Archive of Our Own

Phil Lester, or mostly known as AmazingPhil, had been on the internet for almost twenty years, which was a strange amount of time to exist anywhere, let alone somewhere that technically wasn’t real.

Sometimes he tried not to think about it too hard. It made his brain feel like someone had opened too many tabs at once. Twenty years of videos, comments, and people knowing his face better than some of his relatives did. And somehow, despite all of that, he still woke up most mornings, made coffee in the same chipped mug he’d had since his twenties, sat in the same chair in the house he bought by himself, in London, and wondered when exactly everything had started feeling so… predictable. Not bad. Just predictable.

Which, in Phil’s opinion, was worse.

“You’re spiralling again,” Louise said, not even looking up from her laptop.

They were sitting in the small recording corner of Phil’s living room, microphones still set up from the podcast they’d finished twenty minutes ago. The red recording light was off, the conversation wasn’t being broadcast to thousands of listeners anymore, and yet Louise still had the uncanny ability to respond to thoughts Phil was fairly sure he hadn’t said out loud.

“I’m not spiralling,” Phil said.

“You just stared into the distance for a full minute like a Victorian man with tuberculosis.” She always has a way with words.

“I was thinking.”

“That’s usually when the spiralling happens.”

Phil rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway, leaning back into the sofa. The podcast had started as a joke two years ago. One microphone, one badly balanced audio track, and the idea that maybe people would listen to two friends talking about being queer, motherhood, mental health, the 2010s and just nonsense for an hour every week. People had listened. Actually, it was the second most listened-to podcast in the UK, often competing with some boring straight male sports podcasts. Easily enough, it had become part of his routine. Filming, editing, recording, posting, replying, repeat. The rhythm of it all was so familiar now that sometimes he felt like he could do it in his sleep. Which, lately, felt like the problem.

Phil reached up absentmindedly, running a hand through his hair. Still blond. That had been the first sign that something was off.

He’d dyed it about three months ago after staring at himself in the mirror for twenty minutes and thinking, very calmly, I need to do something before I lose my mind. It had seemed like a reasonable solution at the time. A small change. A harmless change. A change that didn’t involve quitting his job and moving to another country.

Louise finally looked up at him, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You’re doing the hair thing again.”

“The hair thing?” he asked, slighty confused.

“You keep touching it like you don’t trust it.”

“I don’t trust it,” Phil said. “It’s too blond.”

“You wanted blond.”

“Ugh, I know, but I wanted different,” Phil corrected. “This is… aggressively different.”

Louise snorted, closing her laptop and setting it aside. “You’ve been on the internet for two decades, Phil. You’ve had every hairstyle a human can legally have. You’re allowed to be blond for a while without having an existential crisis.” She said softly.

“It’s not the hair,” he said, even though it definitely was a little bit the hair.

It was the feeling underneath it. That weird restless feeling he got sometimes, as his life had quietly settled into a shape without asking him first, and now he was just… living in it.

It was always the same content, same schedule, same jokes, same everything; he loved it. He loved the comfort and routine it brought him, the simplicity and humble happiness it gave him. A house paid for, a successful YouTube career, a damn good fundraiser for charity, he did it all honestly. That was the worst part. He loved it, and he was still bored.

Phil grabbed his phone from the table, unlocking it and opening the front camera. He tilted his head left, then right, examining the blond again as it might suddenly explain itself. “It’s giving midlife crisis,” he muttered.

Louise immediately lit up, “Oh, good, we’re here now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You say that every time you change something.”

“No, this one feels different,” Phil said. “This one feels like I’m about to make a bad decision on purpose.”

Louise grinned, “Oh, I love those.”

Phil stared at the screen for another second, then dropped the phone onto his lap with a sigh, “I need something new,” he said. “Not like, life-ruining new, obviously. Just… new."

Louise didn’t even hesitate. “You need to get laid, that's what you need,”

It's a joke, obviously, they are good friends, best friends even, to undertsand that is it a joke. But it's true. Phil's personal romantic life died a couple of years ago; he chose to focus on his career rather than focusing on balding blokes who just wanted to be with him for his name.

It's been a while, though. Phil doesn't hide the fact that he hates the feeling of his somewhat big house only being full whenever Louise comes weekly for the podcast or whenever they have Saturday takeaway dinners, and she brings her family along. He's happy being the fun gay uncle. He doesn't hide that he hates the feeling of being alone when she leaves, how he hates not having a warm body next to him at night; it pains him really. But he's learned to live with it.

He lets out a big sigh, “No, that-”

“Tattoo,” she says rapidly.

Phil looked at her. “…you said that way too fast."

“You’ve been talking about getting one for years.”

“I have not,” he rolls his eyes, he knows he's lying. He loves lying.

“You absolutely have. Every time we talk about your video games, you say you want a tiny character tattoo.”

Phil paused. “…okay, but the Cactuar would be funny.”

