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“He’s on the roof again.”

That’s how Kyle finds himself driving blearily through London at 3am, narrowly swerving around speeding taxis and drunk party-goers stumbling blindly across the roads.

The red petrol light is flashing; he probably won’t have enough to make it back home, but it doesn’t matter, because it’ll probably take him ages to coax Dan down anyway.

He knows the drill by now. Calls at stupid-o’clock in the morning from Mark, or Will, or someone, who had to go back after they forgot something at the studio. Like, an old mug, or photograph, or jacket. Or Dan.

Nothing ever comes of it. But Kyle will make his way there anyway, just incase the one time he decides to stay in bed, something does come of it.

It’s Woody, tonight, who’s falling asleep with his head in his hand when Kyle finally gets there. Says he was out with Chrissy, took a detour past the studio on their way home—just to check.

“He won’t let me up.”

When Kyle goes to the door that leads to the rooftop, though, it opens with ease. Dan had unlocked it since Woody last tried. Like he knew Kyle was coming. Like he always knew.

Dan sits on the ledge with his legs dangling over the edge. Empty threats.

Kyle sits down beside him.

Dan’s been crying. His eyes are red.

“What if one day, I jumped?” He says, after a while, the only sign he’s acknowledged Kyle actually being there. “What would happen?”

“You’d die,” Kyle says plainly. Dan rolls his eyes.

“No, I mean, like, to everything else. I’m not sure anything would really happen. I’m not sure it’d be a bad thing.”

“You have to stop this.”

Dan turns to look at him, finally averting his gaze from where the stars and the planes disappeared behind a cloud of smog and wall of skyscrapers in the distance. “I know,” he says, blankly, “I’m sorry. You hate me, don’t you?”

Kyle sighs. “No. I’m just tired. Of this.”

“Of me.”

Kyle doesn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” Dan repeats, and turns back to the sky.

The old scars on Kyle’s wrist itch under all his bracelets, a phantom pain. He sees Dan’s shining where his palms are upturned in his lap, white and silvery in the moonlight. Like fucked up friendship bracelets.

He’s not even sure it’s friendship anymore. More like a mutual “if you don’t kill your self then I won’t either” kind of relationship.

Kyle looks down at the wet dark road beneath them, imagines himself laying dead on it, and then looks away.

“You shouldn’t have ended it,” Dan says suddenly, shakily. “You just...gave up.”

Kyle sighs. He’s not sure whether Dan’s talking about the band, or the two of them. Probably both.

“I had to,” he murmurs, and Dan shakes his head.

“No, you didn’t, you could’ could’ve at least tried.”

“Me?” Kyle snaps, suddenly growing angry. “We had to end it because of you, Dan! Because it was destroying you! You were a fucking mess, talking about killing yourself all the bloody time-“

“Oh, and I’m so much better now, aren’t I?” Dan spits.

“Everyone is dealing with it differently.”

“Yeah, and how about you? How are you dealing with it, Kyle?” Dan’s eyes well up.

Kyle takes a moment to consider that. He held the razor blade that resides in his bedside table for the first time in months last night, rotating it around in his fingertips, barely reacting when he accidentally nicked the skin. Welcomed it, even.

“I’m fine,” he says, calmly, and Dan scoffs.


Kyle watches him as he pulls something out of his back pocket—a pack of cigarettes and a lighter—and struggles to light one between his long, shaking fingers. When he does, he takes a deep inhale, and blows it away into the empty expanse of air in front of them.

“Since when do you smoke?” Kyle asks, and upon the dark look Dan gives him, immediately regrets it. “Oh.”

You destroyed me,” Dan says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the winter breeze and rush of traffic below. He holds the cigarette out to Kyle; Kyle takes a drag and is grateful for the burn of smoke in his lungs.

“We destroyed each other.”