paintbrushes and canvases // phan

e p i l o g u e

TW: Suicide.  (spoiler sorry)

Dan was even worse than before. He was basically recluse, and the voices had gotten worse.

PJ and Chris were concerned and would knock on his door, until Phil told them everything and they hated him too, sending him texts saying he disgusts them and that they're blocking him.

Phil blocked Dan on everything and resumed to life like how it was before Dan. Sometimes Dan would see him when he'd rarely go out to check his mail, and if Phil were to ever look, his face would stay neutral, his glare cold.

After a few months Phil couldn't take it. He'd fallen in love with Dan, but couldn't bring himself to forgive him. He understands Dan wasn't in control, but it still happened, and that poor girl is still going to live her life in fear.

The pastel-boy left. Moved away to an address unknown to Dan. Hell, he didn't even know if he was still in London.

A few months turned into a year, and Dan had lost the will to live. What's the point if everyone hates you? What's the point if you hate yourself?

It wasn't Dans ideal way to go but, he slowly deprived himself from food and water. All he did was lay in bed, all day, every day. He eventually got bored of waiting, and finally moved, but found it difficult. Due to not eating, his bones were weak, his legs already stick thin and his cheeks hollowed as if he's sucking them in.

He moves to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. Chapped lips, greasy hair, dead eyes. Opening up the medicine cabinet, he picks up all of the different tablets he has, then closes the cabinet. He grabs the toothpaste from the sink and writes a message on the mirror, just incase anyone comes in. Better yet, incase Phil comes in.

He unlocks his front door and retreats back to his room. He doesn't even get water, he doesn't deserve the luxury when others need it more than he does.

Lying down, the pills are slowly popped into his mouth one by one, and he swallows. He wraps himself up, wanting to at least be comfortable.

Finally, doing something useful, you're doing yourself and everyone else a favour. Well done, Dan.

Is the last voice heard before he slips away.

Phil's been thinking. He wants Dans side of the story. Maybe it's a year late but it's not like Dan will care, he'll be ecstatic knowing Phil has willingly and intentionally stepped foot into his house. So he gets a taxi to his old flat complex, having only moved a half hour away, and he walks up the stairs to the old hallway where he used to live. His legs take him over to his old best friend, and the one he still loves.

His fist makes contact with the wooden door. "Dan? It's me, Phil."

Silence.

After waiting a few more minutes, Phil, knowing Dan isn't one for subtleness, feels on top of the doorframe for a spare key. One is there, much to Phils delight.

Phil smiles triumphantly and slots the key in the hole and twists, finding it's already unlocked.

"Of course," he sighs, and walks in just like nothing had changed.

The room is dusty, but clean. No dishes, no clothes lying around, nothing. It looks as if nobody had been living there. Phil goes into the hallway in looks in the bathroom, the light being on. There's something scribbled on the mirror. So Phil, being the curious person he is, walks over.

Tell his sister I'm sorry.

Phils eyebrows furrow, and he walks out, and to Dans room. He doesn't hesitate to open the door and is almost blown away at the smell. It's nothing like anything he's smelt before, and it's not the smell of missing a few showers. It's like...

Death.

Phil rushes into the room, turning the light on and trying not to be sick everywhere. He gasps at the sight before him. Dan, wrapped up in his covers, his face covered in blisters, a sign of decomposing. Shaking, Phil peels off the rest of the covers to see more blisters, his limbs like bone, you can just see his skin.

The first action Phil does is fall onto his knees and cry. He holds onto Dans dead, decomposing hand, as disgusting as it sounds. The man just sits there, staring at his body.

He was too late. He couldn't get there in time. He took too long setting up, that the paint dried out. The brushes hadn't gone stale because of use, but because the air; impossible to use. That blank canvas is going to stay blank forever, Phil isn't able to help it, he can no longer take control and guide the paint to make it the painting it deserves to be, the painting that millions should admire, the painting that is worth millions if people took the time to appreciate it. Although the canvas would be rough and bumpy at some parts, causing mistakes to be made, the rest was perfect, you just had to deal with it and ignore the bad parts, and admire the painting as a whole. Just like Dan.