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2010
The first time it happens, you’re sitting on the floor of Phil’s new flat in Manchester, leaning against a stack of boxes that you said you would help him unpack.
The two of you are playing Go Fish because unpacking is boring and neither of you wants to hook up the television and it’s the only card game you both remember how to play. The bottle of Moscato you brought as a housewarming gift sits between his crossed legs and yours, to be sipped in lieu of shots anytime the other gets four of a kind. It’s probably a good thing you don’t have liquor, as you and Phil have only drained about a third of the bottle between you and you can already feel your head start to swim and your body start to hum.
“What now?” Phil asks when the deck of cards runs out before the wine does. He doesn’t even gloat about the fact that he won.
You shrug. “Truth or dare?”
“Just truth,” he says. “I’m too lazy to move.”
“What about dares that don’t require moving?”
“Like what?”
“Hm.” You tap your chin. “Prank calls?”
“Who would I even call?” He stretches his legs out and taps your foot with his. “There’s only one friend I ever call, and he’s already here.”
Phil says it like it isn’t a big deal, but you feel your face grow warm regardless. You hope he thinks it’s just the wine.
“Fine,” you say. “Truth or truth?”
Phil plays along, squinting as if in deep concentration. “Hm. I think I’ll go with truth.”
You chew your lip, trying to remember what sorts of things people ask during this game. After a few seconds, you settle on a question you actually want to know the answer to. “What’d you think of me when we first met?”
Phil lets out a puff of breath and leans back on his hands. “Twitter, Skype, or in person?”
Truthfully, you meant in person. That doesn’t stop you from replying, “All three.”
“You can’t ask three questions in one. That’s cheating.”
“Is not. S’creative.”
“And what if I only answer one?”
“Then you have to drink because you didn’t answer the whole question.”
“I don’t remember establishing that rule.”
“There’s an open bottle of wine right in front of us. That rule was implied.”
“Fine,” Phil huffs. “When we first started talking over Twitter, I thought you were nice.”
“Nice? That’s all I get?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being nice, Dan.” Especially when a lot of people weren’t goes unsaid, but you hear it anyway. “It was good to see your name and know even before reading your message that it was going to make my day better.”
Something in your chest flutters. You must be tipsier than you realised. “Skype?”
“My first thought? ‘Wow, that guy is like one pixel.’”
“Hilarious. And after the image cleared up a bit?”
Phil smirks. “Probably that you were cute.”
Your face feels warm again. “Really?” You try to keep your tone casual, but you suspect that you are failing spectacularly.
“Yeah. You were wearing that grey cardigan, and you kept stuttering and fixing your hair like you were nervous.”
“I was nervous.”
“Well it was cute.” He both looks and sounds completely unabashed.
You clear your throat. “In person, then?”
“When we met in person,” he says, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “I...hm. Well I guess you were taller than I expected.” He grins. “Still not as tall as me though.”
“Oi!” You kick him lightly in the shin. “I’ve grown a whole inch since then. Next thing you know, I could be taller than you.”
“In your dreams, Howell.”
“And really? That was your first thought when you saw me? Just that I was sort of tall?”
Phil shrugs. “You were already my best friend. There wasn’t much more to learn just from seeing you. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t thrilled.”
You’re sure you must be sporting a goofy grin now, but you don’t really care. “Alright,” you say. “Your turn.”
“Hm. Okay, got it. What’s your favorite memory?”
“Phil, this is supposed to be truth or dare, not Sesame Street.”
“Technically, it’s truth or truth,” he reminds you.
“Fine,” you sigh. “I suppose it was October last year at a train station in Manchester.”
Phil smiles. “Any particular reason?”
“Sorry, you already had your go,” you say. You think maybe you should steer the conversation to a place with less feelings, so you decide on a classic question. “Who was the last person you kissed?”
For the first time tonight, Phil won’t meet your eye. “Charlie,” he murmurs.
“Charlie?” you repeat in confusion. Then it hits you. “Wait, Skies?”
“It was a long time ago,” he says quickly before nudging your foot with his. “Who was yours, then?”
“Huh?”
“The last person you kissed. Who was it?”
“Oh, um. Vanessa.” Phil tilts his head and you say, “She wasn’t my ex at the time.” He nods and you add, “I’ve never kissed a boy before.”
“I didn’t ask if you had.”
You wave your hand. “Freebie.”
Phil doesn’t respond for a long time. He sits with his head leaning back against a box marked ‘dishes,’ staring at the ceiling and twiddling his thumbs. Just when you decide he must be waiting for you to ask the next question, he says, “Did you want to?”
Your heart is suddenly beating very fast. You think you know what he means, but you have to be sure. “Did I want to what?”
“Kiss a boy.” He’s still looking up, but there’s nothing there besides a dull white ceiling that could probably use a new coat of paint. “Since you’ve never done it before.”
By now, you’re pretty sure even he can hear your heartbeat. “Are you offering?”
