warnings: self-harm, slash

The first time it happened, Phil was six years old. He'd been tottering around the yard, pudgy little hands reaching out to grab (and inadvertently crush) the delicate blue flowers his mother had planted along the rock path. Completely mesmerized in the single-minded manner of little children, he stumbled over the uneven ground, scraping his knee. What interested him more, however, was the nick on his arm. Efficient, clean, simple, beautiful. Forgetting the forget-me-nots, he stared at the blood welling up and slipping over into the dirt until, half an hour later, his mother found him ("oh phillip, you poor thing, let's take care of those boo-boos, okay?") and bandaged the cuts.

His father gave him a pocketknife when he was ten years old ("because you're a big boy now, isn't it cool? careful, the blade is sharp!") Phil smiled sweetly up at his father, tucking the knife away in his pockets as he thanked him respectfully. Then Phil went back to playing with his racecars and dinosaurs.

That night, in the safety of his room, he finally dared to withdraw the pocketknife from his jacket. It was elegant, a single clip blade tucked neatly into a dark mahogany handle. He drew the cool flat of the blade against his inner wrist, shivering in anticipation. Gentle pressure, slow slide until - crimson liquid bloomed from his arm, and it was intoxicating, sharp pain melting instantly into heady pleasure.

By fifteen, he'd decided that razor blades left the cleanest cuts. The first clip-point blade he hid safely away in his mattress, always sharp (and ready for truly special occasions). He owned an impressive selection of long-sleeved shirts by now, though he wished he could share the exquisite pale scars with someone else.

When Phil was twenty-two, he met Dan Howell. He was instantly charmed by Dan's cutting sense of humor. YouTube, Phil decided, was a wonderful thing.

They moved in together: Dan, edged and sharper than any razor blade; Phil, who emerged (scantily covered) from a shower one day when Dan wasn't supposed to be home. "Jesus fuck," Dan said, yanking off his werewolf mask and dropping his video camera onto the carpet, "What the hell is on your arms?"

"Old scars," Phil lied, "I was an angsty teenager, went through an emo phase," and he laughed and escaped to his room (to change out of the flimsy bath towel, he explained). Shut the door quietly, sank to the floor, heart pounding. Checked that his ever-keen blades were hidden safely away, because Dan couldn't ever know about his weekly ritual in the bathroom (blood, vanishing without a trace into the sink).

He dreamed about Dan inside him, splitting him apart and it was glorious, wonderful burn and searing pain. Dan trailed a blade lazily over Phil's chest, eyes dark and penetrating his soul, and gave Phil a promising smile, and Phil woke up trembling and panting, sheets damp and sticky.

They made a video together, one of countless others, but that day Phil just couldn't, and had to feel those soft lips against his own. He drew back, paralysed, but Dan growled low in his throat and tugged him back, and Phil was filled with sudden, heated arousal.

"Dan," he said, gazing into chocolate-pocketknife-handle eyes, "fuck me," and blushed.

Dan didn't give it to Phil rough and hard. Dan prepared Phil slowly, reverently, until Phil was sobbing with need and, "please, please, Dan." So Dan did, languidly, deep rolling thrusts that made Phil's chest ache even as sparks of pleasure exploded in front of his eyes. Phil was going to, he was going to - and this wasn't how sex with Dan was supposed to be like, this gentle fucking that was more like they were making love.

"Harder," Phil begged, "hurt me," he whispered, and Dan wrapped a hand around Phil's length and stroked once, twice, and Phil's seed pulsated over their conjoined bodies, and -

"No," Dan murmured against his ear, as he spilled inside Phil.