#and have felt totally tapped out from phandom in a way that has felt weird!

[bitchslapblastoids]

utterly overwhelmed blown away by the works created for the @phandomgiftexchange man what an absolute privilege to be part of a fandom with so many extraordinarily creative people who are so generous with their creativity. beautiful project & beautiful people

[partlycharlie-archive]

me, myself & i

chapter one: diagnosis link to chapter two 

summary: "God, you fucking dumbass." Dan sat up, looking around in confusion. "Phil? Is that you? Where am I?" Phil sighed. "You're in a coma. Congrats." (or: dan is sad and phil is a coping mechanism) word count: 1,207 warnings: inaccurate representation of mental illness, suicide attempt, comatose character a/n: hello! this is my first fic for the phandom reverse bang 2018!

artist:: ughh-its-leah beta: artlessdynamic 

the art!

read on ao3

DISCLAIMER: please do NOT use this as ANY sort of guide in relation to what mental illness is like. dan's illness is VAGUELY based off of DID (dissociative identity disorder), with a mild case of epilepsy that flares up when dan and phil switch. however: this is not meant to be a representation of what DID or epilepsy is like, these are only vague diagnoses and were purposely not entirely accurate.

ALSO. while thinking: phil's thoughts look like this, and dan's thoughts look like 'this'.

“Bipolar disorder.”

“What?”

Dan shook his head, brown curls shaking across his forehead as his glabella (ha, thanks Phil) creased in confusion. Pianist’s (oh, yeah, sure, keep using that description. Totally accurate.) fingers tapped gently against the soft brown fabric of his chair.

Dr. Warren, the psychiatrist Dan had been meeting with every month for the past year, shrugged. “Based on what you’ve told us - and assuming there’s nothing you’ve been hiding -” (here he glares disappointedly at Dan, because of course) “- this seems most reasonable. If I could diagnose you with something like baby bipolar, I would, because some of the symptoms don’t fit - your manic episodes aren’t nearly as extreme as most of the patients I see with this diagnosis, and the depressive episodes seem to last longer than normal - most are about a month, yeah?”

Dan nodded, all of the questions he wanted to ask still stuck on the tip of his tongue.

“Right. But again, seeing as you’re not dealing with the aftermath of any traumatic events, and - at least according to mine and Rebecca’s observations -” (right, because of course they’re always so accurate) “- there’s are no signs of auditory or visual hallucinations, or anything else like that - well. This is what we’re sticking with.” Dr. Warren smiled, tiny lines gently creasing the sides of his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

Yikes. Auditory and visual hallucinations? What kind of crazy did Dr. Warren think he was?

Listen, you know better than anyone that they're just trying to cover all their bases.

He knew that, obviously.

“Obviously this is subject to change, yeah? If any new symptoms pop up, or you stop having episodes, then you just let me know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, yeah?”

Dan nodded again, shorter this time, fingers continuing to tap restlessly against the arm of his chair. Something didn’t feel right about this.

Well, obviously. That’s because the diagnosis isn’t right, dumbass. You know that.

Dan resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

‘Yeah, I’m well aware’, he thought, and could almost feel the weight of Phil’s sigh on his chest.

“… but! That would lead to a pretty consistent feeling of drowsiness throughout the day, so I would suggest taking them right before bed, if you can.”

Dan shook his head, waving the cobwebs out from his mind. “Sorry,” he said, smiling sheepishly, “got lost for a minute there. What’d you say?”

The grey-haired doctor smiled again, this one filled with just a bit more pity than the last.

“I was just saying that I’d like to discuss possible routes for the future. Obviously we’ll be continuing the bi-monthly therapy sessions, as those seem to help maintain your level of mental stability -“ (not that there’s much to maintain, anyway) “- so. What to you think? You can keep seeing Rebecca and introduce medications, maybe, and see how it goes from there?”

Dan rubbed a hand over his face, thinking hard.

Don’t do it, asswit.

‘Why not?’

