"this is a nice cactus," dan smiled softly, poking at the small cactus in the window sill. they were at a plant themed aesthetic tea café; both of them had just ate sandwiches. phil learned almost immediately once they started talking about dan's love for cacti. dan had wore a white flower crown today, which had been making phil giggle most of the time they had spent there.

"you know what i think about cacti?" dan beamed and phil nodded, trying not to laugh at how enthusiastic he was about plants. dan seemed to be getting more and more comfortable around phil, and that in itself made phil happier.

"well, i think that a cactus is like me. we both have these harsh, venomous needles that represent our abstract detachment and self confinement that people see on our surface. so, because of this negative image we own, humanity takes what they first see and think of us as abrasive, barbed beings. but, despite this persona that we represent, we grow these tiny flowers, that represent the good characteristics in us. but some people aren't even aware of these little, staggering flowers that we grow. and alas, the first thing humanity thinks of when we are brought up in conversation is 'danger', not 'potential'. although, with the dark, murky depths and viscosities of our cruel persona, all of us need a bit of sunshine. a person of brilliant, lustrous, sunshine to maybe, just maybe, have the ability to see past the needles, and be aware of the beauty of the mess that is me and cacti. therefore, i suppose the struggle is truly ourselves. it proves challenging to find and be aware of our own flowers when we see all our scathing needles to be more of the majority. and when we are seen in humanity's eyes as something to avoid, it proves even harder. and when our needles viciously hurt someone, it seems to rapidly fade our flowers to a mere remembrance of what we used to be like. it seems each time we stab someone, another new needle grows and a flower drops dead, until we are blinded by our own clear hate and crisp guilt and there are no memories of our past flowers, and it's hard to even imagine that they used to exist. second guesses, doubts, anxious thoughts. the biting monsters that eat away at our minds until we crack, and it seems that even the sunshine can't fit through the cracks. but somehow it manages to, as cacti aren't extinct and i still exist."

that was the longest time dan had ever spoke around phil. quite possibly the longest thing he's said in a long time.
phil started giggling at his enthusiasm and the amount of thought he put into that. dan face went pink as if he just realized that he actually said that. he used to ramble around adrian and his boyfriend, but ever since they died he hasn't had anyone to rant about metaphors and similes to, except for himself in mirrors.

"wow, that was really stupid, never mind," he mumbled, almost to himself, and taking a sip of his bubbly green tea smoothie.

"i've never related more to a plant in my life," phil laughed. he swore he almost saw dan smile a bit too at his compliment. he seemed to be more at peace, he noticed.

dan looked highly embarrassed at what he had said, and highly shocked that he talked to phil about it. it was all a metaphor with a cactus but really, it showed how much dan hated himself and really showed his pain, disguised in a rant about a plant, of all things.

he was looking down at his hands on his lap thinking about what he had said when phil suddenly asked without warning,

"do you not love yourself?"

it was so sudden that dan's face shot up and he looked right at phil, terrified. he was looking intently at dan in the eye and dan started fidgeting in the booth opposite from his new friend.

"uh, why-y do, um, what makes you ask that?" dan stumbled on his words as they anxiously escaped his trembling lips.

"because, although you said you have nice flowers and good parts of yourself, which you very much do, you also said its hard for you to love yourself and see yourself positively because you feel guilty from hurting people over the years."

dan didn't answer, he started scratching at his pastel pink sweater nervously and frantically looking at anything or anyone but phil.

"dan, do you hate yourself?" phil leaned in closer and asked quietly, although he knew the answer. phil put his hand on dan's shoulder right as dan stood up and ran straight across the café the the restrooms. he felt dizzy and overall shocked that someone confronted him about his self-loathing. he had never been asked that except by a therapist or someone of that nature. never just a friend, though he didn't have many to compare to.

he tripped on his way to the farthest stall and fumbled to lock the door behind him. he bent over it and assumed the worst about what phil was thinking in that moment. dan figured that phil probably thought he was crazy, and that he has major issues, and these never-ending toxic thoughts eating away at him made him feel disgusting.

his middle finger was plunged to the back of his throat and he vomited into the toilet. the tattoo of adrian's name being on his middle finger was supposed to be a reminder that adrian convinced him to get in the slim hopes of him stopping and to start eating better.

he had gone on and off with eating disorders for quite a few years now, and both adrian and his boyfriend were the ones who helped him stop. he never had gotten too bad with them, nothing too severe, but it was enough to be a problem. though dan wouldn't admit to it. but now, both of them were gone and dan felt he had no reason to get better, and felt that he didn't deserve to be healthy because of their deaths.

phil, on the other hand, was shaking vigorously back in the booth. he hadn't meant to ask that, it just blurted out. he feared that he had just lost his new, and only, friend to some stupid curiosity of his. phil wasn't asking if dan hated himself because he thought dan was crazy, he was asking because he had a shit ton of self hatred towards himself. and with thinking that maybe dan would understand him, he had accidentally scared him away instead.

