Work Text:
Back to you, back to you, back to you
Back to you, back to you, back to you
I go back to you, back to you, back to you everytime
It’s cold in your parents’ house - it’s an old building, your mum always says, there’s meant to be draughts of cold air blowing into the house.
It’s to be expected, especially during winter, when the ground is covered by the white blanket of snow and the ice in the air bites at the exposed skin of your face - but there’s a different chill travelling down your body as you take in the familiar surrounding of a house that has been your comfort and shelter for years and now doesn’t feel like home.
“You’re going to miss the cold once we’re in Florida,” your mum says when you complain about it, a smile that can be heard in her voice.
You’re glad that her head is bowed down to look at the pot so that you don’t risk her seeing the way you grimace at the mention of the upcoming vacation - a reaction that in any other situation would feel completely out of place but that, right now, is the only one you can muster.
You want to protest, say that you’d rather stay behind this time - it’s not the first vacation your family takes and it won’t be the last. But you already know that she would give you a biting reply - coupled with a stern look and lips pressed into a thin line - and you don’t feel like ruining Christmas for her more than you’ve already done.
She doesn’t deserve it, not really - even if your heart fills with an evil kind of feeling, a dark desire to spill poison back at her when she turns eyes full of pity towards you, almost like she’s expecting you to shatter into a thousand of pieces right in front of her.
It doesn’t sounds so impossible. After all, you haven’t felt whole in a while, no matter how many futile attempts to keep yourself together.
“I’m going to my room,” you say, standing up so quickly that you almost knock the cup of tea over - can already hear your mum yelling about her fine china. Your eyes follow the small piece of decorated porcelain as if expecting it to fall on the floor, shatter into broken pieces just to match the state of your heart.
You’re almost outside the door when she calls your name, a leading tone in her simple, “Phil?”. You turn around, wishing you could ignore the way she’s looking at you, as if searching for some answer in your face.
“Maybe Dan can come to Florida with us?”
It feels like the floor opens underneath your feet, your stomach falling down to the ground. You want to laugh it off, show exactly just how ridiculous it is, the suggestion that Dan could join your family vacation, could set aside the seeming distaste at the idea of being close to you to enjoy two weeks away from London, away from the always present pressure of showing too much or not at all.
“I don’t think so,” it’s what you say, turning on your heels before any more words can spill out.
I get tired of your no-shows
You get tired of my control (yeah)
They keep telling me to let go
But I don't really let go when I say so
Being in this room is almost surreal.
Everything inside of it reminds you of Dan, which makes no sense, because this room existed way before Dan had showed up in your life, before he became everything you wanted - everything you could see, everything you could feel.
But then Dan had showed up, a meteor burning a hole in the texture of your existence, and nothing has ever been the same since then.
Now you look around and memories invade your mind, look at your bed and remember how it felt the first time you laid on it together, limbs tangled together and giddy smiles on your face. You look at the floor and remember the scratch of it against your elbows, the slightly dusty smell of it mixing with the perfume of Dan’s shampoo as you tackled him to the ground, unable to contain the overwhelming desire to touch him.
There’s a knot in your throat and the familiar feeling of tears in your eyes as you take a look at your phone, painfully void of any text or call.
It shouldn’t be surprising, not when the last words Dan had whispered in your ears, arms wrapped tightly around your neck, had been “maybe the time apart will do us good.”
You wanted to scream then and scream now, grab him by the shoulders and shake him, just to remind him that time apart was never the solution with the two of you, that the only thing you have ever wanted, when it comes to Dan, is to be as close as possible, crawl inside of him to avoid him leaving.
And really, how could he ever think that being in this house and this room would do you any good, when it’s almost worse than the apartment you share together? How can you be in this room, lie on this bed every day and every night, without being reminded of how things used to be, when the only worry the two of you would have was how many trips you were going to afford?
You miss it, sometimes - miss knowing that the next time you would see Dan, he would be happy, jumping in your arms and kissing you on the lips, no hesitation. You wonder, sometimes, if it would be better if things had stayed like that - if you had never taken the leaps of faith that brought you to where you are now, on the verge of success and the collapse of something so dear.
Without realizing, your fingers move on the screen of your phone to type out a message, ignoring the voices inside your brain that tell you to stop, to give him time.
You’re tired of playing this game, tired of awkwardly tiptoeing around each other in futile attempts to salvage what’s left of your relationship, in fear that he will take the final step away from you.
Are we still us, you ask, too big of a thing to be asked over text yet too scary to say out loud.
I keep giving people blank stares (yeah)
I'm so different when you're not there (yeah, yeah)
It's like something out of Shakespeare (yeah)
Because I'm really not here when you're not there
The Christmas dinner is overwhelmingly loud. You just want to escape, retreat into a dark corner just to breathe some air that isn’t crowded by other people.
