Chapter Text
His head hurt.
Like, really hurt.
Pretty fucking bad, if Dan had anything to say about it.
What was the last thing he remembered? Oh, right. He got hit by a vehicle.
It was Phil’s fault. He should be mad, he had every right to be mad, and yet. He couldn’t. He could never be mad. Phil, stupid Phil, though the thought lacked any cynicism, could not watch where he puts his feet forward if he tried.
A lorry was coming, and it was coming fast.
Dan was several paces behind him, and watched as a cold terror momentarily took over his body. It was as if the world slowed around him, a tunnel vision singling out the scene ahead. There was no question, no doubt, no hesitation about his decision.
The distance that once felt like a thousand kilometers closed, and with no spare thought about his own life, he saved Phil’s. With a forceful, maybe too forceful shove, their places switched.
And he would do it again.
But hopefully not for a while awhile, because damn, did his head fucking hurt.
Light filtered through his closed eyelids, and he opened them slowly. As he adjusted to the light, he outstretched his hands, and felt the bed beneath him.
Within a second Dan knew that this was not their house. The hospital? No. The bed was too soft.
He opened his eyes. He was — he didn’t know where he was.
A bedroom, that much was clear. But this was not one he recognized. His vision — now focused, allowed him to scan his surroundings. The room was bare to say the least. What little belongings he did see, they were scattered about. Clothes littered the floor in stark contrast to the bare walls that enclosed the small room, and a door stood in front of the bed. The Feng Shui could use some help, he noted.
But the reality of the situation was hitting him once again. And it begged the question; where the fuck is he? It was terrifying.
Dan racked his aching brain to recall the recent incident.
They were leaving the house. They were crossing the street. Phil did not, in fact, look both ways. The lorry. Pushing Phil. Getting hit. Waking up here.
He struggled to correlate those events to ending up in a stranger's bed. A concussion? Memory loss? No, that would equal a hospital or being home. The thought that Phil left him in the street for some stranger to find never crossed his mind, but had to chuckle at the idea. As if.
He could, however, feel his heart rate increase, and his palms grow clammy, at the mere idea of whomever this stranger is coming into this room and attempting a conversation with him.
Thankfully, his brain seemed to be finally catching up with him, as he remembered that phones are a thing. And there happened to be one on the bedside drawer. Not his, evidently, as the case was not his sparky blue. It was plain. And black. The screen was cracked as well, and could use a good wipe.
He clicked it on.
Sunday. 7:00am. Early. Now he knows he must’ve had a brain injury, never in his life would he need to get up this early on a Sunday. But that would make the incident yesterday, then. Ok, he thought, so it’s been a day.
New theory. He got a concussion. He got confused. He wandered off from Phil who could not catch him, and then — and then what? Slept with some random bloke?
No.
Even before he knew Phil, the idea of sleeping around was never wholly appealing. Granted, that was sixteen years ago, but he doubts at this age it suddenly would.
He swiped up on the phone. Password required. He sighed, well there goes that. He set the phone down.
It was quiet.
Dan noticed that at first, but now it’s painfully obvious. There’s no one else here. So no better time than the present to investigate wherever the hell he ended up.
He crossed the room, and went through the door.
He was in someone’s flat alright, still not sure whose.
Just like the bedroom, it was small, cramped. It was definitely lived in, yet it felt barren of life. There were colors, yet it felt monotone. Sad. Dreary. Thank fuck his house is not like this.
He gravitated to the kitchen, eyeing the refrigerator with a few small photos clinging on for dear life thanks to some cheap looking magnets.
One photograph, in particular, caught his eye. In it, there were three people.
The one on the left could be none other than Louise, the figure in the middle he did not recognize, at all.
However, the person on the right — but it couldn’t be.
It was him. But it wasn’t. The picture was dated 2022, yet his hair was pin straight. What’s the word for it? Uncanny valley? He thought back to his concussion-memory-loss theory. Maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched. He does not remember taking this, he does not know who that person in the middle is. This doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like he’s forgotten everything. He’s from Wokingham. He was born in 1991. He remembers his family, he remembers his home, his career, his partner. So why doesn’t he remember this?
If he wasn’t freaking out before, he is now. His hands, trembling, loosen its grip on the photo. It falls to the floor, taking the magnet with it. It shatters. He doesn’t care. It’s not his magnet.
The other photos do nothing to comfort him either. He’s in them, sure, but not really. The people he doesn’t recognize, the years don’t line up, the locations aren’t right. Nothing is right.
A prank, he thinks. This is actually just a prank. There’s hidden cameras, and this is a prank, and it’ll be a good laugh, and Phil is outside the door, and Lousie was in on it. Cruel prank to pull on a man who saved your life, he thinks, but great content, sure. Why not?
Except it’s not. He knows it’s not. He knows Phil. He knows this is not his doing.