“There it is,” Louise said, pointing at him. “Midlife crisis cactus.”

“It’s not a cactus, it’s a Final Fantasy character and-” he tries to explain.

“It’s a cactus.”

Phil picked his phone back up, thumb hovering over the screen. This was a terrible idea, which was exactly why his brain wouldn’t let it go.

He opened Twitter, because this is his only reasonable option right now, typed something, deleted it, typed again, and deleted that too. Louise leaned over, trying to see.

“Write it. Be chaotic. The internet demands chaos.”

“I’m not being chaotic, I’m making a responsible adult decision,” Phil said, already typing again. “Which is why I’m seeking a professional...”

He read the tweet one last time, sighed, and hit post before he could overthink it.

He immediately threw the phone onto the sofa as it might judge him. Louise grabbed it before it even stopped sliding, “Oh, this is going to be good.”

“It’s not going to be good,” Phil said. “People are going to tell me to get Shrek on my arm.”

“They’re going to tell you to get me on your arm.”

“That’s worse.”

She made a face at him, “Rude.”

The notifications started almost instantly. Louise gasped dramatically, “Oh wow, they’re fast today.” Phil groaned but scooted closer anyway, both of them staring at the screen as replies flooded in faster than he could read them.

Phil blinked. “…why is everyone saying the same guy?”

Louise frowned at the screen. “Oh my god, they actually are.”

More replies loaded.

Phil hesitated, then opened Instagram. The account showed up immediately. 2.3 Million followers, followed by way too many celebrities, his friend Anthony Padilla, and even some close offline friends. How is he only hearing about him now?

@danhowelltattoo   513 posts   2.3M followers   345 following

dan howell

based in central london

@dystopiastudios cofounder, est 2014

There were posts of beautiful black and grey tattoos, clean lines, game characters, flowers, script, tiny details that made Phil instinctively zoom in like he needed to check they were real. He did Ed Sherran's tattoo for God's sake, among the other A-list of celebrities, this guy was good, really good. “…okay,” he said quietly. “Wait. These are actually really good.”

“They look amazing,” Louise said, leaning closer. “Scroll.”

He did and got washed over by the amazing designs and tattoos, all precise, all careful, all somehow gentle, all the kind of work that made his brain start doing that dangerous thing where it went I want one. I want one. I want one. He tapped the profile picture, full detective mode. No face, just a logo. A round silver sphere, with some details on a black background, Dystopia Studios written across it, with a small “est. 2014” underneath.

Phil frowned; he was actually curious to see the man behind this work. “That’s suspicious.”

“Or mysterious,” Louise said.

“Or he’s three raccoons in a trench coat.”

“Even better. Original experience.” Louise giggled.

Phil scrolled again, stopping on a small video game tattoo, tiny and detailed on someone’s arm. His brain lit up instantly. “…okay, but imagine,” he said slowly, “a little Cactuar.”

Louise turned to him. “A what?”

“Final Fantasy. The green- the little guy. With the arms. And the running.”

“You want a cactus man on your body forever.”

“Yes,” he looked straight at Louise.

“You should absolutely do that.”

Phil stared at the screen for a long moment, then sighed, already knowing he’d lost the argument with himself. “…I’m going to message him, aren’t I?”

Louise grinned. “You tweeted asking for tattoo artists, Phil. The universe has spoken.”

Phil hovered over the message button, heart beating slightly faster than it should have for something this stupid. He stared at the Instagram page for another few seconds, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen while his brain ran through the same loop it always did whenever he was about to make a decision he couldn’t undo. This was ridiculous. It was a tattoo. People get tattoos every day. Normal people. Responsible people. People who didn’t overthink what to order at coffeeshops for ten minutes and then panic-pick the same thing they always got anyway. And yet somehow the idea of actually walking into a tattoo studio and asking a stranger to permanently draw on his body felt like he was about to sign a life contract in blood.

He scrolled back up to the top of the profile again. More clean lines. More tiny details. More comments saying things like best artist in London, and worth the wait, and he’s booked forever, but try anyway. Phil exhaled slowly through his nose. He actually wanted this. That was the annoying part, again.

He didn’t want it in a reckless, impulsive way. He wanted it in that quiet, persistent way that had been sitting in the back of his head for months now, the same feeling that had made him dye his hair without warning and then stare at himself in the mirror for an hour, wondering why it still hadn’t fixed whatever was off. It wasn’t that his life was wrong; it just felt… finished. Like he’d accidentally reached the part of the game where you kept walking around the same area because you didn’t know where the next quest trigger was. He'd been walking around like this for nearly four years now. He thought the next quest wouldn't come, but maybe this is it?

Phil dropped his phone onto his lap with a sigh. “I have a better idea,” he said suddenly, sitting up straighter.

Louise looked over immediately, suspicious on instinct, “That tone never leads to anything sensible.”

