Work Text:
His fingers are pressing down on the right keys but the sound that rings through the room still doesn’t sound quite right . He lifts his fingers until it’s silent and he tries again. Still wrong.
In a desperate attempt to not let the bubbling feeling in his chest break out into the panic that sits just beneath the surface, he fills his lungs to the very brim before slowly letting it back out. He doesn’t bother to form his lips into that annoying ‘o’ that his therapist always nags about, because he knows exactly what’s coming.
He lets his fingers slowly press down on the keys again. He’s careful not to make it too harsh, and his nails scrape a little at the soft surface beneath his fingertips. It even feels strange, almost unnatural, and his brows furrows even before he hears the sound.
Wrong.
He presses his lips together and digs his nails into his palms before he slams his fists into the keys. An angry noise fills the room with a harshness that makes his ears sting, and the lack of anger or sadness or just about anything makes him feel even worse. He can’t make it sound right, he can’t make himself feel right, no matter what he tries; and it fucking sucks.
It’s close now, that burning sensation that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Somewhere deep inside of him he can feel it itch, but it doesn’t matter how hard he scratches or how long he searches for the source. The vague feeling sits somewhere between his ribs and deep in his gut and trickles down his arms, and it’s so close yet so far that he’s not sure what to do.
“Dan,” a voice suddenly interrupts his thoughts and he snaps his head up, “what’s going on?”
Phil is standing in the doorway, his eyes filled with that annoying hint of worry that always seems to glaze over those blue orbs, and Dan shakes his head. He can’t speak, not now, so he just hopes that Phil can magically read his mind and understand that this just isn’t the time.
Of course, Phil can’t read his mind.
“What’s wrong?” he tries again, and Dan digs his nails deeper into his palms.
Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. All of it feels like the wrong answer, because the problem isn’t that his world is collapsing, even though it kind of is.
“Nothing,” he says, because that’s the best option. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Dan can tell even from where he’s sat that the words annoy Phil. It’s not the first time it happens, and it always takes a while until Dan decides that maybe it’s best to say something anyway and trust that Phil won’t hate him or leave just because his mind is playing tricks on him.
It’s not easy, though.
“What are you playing?” Phil asks instead, steps into the room and comes to a stop few feet from the piano stool where Dan is sat. His hair is lazily pushed back from his forehead and his glasses are resting on the tip of his nose, and if Dan hadn’t felt as if he wasn’t himself, he definitely would’ve felt a spark in his chest at the sight.
“Nothing, really, just.. practicing.”
Phil takes a deep breath. “On what?”
“Nothing.”
He hates himself after he says it because out loud it sounds way more rude than it did in his head. He never means to be like this, not intentionally, it just happens sometimes when the world is a little bit too far off to reach. He can’t help it.
“Just.. just some old soundtrack,” he adds because he feels too guilty not too.
Phil is silent for a few moments. He’s just standing there, not that close but not very far away either, and Dan can just about hear him breathing. It’s a comforting sound that reminds him of lazy mornings spent in bed, and it pulls him back to reality just the slightest.
And then he moves. He takes the few steps forward until he’s right next to Dan, and without so much as a word he sits down on the piano stool beside him. He doesn’t ask if it’s alright, doesn’t make so much as a sound, and instead he just places his fingers on a few keys and presses down.
Something that, at least somewhat, resembles ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ fills the silence as Phil’s slender fingers press down the keys a little too quickly. It’s so strange, Dan thinks, to hear a melody that he knows by heart, still sounding slightly off key.
He takes a breath and looks up at Phil, who’s sticking his tongue out in concentration with his brows furrowed, and without even really realising it – Dan’s lips slowly stretches into a smile.
When the final note rings through the room, Phil looks back at Dan with a grin, and the spark in his eyes makes something warm trickle down inside Dan’s chest. It’s comforting compared to the previous emptiness, and Dan thinks that maybe, just maybe , he won’t have to wait until tomorrow to feel like himself again.
