mine: wc [1]

hurricane lamps for storms

summary: five snapshots from the future.

(notes: sometimes i write short drabbles that don’t have any point. i was supposed to post the ridiculous au i’m working on before i post anything else, much less yet another fic that deals with dan/phil + future, but someone on my dash was talking about them growing old and moving to the country and. well. this was written in an hour and barely edited. please don’t judge me.) also read on ao3.

 

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In the retired sketchbook of Phil’s old drawing games, there’s a clumsily done picture of a big house with a mile-long fence and green grass everywhere. When it was drawn, Phil drank the last of his wineglass and said, “I don’t want horses,” and Dan set down his own glass and nodded mock-gravely, said, “Okay, even though the setting calls for it.”  

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of the smiles we left behind

summary: some things change and some things don’t. they go to phil’s school reunion and the ways in which things have remained the same start chiming louder and louder. 

notes: anonymous said: i feel like the highschool reunion + existential crisis the day before might make a good fic. for context, the 29th of august timeline: this tweet, a pic i can’t seem to retrieve of a fan and their mom who met dan and phil at a restaurant where they were with phil’s school friends, this tweet, this one, and these two tweets. 

a semi-fic about how change is as terrifying as the lack of, and about how just because you don’t want to define something within structured lines doesn’t mean it won’t be defined for you. also read on ao3

there is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered. (nelson mandela)

 

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I.

The invitation sits in his inbox for three days, four, seventeen. It’s untouched but he marks it with a star so he won’t lose it, even though he tells Dan he doesn’t want to go when Dan asks.

Eighteen, nineteen, thirty-three. On Wednesday he opens the reply and doesn’t thumb through his yearbook to search for the face of the name that signed the email. He types, I’ll be there, doesn’t add a smiley. Dan eats lunch on the sofa and says nothing.

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