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The door is closed, and Phil is on the wrong side.
Dan’s in there, and Phil knows he’s face-down, smothered by his pillow. Arms and legs splayed by his side, in the pose that softens Phil’s features whenever he sees it. It’s the callsign of his depression, of a silence only Dan can hear.
He’s hurting, and Phil told him to go away.
He didn’t mean it. It was an unconscious murmur, like swatting a fly, or shooing a dog as you moved past. The second it left his lips, he knew it was something he couldn’t take back. Rejected, Dan’s eyes had hardened; all vulnerability of the moment gone. The thud of the door closing ignited the dread that settled low in Phil’s gut.
It was unthinking. A poor choice of words. Phil had been buried so far in his own thoughts – chasing an idea, scrutinising a plan. He’d forgotten what he was so intent on now, descending into the couch crease with a desire to let it swallow him whole.
Helpless. He knew he shouldn’t feel it but he had no control over his feelings. After seven years he should know this. He should know the trigger points by now, the tell-tale signs that Dan needs the reassurance, the comfort. Seven years, and he still made stupid mistakes.
A closed door was symbolic in their house. Do not disturb. It meant filming, or phone calls. Sometimes – not often – it meant privacy. For Dan, it meant solitude. Somewhere he could experience his feelings without having to explain himself. Phil respected the closed door, but ached to open it wide. To explain himself. To apologise.
It was maybe five minutes longer before the door creaked, the metal grinding as Dan opened it without fully turning the handle. He stood in the doorway, red-eyed and looking like nobody had taught him how to sleep properly.
“Come lay with me?” It’s soft and gentle, waiting rejection.
The door is open, and Phil has a thousand apologies on his lips as he crosses their apartment floor. He collects Dan on the way, the bedsprings groaning in protest as it takes their combined drop.
Their silence is almost awkward, and Phil forgets how to breathe normally once or twice as he listens to the soft breaths Dan takes.
“I’m sorry,” Phil finally mutters, unable to help himself.
“S’ok,” Dan mumbles back sleepily, shifting to face him. One hand slips beneath Phil’s collar, resting over his heart. It’s an unconscious movement, one Phil has come to love, “I’m a pain sometimes.”
“I’m insensitive,” Phil counters, pressing close so their legs tangle, one arm curled around his waist.
He watches the tension in Dan’s body ease. His shoulders drop, face muscles dropping their act as he smiles gently, the ghost of a shake of his head forming, “You’re nice.”
Phil doesn’t answer, because Dan is close to sleep, and any argument would require an attempted resolution. He tucks closer as his breathing evens, the dread lifting from his chest.
It doesn’t take much to make him feel that he hasn’t done enough. All he wants is to help make it better.
Maybe keeping his door open is enough for now.