The softest of murmur of a far-gone memory whispered in the back of his mind, his fingers trailing the smooth texture of the paper, not yet stained by the ink. The feeling of warm skin conjured itself in his imagination, the sensation similar under fingertips, yet there was something dead about the reality whilst the imagination breathed life, blood coursing with the warmth of million unsaid words.

Such a soft feeling.

Such harsh words came to the darkening mind. He'd never loved any of them, though he'd lied to say he had, in the midst of passionate nights and lingering high after another hookup.

He didn't know why he lied to them, when it clearly never meant anything. Boys who said that they liked his eyes, kissed his skin with hot mouths, trailed his body with electrifying fingers.

He only knew desire and passion as the closest to love. He refused to believe in anything less than ideal.

Yet he kept on lying. For if one day it would not be a lie, he'd not be scared of the reality and would allow the warm embrace of the perfection to take him.

Smoke slowly curled into the air from between his lips; his last cigarette, he'd promised himself. He knew very well, though that it was just another lie, the freshly opened package sitting within his reach. He felt the tickling sensation, just like the faintest ghost, linger on his mouth before it was gone and he placed the cigarette between his lips once more.

He liked to imagine, remember, paint the past with brighter colours than the bleak reality had been. The tip of the pen pressed against the page, he paused for another drag before he exhaled, the smoke escaping through his nostrils before he began to write.

Dan Howell was what everyone calls a troubled artist.

His appearance, though clearly polished, held some wildness about it, be it the pitch darkness of the colours he wore or the sharp corners of the accessories that littered the clothing. His interactions were as smoothed out, a pattern established that was seen unkind. He'd pushed most people away in his life, year after year shedding skins and building walls, for his only escape seemed to be deep within his own head, excusing himself as finding everything dull around him.

And then the liquor and cigarettes had filled his hours, allowing for him to slip further and further into his mind, a place he showed no wish to retreat from most days. Only nights brought him to life, when a blur of toxic locations and strange men took up his consciousness.

Everything about his apartment displayed the mess; once such a tidy man, every surface of his flat now was covered in stray pieces of paper, old writing utensils and books, only the shelf of CDs and DVDs neat to a t.

There was an old piano in the corner, mostly gathering dust though the keys proved anyone who thought it was just a decoration wrong by shining, clean. A guitar, meanwhile, was barely noticeable between an array of piled notebooks, a chair that barely could hold any weight and some long-forgotten Christmas decorations.

An assortment of bills and unopened letters of congratulations littered the kitchen table.

See, although troubled and known to be a recluse by most, he'd successfully gotten published and it was so that his work had gone on to be quite successful. It brought in the money that kept filling his mind with alcohol and lungs with smoke. It kept his ink running and allowed his conscious hours to turn to the well-developed fantasy world.

The world that he had sunk into on this day as well, dark eyes rimmed red with the lack of sleep, dark circles underneath magnifying the tired look.

A loud bang at his door sent his hand to cross over the word he'd just written and his head shot up to eye the otherwise inanimate wood, as loud bangs and knocks against and behind it echoed through his apartment. He could have sworn that there was some muted muttering, though he could catch no curse within those words.

He willed the sound to end, staring as if the door could somehow cease to produce it, but when it didn't, he dropped the pen and stood, his limbs numb from the hours spent seated, and he made his way across the space towards the front door and pulled it open.

He'd expected a lot of things; a person, a piece of furniture or even a surprise truck to face him in the stairway. What he hadn't expected however, was that he'd be faced by a large, fluffy white rabbit costume head, verging on the edge of falling off the coat rack it was on and right into Dan's arms.

''Oh, sorry, I'll get that out of your doorway!'' a voice suddenly poured from behind the weird formation and for a moment his drowsy mind imagined it to be the head speaking before it was pulled aside to reveal a man of his own height and width but nothing spoke of their personalities aligning. The light blue shirt, the equally piercing tint of his eyes, the bright smile on the pale face and an enthusiastic hand thrust in Dan's direction ''I'm Phil, Phil Lester. Just moving in; I promise to make less sound after I'm done. The stairway is a lot narrower than I thought.'' Dan only mutely took his hand for a brief handshake. Though unsociable, he wasn't entirely impolite. And besides, there was something about the newly not-stranger that stirred something in Dan, and for a moment he felt a little more awake than he'd felt in what felt like weeks.