Well, one, you’re not fucking bipolar.

‘Point.’

Two, what if it’s poisoned? Then you die. Then I die. I don’t want to die!

‘… point.’

Plus. Plus! What if it doesn’t do shit!

‘Eh. Point.’

“Okay. Sounds like a good idea. Let’s - go for it. I guess?” Dan put on his best smile, watching as Dr. Warren started typing rapidly on the computer.

“Lovely. I'll set you up with the prescription, and you can…”

Wow. Fuck you, I guess.

‘Love you too, Phil.’

---

A key pressed into a lock. Steady fingers pushing it through, to the side. A split second of deafening silence - the quiet click of the unlocking door. Wide-cut shoulders pushing the door open; long legs walking their way into the apartment, up the stairs, in the door, and -

‘Are you done yet?’

Phil sighed.

“You know I like to have this time to myself without you interjecting,” he said out loud, kicking the door shut with the heel of one foot.

‘Yeah, well, I saw one of the neighbors looking at us weird because you walk like a retard, so. Whose fault is that, again?’

“There are a lot of problems with that statement,” Phil muttered, raising an eye at himself in the hallway mirror. “For one, how many times are we going to have the ‘don’t use retard unless we’re talking about ourselves talk?’”

‘At least five. Ballpark estimate.’

“Why are you using American metaphors?”

‘Why not?’

“Point.” Phil shrugged his jacket off. “But! You distracted me, Asshole. Also - how is it my fault that we walk differently?”

‘Because we’re not actually different people? I feel like this is obvious.’

“Okay, yeah. Sure.” Phil sighed again (he was noticing a theme here). “Still? I feel like, me being an aspect of your personality or whatever they’d call it, like. I represent your shitty side, right?”

‘That is… factually correct, okay.’

“So, like, shouldn’t everything about me represent that? Like, when you picture me, do you see you?”

‘No, of course not. That’d be ridiculous.’

“Right! So -” Phil stopped short, almost tripping over the corner of his table. “Wait. What do you picture me as?”

‘Um.’

Phil could feel Dan trying to retreat into the back of his mind. “Oh, no no no, you are not getting out of this one. Who do you picture me as?”

Dan sighed, and Phil felt his chest expand with it.

‘Fine. Whatever. So, um. Do you - I don’t know if you know anything from before I found out about you, but. Do you remember that old Youtube guy?’

“No…“ Phil stretched out the word, then paused again when he realized - shit, that old Youtube guy was -

“MOTHERFUCKER.”

‘Jesus FUCKING Christ, Phil, what the hell?’

“Sorry, sorry - this fucking table screwed me over.”

‘Ew.’

Phil snorted, rubbing his shin to feel for where the bruise was probably starting to form. Not there, not there, not - Phil let out a hiss of breath. There it is.

‘Why do you always do that?’

“Do what?” Phil sat down on the couch, feeling his thighs sink into the cushion.

'Rub the bruises.’

He glanced at the pharmacy bag in his hands, then pulled the handles apart to peer inside. “Um. I like pain? I don’t know.”

‘Ew.’

“Yeah, yeah.” Phil rubbed a hand down his face, pushing his eye into his forearm to rub the imaginary eyelash out. “You want to eat something?”

A snort came out of his throat, unbidden. ‘When do I not?’

Phil patted his tummy and let go, a shiver running down his spine as Dan spun to the forefront.

Dan felt his body shake slightly as he took control of his senses. The pharmacy bag, still clutched tightly in his hand, trembled with the shock. Pills rattled inside their bottles, and the noise felt like a blaring siren in his ears.

Dan rolled his eyes once the shivering had stopped. “Can you please stop doing that without any warning?”

Not my fault it hurts more for you than it does for me.

Dan's nostrils flared. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he grumbled, dropping the crumpled bag next to him.

Listen, my friend, all I’m trying to say is that you're… weak. Yeah, that's pretty much it.

“Thanks, asshole.”