Summary: Escape. Always escape. That was their mistake.

The cold penetrated under Dan's coat as he had trekked the short distance from the bus stop to Phil's little house by the park. The flat was empty without his best friend, but him moving out was the best decision at the time. As soon as Dan had said yes, he wanted to say no. As soon as he had given his blessing for Phil to live on his own, he wanted to turn back time and hold the boy in his arms and beg him to stay.

With every exhale, clouds formed and dissipated in front of him. Leaves crunched underfoot as he took his impatient strides. Dan forgot actually how long it was to walk on foot from the bus stop. He passed a coffee shop, and he knew he was getting closer. It was a familiar coffee shop. It was the one Dan took Phil to and had said that the place made the greatest and best tasting vanilla lattes. Phil took one sip and was completely appalled by the bitterness. Dan was confused. They tasted fine to him.

Dan smiled at the memory. That was what, five years ago? Six maybe? He couldn't remember. He continued walking, unknowingly frozen in place as he thought about that day.

Actually, why not buy Phil a latte? For old times' sake.

Dan retraced his steps and entered the shop, sighing at the heat he was greeted with. The sweet smell of coffee filled his nose. The voice of the barista welcoming him brought him back to those days him and Phil would film every single day in the life at a Starbucks. He remembered how they had been accused of being typical white males with privileges. He laughed to himself. Those were the days.

"One-- I mean, two vanilla lattes please," Dan told the bright young man with dazzling blue eyes. They weren't nearly as dazzling as Phil's but still. Blue eyes always take him back to the sky, to the days where he had sworn he could swim in them as if they were the Pacific Ocean. The same blue eyes that would look at him untiringly even though they see each other every day. He missed those blue eyes dearly.

Dan left the shop with two coffee cups in a carrier. He slipped one hand in his coat pocket to keep warm. He remembered how Phil used to complain every time it was beginning to get cold how his hands always freeze over. Every thing would be fine and cozy except his hands. Dan used to grab one irritatedly and shove into his pocket. Phil would always insist on not doing so, something about their audience seeing, but Dan would have none of it. It was Phil's fault for yammering away. It sort of became their routine every winter's night. Once the frost would bite on Phil's pale hands, Dan would wait for Phil to get annoyed just so he could hold his hand. Dan missed having a hand to hold. It became colder too.

Dan was huffing now. He really was unfit, he couldn't even take a small walk up a hill. He was getting so weak. Phil used to motivate him a lot when they went running together. It's been a while, but Phil will continue to motivate him. He was motivating him now. Just a little further until Phil's house.

He was missing Phil so much. Why wasn't his feet taking him there faster?

It was getting to the point where whenever someone passed him by, he was reminded by Phil.

A black-haired boy with glasses? Phil in his lazy Saturday outfit of unkempt black strands, and his 'Clark Kent' glasses with its glossy black frame. Him sitting in his checkered duvet, nose buried deep in a Stephen King book. Him cutting up cardboard for recycling, getting his hair all messy because he was so frustrated that their scissors weren't strong enough to cut the cardboard that his slender fingers kept running through them.

A man ran past, probably in a hurry, his purple backpack hitting his back with every step he took downhill. Dan remembered how they used to travel together all the time. He remembered the backpack they used to bring every time. He remembered how it was their unspoken rule to alternate carrying the bloody thing that had nothing more than some mint, deodorant, towels and a bottle of water.

A couple walked past, the girl had her arms hooked around the boy's arm. Dan looked away as they giggled at something the boy said. He remembered their little conversations that ended in fits of laughter. He remembered them walking down the usual road, hands at their sides because if they so much as bumped shoulders it would be on the news the next day. The only thing they did was brush knuckles which was hard. It was hard for both of them to keep their hands to themselves. It was annoying as hell, but it was their job that they were threatening. But each brush, each small touch sent sparks up Dan's body and electricity to shoot through him. It felt nice, and he felt loved. It was Phil's little way of saying everything he had wanted to say. All from "I love you" to "Your fringe looks funny." It was amazing, and their relationship was amazing.

He passed another couple who were looking over the wooden bridge. They stared at the river's soft waves, flowing in a silent stream. The moonlight on its glass-like surface was distorted like a reflection on the shards of a broken mirror.

The couple, two men, shyly held each others' hand in a quiet acceptance. They smiled at the broken moon on the water. Dan looked on as his footsteps slowed to a halt. The two noticed as the bridge was deserted except for the three. They quickly let go of the other's hand and walked on, blushes on cheeks yet came unnoticed due to the night's dim atmosphere and unhelpful amber lighting from the streetlamps.

Dan remembered so well. No, how could he forget? Phil's soft hands tucked in his own. The night was cold as every winter's night was expected to be. They were at home, their home. Phil told him to let go, but he didn't, couldn't, at least not yet. Not ever, if things went his way, but that was nearly impossible. Dan resisted Phil's incessant yanking easily, grasping tighter on the hand of the one he loved most in the world. As he squeezed, Phil became weaker and weaker until he was reduced to just standing at their front door helplessly. Dan, probably intoxicated by Phil's unwavering gaze with his eyes the bluest of the blue, stepped forwards, left foot in front of the right. He continued forwards, the oceans in Phil's eyes making way for his pupils as they dilated. He stopped once Phil's back hit the plain white wall, leaning in instead. Phil's words of confusion were frantic and surprised, asking-- no, begging for some sort of clarification until they were silenced by Dan's own lips who decided to act out their own begging.

The kiss wasn't what went wrong. It was their attitude. Their approach to the whole situation made everything crumble. Their lives, their career, their friendship... everything was ruined because they refused to acknowledge what happened that night. They thought it was a mistake, unknown to them that that thinking was what caused their downfall and their falling out.

They should have talked about it, not let it hang in the air. Now the air between them became too toxic to breathe, so they had to move out. Escape. Always escape. Never face the elephant in the room, turn around and forget that there was even a room let alone an elephant.

That was their mistake.

Dan refused to think of the kiss as the mistake. It couldn't be the mistake. His feelings weren't what went wrong between them. It couldn't be.

Dan shook his head. He decided to hurry, one foot in front of the other. The lattes might get cold. Phil hated cold lattes.

Dan walked the last stretch in huffs and puffs, clouds accumulating in his face. At long last, he saw the familiar gate of Phil's humble abode. The lights were on, and Dan hoped the heater was too. He knocked on the green gate and stood patiently as the dog barked, echoing the sound of his arrival. Small and rushed footsteps were heard, and a young man opened the door. Dan smiled warmly at the blue eyes and black hair. He wasn't surprised at the confusion the man wore so transparently on his face. He must look like a mess, not like the old Dan Howell who was a YouTube star all those years ago.

"Hello there. I'm Dan. Is your father home?"

The End