Title: Intertextuality: Here's white, here's black, here's the colour of my heart as I'm starting to crack)

Summary: In which Dan and Phil's mind are wired differently or; in which Dan has an existential crisis building up and Phil's just simply there for him.

Warnings/disclaimer: A bit of swearing, otherwise none. This is entirely fictional.

A/N: I'm mourning not being a literary student anymore and ended up writing a fic on the theme of existential crises and the literary term Intertextuality (knowledge about the term not necessary but I still preferable because it might change the way you view art and life – in other words you will become more nerdy than ever before) because it seemed like the logical thing to do. Sub-title from the song Rocky Dennis' farewell song (to the blind girl).

The clattering sound of fingers working relentlessly on a keyboard dances around the room, swirling in Dan's head and mixing with his thoughts. This had been building up for days. It always starts out with a feeling in the pit of his stomach, a surprisingly substantial, strangely real I-can-actually-pinpoint-this kind of feeling. Then it slowly spreads, seeps into every little corner of his body and moves onto his mind, and suddenly he could not pinpoint anything at all if his life would be depending on it. Manchester at night lies before him now, with the streetlights and the neon signs bathing the room in a soft light that only adds to the melancholic feeling festering in Dan's mind after practically being invited in, given complete access for the last few days. He should go to sleep, let his mind rest. But he doesn't want to disturb Phil, inevitably making him feel like he has to join Dan. Not now when he is in the middle of letting words pour out through his fingers and manifest themselves on the screen, an intent look on his face. Or even better, he should deal with it, the way he should've done three days ago. Possibly with the help of Phil and his ever so steady voice and pensive words that creates a line for Dan to follow, a rope for him to hold on to as he navigates through the overwhelming sense of a complete lack of meaning. After all, he had made a promise to Phil to voice these feelings. Preferably before they get out of hand, before Dan choses to retreat to his bed, the one that is honestly more for show than for actually sleeping in, instead of the bed they usually spend their nights wrapped up in each other in. Creating a distance that seems equally unbridgeable for them both. Phil has spent enough nights on the floor, head resting against Dan's bedroom door. Enough days trying to break through the walls Dan put up. He knows he should at least give Phil this, invite him in instead of leaving him out of it with only guesses and feelings of never having enough to offer to keep him company. All the while Dan discouragingly fights his way through his issues, like he once used to fight his way through brushwood armed with a heavy-handedly carved wooden sword.

But this was how it had always worked with Dan. He can still vividly remember one of those demeaning childhood experiences of a bus ride on a family holiday. They were going up, so steeply up a narrow and seemingly never-ending mountain road. At the sight of his pale cheeks and clenched fists his mother had told him, surely for the fifth time since they entered the bus, that he must tell her if he felt sick. He had answered her with a gesture that resembled a nod and a headshake simultaneously, yes he will and no he doesn't, while he could feel bile rising in his chest. When he ultimately admitted defeat and opened his mouth to announce just that something other than words came out.

Almost 15 years having passed since that incident has not changed things for the better. Although it is something entirely different he keeps bottled up inside him now the essence of the problem remains the same. There is still a voice telling him to keep it inside, push it down, definitely do not display it until all hope of holding it back is lost. Then it will come tumbling out, like a wave crashing without any consideration of what is being swept away, tattered and torn in the process. Physical objects being flung across the room and breaking things during red-hot outbursts or harsh words carelessly thrown out hitting fragile parts of their relationship – either way it ended in destruction and Phil having to pick up the pieces because Dan sure as hell didn't have any strength to do so. He could probably keep this destructive pattern going, it was after all the only way he knew how to handle things, but he'd little by little realised how this wasn't just crashing down on him, but also on Phil. On everything they shared. He'd realised that, one of the few times Phil had raised his voice against him, putting words to the frustration of getting closed doors and cold denial of any kind of contact every time he tried to overbuild the gap Dan allowed to form between them.

For once he tries to be selfless when he calls Phil's name quietly, causing the sound of fingers waltzing over a keyboard to come to an abrupt end. Phil had surely forgotten about Dan's existence for a while, the way they both would when they were constantly close to each other. Phil answering e-mails – Dan on the couch next to him absorbed in something on his own screen. Dan lost in some editing – Phil sat in the chair next to him reading a book. So close they just need to reach out to touch the other, and they occasionally do, almost on instinct. Phil sketching the outlines of a video – Dan resting his head on his shoulder, content with silence and having Phil's hair lightly brush against his forehead every now and then. They spend so little time apart, they have gotten used to tuning the other person out when needed, reducing the other to a source of comfort, someone radiating love in silence. They don't need time apart. This is infinitely better, Dan is certain – it is being alone with your own mind without actually having to experience the crippling feeling of being alone.

Without having to say anything more, Phil gets up from his spot in front of the computer and moves over to kneel in front of Dan curled up on the couch. Placing feather light kisses where he can manage, he mumbles against Dan's skin as the male lying down let his eyes flutter shut.

"Ready to talk now?"

