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Phil’s never much liked labels.
He's never liked how people are put into boxes that are meant to define who they are, like every aspect of the human experience isn't vast and varied and different for every person who’s ever lived. He doesn't understand it at all. He doesn't particularly care to understand it. All he knows is that they don't work for him.
Dan is eighteen and all he's ever known is labels. He's fresh out of school (and god, that's bizarre, listening to someone talk about school trips and A-levels that happened last year . Phil’s trying to ignore how absolutely ancient he's become) and it's like he's got a dictionary on hand at all times, an encyclopaedia of the words he uses to explain himself to his family, to his friends, to the world.
Bisexual is the main one at the moment, the one he talks to Phil about the most, and it's interesting listening to him ramble on about his life and his experiences as a young bi person. Their stories couldn't be more different - Phil, at the age of fourteen and two days, realised rather suddenly that he fancied boys as well as girls and had shrugged and left it alone until it became somewhat relevant at uni, whereas Dan struggled with what he calls a fairly standard sexuality crisis from the ages of twelve to seventeen.
“What made you stop, like, crisising?” Phil asks curiously one night over skype. It's 4:30 in the morning and Dan looks like he's made of about five pixels.
“Mm,” Dan replies. He does that a lot, sprinkles ums and ahs and d’you know what I means through his sentences. He told Phil once that he does it because his brain speeds ahead of his mouth and he loses track of his words. “Dunno. You, maybe.”
It's so nonchalant, the way he says that. Like he hasn't knocked the air right out of Phil’s lungs.
“Me?” Phil asks. Raspy. Surprised. Overwhelmed.
On Phil’s laptop screen, Dan shrugs. The image sharpens suddenly, enough for Phil to be able to see that Dan’s blushing.
“Yeah,” Dan says. He sounds shy, but sure of what he's saying. Phil stares at him. “You make me want to be myself. Like, I want to be myself with you, d’you know what I mean? You make me want to like who I am.”
Oh, God. Phil is so fond of him he thinks he might die. Surely a human heart shouldn't feel like this, full to the point of aching, radiating a golden warmth that shivers down his belly and radiates from his head to his toes.
They don't talk about it for a very long time. It's too much, at first, too strange and specific to fit into any one category, the lines between best mates and something else, something other, blurry and undefined. Phil refuses to call it something better because it isn't. It's not. Nothing could be better than the way it feels to hear Dan tell him, his voice quiet and heavy with fondness and sleep, “you're the best friend I’ve ever had.”
His mum asks him, once, over a cup of tea while rain streams down the kitchen windows, and he stares at the steam rising from his mug and finds that he doesn't know what to say.
“He's not my boyfriend,” Phil says slowly. He's always hated that word. The way it means something so particular. The way it’ll never quite make sense of who Dan is to him. “He's just… I don't know, Mum. He's just Dan. I just love him.”
His mum has her listening face on, interested eyebrows and a neutral mouth. She nods. Phil doesn't know what else to say, so he lifts his mug to his lips and takes a drink of tea that burns the back of his throat and leaves him sputtering. He coughs into his elbow, then winces.
“That's not even spiked yet,” his mum teases. Phil snorts. Then his mum leans forward a little, her body language open and comforting. "So. You love him.”
Phil is abruptly flustered. No one really bothers asking him about anything personal. He's a locked box, always has been. He keeps himself to himself, stays within the carefully drawn lines he's created in order to do what it is that he does. His friends know not to push it, that he’ll let them in if and when he's ready.
Dan's the only one who pushes him, anymore. He’s stubborn and clever and eloquent and it's so easy to talk to him that Phil sometimes forgets they've only been… whatever it is that they are for a little while. It certainly doesn't feel like less than a year.
“Of course I do,” Phil says with a little laugh. Of course he does. How could he not, when Dan is the way he is? Everyone loves him. Everyone wants him, wants to know him, and Phil knows him best, and there's a thrill of victory behind Phil’s sternum every time he remembers that he’s Dan’s favourite. “Mum, he's my best mate .”