His eyes land on what he assumes is the exit to this flat, and he bolts.
Immediately, he is greeted by a hallway, lined with doors just like the one he left from. The door adjacent to that opens with a squeak, and a short man walks out with a rubbish bin in hand.
“Dan! Bright’n early to see you out.”
He stared.
“You alright?”
A wave of nausea hit him like a bus. Or a lorry.
He managed the question, “Who lives here?” But it came out with more of a rasp than he intended.
The man cocked his head, “You alright?” He asked again.
He stared.
“You moved in about six years ago I'd say. Did you drink last night?”
Dan nodded slowly, “Drank. Yes. Last night.”
“Well, it’s like you always say, ‘Saturday nights, amirite?’” The man chuckled and walked off.
If he wasn’t manic before, he is now.
He spent the next hour going through every nook and cranny of this flat, of whoever this flat is home to, and came up with a few things. Firstly, three envelopes addressed to him with various balances due, a diploma from the University of London with his name on it, and a name tag for Asda, also with his name on it.
Dan decided this is actually a dream. And in this dream, from the pieces he can put together, he lives alone. He moved to London for a law degree, bought a flat, has maybe three friends, does not know Phil, and works at… Asda.
Actually, Dan decided this is a nightmare. Nice to know that even in his dreams or nightmares the law degree is useless.
It’s of no consequence. Because this is a dream. Nightmare. Whatever. He’ll wake up, in a hospital probably, if the lorry ordeal wasn’t also part of this nightmare. Or even better, he’ll wake up at home. Next to Phil, in a bed thats right, in a home that’s tastefully decorated and not depressing like whatever the fuck this place is.
While he can’t think of a time he had a dream where he knew he was dreaming, it’s a thing, he knows it’s a thing. Lucid dreaming. He thought that meant he’d be able to fly or something, anything, so leave it to him to have the worst version of whatever lucid dreaming is.
So. It’s just a matter of waking up. Easy. He can jump out of the window. He’s woken up from many dreams like that, from a fall, or right before something bad happens.
So he opens the nearest window. He looks down. He’s high up, and unexpectedly, it terrifies him. Heights have never been his absolute favorite, but he can handle them. And surely, a dream-state Dan can handle it. He sees the ground, even from this height, but it’s taunting him. Coward. He leans forwards, yet his hands remain on a deathgrip on the window sill. Wind hits his face and it feels so – real. It feels real. He leans back into the flat and promptly shuts the window. It felt too real.
If he did that, he’d probably wake up screaming. And if Phil’s there, he probably shouldn't do that. He’s had enough of Dan’s bullshit screaming in the middle of the night, surely. It was the nice thing to do.
He is tired – if you can even be tired while asleep. He can just go to sleep. Go to sleep here, and wake up there. Peaceful. He returns to his not-room, and lies down on his not-bed. Sleep comes easily with the hope he’ll wake up where he belongs, and the world around him drifts away.
Dan wakes up.
He wakes up, and it’s still not right.
It’s still not right, and he is furious.
He wants to cry. Scream. Throw up. All of the above. Because what the fuck do you do in this situation? He’s hungry. He’s fucking hungry and he doesn’t know how that’s possible. Is this real? Is this purgatory? Did God not approve of Sister Daniel? Was the last sixteen years a lie? Was that the dream? And this is his real life? Did he hit his head in this life and dream about that one?
His head hurt yesterday, when he woke up. It’s possible. It’s possible that he can't remember anything from this life because he got a concussion here and dreamt that whole life up.
But he knows it’s not possible, not in his heart. Every vivid memory, every feeling, every up and every down, he still feels it in his heart. That life is the real one. The only real life is the life he built with Phil, and clearly, his life needed it. Because this one doesn’t have him in it, and frankly, it’s obvious. This version of himself, the one that is supposed to be living here, is so very clearly depressed. And that’s not to say that he, the version of himself that is him right now, has not struggled even with Phil, but that his presence and support was truly a lifeline.
Maybe… maybe this is like a timeline thing. Maybe he has to fix it to go back. Maybe it’s a parallel universe thing. Maybe it really is a purgatory thing, and he actually died on the street in front of their house. Maybe it’s still just a nightmare. Either way, the real Phil – his Phil, could be out there, waiting for him. And he doesn’t know if this is some you die in here-you die in real life shit, but he won't take any chances, at least for now.
He eyes the phone on the bedside table. He reaches for it, and pauses at the password screen. The password he has used for the last however-many years — he tries it.
And it works. Because of course it does.
The first thing he does is open Youtube. He has a profile, but just a private one. No other channels, no videos. He kinda surmised that from the lack of equipment in here. The second thing he does is open the search bar.
AmazingPhil
No Results
No wonder they don’t know each other. No results on the web for just Phil Lester either.
He is subscribed to Smosh, and he almost wants to laugh. Some things never change, he guesses.