And Dan has to screw up his eyes to hold back hot tears at the realisation that Phil knew, he knew exactly where Dan was headed and still he waited patiently. Even though silently waiting might mean spending another night, another few days, on the other side of a door that wouldn't open at his knocking.

"I'll just be a second, okay?"

When Phil returns he has a bottle of wine – a more expensive looking one like those he purchase when either of their parents come to visit and he explains to Dan how the cheap red wine they usually settle for won't cut it – and two glasses in his hands. Dan watches him as he's struggling slightly with the cork (they can pretend all they want they're vintage Merlot kind of people but truth be told their fumbling hands will give them away every time) and pours them a glass each after patting on the floor opposite him.

"Are we turning this into some sort of festive event?"

Phil just shrugs, a "why not?" apparent as he waits for Dan to settle down and take a sip of the wine. He does and supposes this is better than the bottles they usually share, but while it is nice it's also just wine to his inexpert likings. It's mostly something to occupy his hands with and something to soften things around their edges. He imagines his thoughts being fragments of glass that would end up hurting anyone who offers to take them off his chest and clasp them in their hands. They would end up cutting the other person, no matter how carefully he would place the pieces in their hands, and so he has always kept them for himself. Kept inside they were more like gravel scratching his inside rather than glass breaking skin, and he could live with gravel, really he could. But the wine together with the late hour could perhaps serve to soften these sharp glass edges, the way the ocean in time made every stone smooth and even.

"You know when you have one of those days… You just want to cry more than anything else, really, you don't know why but it's taken over and it's kind of overshadowing everything else?"

His voice is uneven, he can clearly hear that himself, uncertainty colouring every word in uncomplimentary shades. His eyes focused on his hands and the wine glass that he keeps twirling mindlessly in-between swigs. He can without looking up imagining Phil nodding slowly, then realising Dan can't see (maybe suspecting he can still sense it) and clarifying with a "yeah. Yeah I know."

"Well it's like that. Only it's so much bigger, you know? It's paralyzing more than anything. I don't know why, Phil, it just is. I'm a lucky guy, right? I'm so fucking lucky compared to so many others."

"It doesn't work like that, though. There isn't a template for any of this."

"Still."

"It's how you feel. You shouldn't have to feel bad about feeling bad, on top of everything."

Phil's fingertips draw patterns on the back of Dan's hand. He's prompting him to look up. Saying hey, look at me now, through touches rather than words. So he does, and Phil's eyes are warm, and calm and steadily fixed on Dan whose eyes dart around, afraid to settle. They are a little out of focus, they way your sight is when you're desperately fighting back tears. Because Dan is almost 21, and male on top of that and if society in general hasn't taught him that he has to put on a façade then surely high school experiences did.

"It's just… I'm happy Phil, I swear mostly I am. I mean, I have you right?" And it should be a statement, because he has got Phil, but somehow the amazement that thought brings him even at this point of their relationship makes his voice go up a bit at the end, still puts a question mark at the end of those words. "It's just that it seems so meaningless sometimes."

He punctuates with a sip of wine, bigger than it probably should be and leaving no time to let the alcohol swirl around the mouth, exploring the richness, but simply chugging it down like he's 16 again and resolutely drinks himself towards stupidity. He doesn't want to think about the way a line appears on Phil's forehead owing to worry, wildly unusual to his commonly expression of ease. Or how he's the one putting it there.

"What is it that's meaningless, Dan? Us?"

Dan is again reminded of pieces of glass and how the ocean, or the wine in his case, obviously isn't doing its job polishing sharp edges as it is now Phil's turn to let his gaze drop down to his hands. Dan wonders if they are hiding pieces of broken glass by now.

"No, no, no, no. Phil, that's not what I-" He runs his hands through his hair, frustrated with himself and the limitation of the English language. "Us is just about the one thing that makes perfect sense. I love you, please tell me I make sure you know that?"

And Phil's little smile as he simply states "you do" is perhaps the best thing to come out of all this, Dan thinks.

So he sets out to tell Phil about what happens when that feeling seeps into his mind, planting small seeds of doubt and defeat that thrives inside of him. His words are coming out in a hurry one moment, and in the next he's grasping for words but finding none. Sometimes he's tripping and falling over words, cutting off sentences half way through and starting over at another end of his trail of thoughts. He tells Phil about how everything has been done already, and it leaves him with nothing to explore. No one has ever really claimed a modern adaption of Shakespeare to be of the same importance as the original work, let alone a parody or plagiary and Dan feels his whole existence is somewhat just that. Of which work he is not yet sure. Everything he will ever create will be a modern adaption that will fade in comparison because it's been done already in ways he can never live up to because he's just… Well he's just Dan. He's still that teenager at heart, as confused and frightened of having to shape his own life. He can't even go back to a mind-numbing job or a draining degree that he doesn't want, because he's fucked that up too and where does that leave him? And through his stream of words Phil doesn't once interrupt him, he just lets Dan know he's there with attentive eyes and little touches. He's grateful for that, because being interrupted mid sentence would be like stopping to look down from an unsteady suspension bridge over whirling waters – he would beyond question be paralyzed and unable to keep going.