“But you don't love him like that, do you?” she asks, still with that glow of compassion and empathy and understanding in her eyes. Phil frowns.
“I do,” he tells her. “I love him in, like. Every way. I love him and I dunno if it's in love love or just love because I dunno how to really tell the difference because I've never done this before.” He swallows hard. “But I love him.”
It's too honest. He can feel himself cringing away from the truth of it. His mum looks at him, considering, and he's always trusted her but his chest sort of feels like it's crumbling. That was a lot to confess to her all at once.
There's a long pause broken only by the rain on the windows and the soft hum of the radiator. Then his mum smiles at him.
“As long as you're happy,” she says. She reaches out across the table and takes his hand, smooths the pad of her thumb across his knuckles. It makes the panicky disintegrating feeling in his stomach and throat slow down a little.
“I think I am,” he tells her quietly. That's what this feels like, anyway. This thrill in his blood whenever his phone buzzes, this constant feeling of looking forward to something. This way that his life is starting to take shape because he isn't sitting still and waiting for something better to come along anymore.
“Then that's all that matters, isn't it,” his mum says, in the firm way that mothers have. Phil smiles down at his mug of tea and gives her hand a squeeze.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. His mum squeezes his hand back.
“You're my baby, aren't you,” she says, all warm and fond, and Phil’s throat is a little tight. “I've got to do what I can now you're all grown.”
“Love you, Mum,” he tells her. She squeezes his hand again before letting go and they finish their tea in companionable quiet, the rain doing enough talking for the both of them.
“I miss you so much.” Dan's voice is cracking over the phone and Phil hates this bit. “I wish you were here. Or I was there, or something. I just wish we were together."
“I know,” Phil breathes, because he does know, he wants the same things, but Dan gets so intense about this sometimes. And it's not that Phil can't talk about his feelings, because he can, he just… doesn't usually want to. It hurts to clean the wound, so he leaves it. “I miss you too, but it's not much longer now.”
Dan sighs, huge and gusty, and Phil can imagine him stretched spread-eagle across his bedroom floor, his legs splayed everywhere and his phone pressed to his ear.
“I know it's not,” Dan says petulantly. He's probably doing that face he does, big eyes and a soft mouth that Phil can never resist. “But it feels like it. I want to be with you all the time.”
“You wouldn't get bored of me?” Phil asks. He's joking, mostly.
“Never,” Dan tells him. He sounds serious now. “I could never get bored of you, are you fucking with me? Do you actually think you're boring?”
The thing is, Phil doesn't think he's boring. He thinks he's too much. Too loud and too weird and too tactile, too strange for most people to handle in large doses. He and Dan talk every day, have done since July, and sometimes he thinks about Dan leaving him behind and his blood runs cold with fear. You wouldn't get bored of me means please tell me you won't go .
“Dunno,” he says, flushing a little. Dan's so blunt about this kind of thing. He says what he means and does what he wants and Phil will never be able to forget the fierce determination that burned in Dan’s face just before they kissed for the first time, right on top of the Manchester Eye. “Guess not.”
“Good,” Dan says, firm, and then - “you know I'm in love with you, right?”
There's that, then. Dan's emotions laid out like a picture book right where Phil can see them, open and easy to understand. He wishes it could be as simple for him.
“I know,” he replies, and now his is the voice that's thin and cracking with how much he feels. “I’m - yeah. I know.”
“It’s like.” Dan breaks off with a sharp little laugh. “It's mental how in love with you I am. I feel mental sometimes.” Phil imagines him kicking up his feet to rest his heels on the wall, imagines him fidgeting with the collar of his tshirt and picking absentmindedly at the texture of his bedroom carpet, and he thinks this might be in love love but he doesn't know how to be sure.
“Sorry,” Dan adds. “That's a bit much to be told over the phone.”
“‘S’alright,” Phil tells him, and somehow it is. He's not panicking over it, at least. It makes sense. This is what they've been leading up to, right? This is how this sort of thing goes. “I’m…”
He pauses. He wants to return the sentiment but he's not sure if he can, yet. He's not sure if he's in love and that's not something he can lie about. Not to himself and certainly not to Dan.
