Chapter Text
Phil should really have done a little more prep for Dan’s visit, he’s realising. But he kinda spent every free minute since his parents left either sleeping, or in town with Ian, or— mostly— talking to Dan. Hours and hours of Skype, a constant text convo back and forth, DailyBooth and Twitter where it feels like they’re absolutely, definitely, no doubt about it, flirting.
And he’s getting a little nervous about how much of it is... like, a performance? Private things like texting and MSN and Skype are just as flirtatious as the platforms they use where everyone can see. Sometimes more so, sometimes flirtatious tiptoes over to suggestive, inches very close to earnestness.
Phil doesn’t think he’s misread things. He doesn’t think what he feels is all one-sided. But it’s a horrible possibility, and he can’t quite shake it lurking in the corner of his eye.
So the few days before Dan arrives, Phil does three last-minute forms of preparation— he goes to the shops so he can be a good host and ensure his guest won’t starve, he does a quick tidy through the house until it’s passably presentable, and he goes to the linen closet where his mum always keeps an assortment of clean sheets and blankets and pillows. He plops them on the couch in the corner of his bedroom.
Just in case.
He doesn’t want Dan to think he’s assumed anything. He doesn’t want Dan to think that he expects anything out of the next three days.
*
Dan isn’t sure if he’s buzzing more from the saccharine sweet caramel macchiatos they’d had earlier, or from the cocktails they paid way too much for because it came with the skybar view, or from kissing Phil on the Manchester Eye and pulling back to see not the look of disgust he’d feared so badly, but instead the widest grin he’d ever seen on Phil’s face before he was pulled in for a second kiss.
He absolutely is buzzing though, so much so that he doesn’t half pay attention to the attempt at a house tour Phil makes. He wants to see the house, he does. He wants to pour over all the photos on the walls and hear Phil’s endless anecdotes that each room and each piece of furniture and each square freaking inch of the place has. But the buzzing is blocking most things out, all he can do is keep walking on air until he’s stood in the doorway of a room he knows all too well from countless YouTube video viewings and through the grainy Skype screen.
A room with fluorescent green carpet and pinstriped blue walls. A room with an Uma Thurman poster on the door and a bright patterned duvet on the bed and photos he’s only ever seen out of focus tacked onto the wardrobe doors.
Phil has his arms open as though he’s displaying the place. “And here’s my room, of course,” he says.
Dan steps close to the photos on the wardrobe and scans the faces of old, old friends, and friends from uni. He guesses the dates by looking at Phil’s hairstyles. He wonders how long it will take him to earn a place here. Maybe he and Phil just need to print out an actual photo, even though until today everything they’ve ever said and done has been online.
When he turns around, Phil is still standing by the door. He’s dropped his arms and turns quickly to look over to the wall, which tells Dan all he needs to know about if Phil had been staring at him or not.
“It’s so weird to actually be here,” Dan says, “like… it’s weird because it’s not weird, y’know?”
Phil nods. “Yeah, well you’ve been here loads technically. Just, now you can touch things.”
Dan’s not one to turn down even the hint of an invitation. “Good point,” he says, picking up the corner of the duvet between this thumb and index finger. “I can touch things, and make sure they’re real,” he says, patting Lion’s head where he sits on Phil’s desk.
“Very real,” Phil says, still nodding. “All of it.”
Dan walks past the arm of a little, sheet-covered couch to get close to where Phil is standing. He brings a hand up to cup Phil’s chin. “Super real,” he smiles, “high definition.” He leans forward and kisses him.
*
It was never going to be an early night, Phil new, even if Dan was train tired and even if they spent all day in town. They’ve spent enough nights chatting into the wee hours that the idea of being in the same place for once and deciding to turn in at a reasonable time is nothing short of laughable.
Which means that by the time they do change into pyjamas and brush their teeth and all signs point to approaching sleeptown, Phil isn’t as smooth as he had maybe hoped he would be when he brings up Dan’s options of accommodations. “There’s, er, the guest room you can have, or my brother’s room which has a TV in it. There’s also…” he can feel himself blushing, “my bed.” He fakes a cough, which turns into a real cough. “Oh, and the couch. Which isn’t as uncomfy as it looks.”
Dan doesn’t say anything right away. Which scares Phil enough that he keeps talking.
“God, I’m a shit host aren’t I?” Phil says, pushing his fringe off his forehead. “I’ll take the couch and you can have the bed. The couch has clean sheets though, and mine, uhh doesn’t. I should’ve thought about this earlier. I dunno why I didn’t ask you until now...”
“Your bed is fine,” Dan says. “We’re tall, but we’ll fit.” His voice is quiet, and he’s not looking at Phil. He’s looking, instead at the couch. Phil notices, perhaps for the first time, how close it actually is to his bed. There isn’t that much space separating the two pieces of furniture. But the idea that Dan doesn’t even want that much space between them tonight is making his head spin.
“You sure?” Phil asks.
“So long as you didn’t only offer to be nice,” Dan laughs. It’s one of those defensive laughs that Phil always wants to replace when he hears it; replace with the kind of laugh Dan makes that Phil can feel down to the soles of his feet.
Phil just shakes his head. Words aren’t coming easily, so instead he makes an animal screech and lunges towards Dan to wrap an arm around his waist and drag him towards the bed. Dan is proper laughing now, and Phil feels drunk off of it. That laughter is so much fucking better in person, and he really didn’t think that was possible.