Phil grabbed her hand before she could move away, holding on as she might physically escape the conversation. “You go to the studio with me,” he said quickly, words tripping over each other. “So I actually don’t chicken out.”

Louise stared at him. “Phil.”

“Louise.”

He pressed his palms together dramatically, giving her the most exaggerated pleading look he could manage, eyebrows raised, eyes wide in a way that had worked on friends, viewers, and at least one very confused barista over the last two decades, but that's no longer an active topic. “You know I will simply not go if I have to go alone,” he added.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is a me problem!” Phil said. “Which is why I need emotional support...”

“You’re getting a tiny cactus tattoo, not open heart surgery.”

“It’s permanent, Louise.”

“So is your YouTube channel, and you survived that.”

Phil groaned, dropping his head back against the sofa, “This feels different,” he muttered.  Louise’s expression softened slightly at that, even if she tried to hide it behind a sip of tea. Different usually meant something real with Phil. He didn’t say it often, but when he did, it meant his brain had decided to spiral quietly instead of loudly. He ran a hand through his hair again, still not used to the blond, “I don’t know,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I’ve been doing the same thing for so long. Same videos, same routine. I dyed my hair, and it helped for like two days, and now I’m back to feeling like I’m buffering.”

Louise watched him for a moment, “You’re not buffering,” she said. “You’re bored.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“It’s not worse, it just means you need to do something stupid.”

Phil huffed out a small laugh, “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“Then go get the stupid tattoo.”

“I will,” he said quickly, then immediately hesitated. “…if you come with me.”

Louise narrowed her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.” Phil smiled.

“That is unfortunately true,” she rolled her eyes playfully.

He squeezed her hand again, leaning closer like that might improve his chances. “Please,” he said. “You can sit there and judge me the whole time. I need that energy.”

She tried to look annoyed for another second, then sighed in the long-suffering way she had perfected after years of knowing him, “Fine,” she said. “When?”

Phil lit up immediately, already unlocking his phone again. “Thursday?” he said. “After we drop Pearl at ballet?”

Louise gave him a look that clearly said you planned this faster than you should have. “You already checked his address, didn’t you?”

“…maybe.”

“Phil.”

“It was on the Instagram bio, it’s in central London!”

She shook her head, but she was smiling now. “Fine,” she said. “Thursday. But you’d better actually talk to the man. I am not going all the way to central London just for you to panic and pretend you suddenly don’t believe in needles.”

Phil grinned, relief hitting him faster than he expected, “I won’t panic.”

“You will panic.”

“I’ll panic... quietly.”

“That’s worse.”

His heart was beating a little faster now, the same nervous, excited feeling he used to get before posting a video back when everything still felt new. Maybe that was all this was. Not a crisis. Totally. Just… proof he could still do something different.

It was Monday, and to  Thursday is still a long way. That's why Phil spent the whole time checking that damn Instagram account over and over again. He started following him, stalked his highlights and his tagged posts, hoping to find something that would tell him not to go through with this, that maybe this person is actually an awful tattoo artist, and that Phil just shouldn't do it. But no, actually, that Wednesday, he posted his most recent work, which was undeniably perfect. Phil sighed in defeat. He was actually doing this.

He thought about texting his mom already, informing her of the upcoming news, and not the news she’s been hoping for. Phil’s mom still hopes that one day her son will call her, saying that he has found the one and is actually getting into a serious relationship. They have a very close relationship and talk about everything. She knows about Phil's dry spell, so much so that when he was visiting her back home, she got in contact with Phil's old “flame” John Smith, who was just the only other gay person in the village who is out, but that wasn’t even worth the bad handjob in the back of his car.

Phil decides not to tell her, he hopes the surprise will calm her down from spiralling on about how Phil is a workaholic who doesn't give himself any time to meet new people. It's probably not the best surprise ever, but it's good enough, a good change.

Wednesday night arrives, he still gets his daily Louise text of “Don't forget about Thursday” that now became, “Don't forget about tomorrow.” And he feels like a child with the way he plans his outfit for tomorrow.

From the many times he checked Instagram and occasionally the studio on Google Maps, he gets the vibe that it is a very grungy, emo, old school vibe. He can't simply show up in his Buffy the Vampire Slayer and glittery blue jeans; no, he picks his best outfit. A cropped white top, just cropped enough for it to be able to show his Calvin Klein boxers' waistband, blue baggy jeans (not the glittery ones), and his new and best piece of clothing, a red leather biker jacket. He felt hot in that outfit; it was the outfit that he wore to hard launch his new blond hair, and his fans went absolutely wild for it. It gave the right amount of confidence to actually get through this.

He spent the night beaming with an unknown feeling in his stomach, it wasnt quite anxiety or nervousness, it wasn’t fear either. It was something else blooming inside of him, but it didn't feel wrong; it actually felt quite right. He was actually doing this.