Work Text:
Phil walks out onto the balcony. Dan’s leaning against the railing, turns his way with a wistful look on his face when he steps out towards him.
“Here—“ Phil gives Dan his glass, one of their more fancier, obscure drinks poured into it. Their rings clink, with each other and the glass, and they both giggle—Phil doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being giddy about it. Husbands. God. It’s a fucking glorious word.
The fireworks above their balcony and the surrounding London are beautiful—there are fewer than any other year before this one, but that doesn’t mean Dan is any less pretty underneath them. He bathes in blues, reds, greens, pinks, and yellows, all reflecting nicely on his skin, his curls, the gentle smile he bears.
“So… one final toast under one final firework?”
Phil beams. The pun is inescapable—even if the song itself is turned way down low and mostly drowned by the sounds of explosions.
“If you so wish,” he says, leans in close. “Like a bird and a stone.”
It barely registers that the phrase is horrendously wrong, not when Dan’s so close, almost impossibly close—not even when he laughs his hyena-laugh does Phil’s brain work in any way a human’s should. He just grins wider.
So impossibly in love.
“God, you’re so fucking stupid.” Dan leans his forehead against his—Phil goes slightly cross-eyed trying to look at his face, but it’s okay, because Dan does the same.
The time ticks down endlessly slowly, the timer on his phone should soon be buzzing in his pocket; Phil’s heart seems to catch in his throat. He could do this again and again, and it’ll still be just as nerve-wracking—make them both blush bright red.
He pokes Dan’s dimple, or maybe his rosy patch, or somewhere next to it. Dan clenches his throat, a strange noise escaping out. “Love you.”
“Love you too, spork.”
When the clock strikes, Phil catches him by the belt-hoops, and kisses him silly, drowning all the sound and the noise.