"And everything's a copy of a copy of a copy…" he ultimately trails off with the feeling of having run a marathon.

"I'm sorry, but did you just quote Fight club in the middle of an existential crisis?" Phil asks with the smallest of laughs, and Dan settles there and then that's why he loves Phil. That's why they're so insistently good for each other, because Phil can find a way to make Dan's corner of the mouth perk up even at a time like this.

"Well it seems suitable enough."

"Intertextuality." Phil utters after seconds of having looked at each other in silence, smiles lingering on both men's lips despite everything.

"I- what?"

"It's basically what you're describing. Well it's about literature specifically, but I think it applies to almost everything. To life, basically."

"How's that?"

"Well no books are standing completely on their own. They're all part of a… tradition, I guess. Tied together by allusions or quotes to previously written pieces. Or they are mere rip-offs. Parodies or adaptions. All the things you mentioned, really."

"And that thought must be insanely depressing for every author ever." Dan states, not finding much comfort in having a technical name put to his worries. He decides to find it elsewhere, puts down his glass next to Phil's and places a hand on Phil's thigh, urging him to uncross his legs and make room for Dan to prop himself up against Phil. Framed by Phil's legs and with his back flush against Phil's chest he thinks he's found it.

"Or they can try their best to accept the fact that they're no 'unique snowflake', take traditions and their own experiences and create something great out of the two." Phil counters as he's nuzzling into Dan's silky hair, exploring skin and marvelling in the softness of both. He won't tell, because it's the kind of thing that upsets Dan who's still sore from spiteful comments Phil understands were spat at him all too often the years before they met, but his smooth skin almost resembles the one of a female and as far as physical qualities goes it's one of his absolute favourites of Dan's.

"Really Phil, you're retorting to Fight club quoting now as well?"

"Suitable enough, right?"

Dan seems to ponder in what direction to steer the conversation next, as he intertwines their fingers only to let go and repeat the process of letting his pianist fingers find their way between Phil's. He makes Phil think of a child who finds both comfort and fascination in the act.

"Do people ever succeed in that though?"

"They do. Look at Joyce. Would you rather read The Odyssey or Ulysses today?"

"How about neither?"

"Fine, fair point. What about Charlie and the chocolate factory then?"

"Well that's a leap. What about it? It's just a children's book, isn't it?"

"Maybe. Or it's an allegory over the bible's deathly sins. Actually it's also an allegory of Dante's Divine comedy. So I guess it's not just a children's book, though it may look like it. It's something bigger."

"Really?"

"Really."

Hours slips through their fingers, and the wine bottle is long since empty. Phil leaves and returns soon after, letting his hand gently cover Dan's eyes.

"Get up, I want to show you something." he breathes in Dan's ear, helping him to his feet without removing his hand. Dan hears him struggling with opening the balcony door with only one hand but soon enough feels the chilly night air hit him before he's ushered out on the balcony. Phil lets his hand fall down and instead wraps a duvet around Dan from behind, enclosing them both in a cocoon of warmth.

"Look."

And Dan looks, honestly he does, he's just not sure what it is he's supposed to be looking at.

"It's our balcony." he states flatly after having failed to understand Phil's intentions.

"No, it's the sunrise." Phil argues, earning a small chuckle from the other man.

"Well while it's pretty, it's kind of a reoccurring event, Phil. And if you've failed to notice, every time you're not dragging me to bed with you I stay up long past the sunrise."

"Yeah, but you never watch it though. You're busy watching a screen."

And Phil has a point, Dan realises. He can't remember the last time he stayed up with the intention of actually watching the sun paint the city in a spectrum of colours.

"I'm sorry." He says as he manages to turn around inside their little duvet cocoon so that he's now facing Phil. "I'm rubbish at this sort of things, aren't I?" He smiles a bit sheepish, surprised at how easy this feels despite lacking some sense of tact.

"A bit, yeah."

They're so close now, and Dan's shivering. Not because he's cold. Because he's never been warmer than he is right in this moment. And when they kiss, it surprises Dan how the simplicity can add to everything, how it's making his head spin and his thoughts dissolve one by one. It's all stripped down to a bare minimum; Phil's hands are stuck holding the duvet up, and there isn't much room for Dan to do anything at all with his either. But despite this Dan can feel his body eventually starting to respond to the deep kisses and Phil's body impossibly close to his, and when blood is rushing and urging him to move this along, he doesn't. Because there is no rush, there's just this vacuum in time and he could happily settle down here forever. When they break apart, panting and all shy smiles despite their years of doing this, Phil asks with just a minimal amount of worry in his eyes:

"Sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Our bed?"

But really, Dan realises, he's not just asking where to head off to now. In two words he's asking "are you okay?" and "are we okay?" and he even manages to plead "please, don't keep me out anymore." So he answers. He lets three words fall out of his mouth as confirmation while so many more are left hanging between them:

"Yeah. Our bed."