First time in a while a real person had stirred his curiosity.

And yet, the lead in his limbs was evident and though sober, his mind felt tipsy. No amount of genuine human wondering could pull the young author from below the heavy waters.

''Mind the other door,'' he finally spoke, after a silent moment of observing the other man, voice raspy and his tongue feeling like he'd licked an ashtray ''The old lady will yell at you if you as much as breathe at her clean handles.'' An attempt at joking sound, there was a bit of a miserable flatness that fell in his tone. His eyelids closed, but to open them was a lot harder chore than he'd last recalled it to be.

Phil, clearly excited that his attempt at small talk had succeeded, looked over at the said door whilst completely unaffected by the lacking enthusiasm in Dan's tone ''Thanks for the head's up! By the way, what's your--'' was all Dan heard, before his door had fallen shut already, not forceful, but simply desperate for a retreat, for sleep, and for the image of talking rabbits to leave his deliriously drowsy head.

With the mild awakeness had come emotions and a dripping sickly in the pit of his stomach was embarrassment that he was not ready to digest now.

Silence followed, briefly, but Dan was out, one arm hanging over the edge of the sofa, when the next item that Phil was carrying knocked against his door.

====

The sunset dyed the sky bright reds and pinks when he awoke, the low light tickling his nose with the dust in the thick air. He lay on his back, unmoving, the eyes still heavy-lidded and unseeing. It took a while longer until he woke up enough to realise that he'd not awoken naturally and instead another tentative knock on his door brought his attention.

He let the sound sink in, slowly, just as tentatively as the knuckles rattling against the hardwood.  Had he been more awake, he would've laughed about how he'd never once thought a door to have so much personality.

There was shuffling, so finally he sat up, pushing his body, stomach rumbling hungrily, up once more and across the narrow spaces only to once more be greeted by that smiling face once the door was opened.

Something ethereal had laced the air around the other man and Dan had no words to offer even if he tried to. So taken was he, by that look, that atmosphere. The usual bleakness of everyone in his life had caused his disinterest and he'd pushed them away. Yet here stood a man, just like many others, and there was light, joy and hints of soft laughter in the silent air around him.

''Oh! I'm sorry for waking you up!'' the other man, after surveying the ruffled state of the writer, began to apologise, but Dan just shook his head, lithe fingers soon combing through the curling hair to fix himself up a little. ''I went to the store earlier, but I completely forgot to buy salt and pepper,'' Phil went on, once assured that it was fine to go on ''My mum would always say to not overdo it with the salt, says it's bad for me, but,'' he waved his arms, shrugging his shoulders, the slight flail causing a slight smile on Dan's tired face ''Honestly, who can eat without at least some basic spices?''

As soon as it had began, the words stopped flowing and bright blues settled once more on Dan and the latter couldn't help to stare back. He felt mute in the shining presence, the one with so much life in it, so much that for once he didn't feel terrible for being in the reality.

''So, uh, could I borrow some from you?'' Phil inquired, a little awkwardly, when not granted any response.

Dan blinked, and he could feel how the life flowed into his limbs once more, and his vision cleared ''Oh, yes, of course,'' he turned away only to look back at this magical being of a man whose first impression hadn't sunk in, but the second surely had. ''Come in?''

The door clicked shut behind them and Dan dug through the cupboard for the two little containers, oblivious of the wandering eyes that curiously observed the messy surfaces and him. He missed how they lingered first on the scattered papers, then - on the neat shelf, and then - on him, watching with eyes that could caress gently if given the physicality of fingers.

''You write?''

''What gave it away?'' he asked, a hint of sarcasm finally appearing as Dan liked it best. After all, he wrote so many characters, why wouldn't he be able to write himself as well? Every action and reaction of his was in his hands alone. To create a fun, mildly sarcastic being was better that letting the life decide of how bleak to make him.

A fond, light laughter was the only answer and Phil accepted the two shakers gladly when handed them “Must've been the tired eyes,” to which Dan only rolled his.

