Work Text:
After is fluid.
It’s crawling into a slightly dusty bed after dropping their bags at the door, and having Dan laugh at Phil when he sneezes, pushing at his legs to get him off the bed so they can change the sheets.
It's lying in bed, trying to sleep at night and feeling a phantom hum of loud American roads.
It’s barely enough time to recover from the jetlag, and waiting for it to slowly wear off on its own because by the time the real break comes it will have run its course.
It's sinking deeper into the sheets, remembering that there haven't been hundreds of people sleeping—or partaking in other hotel bed antics—in the same spot before.
It's waking up early when the rest of the city does (but both of them let the other sleep in when they can).
It's a perfectly curated pizza order and Netflix.
It's ice cream and hair cuts and slipping back into a familiar, long established routine.
It's answering emails and going to meetings, and too many taxis in bad traffic.
It's working out the kinks and twinges they get on occasion but don't always know why, from gently firm hands to a new bottle of paracetamol picked up on the way back home (not without jokes about Phil being an old man, refuted by a “your mum” and an “I told you so” when Dan wakes up with a crick in his neck the following week).
It's discarded socks on the coffee table and the exasperated complaint that follows.
It's stretching out to listen to new music, lyrics flying over Phil's head and being analysed in Dan's.
On slower days, days where the exhaustion sits heavy on them and things like talking are only a polite necessity, Dan might call it the end, the end of something stable, the end of something regular.
On slower days Phil might go to the shops and juggle the fruit he brings home because even though Dan's been up and eaten and hydrated, he still hasn't moved from the spot in the lounge he curled up in that morning.
On slower days Dan might snap about the overflowing bin he asked him to take out the night before, only to be followed by scoffs and murmurs about having done it the last two times, and stomping mismatched sock feet into the cold and quiet gaming room.
On slower days they might spend the evenings watching the other play a game, relishing in the bit of residual joy watching the other gives them.
On slower days it's a passive aggressive, crudely bright anime-patterned sticky note on Dan's laptop, reminding him to answer his bloody emails.
On slower days Phil might keep the lights off and shut the door, leaving Dan swathed in soft grey as he walks upstairs and makes himself a coffee. He might wait for an hour or so, mindlessly scrolling or working, before walking back downstairs with a glass of water and gentle words of reassurance.
Sometimes after also means later.
Sometimes it’s fulfilling loose, not-quite-promises they weren’t sure they’d be able to keep.
Sometimes it's wrapping up another chapter before jumping into the next one with both feet and hands firmly clasped together.
Sometimes it's saying that distance and time makes the heart grow fonder to ease the itching desperation and fear of the unknown changes that may have happened over the last six months that grows and grows until plane tickets can finally be booked to head to the Isle.
Sometimes it's bookmarking property listings or picking up brochures, a special kind of brightness etched onto their faces when either of them brings up the subject.
Sometimes it's checking in, making sure that they're still on the same page before tapping away on social media.
Sometimes it's laying down new boundaries or whispering about changes that will be gradual, that will go unmentioned.
Sometimes it's changes that do get mentioned, that might be spoken with a rehearsed confidence but come laced the fear of newness all the same.
Sometimes it takes a while to get there, but it's still after even if it's later, and it's bliss because nothing is perfect but it's all right.
And sometimes it’s being sat on their balcony on a warmer night, a blanket draped over both of their legs and a bottle of cheap rosé Dan brought home after his walk earlier almost empty between them. A mildly scented candle sits next to the wine, flickering in the ever so slight breeze. Their pride and exhaustion and relief linger comfortably in the silence between them. Phil fills their glasses with the remainder of the wine, the unspoken words between them coming through their knowing smiles to each other and the delicate clink of glass against glass as they say cheers for what he thinks is the fourth time tonight.
A dog's bark echos up to them and Dan complains about Phil's icy toes poking into his thigh. Phil just presses them in harder.
They're silent again until Phil yawns and Dan says something about wishing the air pollution wasn't so bad. He agrees, making a half hearted joke about how soon it won't matter because of their reusable water bottles and Dan's 85% veganism. Dan scoffs and rolls his eyes, and Phil sips his wine as Dan tells him he's an idiot.
Through the noise of the city’s nightlife and the familiar sound of Dan breathing, living, existing beside him, Phil thinks this is the kind of after he can get used to.