"damn you, phil," he muttered into his clammy palms, thinking of all the possible things that could go wrong. although some might assume that because phil was a killer, he'd have some type of high emotional pain tolerance, or no emotion at all. it really was quite the opposite. it was because of his work that he got overly upset and easily anxious.

he quietly talked to himself in the booth when he saw dan sprint out of the bathroom straight for the doors, ignoring phil's immediate hoarse calls to him. he looked extremely pale and that upset phil even more. the thing that worried him the most though, was how upset dan had got, and without a house or anything, phil had no idea where dan would go.

dan being dan, ran to the cemetery as phil had taken his wallet, disabling him to get a taxi. but dan liked running, it was freeing and also made him skinnier, which in dan's mind was good. it was also athletic and sporty, so he picked the hobby up years ago in the hopes people would stop calling him a 'faggot'. it, of course, didn't work but he kept it up anyway. he ran straight to his brother's grave but tripped right when it came into sight. his face slammed against the cold, wet grass and groaned, crawling the last few feet to the grave.

dan was choking out apologies for throwing up again and for quite possibly ruining his only chance of a friend he'd had in a long time.

on the other side of things, phil was skulking up to the club where he and dan had first met, thinking with dan's addiction to alcohol he might stop by there. he slipped past the oblivious guards, like he said he's been doing this shit for a while. he took a seat by the stoners but ignored the bongs that were passed to him. his eyes were glued to the door and every time it opened his heart skipped a beat, but then dropped once he saw it wasn't his friend.

"am i even allowed to call him that anymore?" phil thought to himself.
but even phil gave up after a while, and took the bong between his fingers anxiously.

but he was right about his instinct, and dan soon was walking into the club in the hopes of maybe accidentally dying of alcohol poisoning. he was also thinking that maybe phil would be there, but seeing as he wasn't anywhere in sight he thought of how stupid it was for him to think that phil would've waited for him.

he sat down at the bar and ordered whiskey, but as the glass was lifted up to his lips, a fist collided with his sculpted jaw. he was suddenly on the ground, with the bartender, that phil had banged and that dan had punched, standing over him.

his glass had dropped along with his frail body and the shards were scattered around his face as heavy blows pounded into his wiry body. the bartender was kicking his ribs, blood was being splattered on dan's face that he had started coughing up.

"faggot shit!" the man yelled.

dan kept his wittiness, although it proved to be unhelpful, and responded with, "this i-is a-gay-b-bar-dumbass!" between kicks.

on the other hand, phil was about to start sucking off the guy who gave him the bong in the back storage room when he heard the chaos. the other guy didn't seem to notice the noise but phil being phil got up and stumbled out of the bathroom to to the bar. he almost joined in with the fight chants by habit but then took a double take at the boy getting kicked.

when he saw that familiar fringe and fair skin that he had been missing lying on the ground he sobered up almost immediately.

he grabbed the nearest thing to his hands, an empty liquor bottle, and threw it straight at the guy, although he was still too stoned to aim straight. it crashed near the guy's feet, which was no use, except for the brief second that he stopped kicking dan. in fact, it only made it worse because the bottle shattered directly next to dan, the glass flying all around his face. phil nearly cringed at his bad luck, but something shocked him about the whole of this situation; looking at dan's face, which was at this point quite bloody and bruised, he almost seemed to be enjoying it. he was slightly laughing between all the kicks and hits, as if this was a joke.

"how could he even think about enjoying getting beat to death?" phil contemplated, but then came to his senses and the reality of having to help him.

"stop it!" phil slurred, trying to scream over the fighting chants and overall drunken loudness.

"stop!"

the guy who was with phil earlier in the back, although phil was too high and confused to recognize him at this point, in an instant took a fork and stabbed it into the bartender's flesh while his bloody-knuckled hand was resting on a bar stool. he yelped at the unexpected pain and the guy started pouring straight vodka directly into the wound.

"you guys go," he grumbled, and phil, still in shock of the whole day, picked up dan and carried him out, on his back. he held out his hand to the road signaling a taxi and after a few passers, one stopped. he carefully helped dan get into the cab and sat in next to him, with dan's black and blue body leaning onto phil's side.

"go...go to my house," dan mumbled, coughing blood into the palm of his hand. phil had already told the cabbie the address, he wouldn't be able to help dan on the streets. thankfully seeing that dan's parents weren't home, phil tossed the driver a bill without even checking to see how much it was, and pulled dan's light body out of the car. dan limped up to the house with more than half his weight being supported by phil.

phil had been smarter the last time he had been there and took the keys from dan's house, which he used to shakily opened the door. he felt so rushed with everything that had just happened in the past few hours that he was intensely shaking without even realizing it. dan was laid down onto the sofa and he rushed around the kitchen for a first aid kit. he was used to causing pain, not trying to fix it.

"p-phil?" dan dryly called out.

"yeah? dan, don't move!"

"phil, get my phone."

"dan, no! do you have a first aid kit?"

"phil i need my fucking phone!" dan coughed more blood into his crimson stained hands.

"don't worry dan, it'll be okay!"

"stop it phil, goddamnit! go get my fucking phone, please!" dan yelled, causing phil to stop rambling around.

phil hesitated slightly but grabbed the phone and asked dan for his pass code.

"3214," dan slurred, laying his head back on a pillow.

"go to my contacts, there aren't very many."

"ok, i'm in the contacts," phil was still shaking and could hardly type at this point, but was putting so much effort into keeping it cool in an attempt to not worry dan anymore than he already had.

"okay, call pj liguori."