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Dan’s still not used to getting up early. He’s more used to approaching dawn from the other direction, his eyes aching from screen glare as the soft light breaks through the cracks in the curtains. It’s different like this, reaching out to silence his alarm and checking whether it disturbed Phil. It didn’t; he’s still snoring softly, the sunlight catching his hair and lending a reddish-gold glow to the newly grown-out strands. It’s been ten years, but seeing him—getting to see him—like this still makes Dan’s breath catch in his throat. He lets himself watch him for another moment before he gets up.
Running is hard. Like, really hard. It took Dan a long time just to get to the point where running any distance didn’t make him feel like he was dying. Once you get past the oh-God-my-lungs-are-gonna-fall-out stage, though, it’s actually kind of fun. That was hard to get to grips with. The idea that Dan Howell could scrape himself out of his sofa crease and enjoy some moderate exercise was a significant adjustment. It felt good, though. Good in the same way that running until his legs ache feels good.
By the time Dan is home and showered, Phil has started to stir. He’s peering at his phone, squinting as he tries to read it without his glasses. Dan feels that warm, sharp feeling in his chest again as he watches him, rubbing a towel through his hair.
“Good morning,” he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Morning,” Phil grumbles, rolling over to look at him. His hair is falling into his eyes, and he pushes it back into a messy approximation of his usual quiff. “Good run?”
“Yeah,” Dan says, slinging the towel over his shoulder. “Coffee?”
Phil makes a vague noise of affirmation and rolls back onto his side, peering at his phone again. His smile still lingering, Dan heads through to the kitchen. He hums to himself as he puts the kettle on, grabbing himself a green tea while he prepares Phil’s coffee. His fingers drum against the counter as he waits for it to boil, tapping out the beat of a song he can’t quite place. He loses it when the kettle clicks off, distracted by pouring and stirring.
“Are we doing anything today?” With his glasses on and half a cup of coffee in him, Phil looks marginally more alert. He’s still huddled under the duvet, his hair finger-combed into submission.
“Hmm,” Dan says, frowning and pulling up his calendar app. “Nothing important.” He blows gently on his tea before sipping it. “We should do a Sainsbury’s order, though.”
“What not-important things do we have on?” Phil’s trying to hide the impish smile he gets when he knows he’s being cheeky. It’s not working.
“Uh, it’s someone’s birthday.” Dan holds up his phone to show Phil - it’s someone from Facebook he doesn’t remember adding.
“Did you say happy birthday?”
“I don’t know them.”
“Wow, rude,” Phil says, with a little grin. “Get me some breakfast?”
Dan has nothing to throw at Phil that isn’t a hot cup of tea, so he settles for swatting him with the back of his hand. “Shut up,” he says, as he’s sliding out of the bed. “Get your own.”
Dan is halfway through his cereal when Phil appears. He makes a beeline for the kettle, making himself another coffee before pouring his own, far more sugary bowl of cereal. Dan finishes his last spoonful just as Phil sits down, but he stays there, quietly companionable, while Phil eats. When he’s finished, Dan takes both their bowls and mugs over to the dishwasher. It’s just that kind of day—the kind where he feels like doing things without arguing. Some things, anyway.
“I’m going to shower.” Phil sounds decisive, but he doesn’t make a move to get up. They’ve been sitting on the sofa for over an hour, Phil still in his pyjamas and both of them mindlessly scrolling in silence.
“Have fun,” Dan says, without looking up. “Don’t die.”
Phil stays quiet for a moment, then pushes himself to his feet with a groan. He disappears, presumably to the bathroom. Dan hasn’t moved when he returns, his hair damp and his contacts in. He’s working, or trying to, anyway. Mostly, he’s staring blankly at his screen, trying to form a telepathic connection with it.
“Do you think I need a haircut?” Phil is running his fingers through his fringe, peering up at it with a slightly constipated expression.
“Sure,” Dan says. He’s not paying attention; it feels like his brain has clocked out for the day, and it’s not even lunchtime yet.
“Hey,” Phil says, prodding him in the arm as he sits next to him. “Earth to Dan.”
