Dan was sprawled out across his bed in a particularly unflattering position: on his stomach, with the duvet half wrapped around his half clothed body. Half clothed referring to last night's jeans with a casual food related stain on them in at least two places, and a shirt that was now only sort of on his body. 

He looked a mess, he was a mess, but seriously, it was five thirty six am, what else could seriously be expected of him?

Before him, was his laptop: white screen light illuminating the otherwise pitch black nature of his bedroom, because Dan was, of course, too fucking goth to open the curtains, like seriously, sunlight, who did the fucking sun think it was?

He swore to god that he'd fight the fucking sun one day.

In hindsight, maybe not.

But still, the ambition was what counted, surely, even at half five in the morning, with no sleep as he lay in celebration of fucking finally getting his photography done, but as a result, finding himself far too fucking caffeinated to possibly even consider sleep as an option, even at five thirty in the morning, also known as a time only for people without common sense and those fucking annoying birds that insisted upon declaring to the whole world that they were indeed awake by means of bird song.

Dan had resulted to shoving his headphones in his ears in order to counteract this - not that he hated bird song, or nature in general, or didn't agree that it was, to some degree, beautiful, but it was now, as he lay there irritated, sleep deprived, and yet still buzzing from something like eight cups of coffee, that he knew that perhaps the last thing he needed in literally the whole fucking world was the sounds of birds fucking tweeting at each other.

Instead, he brought up his spotify and put a playlist he'd entitled 'sleep' on shuffle, and turning the volume down as much as he could so that he could still sort of vaguely hear it, but not so much that the sounds of, Morrissey, which was what shuffle had brought up, because Dan was of course a massive slut for the Smiths, and less of a slut in general due to the fact that he was kind of a massive fucking nerdy virgin with very few friends, drowned out the sounds of motherfucking nature outside.

Dan lay there in an odd sort of contemplative, what the fuck am I doing with my life silence for a good two minutes as he listened to his shitty pretentious morisseyfucker69 playlist- well, it wasn't actually as such, but honestly, it might as well be, because Dan was so up Morrissey's ass that he may as well be his prostate.

The realisation that you could indeed be the prostate of Steven Patrick Morrissey, was not one Dan had expected to come across at five in the morning, but one that he found himself not particularly questioning.

He wasn't even sure what he was intending to do as he scrolled vaguely through various sites, but he was pretty certain that there was no hope of him getting back to sleep now, and that was a realisation he found himself embracing with significantly less vigour, but, ah fuck it, it was nearing quarter to six in the morning and Dan lay there, with no sleep, and more caffeine than he'd care to admit, to his name.

It was then that he found himself growing so desperate that he resorted to seeking distraction from facebook, like seriously, facebook, of all things. He barely even knew why he had one. It was just, well, everyone else has a facebook, so he might as well have one. Much like, oh, everyone else has a shit emo kid fringe, so he might as well have one, and, oh, everyone else is much fucking cooler than him, so he might as well admit defeat to the world and sit around like an emotional wreck in the early hours of the morning.

However, as he found himself mindless checking how many likes his dumb fucking facebook profile picture had, (about six, two of which were from his grandparents, which didn't count, so four, one from Chris, and three from people with seriously nothing better to do, but seriously what was he doing, fretting over how many likes his fucking profile picture had? He thought himself better than this, at least, seriously?) that he came to remember perhaps the only reason he ever should have cared about facebook in his whole entire life.

Phil Lester.

Phil Lester, the older boy with the striking blue eyes, and the ferret called Susan, who cared, and kept crossing his path far too often for it to seriously be coincidence, or was Dan just seriously overthinking things, and was quarter to six maybe not to the best time to make life impacting decisions, such as, sending someone you just met a friend request and then messaging them for the first time.

Oh god.

The first message.

The first message was somehow everything: the moment Dan's whole life had been leading up to, or at least, it felt as such in that moment, as Dan lay there, obsessing over everything, to every unnecessary extent, just as he did best.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

That probably wasn't a good first message.

Perhaps just a 'hey'? But that was too simple, that was like he didn't care, that was like Phil didn't matter, that was like they didn't matter, that was like Phil was just another mindless, meaningless facebook friend, amongst Dan's two hundred or so, of which the only people he actually spoke to were Chris, and that guy called Tom in his maths class, because Dan could never stay awake long enough in maths to get even a basic understanding of what the fuck was going on, and Tom was nice enough, he was just generally a nice guy - someone Dan would perhaps like to hang around with, but Dan wasn't nice, and he wasn't confident, and he didn't have any common interests. Instead, Dan had bitter sarcastic, a constant state of crushing anxiety, and facebook stalking Phil Lester before the sun had even risen.

Dan's grandma also messaged him on facebook once, but he'd thought it best to just ignore that - it wasn't like she'd noticed after all.

That was besides the point.

It was all besides the point.

Dan's whole life was besides the point.

And perhaps he was indeed overreacting.

But it was early.

And he had that on his side at least.