“I'm very, very fond of you,” he says finally, and Dan’s breath hitches loud and sharp. He's such a teenager. Somehow Phil always forgets.
“You're my best friend,” he continues. “And I love you.” The words feel heavy but they ring true. “I just… I've never done this before. And I don't really know what in love feels like. I don't know how to know that's what it is.”
Alarm bells are going off in his head, loud shrieks of you're going to regret this , but somehow he doesn't think he will. He trusts Dan more than he's ever trusted someone outside of his immediate family in his life.
“You’ll know,” Dan says, all soft and sure, and Phil wants to be with him so much all of a sudden. So much more than normal. He wants to be with him always. “And I'll be here.”
The idea of calling Dan his boyfriend still doesn't appeal to Phil, although that would certainly make sense in the context of who they are together. They cuddle and kiss and have sex and they talk constantly , about everything under the sun and everything beyond it, as well. The only thing they don't ever talk about is them.
That doesn't bother Phil in the slightest. He likes not having to have all the answers, and anyway, there isn't an answer that could ever really quantify what Dan is to him. What Dan means in the scope of Phil’s life. It's no one’s business but their own, and they've never needed to define it because both of them just understand.
It sets Phil at ease. He's not a boyfriend. He hasn't got a boyfriend. He's just a Phil who’s got a Dan. And that's easy, and it's okay, and it's not better or worse than anything else. It's just who they are.
Best friend is how they present it to anyone who asks. It's the least complicated answer, and anyway, it's the truth.
“Everyone at home always asks who you are,” Dan laughs into Phil’s shoulder halfway through their unexpected trip to Blackpool. He's so vivid in real life. His dark eyes hold a spark inside them that never quite gets through on skype, and he smells so good, and he's so warm .
“What do you tell them?” Phil asks. He’s cuddled up between Dan’s legs, his back to Dan’s chest, one of Dan’s hands cradled in his own. Dan presses a close-mouthed kiss to the junction of Phil’s shoulder and neck.
“That you're an alien who’s forcing me to go to Manchester for extraterrestrial science experiments.” His breath is hot, his lips slightly chapped, and he smells of hotel soap and toothpaste.
“Alien A-levels,” Phil agrees, and his heart feels too full again. That strange warmth he only knows how to think of as golden is seeping through his body, starting at the points where his body and Dan’s touch.
“Mm,” Dan hums. He shifts so he's leaning against the pile of fluffy pillows they've propped up against their bed’s headboard. Phil leans with him, scooting up so his back stays pressed to Dan’s front, their legs splaying out across the mattress with plenty of room to spare.
It had been a bit of a headrush to book a hotel room with just one bed. The implications of it when Phil opened the door for Dan were clear, if Dan’s delighted cackle was any indication.
“Not Portugal,” Phil had said, ushering Dan into the room, biting his lip nervously like he was worried Dan would hate it. “But still nice? And no volcanoes.”
“It's lovely, Phil,” Dan had breathed, looking around the room with sparkling eyes, and then they'd kissed against the door until neither of them could breathe.
They spend most of that holiday in bed. Phil’s mum asks him about it when he gets home and he comes up totally blank of anything remotely acceptable to tell her. After a few seconds of fumbling he manages to tell her, “it was really nice.” She gives him a mild smile that means she knows exactly what he's on about, then chucks him out of the kitchen to go unpack.
He plugs his dead phone into its charger and starts pulling dirty clothes out of his suitcase, tossing them in the vague direction of his already-overflowing hamper. Laundry is the worst chore. He'd rather do the washing up than the laundry.
His phone chirps as it turns back on, then chirps three more times as texts come in. Phil turns a tshirt right side out, then throws it at his hamper and leans over to look at the screen.