“I did it!” Phil says as he places his fingers back to the keys, but Dan chuckles and puts his hands over Phil’s to stop him from playing again.
He’s not sure where the sudden urge comes from, but he might as well try it. Maybe it’ll help.
“I want to play you something.”
Phil is quiet as he lifts his hands from the piano, and Dan’s left hand rests lightly above the keys, his fingertips grazing the surface. And then, his fingers begin to move.
It starts off simple as he only needs one hand for the beginning. Just as he lifts his right hand to place it a bit far off from the other, he can feel how Phil leans onto him. A few seconds later Phil’s head is resting against Dan’s shoulder, and it’s not easy since his arm is moving, but Phil doesn’t seem to care.
Dan knows this melody even better than he knows twinkle twinkle little star. It’s the one melody he always came back to, whenever he struggled or felt insufficient, because it sat so impregnated in his memory that he could probably play it in his sleep.
He’d learnt it soon after they’d talked on skype for the first time. It was nothing like those five hour calls, but they’d still stayed on for almost two hours because it had felt so easy between them. After discussing video games, Phil had shown him the soundtrack from one of their favourite games, Final Fantasy VII, and one of the tracks stuck around with him after they’d hung up to go to bed that night.
By the time Dan had bought the tickets to Manchester he could almost play the entire thing on his small keyboard, and when Phil first came to visit in Reading, he played it for him the very first time.
Way back then, Phil cried. Dan was too concentrated and too focused on getting it right that he didn’t look up until the final note rang through the air. When he excitedly turned to Phil, Dan’s smile dropped as Phil’s eyes were puffy from tears, but when Phil lunged forward and draped his arms around Dan’s neck, pushing both of them over and making the keyboard smash against the floor, he’d let out a relieved chuckle.
Ever since then, Dan played it every once in a while. Not often and mostly just to himself, because it reminded him of a time when things were easier. In some ways, their relationship was better now than it was then, but the excitement and the freshness of falling in love, of exploring someone else in every way possible, is just something that makes everything else in life seem unimportant. And besides, it helped because it made him think of Phil. It always helped to think of Phil.
Tonight, the notes still doesn’t seem to cling quite right. Something is still wrong, still slightly off, but the melody comes naturally and his fingers move without him even thinking about how. The scent of Phil’s shampoo, the way his stubble itches slightly where it’s pressed against his skin and the all too familiar melody filling the silence makes his mind go blank.
When the final note bounces against the walls of their bedroom, he’s still not alright. He never expected to be, because that's just how it always is, but at least he’s somewhat pulled back to reality. He doesn’t feel as forgotten, as invincible, as he’d done just a few minutes ago; and it’s something, at least.
He takes his hand off from the keys and places them in his lap as he takes a deep breath. Phil moves beside him, lifts his head just slightly from his shoulder, and then he feels damp lips pressing against the side of his neck. It’s not a sexual gesture, even though it could’ve been, but it’s Phil’s way of saying: “I know you’re hurting and I know I can’t do anything, but I’m always here for you.”
It’s not the first time Dan wakes up and reality just seems altered in some way, almost like a puzzle where one piece is put in the wrong place so it can’t be finished. A haunting, looming feeling that something is wrong, but he just can't place whatever that thing is.
He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs as much as he can before exhaling again, and once he does, he turns to Phil. He’s already looking at him with worried eyes, and Dan forces his lips to edge into a smile. It never makea his eyes crinkle, and he knows that Phil can tell how fake it is but he also doesn't care.
He leans in. With a shuddering breath he sneaks his arms around Phil’s slender body and presses himself into the crook of his neck, pulls him in so close that the only thing he can feel is Phil, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to disappear into the familiarity.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into the grey hoodie that Phil is wearing. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry.” Phil answers, his voice hushed and broken, because he hates it as much as Dan does when it’s like this. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I hope so.”
It takes a few seconds for Phil to answer but when he does, he tightens his grip on Dan. “I know so.”