If there's one thing he can say about him, Phil is the greatest artist Dan has ever known. Not because his paintings are the most realistic or the most well thought-out. In fact, most of his paintings are created on a whim, sometimes in the middle of the night.
And though Phil is probably the most amazing person Dan Howell has met in his life, he considers himself much lower. He's only a college dropout, and he couldn't do the types of paintings Phil does if his life was at risk. He writes, sometimes, but it never turns out as well as he wishes.
They say art comes from pain, but Dan disagrees. Writing is art. And the pain he feels usually comes out of loving a boy like Phil, but Dan doesn't write about that. He won't write a word about love, not ever. Maybe that's why he can never write what he wants. He's got his love for Phil, and he refuses to use that pain as inspiration. He did once, but he won't anymore.
Phil does love him back. Of course he does- They're best friends, and have been for two years solid. Of course, it's a different kind of love. They're just friends, even if they do share the occasional fuck if they're both horny enough and have no one else to get to. And rarely do they ever have anyone else to get to.
-
The first time, Phil suggests it. Dan's door is wide open as he sits in front of a blank document, but Phil knocks anyways.
He's got specks of red and blue paint littered all over his forearms, even a bit on his face, but Dan doesn't think he's ever looked more attractive. He could write stories about the way his freckles and pale skin contrast with the colours of the paint.
Of course, he never would.
"Hey," Dan says, turning around.
"Hey," Phil smiles back softly. "You've been in here for hours. Do you need anything?"
Dan shakes his head softly, but Phil doesn't leave. He sits down on the edge of Dan's black and white bed, gripping at the edge gingerly.
"Writers block?"
"I guess so, yeah," Dan admits. "My entire life is that."
"Can't you try some poems? They're shorter," Phil suggests. "And you did that one that they really liked at the magazine. I'm sure you could find inspiration."
Inspiration is never the problem for Dan. Inspiration is at every corner and in every human being, but he can't write everything that inspires him. He never has the motivation to.
The inspiration for that poem was Phil, but Phil wouldn't know. He asked Dan a few times about what the poem was about, but when coming to poetry, Dan is pretty sure Phil is the most dense person in the world. Writing about a boy you've fallen in love with can only point to so many people. Dan just claims it's about nobody in particular.
"Inspiration is easy. Writing is hard," Dan groans. He stands up only to sit back down beside Phil. "All I've done the last days is try to write, and nothing happens. I hate it. And I never do anything else. I don't go out, I don't have fun, I don't go on dates." Dan lets out an almost bitter-sounding chuckle. "I'm always bitching about the same thing. I really need to get laid."
"Yeah, me too," Phil sighs. For a split second, Dan knows his mind goes somewhere it shouldn't be, but he stops himself.
Of course, if Phil wanted to, Dan doesn't doubt he could find someone for him to get a quick fuck from. Phil is attractive, and even people on the streets notice that. And the same Phil Lester who can recognize art and beauty in the streets and people so beautifully, can't see it in himself.
"Actually, you know, maybe," Phil stutters out before silencing himself again.
Dan looks up. "What?"
