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Dan walks around with a look on his face like there's too much on his mind. The set of his jaw is angry but he's not ready to let go of the thoughts he's got clenched in his teeth.
His eyes just look tired. They look tired and sad and a little bit lost.
There's not much Phil can do in moments like this except wait it out.
*
Phil buys biscuits at the store.
He also buys two chocolate bars.
He buys some fruit, because fruit is healthy.
He buys the brand of bread that Dan likes, and the real sort of butter.
He walks aisle to aisle and doesn't admit to himself that they don't need half the things piled in his arms.
He just doesn't want to go back home yet.
*
Dan's on the sofa when Phil walks up stairs. He's dropped the clementines three times, and another one falls and rolls with a thump thump thump all the way back down.
"We should film a video," Phil says, all the brightness in his voice that he can muster.
"Phil." Dan's voice is wearied. "I'm not filming a video today."
"Alright then," Phil says, opening the fridge and fitting the milk in between takeaway containers.
There's silence. Dan's not even listening to music.
"The instagram idea?" Dan asks.
"Was thinking so, yeah," Phil says.
Silence, again. Phil starts the kettle to boil. He wants a coffee.
So he makes a coffee in one of his oversized mugs and he enjoys two leisurely sips before he steps away from the kitchen.
"Are you going to set up the filming stuff?" Dan asks. He's cagey about it, trying too hard to sound casual to actually be feeling casual about it.
"Yeah," Phil says. "Half an hour, how's that sound? I can probably edit it today."
"Phil." Dan still sounds put off.
Phil leans over and kisses the top of his head. "Half an hour."
Dan always just needs a bit of time.
*
Dan sits on the bed while Phil fusses about rearranging the background of the video.
"Disco lights on or off?" Phil asks, flipping the switch back and forth.
Dan barely looks over his shoulder. "Don't care."
Phil tries not to sigh out loud. "Dan."
Dan looks properly. "On, I guess."
"Thanks." Phil flips it back on then steps back. It'll do.
*
Filming is over, files are transferred.
Phil's sat on the sofa wearing comfy pajama bottoms and the shirt he filmed in.
Dan's gone out for a walk. Phil expects him to be out a while. He doesn't expect to hear the door opening barely fifteen minutes after Dan first shut it behind him.
"Too cold out?" Phil asks when Dan collapses down beside him.
Dan shakes his head. "Just feel like shit."
Phil shuts his laptop. He's almost finished with the edit, and there's hours and hours left in the day to post. It'll keep a bit, and Dan's willingness to talk might not.
And it's always a good sign when Dan wants to talk. The worst moments are when he won't even let Phil in at all.
"Come here," Phil says, opening up his arms.
Dan shuffles over to him, resting his head on Phil's shoulder. "I'm just tired of this."
"I know you are," Phil says, cheek against the crown of Dan's hair. The curls tickle his nose, but he likes how their shampoo smells on Dan.
He does know - not how Dan feels, but that Dan feels it truly. They're not the same in this way. When Phil finds life exhausting it's because of the people needing his attention, the toppling tower of a to do list, because he's got decisions to make and plans to cement. When Phil is tired, he's tired from the outside in.
That's not Dan. That's not how Dan operates. Dan gets tired from the inside out. Nothing is ever as exhausting to Dan as what lives in his head all the time. Phil can't take that away from him. He can't reach within himself and give Dan energy or peace of mind.
"I think," Phil says, rubbing his cheek against Dan's hair. "That we need a holiday soon."
Dan laughs a little. "You always think we need a holiday."
"Well, we always do," Phil says. He slides a hand underneath Dan's shirt to cup his side, warming his fingers against the heat of Dan's skin. "Somewhere sunny, before the tour starts."
"Phil." Dan sounds fond now. "I can't literally run from depression, you know that, right? Or from any of the rest of my problems."
"Yeah, but you remember Japan?" Phil asks. "Do you remember how you said you felt then?"
Dan swallows audibly. "Like I was a different person when we were walking down those streets."
"You weren't, though," Phil says. "You just had something to think about besides all the things that make you sad."
"I felt numb so much back then, though," Dan says. "And feeling numb felt better than how it was before. It's not the same now, without the medication. I don't even know what makes me sad half the time anymore. Or angry. Or anything."
"Happy?" Phil asks. "You don't know what makes you happy?"
"Fuck off," Dan says. "Fishing for compliments."
"No, but you said it yourself, yeah? What makes you happy? Food. Laughter. Sex." Phil encourages him. He's not even really thinking about what he's saying. Maybe he'll get to a point, maybe he won't. But it keeps Dan talking back. "So all three of those, but somewhere on a beach."
"You're so full of shit," Dan says. "I'm full of shit, too. I don't even know what makes me happy. I don't know what happiness is. I don't know if what I think happy feels like is what other people think happy feels like."
"Will you divorce me if I call you a drama queen?" Phil asks.
Dan punches him lightly in the stomach, making Phil squeal away.
"You can be happy. I know you can." Phil says, soothing the frazzled nerves the only way he knows how. He's learned not to just tell Dan that things will get better, and he's learned not to tell Dan that what Dan feels isn't true. He's learned that the best way is forward, instilling hope. "You're just having a bad few days. They don't last, you know."
"Fuck." Dan's voice sounds thick. "I hate you, I'm gonna cry."
Phil laughs, but he's secretly happy. Crying is feeling, and feeling means Dan is on the upswing.
*
"It's actually not a bad video," Phil says, watching the progress bar on the upload. "Did you order dinner?"
He hasn't asked Dan to watch this one back. He hasn't asked Dan to do anything, he's just edited with his headphones on and appreciated Dan's weight beside him as they both sat too close with an ocean of sofa real estate to either side of them.
Dan will probably watch the video eventually, but right now it just needed to be out there, in the world. The fact of its existence seems good enough for him. It was - something. That’s all Phil can do, sometimes. Make Dan get up and do something.
"We can't have takeaway again this week," Dan says. "We need to actually cook some fucking healthy food. Why didn't you get any vegetables when you went to the shop earlier? Don't think I didn't fucking see that, by the way. Two chocolate bars? Phil. Really."
Dan keeps talking, and Phil revels in the small victory that patience wins him.