A low grumble interrupted the next words forming on his lips, dark eyes narrowing in mild annoyance at nothing else but his own body at that moment. Why was reality so stubborn? Why couldn't he chose everything of his own and make brilliance out of his vague existence? Why was a good dialogue formed have to be interrupted so rudely?

''Do you want to have dinner with me?'' a mildly rushed suggestion, followed by the slightest pink tint on pale cheeks and Dan felt taken aback at the suggestion for a second before shooting back ''My, usually they only offer a quick drink.''

Phil arched his brow, unsure how to answer, but there was no sign of judgement in the features. Dan let the softness of the other man's, ironically, fairly angular features pour into his own being once more and he almost felt like resurfacing.

Almost.

''I'd love to, thank you.''

''I'll knock on your door when it's done, neighbour?''

''Sure. And it's Dan.''

''Okay, Dan.''

=====

Though their personalities had seemed a complete contradiction at first glance, Dan had to admit he'd been mistaken as soon as he walked into Phil's apartment later that evening. Boxes, half of them open, were strewn across the apartment, and he could spy a half-hearted attempt of putting things away that had been abandoned somewhere after the first one had been fully emptied.

Something about the place displayed a chaos of mind, just like his own, and the little figurines on the only filled shelf and a shirt with Captain America shield thrown over the back of a chair showed similar interests.

One thing he couldn't fathom, however, were the two giant lights and a tripod with a camera placed facing the bedroom door.

Seated by the table, where he'd been directed, Dan gave the other man a questioning look with a knowing smirk bowing his lips, when the other took a pause to inhale in between the words of apologising for the simplicity of the meal.

''What?--'' Phil flushed bright red ''Oh my god!-- It's not what you think!''

''It's you who thought of it,'' Dan leaned his elbow on the table, leaning onto it more, darkness of eyes more liquid chocolate than solid, proving his mischievous attention that always arrived as the sun began to set. “I'm just worried that this,” he motioned at the bottle of wine that he'd brought along as a housewarming gift of a kind (And honestly, an unfortunate habit of his own; he'd left dark glass untouched by his lips, no liquors stinging his throat for days now and he craved the feeling.) ''Might turn into something that I would rather keep off the internet.'' He watched as red turned to crimson, and he had to bite his tongue not to speak his mind too freely, not yet.

''I make films!!'' Phil finally managed out, bringing his arms up only to knock a stray book off the edge of the shelf and effectively dropping it right onto his foot.

Deadpanning, Dan watched the other man jump around. If only he could tell what was that prompted him to engage with this clearly awkward and disastrous human being.

''Do I dare to ask about your film? Or will I regret my curious small talk?''

''You're a terrible neighbour,'' he swore that Phil had uttered under his breath once the initial pain had subsided and the book had be gracelessly tossed onto the sofa (Dan had allowed himself a soft chuckle to that and earnt a smile from his new neighbour) ''Independent film, I have a new crew, that's why I moved to London.''

''No pornography then?''

''No pornography.''

''What a pity.''

''You're terrible.''

This time it wasn't hushed.

=====

The evening had gone surprisingly well, the food consumed alongside the glasses of wine and information shared. When Dan had finally, briefly explained more about his success, there'd been the initial shock that soon was exchanged by cheekiness and inquiries about the general details of the field.

Such as whether the sleep was absolutely abolished, souls sold to the devil to be able to write throughout days and nights without any rest.

''You know, earlier, when I saw you first, I had to rationalise that zombies aren't proven to be real yet,'' Phil, giddy from the alcohol, pointed a finger at Dan, making the latter scrunch up his face briefly.

''Shut up, I hadn't slept for two days.''

''That's what I mean.''

''....Shut up.''

''For a bestselling author, I would expect more eloquent answers coming from you.''

''You're not worthy of my articulate answers.''

''Touche.''

Fond chuckles exchanged, the two fell into a surprisingly easy silence, each holding onto a glass that was definitely meant for another drink, but neither truly had cared about it.

“I wish Mark was here,” After a moment of thought, leaned back comfortably in one corner of the sofa, Phil spoke, nursing the glass in his hands, staring off into space.

“Who?” Suddenly Dan's voice fell hushed; the way the other had spoken felt tender and full of affection.

