"So, Dan, please describe your symptoms."
Screaming. Crying. Clawing, tearing, biting. Shaking, rocking, pacing. Wanting to leap out the window, Phil having to take all the razors and blades out of the flat and give them to a friend. The list goes on.
"The usual."
The doctor nods sympathetically and joys notes down on a piece of paper, which sounds like nails on a chalkboard to Dan. He grips the arm of the chair and Phil's hand rests on his good knee as it bounces up and down, just like his moods.
"Okay, anything else notable?" She inquires from her throne of pharmaceutical expertise behind a massive mahogany desk, separating her from the mentally unstable patients she sees.
Dan begins to shake his head, but Phil clears his throat. He rolls his eyes and throws one hand up.
"I guess the dreams suck," he mutters.
"Dreams?" She asks, obviously trying to pry more information from the man with dark circles beneath his eyes. He obviously doesn't take the hint, and begins tracing patterns into the faux leather with his fingernail. "Dan, could you describe these dreams to me please?"
He inhales shakily, and remembers the scene that unfolded behind his eyes just last night.
The smoke hadn't cleared. The ringing in his ears was deafening, but it let him feel something again. Rubble fell and the structures collapsed around him, creating a wall of debris, eliminating all natural light from the interstice he was trapped within. The light fixture had fallen upon impact, and mechanical shrapnel stuck out of his arms.
His eyes searched for light among the darkness, but found none. His voice sounded foreign as he called for help, as it was hoarse and sounded...broken. He tried to move his left arm, but failed at the first sign of pain. The bone was broken in at least three places if not completely shattered, and the metal sticking out of his skin didn't help. His right arm was mostly fine, though; and he used this to his advantage to try to claw some of the debris from his path.
He was pinned beneath the remains of what was probably the map of the London Underground System before the explosion. His hair was matted to his forehead by a thick sheen of sweat and blood, which dripped into his eyes every time he tried to move. That's when he heard it.
A voice—no, it was a scream. Not everyone had died.
His first instinct was to get to that person, to help them. Hell, if that person was in a better condition than him, they'd both have a better chance of survival than just being apart. The screams of pain coming from clear across the wall of stone and dust prompted his attempt at full body movement, and when he did, he realised that he had feeling in every limb but one: his left leg.
When he lowered his hand to his knee, he felt loose skin and a thick substance, but nothing below that. It was then that he knew he was going to die—he was going to bleed out, and die. He needed to say his goodbyes; his last words to Phil couldn't be "I'm going to the shops, I'll be back in an hour."
The sirens closed in, and light illuminated his terror stricken face as he realised that death would've been the better option.
"Dan?"
It's Phil's voice that pulls him from his thoughts, and he quickly wipes the vulnerability and tears from his cheeks. Phil has tears in his eyes, too, and the doctor writes notes furiously. He hasn't even spoken about the dreams, and yet he's said everything he needed to.
The woman behind the desk hands Dan a slip of paper, and it contains a new medication he has never seen before. He cocks his head, and she quirks a small smile.
"It's zolpidem. It'll help you sleep without the dreams. And that other one is venlafaxine for your post traumatic stress disorder." She explains. "The doses are generous, so we'll see how it goes. This will help you, Daniel."
Phil rubs Dan's shoulder and he manages a smile. He shakes her hand and stands up with Phil's help, and makes his way to make the copayment on his new medications. Once done, the two make it to the cab as inconspicuously as possible, and Phil hands the cabbie an address.
"I'm happy she prescribed you new stuff," Phil kisses his cheek. "Hopefully this'll help you."
"Ah, you just don't want to put up with my shit anymore," Dan adjusts his prosthetic leg and chuckles.
Phil scoffs jokingly. "Untrue. I just want you to be as happy as possible, Howell."
"We've been dating for seven years, are we still calling each other by our last names, Lester?" He whispers. Phil nods and leans into his shoulder, and Dan looks out the window to be met with green trees and colourful flowers. "Hey, this isn't our flat, Phil."
The shorter man shrugs. "Well, I thought after that successful appointment we should celebrate by getting you into the joys of nature again."
"In a park?" Dan raises an eyebrow. "But, what if someone sees us—"
"I've got it covered," he waves Dan's anxiety off and kisses his nose. "Please, do this for me. I love you."
"I love you too." He murmurs.
