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Phil can't sit still. He paces along the rows of benches, fingers tapping against his thigh. He goes to buy a cup of terribly bitter coffee from the little stand, checking his fringe three times in the smudged glass window while waiting in line. The coffee burns his tongue a little on the first sip, and so he returns to pacing, scraping his numb tongue across the back of his teeth while doing so, the styrofoam cup tucked into his hand.
He had come to the station early — a little absurdly early, as Dan had texted him before he boarded the train, when the train started, and fairly frequently as the train had been moving. He had gotten updates on the landscape outside — mostly buildings and then grass, a few sheep spotted about an hour ago. The train was due to arrive in just under forty minutes, yet here Phil was, waiting nervously on platform 2.
And he is nervous, no matter how much he is trying to pretend otherwise. And what for? Phil knows Dan, even though they have technically never met, it doesn't matter. It really doesn't. That was something people didn't seem to get, that there was really a way to truly know someone, that didn't have anything to do with how they looked or sounded like or held themselves. Not that there is an issue with that — Phil has seen Dan from all angles at this point, both carefully posed and constructed and messy and real, Dan giggling half out of shot, the soft buzzing of Skype rounding out the edges of his words. Dan with his hair ruffled leaning towards the camera, bedroom light off, barely indistinguishable from the duvet pulled around him. He can even kind of see him now — leaning his head against the train window, fringe low over his eyes, white headphones snaking down into his lap.
Phil sits down on the cold bench, leg jittering against the pavement, and waits.
The train takes approximately a million years to pull into the station, by Phil's estimate. It comes whining and puffing steam, car after car thunking past, and finally, slowly heaving itself to a stop. Phil looks up and down through the windows, at the various people standing up from their seats, stretching, pulling on coats, reaching up towards the luggage racks. He sees young couples with red-cheeked babies, old men with plaid flat-caps, teenagers pulling on sweatshirts. No one that could be Dan, not in these few cars.
For a few moments he allows his anxiety to overwhelm him, the fear that somehow this was all just some giant catfish. There's a pit in his stomach that just grows larger, like he knows that somehow this was all just a giant joke, or prank, or Dan is just some bored straight kid pulling the world's meanest joke, making Phil plan a whole week of activities and walk down to the train station. He blinks, imagining having to walk back home, face the inquisitive looks of his parents, the later chiding about talking with people on the internet, still said like somewhat of a dirty word. The train doors are sliding open now, people pouring down the steps, the chattering of the station becoming just that much louder.
Phil stands — he can't help it, he can't just sit and wait to be disappointed, he feels like it's written across his face, like everyone who walks by can just instantly read his mind. The idea had freaked him out so much as a kid — that there was a mind reader out there that just knew things about him, knew the things he thought only late at night alone in his room. It had terrified him, that one day he might come to school to find everyone staring at him, everyone laughing and pointing.
And, well, it had kind of happened already, Phil thinks. He has been stood up before. He has been well, lead on before. He's been outed before. It makes more sense that this would be another one of those times, another check in the box of reasons why Phil Lester is just a hopeless romantic who needs to grow up and stop expecting someone to —
"Phil?"
Phil's heart leaps up to his throat, possibly all the way up out of the top of his head. That's what it feels like anyways, because there he is, loping up the platform, black bag slung across his chest. It's Dan, it's Dan and he's — real.
"Dan," Phil says, regaining use of his tongue. And then again "Dan!"
Dan's face splits into a grin. He looks just like Phil knew he would — well, Dan had sent him a photo this morning before he left, same shirt, with one earbud out, cord dangling down past his collarbone.
Dan walks right up to him, then stops about a foot away. There's a moment of awkwardness, they both look each other up and down. Phil's heart pounds in his chest, what if he was still wrong? What if whatever was between them necessitated the computer? And then Dan grins, and Phil's fear melts away in an instant. Of course he's not wrong. He raises his arms and Dan flings himself forward, maybe a bit too much, Phil overbalances and takes a step back to steady himself and wraps his arms around Dan. The babbling voice in his head quiets so quickly it's like there's a remote shutoff. The noise of the train station dies. Dan is pressed against him, really really there, and for one blissful moment there is no doubt in Phil's mind at all. They fit together, there's no other way he can think about it. Dan fits in his arms as if he's been meant to be there all along.
They break apart, finally. Dan re-shoulders his bag. Phil grins. He has no idea how long they've been hugging in the middle of this big, noisy train station.
"You're taller than I thought," Dan says, flicking his hair out of his eyes.
"What? You thought I lied about my height?"
"Maybe," Dan says, grinning. "Most guys do."
"Well, I'm not most guys," Phil says.
"I know," Dan says, and grins again. "I'm really glad I'm here."
"I'm glad you're here too," Phil says. "I'm really excited, we've got a lot to do."
"You planned stuff for us to do?" "Of course," Phil says, jerking his head towards the station exit and beginning to walk, Dan following close behind.
"Like make a video, right?"
"Of course we're gonna make a video," Phil says, "but more too, we'll go into town, there's a lot of cool spots around Manchester I want to show you."
"Can we go on the Eye?"
"Of course we can go on the Eye," Phil says. "You think I'd bring you to Manchester and not go on the Eye?"
Dan giggles, ducking his head a little. They push their way out the door and into the street. The sky is dimly lit with the last traces of October sun, the buildings across the way are lighting up in yellow squares. The wind whips up, blowing both their fringes skyward for a moment. Phil laughs as Dan attempts to push his hair back down in an altogether futile effort. Phil wants to kiss him so badly in this moment, in this smelly, crowded street in broad daylight. He wouldn't even care if someone he knew saw them. He won't though, not yet. Maybe someday, he thinks, as he nudges against Dan's side and they start walking again.
"I'm starving," Dan says after a few minutes of walking. "The only thing I've eaten was an extremely crumbly train muffin."
"Those are the worst," Phil says, "They're so sad in the little bag, like let him breathe."
"What?" Dan asks, laughing. "You know, the little muffin man. He can't breathe in there."
"The muffin man?"
"Like from the song? You know the song."
"Yeah, but the muffin man is the man who makes the muffins, not a man made out of a muffin."
"No way, it's just like a gingerbread man. A little muffin man."
"No way, he's just like a baker."
"Who calls a baker a muffin man? Why wouldn't they just call him a baker?" "Maybe he only makes muffins."
"Not a very good baker, if he only makes muffins."
"I guess not, but it still makes more sense than a literal sentient muffin running around."
"He's not running around. He's got a house, it's on Drury lane. It's right there in the song."
"You're such a weirdo," Dan says.
"Yeah, well, you were on a train all day to come to the weirdo's house, so look who's talking."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Your mum doesn't even make sense."
"Oh shit, got me there I guess," Dan says. "But still, can we stop and get takeaway or something?"
"Yeah, that sounds good."
"What are you feeling like? I could do pizza or something."
"Whatever you want," Phil says, not able to think of a single thing he likes to eat. He can't think about a whole lot right now, nothing at all in fact, apart from Dan, the real living breathing entirety of him, as they walk down the street towards their very first adventure.