''He's my best friend,'' Phil elaborated without acknowledging the sudden volume change of Dan's voice. (It had taken half a glass to bring the loudness out, an absolute difference from when they had first met.) Dan observed the other man, whose gaze was unseeing as he stared at a spot across the room and there was something dark about the sudden acknowledgement of this best friend, suddenly mentioned.

Suddenly blue eyes met brown and it felt like Dan's mind would short-circuit, the intensity of the gaze, somewhere deep within pleading, hitting him, tingling his chest and his fingertips. Pen and paper had been left behind in his apartment, and his long limbs felt heavy and useless without his tools. He saw love, he saw trust, he saw the things he'd never truly seen.

He felt it, wanted to describe it and yet he never truly got the real message hidden within.

None of that was truly for him, Dan was sure, and yet it made him ache to not lose the sensation, to incorporate it into his works which didn't feel worthy anymore. His descriptions; the hours spent mulling over the correct words and metaphors to explain it. Now it was right there, within his reach.

The true feelings that he'd tried to fake for so long.

''He would like you. I know I do,'' he was drawn out of his thoughts by those words.

Though he should've felt warm and flattered by what had been said, the only thing he felt was nausea and headache forming just above his brow.

“I'm sure,” words fell flat and he rubbed his face.

“Oh, I've kept you here all evening!” Phil jumped a little at the notion then and there. It was a sudden change, as if someone covering out of the harm's way almost, but the tension unraveled and dissipated into the thin air even before Dan's absent mind could latch onto it.

“Don't worry about it,” Dan offered a small smile, but the glass, for once not entirely emptied, was set aside, ''Well, the way you look now, I feel like I should worry,'' a hand rested upon his shoulder, lightly and Dan accepted the stability that the single touch offered as he rose from his seat. There was clearly a growing affection within his chest, but he blamed it on the Rosette; he often found attachment through the alcohol and it was usually quickly gone once the soberness returned once again.

“I think I should head back now,” With a slight resolve in his tone, Dan said, once he felt stable enough on his feet, he offered a smile to his new acquaintance “Welcome to your new home.”

Once again, something flickered behind those azure sea eyes, “Good night.”

=====

Dan felt warmer than he ever had, whenever he was around Phil, who had somehow, slowly, become his friend. A concept that had felt perfectly foreign to Dan for what felt like decades now.

There were good days, a bottle of wine emptied with a good meal and a movie watched (At the end of which Phil would critique and commend the plot and techniques used in it and Dan would always point out the lack of time and the plot holes).

There were days less so, when either hadn't had the greatest day (And yet Phil was always the one to brighten the mood eventually, though he always ended up giving credit to Dan, thanking him in the most wholehearted manner he'd seen anyone do).

And there were days that were a clouded mystery, when Phil would be an absent shadow in his memory, not there behind the locked door though Dan had been sure that Phil had never left the apartment. Those had become the days Dan was the most gone; absolutely swallowed by the creatures within his fantasy and the endless smoke that made his chest clench and throat burn. It was as if the missing time of other days piled into one and sometimes he found himself having lost two days without a notice.

It was at the end of a day as such, where his fingers found safety pressing down the piano keys rather than gripping the pen. A melody filled the smoke-white air, soft as the manner of playing. His thoughts, exhausted from the fantasy, began to acquire bits of real thoughts. The boring things in life;

There were bills to pay.

There was the editor who had left several voice mails.

There were tingling need in his stomach.

And his fridge was begging to be filled once more.

The song flowed and his eyes were shut, the hair tickling his forehead as he scrunched up his face as he hit a wrong note. He thought of real things and how the world had formed around him. It had light, it had more colour now, it had something entirely unexpected.

It had longing.

His heart felt like a heavy flutter at first, but he breathed in, caught the lingering smoke, coughed.

He had to get out.

=====

Sweaty chest pressed against his own, hot lips restricting him from catching a breath. Fingers were digging into his wrists above his head and his heart was pumping with lustful excitement.

He released a muffled moan, friction against sensitive skin turning his mind blank for once and he allowed himself to gracelessly beg. Passion was fulfillment, where the lust had achieved the goal, where testosterone and musk could be tasted along with the salty sweat.

Fingernails scratched at the skin, feeling the defined muscles tense and relax and as with climax, the words of adoration escaped him, half-whispered.

It was another lie, another fantasy to live for.