Instagram, he thinks. You can find almost anyone on Instagram if you know their name. He checks his own profile first. Not many followers, fewer that he even recognizes. Without Youtube, he supposed, he would not know many of the people he did. The last post on his profile is a picture with a Muse album, celebrating its anniversary. The Resistance. No surprises there. It’s not a terrible profile, he thinks, but it is evident this version of Dan does not have the social media experience he does.
He opens the search tab. Phil Lester.
A few profiles pop-up. Upon not seeing the right one immediately, he wonders if he should be trying Zach Striker instead. But lo and behold – Phil. He could recognize that face anywhere.
He taps the profile, and to his immediate disappointment, it’s private. Meaning that not only will he have to request to follow him, but Phil will have to approve it. And who says he will? They don’t even know each other.
Suddenly, he’s not even hungry anymore. But his finger hovers over the follow button anyway, and honestly, what does he have to lose? This isn’t even his life.
He taps it. Requested.
Now it’s wait and see.
He spends the next several hours trying to figure out every detail of this life, while intermittently checking the phone. Nothing yet.
The flat is bleak. He’s thought this already, but really looking at everything, it’s not getting any better. He has Ribena. Some Wheaties. A frozen pizza from Tesco’s. Ok, he can work with that.
A ring from the phone shook him momentarily. The contact name displayed showed a “Chris” parentheses “Asda.” Dan considered not answering. He doesn't know if this is even a Chris he knows, and if it is, it wouldn’t even matter. The urge to learn more about this life takes precedent, however, and against his better judgment, he accepts.
“Hey mate. I don’t know if you know, but you were supposed to be in n’hour ago.”
The voice doesn't ring familiar, but he can assume this is supposed to be his manager at Asda. He nearly shivers in feign disgust, as he did have a brief stint there in the life that he knows.
“Uhm, how long have I worked there?” He asked, because, hey, it doesn't hurt to ask.
“Mate. Did you hit your head? Never once in your six years have you been this late.”
Six years. Around the time he moved into this flat. Interesting.
“My head. Yes I hit my head, sorry.”
A heavy sigh was heard from the other side of the phone, “Alright. I’ll give it to you just this once. But you're scheduled next week, I better see you come in, you’re the best manager we got.”
Manager? “Alright, yeah. Yeah, sorry, I’ll be there next week.”
“Listen, I hope you get this sorted. See a doctor, or whatever.” A soft click and beep signaled the end of the call.
Manager? At an Asda? That sounded like hell.
Clearly something happened six years ago. He moved to a crappy flat, and got a crappy job.
The phone was still in his hands, and he opened his list of contacts. His finger hovered over Lousise. He knew her, in his life. She is in pictures with him, in this life. She might know something. She might know this Dan.
Fuck it.
He calls.
It dials a few times before she accepts.
“Hello?”
“Hi.” Ok, he didn’t think this far.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Remember when we met? I was just sorting through some old photos and it got me thinking. It’s was just a blur.” That’s believable right?
A soft laugh came though from the other side, “You sure you’re alright, love? You came to my book signing in Northampton, back in 2016. We been friends ever since. Anything else you seemingly forgot?”
2016, that would be nearly ten years ago. So, she was around for whatever happened six years ago. “Actually. No, I’m not alright. I got a head injury, and I forgot some stuff. The doctor says I need to review some stuff, to get my memory going again, you know?”
He’s not actually sure that’s how brain injuries work, but he is getting desperate here.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Do you need to know anything else? Do you need me to come on by?”
“No, no, I’m alright, thank you. I was just wondering… six years ago, why did I move here?”
“I can’t believe you forgot that. It was quite a lot, actually. Before the injury, I am sure you would have loved to forget all this. You sure you want to know?”
“...Yes.”
“Well you quit your law job. It was quite the prestigious job, we were all so surprised. You said you despised it, said it sucked the life right out of you. I don’t blame you, you never did seem happy there. But your partner at the time, he didn’t like that at all. Stephen moved right out of your place. I never liked him much anyway. You got yourself a job at a supermarket, one you said you worked at as a teen. Rented a smaller flat, to save money. Still there as far as I know.”
He said nothing, still processing the new information.
“I can come on by, if you’d like. Unless you’re still with the doctor?”
“I’m still with the doctor,” He responded automatically, “But thank you. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Alright then. Hope you recover well, please do reach out if you need anything.”
He ended the call. So. He was out, that simplified matters then. He actually got a job with his degree, but it didn’t make him happy. Or, this Dan. Himself. Whatever.
But how happy could he possibly be, right now, truly?
An Instagram notification popped up.
Phil Lester Accepted your request.
Phil Lester Commented on a Photo.
He never clicked on a notification faster, not since the day Phil tweeted him for the first time, sixteen years ago.
Omg I luv that album too! :>
And for the first time since he woke up in this purgatory, he smiled.