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Everything had been working against Phil today. His alarm hadn't gone off (though he blames Dan for keeping him up on Skype too late for that one) he'd woken up with a scratchy throat, a dead arm from where he'd been laying on it, and the knowledge that he was probably late for his train.
There was simply no time for any of his usual routine. He threw on the same tshirt he'd worn yesterday, brushed his teeth, avoided the time consuming task of putting in his contacts in favour of simply slipping his glasses onto his nose, and he skipped coffee. This was mistake number one.
By the time he arrived at the station, arm finally awake, slightly sweaty from the rush and generally a bit disgruntled, he only had time to sprint to the train, thank the heavens he'd printed his tickets on his outward journey before the doors closed behind him.
Phil hates confrontation. So when he sees the cool hipster guy sat in his reserved seat with headphones on he almost considers simply standing in the aisle all the way to London. But his head is throbbing, his throat is still raw feeling and his legs are aching from the exertion of rushing.
Feeling brave, and justified, he has his ticket out ready in case of any dispute and gently taps the guy on the shoulder.
“Sorry… um…” he says as the guy turns around, hands pulling his headphones down and nestling them on his neck below his bushy beard. “I think you're in my seat?”
He waves the ticket ineffectually to illustrate his point. He man does little more than roll his eyes and turn back around and for a horrifying moment Phil thinks that he's simply going to ignore him. He can feel the eyes of everyone now backed up in a queue behind him in the cramped train carriage burning into the back of his neck. Logically he knows they are probably tutting and rolling their eyes at the guy who has taken a seat that doesn't belong to him, rather that at Phil who is simply asserting his rightful claim, but it doesn't stop his cheeks from flaming bright red.
After a few seconds the bearded, bespectacled man has gathered up his bags and squeezes past Phil to hunt down another seat. Phil lets out a sigh of relief, sinks down into the seat and clutches his backpack to his chest.
He's made it just in the nick of time so no sooner has he sat down but the train is pulling away. It is then he realises that the position of his seat means that he will be travelling backwards. This is not good news for a travel-sickness prone Phil who begins to feel the creeping tendrils of nausea already swirling in his stomach. He leans his head forward on his bag and tries to breathe evenly through his nose. It is going to be a long trip.
He shouldn't have booked his tickets himself. Dan always remembers to tick the ‘forward facing’ option when booking trains. Possibly because he knows Phil so well,more likely because he doesn't want him throwing up on his shoes again like that one time on tour. Dan had offered to do it when Phil was on the phone with his mum arranging the visit. But Phil had waved him off when he'd said he didn't want to join them and had been a bit grumpy about the whole thing. Dan just needed some recharge days, he said, so did Phil. So Dan and his reliable ‘train with forward facing seat’ booking skills stayed at home and Phil went up to Manchester for a few days.
Fighting the sickness, Phil pulls his phone from his pocket to find he has less than fifty percent battery. It takes all his willpower not to groan aloud. Instead he thumbs a text to Dan quickly.
Remind me to let you book the train next time. I’m going backwards.
He tacks on a green faced emoji for good measure and sends it. He doesn't expect a reply. Dan will probably have stayed up way later than Phil, despite his protestations that he needed to rest and recuperate in Phil's absence, Phil knows that he never really sleeps properly when Phil isn't there. He'll have stayed up until the early hours on his laptop then tossed and turned for a bit longer in the centre of the bed before finally shuffling over to his side, clutching a pillow to his chest and finding a shallow and disturbed sleep just as the sun began to rise. Phil knows this but he sends the text anyway. It serves more as a shout into the void, somewhere to put all the growing frustration he's feeling with the whole day so far.
There is then the moment when, on the approach to London, a voice over the tannoy advises them of signal disturbances. There will be ‘some delay’ but they are ‘working to resolve the issue’ and, patronisingly Phil feels, they ‘apologise for any inconvenience caused’. The rest of the passengers sound as annoyed as Phil feels, and since this is the commuter train he thinks they have much more claim to the frustration than he does, so he manages to hold it together. When the train comes to a dead stop for 45 extra minutes mere minutes away from his final stop however, he does allow himself to bunch his hands into fists and bite down on one knuckle.
The carriage is uncomfortably warm, packed with too many people and it’s jostling him sideways when it finally sets off and he just want to get off the train and be at home. Irrationally, he feels the building pressure in his throat, which is already sore, like he might cry. He swallows against it and blinks a few times. He's just over-tired, not usually prone to bursts of emotion like this but it hasn't been a great day.
When he finally steps off the train, wrestling with his twisted bag strap, he takes a deep breath of petrol-fumed air and tries to settle his stomach. He doesn't even stop for coffee here either, simply shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks off in the direction of the taxi rank. This is his second mistake.
The taxi was a good call, he reminds himself, much better than the underground where he wasn't guaranteed a seat and he'd be in cramped stale air. He has a hard time believing it though as he forces an agreeable smile onto his face at the driver’s small talk and tries to sneak a hand out of the window to calm the clawing roll of bile in his belly.