You watch Martyn and Cornelia, moving around each other with practiced ease, dancing around the room trading kisses and smiles. You wonder, briefly, if you are ever going to have that, ever walk in a room filled with your relatives and have Dan on your side, happy and sure that your side is where he wants to be.
Your glass seems to constantly be filled with wine, the bittersweet taste of it clinging to your palate and clouding your mind. It’s a wonderful feeling, the light buzzing going off in your ears at every sip, so addictive that you barely pay attention to get food in your plate - something that your mum seems to notice.
She walks towards you with concern in her eyes, the weight of it exaggerating the lines in between her eyebrows. “Child, are you okay?” She asks with a soft voice and that kind of unwavering affection that you have been craving for your entire life.
It used to make you feel safe, like you could crawl inside her warm tone and be protected by the darkness outside, the scary shadows clouding your mood. You wonder, briefly, when it stopped feeling like that, when the comfort of your mother stopped being enough to bring back the light you’re missing.
The traitorous voice inside your brain, the one that doesn’t stop going on, tells you that it happened when Dan showed up - when the only light and warmth you wanted came from a boy with soft brown eyes, as sweet as the most delicious chocolate.
“I’m fine,” you reply, trying to ignore the way your voice seems to break right at the end, almost like your body is giving up keeping the cracks of yourself together, like it doesn’t have the energy when it’s just you, by yourself.
You feel the lack of Dan like a physical pain in your body, feel cold on the side where he would usually stand. The words of your family chatting about are echoing in your head without you being able to focus on any of them.
It’s probably not good, how much you’re mourning your relationship with Dan when it hasn’t even ended yet.
Briefly, like lightning illuminating the sky, you wonder if you should just rip the bandage off, take the remnants of what once used to be strong and throw it outside, let the winter breeze carry it away, so that you can finally be free.
I've tried to fight our energy
But everytime I think I'm free (yeah, woo!)
There’s a feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach when you see that Dan has texted you.
You tell yourself that you should probably wait to open it, wait until you’re not in a room surrounded by people that don’t understand, can’t possibly understand what you’re going through.
But really, you have never been able to ignore Dan, not when it feels like this, a force almost impossible to resist, something that felt so perfect that you could almost believe it was magic.
Dan - 8.33pm
I’m still yours
Please tell me you're still mine
You hear a broken sound and it’s only when you feel tears threatening to escape your eyes that you realize it came from you.
Are you really, you want to ask, want to scream really, loud enough so the sound would travel to him, thousands of miles that feel like different worlds.
Instead you text back, can u talk, heart hammering in your chest as you wait for the reply, drinking the last drops of wine in your glass as if they can give you the strength you’re lacking.
What do you need strength for? Why are you preparing for a battle that you’re not even sure you still want to fight?
The phone rings in your hand.
You get high and call on the regular
I get weak and fall like a teenager
Why, oh why does God keep bringing me back to you?
I get drunk, pretend that I'm over it
Self-destruct, show up like an idiot
“Phil,” is the only thing he says as soon as the call connects, the sound of his insecurity deafening. You can tell that he has been crying by the wavering in his voice, the scratchy tone of it as he calls your name again, like he isn’t sure you’re really there.
There’s the cold texture of the wall against your back as you slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, every last bit of energy leaving your body, unable to keep yourself up anymore - like you’re already surrendering to him, once again.
“Dan.”
“Why did you - what did you mean, with -”
“I just - what are we doing?”
There’s a loud intake of breath on the other side of the line. “We - I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re doing. I just - I just miss you?”
“Do you really?”
“Don’t you?”
I miss what we used to be, you don’t say. I miss you smiling at me, knowing for sure that you love me.
“I can’t - I can’t deal like this, Dan. I know you’re angry because of the video and the -”
“I’m not,” he rushes out to say, a clear lie. You know better, from the weeks spent with hostile silence and distant eyes, with nights spent apart and the suffocating feeling of walking on broken shells scattered around your house, fragile remnants of what once was something strong and virtually unshakeable.
You shake your head even though he can’t see you, can taste the salt of tears on your lips. “Dan-”
“Tell me you’re coming home,” he begs, and you know that he’s crying again, could recognize the sound of it anywhere, know too well the broken gasps of sobs that are forced back. “Please I - you said we can fix this, right? I’ll try, I promise.”
There’s a part of you, a small part that wants to say no. There’s a part of you wondering if it’s still worth it, if there’s still something to fix.
But you already know the answer, don’t you? You knew even before he asked you back, before he even called. Maybe you knew all along, just how much you crave the feeling of him in your arms, how much you want him, even when it seems like it might not be the best thing for you.
And really, you wonder, how can he even doubt it?
“I’m coming back.”
I go back to you, back to you, back to you
Everytime