Phil pays the driver, steps out of the cab, and makes his way over to Dan's side of the vehicle before opening the door and helping him step out. One foot in front of the other, the two make their way to a nearby park bench where they sit and watch the pigeons attack a piece of bread.
Dan's been on his antidepressants for nearly six months since the incident, and since they upped the dosage two weeks ago, life is starting to look up. He feels like his story is going to have a happy ending finally, two legs or not. Phil lays his hand across his boyfriend's prosthetic knee because there's practically nobody there, and Dan smiles into the touch.
Phil looks at him like he just saw a ghost or as if he has three heads, and Dan cocks his head. "What?"
"Oh, nothing; it's just..." Phil stammers. "Well, it's just that...you haven't let me touch you at all without flinching in six months."
Dan feels tears in his eyes and he leans into Phil's hand, which rests on his stubbly cheek. "Phil..."
"No," he shakes his head, "no apologies. And no tears. Only one tear. Just one—so make it a good one (A/N: if you get that reference, I love you)."
The feeling of being outside is so freeing, Dan gets lost in his own reality again. Who cares what people think? He leans his head on Phil's shoulder and thinks about what life has in store for them.
Sure, he's an amputee with a crippling mental disorder and a past nobody could ever shove away, but he's Dan fucking Howell. He has his fans, his boyfriend and best friend, and he has his right leg at least. He can't say he has his family, as they don't know what he went through that day at thirteen minutes after noon on a Saturday.
He lost all contact with his parents after he told them he was dating Phil, and was nearly beaten to death by his father for being a "filthy faggot and embarrassment to the family name," and he hasn't seen his brother in nearly three years, since his last visit to London from Scotland. They have no way of knowing of the incident, as Dan's name was never mentioned in the news report.
He was so dirt-caked and bloody that he was utterly unrecognisable, and was dubbed a John Doe until they found his phone.
When they realised he was a celebrity figure, they kept the information on the down-low to secure his privacy. Ten surgeries later, he's a mess of surgical scars and medical bills (most of which have been paid off, thank god), but god willing he's still breathing.
They sit and watch the kids playing, birds flying, and the water spouting from the fountain for twenty more minutes before Dan speaks up.
"Phil?" He asks nearly silently. Phil perks up and nods. "Would you ever marry someone with a lame ass prosthetic leg?"
Phil's breath catches in his throat and he exhales shakily. "Dan...of course I would. You know that—I love you so, so much."
"Well, I'm not getting down on one knee because I only have one left and lord knows I'll never get up again, but this is technically me popping the question," Dan nervously rambles, turning to look Phil in the eyes. "Philip Michael Lester, the most perfect boyfriend on the planet and my best friend for the rest of time, will you put up with my shit formally and marry me already?"
Phil's eyes water and he embraces his boyfriend tightly, nodding furiously as he pulls away. "Yes, Dan! Goddamnit, yes!"
Dan exhales deeply and places a hand over Phil's. He then grows wide eyed and reaches into his bag, where he finds a little black velvet drawstring bag. He opens it to reveal a silver band and slides it onto Phil's left ring finger.
"Wow, we are the exact same person, huh?"
The raven haired boy laughs and reaches into the "family backpack," pulling a similar looking red velvet bag, and retrieves a silver ring with a black centre band and takes Dan's hand, slipping the ring onto the same finger. Not surprisingly, both fit perfectly (they discussed this: Phil's ring size is 9 3/4 and Dan's is 10 1/2), and the two sat there on that park bench until the sun set.
Two men, a former ginger and his curly haired amputee fiancé: the perfect couple, even despite tragedy.
Dan still worries though: the nightmares he talked about at the appointment aren't just nightmares. They're his reality, and he wonders if he can be a human being with something that made him a whole person missing.
One day at a time.
10 June
I got engaged to the love of my life, and I feel like I'm going to be okay. I can do this. We can do this. Plus, I'm way easier to pick up without a leg, which makes certain...aspects of our relationship a whole lot easier. I can finally sleep again.
I saw kids at the park today, and it made me realise two things. One: how much I want children but I don't want children who have a legless father; and two: how much I need to tell the fans what happened.
One day at a time. Today was a great day; hell, it was the BEST day.
Now, for tomorrow!
My name is Dan Howell, and I have the best fiancé in the world and a super fucking badass prosthetic leg.