His gaze suddenly shifts from the ceiling to your eyes. “I didn’t mean it as a come-on, I swear.” He looks nervous, and that’s new. You’re supposed to be the anxious one. “Just...since you brought it up, I thought maybe it was something that had been bothering you. But now I’ve probably made you uncomfortable and I didn’t mean to do that. I--”
“Phil, it’s okay,” you say, though you feel disappointment in your gut knowing that Phil wasn’t saying what you thought he was saying. At least your pulse is returning to normal. “And to answer your question, it’s not something I’ve ever really thought about. I mean, I’ve thought about it. But I haven’t really considered it, you know?”
“Yeah,” Phil nods, looking relieved. “That makes sense.” He leans his head back again. You mirror his position. For a while, the only sound is that of his breathing and yours.
Then you say, “I’m considering it now though.”
You stand on wobbly legs and cross the few feet to him, plopping down beside him on the floor. He still won’t look at you, but you notice his Adam’s apple bob.
“You haven’t thought this through,” he says.
“So?” you say. “I trust you.”
His head turns, and you wonder if your eyes are as wide as his. You know they’re definitely not as pretty. You knew his eyes were blue, but they’ve never looked quite as blue as this, and you’ve never noticed the flecks of yellow in them either. Like bits of clear sky dotted with canaries. You realise it’s because you’ve never seen them this close.
It takes you a moment to notice that the sky is growing closer, and even then you aren’t sure whether he is leaning in or you are. You close your eyes, turning blue to black. You feel pressure against your lips and the black becomes studded with stars.
You use tongue way too soon. It’s not your fault. You’re only nineteen, and you can count the number of people you’ve kissed on one hand, and none of them have been male or your best friend before. None of them have made you see stars either, but you try not to think about that.
Phil doesn’t judge you for it, just leans back and giggles at the trail of spit still connecting you together. He tells you he thinks it’s time for bed and insists you take his while he takes the couch. You might protest if it wasn’t for the yawn that escapes your mouth right then.
He guides you to his room and even tucks you into bed, and you’re too tired and too comfortable to remind him that you aren’t a child. He tells you goodnight in a voice low and fond, and any annoyance you felt dissolves into nothing.
That night, you dream you are a yellow bird. You fly up and up and up until the grey clouds of England are far below and all you can see is blue.
2011
The second time it happens, you and he have just come back from a party with Phil’s friends having had more Jack Daniels than either of you should have.
You stumble into the flat reeking of the stuff, arms slung around each other in an attempt to stay upright. Phil is just as drunk as you are, so the attempt is probably in vain. But his side is warm where it’s pressed into yours, and his drunken giggles are reverberating in your own chest, and you think it’s worth the risk of you both falling.
It turns out the reason he is giggling is the way your sweaty scalp has caused your hair to curl and the way one of the curls stands up from your head. “Like a pug’s tail,” he says as he smooths it back down. For some reason, you don’t care how silly your hair looks, though you definitely cared when you straightened it before the party. All you care about now is how nice Phil’s fingers feel as they rake through it. They’re rather nimble, you realise, and you wonder how he can manage that, considering how clumsy he usually is and how drunk you both are.
Somehow, you make it to the couch. You should probably go to bed, but it’s so far, and Phil is here, and he doesn’t show any sign of wanting to go either. You are still leaning into each other even though you no longer need the support, and your hands have somehow found their way to Phil’s, guiding them back to your hair. They stay there this time, twisting through the strands, and you melt into his touch.
Considering how good it feels and how much whiskey you’ve had, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise when you hear a contented moan and realise the noise came from you.
Your eyes fly open. You didn’t know you closed them in the first place. Phil is staring back at you, giggling again, and you can’t help but join in. His fingers have stilled, and a moment later he slides them down to cup your face, thumb absently stroking your jaw. Your laughter fades and so does his, and his eyes are as deep as oceans. It’s a strange feeling, that of drowning on dry land.
You haven’t kissed since that time last year on the floor of Phil’s flat when he still lived alone. Part of you hoped it would happen again a lot sooner, but Phil didn’t bring it up, and you didn’t either. Now, you decide to make up for lost time. You pull him in by his shirt collar and try to kiss him senseless, though the way he groans and pulls you closer makes you feel a bit senseless yourself.
This has none of the awkward sweetness of your first kiss with him. It’s rushed and needy, and this time he’s the one swiping his tongue along the seam of your mouth. You open, and he teases it along your gums. You didn’t know that you wanted him to do that, but now that he is doing it, you would like it if he never stopped.
You decide you still aren’t close enough, so you break the kiss for a second to move in front of him, lowering yourself until you are straddling his lap. He’s already half hard--you saw it when you stood up--and so are you, so when you lean in to capture his lips again, you roll your hips into his. You expect it to feel good. You don’t expect it to fill you with a need for more.
You also don’t expect his hands to trail down to your chest, gently pushing you away.