“Yeah?” Dan manages to tear his gaze away from the screen. Phil’s quiff is floppy and unstyled, falling onto his forehead, but it doesn’t look like it needs cutting. “Oh, right. Nah, you’re fine.”
“Let’s take a break.” Phil pulls the laptop out of Dan’s unresisting hands, closing it and sliding it onto the coffee table.
They watch TV for a bit, steadily working through the backlog of shows they haven’t gotten around to bingeing yet. They’re part way through the third or fourth episode—Dan’s lost count—when Netflix pauses itself to check whether they’re still there. Dan doesn’t want to get up, and he’s sprawled across Phil’s lap, effectively trapping him there.
“Wanna keep watching?” Phil asks, his fingers tangled in Dan’s curls.
Dan makes a non-committal noise, not making a move to get up.
“Okay.” They’re quiet for a bit. Dan shifts, resting his head against Phil’s chest. In the quiet, he can hear Phil’s heartbeat, and, after a moment, the gurgling of his stomach.
“Hungry?” Dan asks, tilting his head to give Phil a cheeky look.
“Maybe,” Phil says, with a laugh. “Is it lunchtime?”
Dan wriggles until he manages to free his phone from his pocket. It’s not quite noon.
“Yeah,” he says, letting his phone slide out of his hand. It falls into the sofa crack, but he’s too comfy to care. “What do you want?”
“Mm.” Phil hums thoughtfully. “Food.”
Dan frowns at him, or tries to. “What kind?”
“Dunno.” Phil pauses for a moment. “What do we have?”
Dan tries to think about it, but gives up and shrugs after a solid five seconds of thought.
“D’you want to go out?”
Another shrug. Somewhat arbitrarily, he’s decided it’s Phil’s turn to make decisions.
As it turns out, they don’t have anything edible in. There’s half a loaf of bread that’s attempting to develop a new strain of penicillin, and an orange that looks like it’s been deflated. They end up going to a local café that’s somehow managed to survive despite three Starbucks appearing within a five hundred metre radius and a Costa popping up across the street.
“Ooh, toasties,” Phil says, his eyes skipping down the list of sandwiches on the wall.
“I might have a salad.” Dan’s searching for the little Ve next to the options. Surprisingly, there’s actually a decent range of choices.
“Ugh, so healthy.” Phil’s nose wrinkles, but he’s smiling.
“Toasties aren’t vegan,” Dan points out. They’re nearly at the front of the queue.
“It can be a cheat day.”
“Yesterday was a cheat day,” Dan counters. “You can’t have two cheat days in a row.”
“Sure you can.”
The argument continues while they order, and still hasn’t concluded by the time they get their food. It devolves into a completely unrelated discussion, meandering naturally into a conversation about fish cannibalism that’s still going on as they walk home.
Dan actually gets some work done in the afternoon. In the next room, he can hear the faint sound of Phil recording a video, providing him with comfortable, familiar background noise. It’s getting dark before he knows it, time slipping past easily until Phil reappears and disrupts his thought process.
“Good video?” he asks, shutting his laptop and sliding it off of his lap.
“I think so,” Phil says, joining him on the couch. Dan slides under his arm, his head nestling against his chest. “Have you thought about dinner?”
“Think we’ll have to order takeout,” Dan says, his eyes drifting shut. They snap open again as he bolts upright. “Shit, we forgot to do the Sainsbury’s order.”
“Oh, right,” Phil says, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. “Well, let’s do it now, then.”
“Sure,” Dan says, grabbing his laptop again. “Then we can order dinner. What do you want?”
“I don’t mind.” Phil watches Dan navigate to the Sainsbury’s website. “Pizza?”
“It’s still not a cheat day.”
They settle on Indian, eventually, and schedule the grocery delivery for the morning. When the food arrives they settle back on the sofa and set up Crunchyroll. They watch a new show Dan’s been hearing about on Twitter. It’s fine, but probably not going to be a new favourite, although they spend the rest of the evening catching up on it anyway.
Phil heads to bed before Dan, pressing a soft kiss to his head as he leaves. It’s a simple moment, common enough these past ten years, but it sends a bolt of warmth through his chest. Forever is a difficult concept, but he could live with days like these for the rest of his life.