It's a close call but he doesn't throw up in the footwell, and his jangled nerves hold together in the lift on the way up to the flat. But his eyes are tired and his throat is really starting to hurt now and he runs a shaking hand over his face, pushing his glasses on to his forehead. He's fighting the urge to slam the door closed when he stumbles through his front door and almost trips over Dan's shoes laying haphazardly in the foyer.
He pushes down the anger that instantly floods his head. It isn't Dan's fault, he couldn't have predicted Phil's mood when he left his shoes out, but some small and snarling part of Phil wants to pick them up and launch them at the wall in defiance. He has just enough willpower left to remember he is a thirty year old adult and can't blame those he loves for his problems.
Instead he kicks the shoes to the side, letting them collide with the skirting board. It isn't enough to stop him falling off balance though, aching bones and tired eyes not a good combination for someone with already poor coordination skills.
His bag slips from his shoulder and lands with an audible thump on the wooden floor and he stares at it for a moment, aware that his laptop is nestled inside and now at risk of being damaged, but his exhausted body can't find the will to reach out and check. He leaves the bag where it is, steps over it, and wanders into his silent flat.
The final straw is the moment he decides it is finally time for coffee. He suspects that had he made caffeine a priority a little earlier he might not be as irritable now, but those are his mistakes, he'll deal with them if he has to.
The kettle sounds almost satisfying as he sets it to boil, and he'd like to think things are on the up, that his day might get better. Alas, it is not to be.
When you're as tired as Phil is, when you're as run down and possibly on the verge of being sick as Phil is, it takes only the smallest thing to tip you over the great abyss that is being completely done with the day. To get to the point where you want to write it off entirely and start again tomorrow.
For Phil, it is the sight of a silver mug. Emblazoned with a familiar blue logo, sat on his kitchen windowsill. It is as damaged and useless as Phil feels at this moment, in his weakened state, and he knows it is perched there awaiting its fate. It is suspended until he decides whether to attempt a repair or simply ditch it.
He's not sure if it's the reminder that something he'd been excited about is gone, or that he just relates to the damn thing in its broken, cracked state, but the sight of the forlorn, Nasa-branded novelty mug is the final straw.
He lets the kettle click off in the silence, doesn't get another mug, doesn't reach for the coffee. What he does do is turn on his heel, let the wave of emotion take him under as he makes his way through the flat, and feels the first tears collect in the corner of his eyes as he enters the bedroom.
Dan is curled up in the white sheets, bare chested and beautiful and Phil thinks he's never seen such a welcome sight in his life. He rubs a hand over his wet eyes, scrubbing away the tears he finds there before they fall down his cheeks, and strips his clothes quickly and quietly.
When he crawls in beside Dan’s long limbs, he takes a moment to rest his forehead on Dan's bicep and suck in a calming breath. Dan is warm and he smells like home and the relief in Phil's body is palpable, like something he can reach out at touch. There is a choked out sob noise in his throat, not crying but nearly there, and Dan stirs at the sound.
“Phil?” he says, automatically rolling closer in a effortless and natural way that makes more emotion catch in Phil's chest. “S’matter?”
His voice is sleep-muddled, soft, and familiar, and the hand that comes to cup the back of Phil's head and slide fingers into his hair has just the right amount of pressure and Phil has never loved him more.
“I had a bad day,” he mumbles and Dan gathers him close.
It's nice to be made small by Dan's arms, to feel that way temporarily even if it isn't exactly true. Dan wraps his arms around Phil's shoulders, his cheek coming to rest on the crown of Phil's head. He keeps a hand in Phil's hair, scratchy softly at his scalp in a soothing rhythm.
“Want to talk about it?” He asks, and Phil hears the words rumble in his chest where his ear is pressed against his collarbone, more than he hears them out loud.
“Not really,” Phil says, pressing a kiss to Dan's skin because he wants to feel close to him.
“Okay.”
The is a patch of silence where Phil feels his body unwind. He still thinks he might be getting ill, and the scratch is still present in his throat when he swallows, but his shoulders relax, his head doesn't feel like it's waging war against itself, and he's mostly stopped having to fight back stupid, embarrassing tears.
“You want to sleep?” Dan asks finally when Phil's breathing has evened out and he's wrapped an arm around Dan's waist but it no longer feels like he's clinging on for dear life.
Phil nods, his head nestled in the gap of Dan's neck. Dan drops a kiss to the top of his head and shuffles so he's comfortable, he doesn't let go.
“Are you staying?” Phil asks, knowing Dan won't sleep again, and in this position he doesn't have access to any electronic devices that might alleviate the inevitable.boredom that comes with watching Phil nap.
“For a bit,” Dan hums, stroking his hair. “For a bit.”
Phil sleeps. When he wakes later it is to the expected empty bed, but there is hot coffee on the nightstand. Phil smells the sweet thick scent of it before he sees it, and blinks open his eyes to see the clear light of the day from the windows reflecting off the silver surface of Dan's own Nasa mug. His laptop is intact next to it and his phone is plugged in and on charge.
When he sits, he can see Dan's shoes put away in the corner of the room, and when he swallows the first sip of his delicious coffee the ache in his throat has reduced to a manageable level.
He continues sipping as he hears Dan singing along to something in the kitchen, the rattle of a pan and the spit of hot oil that can that only mean he's making pancakes. He smiles. Perhaps it might turn out to be a good day after all.