For fucking once, it seemed like time itself didn't seem solely destined to loathe every ounce of him and destroy his life. Instead, he felt almost paralysed, stuck in time, stuck in this void of overthinking as he found himself not quite able to click on the profile entitled 'Phil Lester', which had shown up in his search results. With three mutual friends.

Fuck.

He could worry about messaging him just a little later, because right now, he'd somehow managed to convince himself that time wasn't quite real, and he had entireties to just lie there, and think, and waste away, waste his life away, and embrace the act of wasting it away, like it was art, like it was pretty, like it was purposeful, and like it was anything besides spitefully pathetic.

He really had worked himself into a mess here.

Fuck.

Click.

And suddenly his screen was showing him Phil, Phil Lester, well of course, that was exactly what he'd really asked of it- well not really asked, but whatever, shut up. It was nearly six in the morning and Dan told himself to shut up. And then, it was nearly six in the morning, and Dan found himself unable to really form coherent thought as he clicked upon Phil's profile picture.

People always look hotter in their profile pictures.

It's just a matter of human arrogance, just a matter of how we are that inclines us to paint ourselves as if we live within perfection: every moment, every word, every photo cherry picked, and placed with care and perfection, and the utmost narcissism, in aid of constructing the perfect illusion of happiness and love, and life, and living it.

Phil wasn't like that.

Dan saw that instantly.

It wasn't that Phil wasn't hot. Fuck, Dan wasn't stupid- well, yes he was- and... Phil- he... Phil was beautiful. Hot was questionable, the whole matter of hotness and the male gender was indeed questionable, and now was not the time to be questioning it - Dan had common sense to that degree, at least.

But Phil was beautiful.

And smiling.

A real smile.

The picture was uploaded two weeks ago, and captioned with some angsty Muse lyrics, which Dan, of course, appreciated exceedingly, but nowhere near as much as he found himself, sat there, genuinely smiling at Phil, just smiling, happy, beautiful, sat in his room, making a heart with his hands, which was indeed a little cringy, but awfully cute and Dan appreciated it, Dan appreciated everything.

He clicked next.

The next photo was a few months old, but much of the same nature: Phil's hair was slightly longer, and he was wearing a different shirt, and the posters on his bedroom were slightly fewer, but it had much the same tone, and much the same emotional effect: Phil was beautiful.

And Dan was of course, saying that, as a 'photographer', and not as a 'homosexual', neither of which Dan really reckoned he was, but it was indeed up to debate, not that he was at all actually inviting anyone to debate such matters with him, it was just Phil.

Phil Lester.

Six in the morning.

And Dan couldn't stop smiling.

He sent him a friend request without thinking.

It was what Phil had asked him to do, after all, so really, he wasn't being forward, or stupid, or overreacting, or anything, he was just, just being nice, friendly, just-

'Phil Lester has accepted your friend request.'

The notification popped up and Dan laid there for a few moments wondering if he'd actually been shot, because it sure as hell felt like it, because, fuck, as another notification popped up, Dan died, if he hadn't the first time, that was.

'Phil Lester has liked your profile picture.'

Oh god.

Fuck.

That.

That monstrosity of a profile picture.

Now with seven likes.

Dan liked Phil's in return of the gesture, before going back to his own profile and internally cringing, because fuck, it was just so insanely horrific, especially since Phil had deemed him as a 'photographer', which was of course, all bullshit anyway, but here he was with, with a grainy, shitty, filtered selfie, with him pouting, with his fringe looking terrible, and some even more angsty Muse lyrics as the caption, and a comment, from his grandma, telling him to say hi to his mother and that he really was growing.

Oh grandma.

And then before Dan really knew what was happening, a message box opened up at the bottom of his screen.

Phil Lester.

'Hey! :)'

Fuck. Dan really shouldn't have worried about the whole messaging Phil thing at all, because Phil had done it for him: the first message, and suddenly everything was fine, but it really wasn't fine, because Phil had seen Dan's cringy selfie, and Phil had 'liked' it, and Phil had- Phil had existed basically and Dan was a wreck- and hey, what the fuck was Phil doing awake at six in the morning?

'Hi:) What are you doing awake?'

Dan took a few minutes to compose himself emotionally, before messaging Phil back, trying to figurre out, realistically, how Phil could possibly be awake, because if the guy was a morning person, then they seriously had to stop being friends, because Dan had standards, very fucking low standards, but standards nonetheless.

'What are you doing awake, Dan? ;)'

Phil messaged back: winky face and all.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

'I've had too much coffee. Can't sleep. Haven't slept at all :(. What about you?'

Dan wondered if that made him sound sad. Dan was sad. Dan didn't want Phil to think he was sad, but, of course, Phil had already seen and 'liked' Dan's profile picture, so that was indeed a lost cause. Dan had a mini funeral for his hopes and dreams in his head as Phil typed.

'The birds singing woke me up and I couldn't get back to sleep.'

Phil the proceeded to send Dan a video: spanning only four seconds, but Dan swore to god that those four seconds were easily the best four seconds of his life. The video was badly lit, and taken on a cellphone, evidently, angled at a window, Phil's bedroom window presumably, as the sounds of bird song came in through - much louder than it had been for Dan.