One from his mobile company, a reminder to pay his bill. One from Martyn, who’s asked if he remembered to wear sun cream in Blackpool along with several winking smiley faces. He had remembered to wear sun cream, but that's beside the point. The third and oldest is from Dan, two and a half hours ago, long enough that not all of it can be seen in the message preview. Phil settles into a more comfortable position, then opens the text.
ur phone has probably died already :( but i just wanted u to know that I had the BEST time in blackpool with u… ever. it was ACTUALLY the most fun ive ever had. xD txt me when u charge ur phone poo head <333
It's so… Dan. Sweet and silly and sincere, funny enough to be emotional without being heavy. Phil loves that about him, how easy it is to talk to him about everything simply because he knows how to listen and respond. He says he's awkward with people he's not comfortable with, but with Phil it's always been like he's made of magic.
The sky is bluer in Portugal than Phil thinks it's probably ever been in England, and the sun turns Dan a soft golden brown that makes him look like he's some kind of model. If models had hands that touch Phil like he's precious and perfect or mouths that quirk up into deep dimples when Phil talks or hair that curls haphazardly and tempts Phil to tug it. The air is warm and their hotel room is small but lovely and despite having to reschedule it due to a literal volcanic eruption, this is the best holiday Phil has ever been on.
It's really special, to explore somewhere so totally new with Dan. To create memories in such a beautiful country with such a beautiful boy. Phil takes a lot of pictures, but a camera lens can't quite capture it all.
They drink some kind of Portuguese alcohol that Phil can't pronounce, sprawled on the outcrop of rock by the ocean that they've claimed as their own. It's strong, setting Phil’s head to swirling after just a few drinks, and it makes his body feel loose and pleasantly boneless.
“We need to take some of that home,” he mumbles cheerfully. His eyes are closed against the afternoon brightness and this feels so good , to be casually drunk by the ocean on holiday. On holiday with Dan. Oh, god, this is the happiest Phil’s ever been in his life .
“I want mooooore,” Dan says, sitting up and leaning over Phil to grab the bottle from their picnic basket. Phil opens his eyes and squints against the sun, watching as Dan holds the liquor close to his face and tries to pronounce the name on the label. After a few stumbling attempts he gives up, pops open the bottle and gets himself another shot. He shoots Phil a happy glance and pours it into his mouth, tipping his head back so Phil is staring at the long golden curve of his throat. A breeze keeps catching in the sun-shiny waves of his hair. He sets his shot glass down and grins brightly at Phil, who’s pretty convinced he's dying. That's the only logical explanation for there to be an actual angel here in Portugal with him, and… Oh. Perhaps he's slightly drunker than he thought.
“Your skin looks nice under the blue sun,” he says without thinking about it. Dan, who has had more to drink and is still the soberer of the two of them, bursts into delighted laughter.
“Oh, I forgot you were this kind of drunk!” he crows. Crinkles are appearing at the sides of his eyes from how hard he's smiling. “I've got to tweet that.”
“Noo,” Phil moans briefly, but it's not worth the battle. Dan already has his phone out, giggling to himself as he taps away. “You're embarrassing.”
“You just called the sky a blue sun ,” Dan tells him, tucking his phone back under his folded cardigan and crawling over Phil. His head casts a shadow over Phil’s face, allowing Phil to properly open his eyes at last. Their faces are so close. It would be so easy for Phil to just lean up and kiss him.
Fuck it , he thinks. No one’s anywhere near them - it's midday, mid term, and anyone going to the beach tends to actually stay on the sand, rather than clambering across a bunch of rocks to the little inlet where their chosen hideaway sits. So Phil fucks it. He reaches up with both hands and pulls Dan in, kisses him hard enough that he thinks Dan might know there's been a shift in his chest. Not enough to label yet, not enough to name or define or talk about, but still a shift.
Looking up at Dan, at the glimmer of his eyes and the shimmer of his hair against the gloriously blue sky, Phil thinks he might understand why everyone makes such a fuss about this.
When Phil gets home, the first thing he does is google what to do when you're in love with your best friend . There's a weird detached sort of panic simmering in his chest as the search engine loads. He skims the results - all totally useless - and sighs, then erases it and types how to know you're in love .
It's stupid. Phil knows it's stupid. But he can't help it. Maybe this is still that weird intense obsession he always gets with new people (but Dan is hardly new anymore) or maybe this is how it feels to be real actual best friends with someone (it's not and Phil knows it) or maybe….
