"Even the sun sets in paradise."
…
He put Phil to bed shortly after they spoke. He had started choking on his own sobs and then couldn't catch his breath.
It was the scariest moment of Dan's life.
He had actually had to rock the older man until he had calmed down enough to catch a breath. Which he couldn't. He passed out cold in Dan's arms.
Once he had passed out however, his body was able to catch up with him and his wheezing and crying ceased.
He looked like a helpless child and Dan just couldn't help it.
He held Phil and cried. He cried and cried until his throat was raw and the tears seemed endless as he sat and screamed for justice.
Eventually he pried himself from his friend.
He picked him up and carried him to his bedroom.
There he placed Phil as gently as he could on the bed.
Slowly he backed up, grabbing the doorframe as he felt himself getting dizzy.
Then he turned and ran. Away from Phil. Away from the cancer. Away from the fear. Away from the pain.
Out the door, down the stairs, into the dark street. The dark deserted street where it was cool and nothing mattered.
Not anything.
...
He ran. He ran and ran and when he fell he picked himself ignoring the sting of the asphalt and the blood on his palms.
Every brush of wind felt like a slap to the face.
Every blade of grass cut him.
He ran until his face connected with the ground. He felt the blood but didn't acknowledge it. Instead he focused on the pain. Welcomed it. Let it fill every part of him.
Then he picked himself up.
He crawled over to an oak and leaned his head against it.
Let the blood run in rivers down his cheeks like he was crying blood. He let it drip over his lips and off his chin.
Only then did he let himself think.
Every single fucking memory came back, knocking the wind out of him.
He didn't notice that the fucking tears had come back until they started mixing with the blood on his cheeks.
Fuck. Everything was fucking horrible and he couldn't do shit about it. The whole fucking world was a mess and there was something so twisted about the wrongness of everything.
Phil with fucking cancer.
Phil fucking dying.
Dan with no fucking friends.
Dan left with fucking nothing.
Dan fucking ending it all.
Dan fucking killing himself.
He curled into a ball and sobbed.
He had nothing to live for.
…
He didn't know how long he cried. He didn't care.
His head pounded, his throat dry, his cheeks raw.
Phil. Phil. Phil.
He cried harder, sobbing until he could no longer breathe.
The world spun around him and he put his head on the grassy ground as he gasped desperately.
Blood still dripped into a small pool at his feet. He still tasted the rusted copper on his lips.
His hair fell into his eyes but he longer had the strength or the will to fix it.
Phil was going to die.
And he was going to be alone.
Through his blurred vision and darkening thoughts he fell, until his body could no longer handle it.
Darkness was a relief.
...
He was damp.
The sky crying in sympathy with him as his tears mixed with the rain and blood on his cheeks.
Watered down streams of blood trickled down his wrists, streaking patches of dark, dried blood.
His eyes burned, his head ached.
He hated it.
He hated his life, he hated himself, he hated absolutely everything.
He dug his fingers into the damp dirt, pushing himself off his stomach.
He stood up, ignoring the dizziness that would inevitably send him back on the ground.
He felt lost.
All he wanted to do was jump off the bridge in the park and let the water drag him down and away…...
Where none of this mattered…
Where he had something to live for…
Where he could stay with Phil forever…
He made a decision.
The day Phil died, would be the day he died. Phil's expiry date was his expiry date.
For you could not see one of them without seeing the other. You couldn't kill Phil without killing Dan. And vice versa.
His death date was set.
The world was so cruel, and he didn't want to see it anymore.
Together forever. Or maybe not.
….
He stumbled up the streets, through the front door, and up the stairs.
The first thing he did was check on Phil.
The older man lay in his bed where Dan had left him, mouth now slightly open, leading Dan to piece that Phil had slipped out of the forced unconsciousness and into sleep.
He hadn't even stirred.
Dan let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He trudged into the bathroom and, gathering his strength into both hands, looked at the mirror.
Blood soaked his hair, his face, his neck, his shirt. Tear tracks stained his cheeks. Streaked red lines covered his wrists.
Suddenly he felt nauseous.
He crouched over the toilet and dry wretched, the horrible sound echoing off the thin walls.
Yet nothing came up.
Oh yeah, he hadn't eaten.
He stood up, ignoring the shaking that was rumbling through his entire frame.
His shaky hands peeled his wet, blood soaked shirt over his head.
He stepped into the shower, turning up the knob up as high as he could, trying to burn through his own thoughts as he let the spray pummel his face.
He felt the dry blood drip down with the water, mixing into a pool of pink at his feet.
Only after every drop of blood was gone did he exit the shower, throw away the ruined shirt, and jump into bed, cowering under the covers like a kid.
All he wanted to do was forget.