'I just turned some music on. Now I can't hear it anymore.'

Dan explained, trying to stop himself from physically fucking gushing over Phil Lester, because that was certainly a bit gay, and Dan prided himself on being at least maybe slightly heterosexual, some of the time, possibly maybe, if he was lucky, if it was a Tuesday, once a year, on special occasions, birthdays, weddings, his own funeral-

'Lost my headphones :(' 

Phil messaged him, only to immediately begin typing again. Dan held his breath.

'Anyway, what about those photos? Did you do them?'

That was perhaps the one thing Dan had accomplished in his life so far, and of course, it wasn't to a high standard, like come on, he was Dan Howell, that was all too much, but he had them, and that was that.

'They aren't very good but I can send them if you want'

Dan opened up the folder entitled 'Photography' on his desk, and took a moment specifically to hate his life as he opened up the files, flicking through them and forcing himself not to grimace.

The thing was, they weren't bad, well, terrible, or anything of that ilk, just nothing spectacular, and Dan had this vision of himself, and talent in one area of his life. He could draw. He could draw to a fairly decent degree and if that was all he had going for him, then fucking great, he would embrace that, and he had done in taking GCSE Art, however, he'd come to regret that as he'd stumbled upon the photography aspect of his GCSE, because Dan wasn't bad, but he wasn't good.

And Phil was in college.

And Phil cared.

Phil had a preformed opinion: expectations and an opportunity for disappointment, and judging him and the matter of first impressions, well not really first, something like- fuck, Dan honestly didn't know, but what he did know was that Phil had sent him three more messages and that he certainly was going to die before it hit seven am.

'Don't put yourself down! :('

'I'm sure they're amazing. You're amazing. I want to see them.'

'Dan? :('

Dan blushed a little, typing a letter so Phil could see that he was typing and not ignoring him, or more realistically, having some form of mental breakdown as he sat there, contemplating his entire existence and indeed whether or not it was worthy of Phil Lester.

'Sorry, I was just looking at them. I don't know which one to send you.'

Dan hoped Phil would suddenly change his mind, or maybe die or something, or maybe his house would catch on fire, and he'd have to rush out of it, and forget all about Dan's shitty photography in the process.

But he didn't.

Of course he didn't, because the universe hated Dan, and if he'd gotten off this one, then it seriously just wouldn't have been any fun, would it?

'All of them? :)'

Phil suggested, and Dan swore to God, he fucking-

He let out a sigh, sitting up a little in bed, and probably pulling every muscle in his body as he did so, because well, he hadn't moved out of an extremely bad position in about two and half hours, and his posture was perhaps just as fucked as he was in that moment.

But fuck, fuck his life, fuck his posture, fuck, fuck, fuck-

Dan sent them.

And Dan held his breath as facebook showed him that Phil had 'seen' the messages, and then as he presumed Phil was looking at them, and Dan was honestly at the point of collapsing when facebook insisted upon notifying him that 'Phil Lester had sent him a message'.

'Those are amazing, seriously. I love your style. It's very dramatic, sort of avant garde. I don't really know what that means but, I think they're great!'

Dan didn't really know what avant garde meant either.

But he did know that he was smiling and blushing like hell, sat there, because suddenly, all it had taken was Phil to say they were amazing, and Dan was okay, well not 'okay', but- but something had happened, inside his heart, inside his head, honestly, he didn't know which, and he wasn't all that fussed to find out.

Instead, he smiled, fuck, he took a good few minutes just to smile, wholeheartedly smile, and of course, realised that he hadn't messaged Phil back, and seriously freak the fuck out about that, because oh god, Phil couldn't hate him now- well, of course, Phil couldn't, because that wouldn't make any sense, but-

'Thank you. I think you're amazing.'

'That's me, amazing Phil.'

'That's really dorky, but also very you, not that you're dorky, but I mean, dorky isn't a bad thing, it's just. You, you're very lovely. And thank you so much. No one has really said that they like my photography before. It means a lot and I think maybe in future I should get more sleep before talking to you, because I am just a mess right now.'

And Dan knew he sounded pathetic and gushy: a mess, a perfect fucking mess, and it was all lovely and fucked up, but he reckoned maybe just in that moment that he was to some degree okay, and that was indeed what mattered, to some degree.

To some degree, okay.

To some degree, he was...

No, not, not love, but to some degree, the idea of Phil Lester's existence was indeed a wonderful one.

Fuck, no, not even to some degree, to all degrees, to every single fucking degree in the world, fuck, to every single fucking degree in the universe.

And Dan knew it.

-

this is one of those i'm only going to write a little maybe a few hundred words because I have some time spare chapters. but here we are, 3000 words lmao. i'm at my friends house, i actually did something for halloween, i dont know where anyone else is lmao my friend is asleep. apologies to my other friend for stealing your laptop to write phanfic on it, but like this was a good chapter so it was worth it tbh.

vote and comment if u want !!!

lov u !!!