for this lovely, lonely, amazing boy. And leaning back down to kiss him once again, you let him know.