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Phil knew that it could be seen as childish. A 23-year-old spending his time watching an 18-year-old make silly skits on YouTube? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t adult. It. Just. Wasn’t. Done.
But the thing was, no matter what others might say about it, he didn’t care. He liked watching Dan Howell, though he went by Danisnotonfire on most platforms these days. He liked his smiles. He liked his dimples. He liked his voice and his hair. Oftentimes, when he was particularly tired, he would imagine what it was like to run his fingers through the thick black hair, stopping himself just short of reaching out to touch the image his mind so vividly created because when he did the empty air in front of him made his heart clutch in a pain he did not recognise. Not like that.
His friends knew of his.. hobby.. but not by his own choice. Louise had walked into his room one evening only to see him grinning like an idiot at his laptop screen and, no matter his protests, she had refused to leave, instead demanding to see what he was watching. With reddened cheeks, though he did not know why they were such a colour, he turned the screen to face her, expecting a cry of outrage or a look of disappointment.
Silence hung heavy in the air for a second.. two… three… ten….
“Is that… Dan?” Louise asked.
“Wha-what?” Phil stuttered over his words, reaching up to tug on his fringe as a way to try and stop his hands from shaking. He did not know why he was nervous.. why he was so afraid of this rejection. “You know him?”
“Oh, yeah,” Louise’s smile dispelled nearly all of Phil’s anxiety. Nearly. “I’m pretty sure Peej and I have fallen asleep to his videos in front of us and pizza on our laps more times than we should probably have.”
“Really?” Phil’s eyes widened. “You’re telling me that I could have been eating too much pizza than is really healthy with you guys? And I didn’t have to hide here?”
This time, Louise chuckled. Still grinning, she sat on the side of Phil’s bed and ruffled his hair. He grunted in response as his hands flew up to fix it.
“Of course, you dingus!” She said. “What were you so worried about? Us accusing you of having a big crush on him?”
Phil’s hands stilled in his hair and he slowly lowered them to his lap, laying them carefully, one on top of the other, and trying to keep a straight face.
Louise saw this, “Oh hon.. you don’t.. have a crush on him, do you?”
“Of course not,” he lied, “that-” Tears welled in his eyes. Stupid. Fucking. Tears.
“That would be stupid.” He let out a shaky breath. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. Cry. He wouldn’t. Fucking. Cry.
A tear slipped down his face.
God, he thought, What must Louise be thinking of me right now? A fucking twenty-three-year-old man crying over an Internet personality who will likely never know me. I don’t even know if he likes like me. If he loves like me. I’m weak. I’m stupid. I’m-
His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of arms wrapping around his midriff. Louise.
“I’m sorry sweetie,” she murmured, “I didn’t mean to make you cry. You really like him, don’t you?”
Phil nodded slightly, “It’s fucking stupid, I know. He doesn’t even know who I am. He doesn’t-”
“Shhh,” She shushed him, “we don’t get to choose who we like. Who knows, maybe if you reach out, he’ll respond.”
“You think so?” “There’s always a chance.” She smiled at him. He smiled back.
That evening he sent a tweet, tagging Dan. He had responded. They had started talking. They were going to meet up.
Yes, his friends knew. No, he didn’t choose them to. They didn’t care. Didn’t judge him. Didn’t throw him out. They helped this to happen. This train trip, this friendship, this… relationship, as small and budding as it might have been.
So yes, Phil thought as he got to Manchester station, my friends know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.