Maybe he's in love. Maybe that's what this is, and that's why he's so scared, why his heart is jumping frantically in his ribcage and why his stomach flips over when Dan so much as glances at him. Maybe he's given more of himself to Dan than he ever has to anyone, and maybe he's completely terrified, and maybe that's okay.
Maybe he's going to be okay.
He's reaching for his phone before he realises what he's doing, punching in the number he knows off by heart even though he doesn't need to because Dan’s number one on his speed dial. It rings once. Twice. Three times, and then a click.
“Phil?”
Dan’s voice is soft and sleepy, and Phil’s heart and lungs clench with how much he misses him already. It's only been eight hours.
“Hi,” he breathes. Sarah Michelle Gellar is staring intensely at him in the corner of his vision so he moves to the window, rests his forehead against it and stares up at the dark sky. Rain is falling, more mist than anything, clinging to the windowpane and his dad’s snapdragons in the garden below. “Sorry, were you asleep?”
“Nearly,” Dan says on a long yawn.
“Sorry.”
“‘S alright, rather talk to you than sleep, wouldn't I?” Dan says. Phil pictures Dan in their hotel bed, sleep-soft, hair curling from a shower, eyes heavy and fond, his fingertips trailing slowly up and down Phil’s arm, and he thinks he'd give anything to be with him again. It doesn't matter where. He could be in Antarctica and if Dan was there he'd be happy.
“I - would you?” Phil says, stumbling on the sincerity in Dan’s voice. Dan hums, quiet and crackly over the phone.
“Mm. Yeah. Rather talk to you than pretty much anything, if ‘m honest.” He's mumbling, his words slurring together slightly like he's almost drunk. Phil thinks of beaches, of breezes that carried sunshine and salt on them, of fruity alcohol shivering hot down his throat. Of Dan smiling up at him, tracing a careful fingertip across the bridge of Phil’s nose and tapping each freckle that had popped out on Phil’s cheekbones.
“I think I'm in love with you,” he says, sudden, unplanned, and suddenly he knows to his bones that it's true.
There's a pause that stretches a few seconds. Phil’s heart feels like it's trying to escape through the dip between his collarbones. Then Dan lets out a surprised huff of a laugh.
“Really?” he asks. He sounds much more awake now. Phil opens his mouth, waits for the doubt to hit, feels nothing but that warm golden glow and that longing to be close.
“Yeah,” he says. Firm. Certain. He feels like one of the sun-warmed rocks on the Portuguese shore. “You said I would know and you're right. I, like. I definitely know.” He wishes he was with Dan to say this. He wishes he'd felt this certainty in Portugal. That would have been perfect.
Not that this isn't perfect as well, Phil thinks, because it is. This is perfect too, rain on the window and sun still in his skin and Dan laughing into his ear. Both of them happy and in love and not scared to be alive anymore.
“I know too,” Dan says. Phil wishes he could see his face. Hold his hand, maybe. Or kiss him until the world stops turning.
“You're my best friend,” he says. “Still.”
“Always,” Dan agrees. Phil pictures him nodding. “That's my plan, anyway.”
“And mine.”
“Cool.”
“ Cool ,” Phil mocks gently. Dan laughs.
The moment hangs in a gentle balance, one that neither of them seem particularly inclined to disturb. That's one of Phil’s favourite things about Dan - it's okay to be quiet around him. He doesn't constantly have to be filling in spaces. They're comfortable enough with each other to just sit.
They're comfortable enough with each other to do basically anything, Phil reckons. They trust each other. They love each other. In a film this would be the happy ending.
“I have to go,” Dan sighs finally. A ping of disappointment bounces through Phil’s chest. “But I'll talk to you tomorrow?”
He usually asks like he isn't totally sure of the answer, but his voice is sure now. Confident. Phil wishes he could kiss him
“Not if I talk to you first.”
“Weirdo,” Dan laughs. Then he exhales slowly. Phil’s hand is getting sweaty around his phone. “Right. Good night, Phil.”
“Night, Dan.” He hesitates. Then - fuck it . “Love you.”