“We might be too drunk for this,” he says, and just like that, the whole thing comes to a screeching halt.
He offers to help you to bed, but you refuse. You smile as you reassure him that everything is fine, though you’re starting to get the sinking feeling that you want more from your best friend than you’re supposed to, and you don’t really know how to deal with that information. As you crawl under the covers, you decide the best way to deal with it is to pretend it doesn’t exist. It is, if nothing else, the easiest way.
Your mind drifts into darkness and you dream you are a sailor. Too late, you notice that your boat is taking on water from an unseen leak and that land is nowhere in sight.
2012
The third time it happens, you’ve had more vodka shots than you can count, and you can’t even stand, and he’s just trying to take you home.
Normally, you’d take public transport, but the club is too far for a reasonably-priced cab ride, and it’s too late for the tube. So Phil’s parents let him borrow the car for a little longer (you used it to transport your belongings during the move). Neither of you is used to London traffic yet, but Phil, being Phil, offers to be the designated driver for your party of four, which is back to a party of two now that Chris and PJ have been dropped off at their own places.
“Stop the car,” you tell him when you are still ten blocks from the flat, and he does because he thinks you're going to be sick. Instead, as soon as he pulls onto the side of the road, you launch yourself at him, the bitter taste of vodka in your mouth meeting the taste of Ribena in his.
It only takes him a second to push you away. “Dan,” he says, eyes like raindrops. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” you ask, crossing your arms.
“Because you'll regret it tomorrow.”
Somewhere in your alcohol-sodden mind, you know he’s right. You’ve been distant with each other lately, and it’s mostly your fault. No, scratch that, it’s the internet’s fault, but you’ve let it get to you more than it should, and your behavior has gotten to him.
You huff to let him know that you are annoyed, but you don’t try to kiss him again that night. He resumes driving, and a minute later you ask him to pull over again. He doesn’t do it because he thinks you still want to kiss him, and you vomit on the floorboard. He apologises even though you’re the one who threw up in his parents’ car.
After you’re home and he has helped you to bed, you hear him walk downstairs. Probably to clean up the mess you left in the car. It seems that he’s always cleaning up your messes these days.
It doesn’t take long for you to lose consciousness. You sleep fitfully and dream of wind and rain and a towering twister that destroys all in its path. It takes you longer than it should to realise that the storm is you.
2013
The fourth time it happens, he’s the one who’s had too much, and you’ve been pacing around the lounge for an hour.
It isn’t like him to go out drinking at a bar, and even less like him not to bring you along. Yet that’s what happened, and now he’s stumbling through the door smelling like something citrusy and sharp, and you wince because you know this one is entirely your fault.
His eyes widen when he sees you. “You’re still here.” His voice sounds more Northern when he’s drunk. Maybe you’ve never noticed because you’ve never been the only sober one before.
“Yeah.” You want to go to him, run into his arms and tell him you’re sorry and that you won’t leave, couldn’t if you wanted to. But you’re afraid of messing up again--of doing something that will make him storm out, maybe for good--so you stay where you are. “Of course I am.”
For a split-second, you see the tension leave his shoulders. He almost smiles. Then his forehead creases and he looks towards the wall. “Guess you haven’t had time to finish packing, have you?”
You shake your head. “I never started.”
“Well what are you waiting for, me to help you?” His voice drips with a bitterness you never knew it could possess, and even from across the room, you can see the storm brewing in his eyes. You look down at your feet so you don’t get swept away.
“Phil,” you say, and you hate the way your voice cracks. “I didn’t mean it. You know that, right?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know that.” You might be mistaken, but you think his tone loses just a bit of its edge.
“Well I didn’t,” you say, and you can feel pinpricks at your tear ducts, and you just hope you can keep it together for a few more minutes. “I...I wish I could say I didn’t care what people think, but we both know that’d be a lie. I’m tired of lying. Please just know that I care about you more.”
“I just...” he says and stops. He chews his lip before trying again. “I just don’t understand why it is that you care so much. About what a bunch of strangers on the internet think, that is.”
“It’s hard enough to figure out what we are without having to explain it to other people.” Your words are quiet, half-whispered to the floor. You almost hope he can’t hear you. “And not everyone on the internet is a stranger.”
“But when did things get so hard that you decided the only answer was to move out?” He sounds frustrated. You’re frustrated too, but you do your best to hide it. You know this has been a long time coming. You’ve tested his patience one too many times, and now it’s your turn to make things right.
“It wasn’t as though I made a pros and cons list. It was something I said as soon as I thought it. And for a moment, it did seem like the pretty good solution.”
A lump is forming in your throat, and you try to swallow it away. “I know I’ve been hard to live with lately, and I’ve seen what it’s doing to you. To both of us. You try so hard to pretend everything’s alright, even when I won’t talk to you for days.”
Your vision goes blurry. You feel the first drop of moisture roll down your cheek. “And so I thought, maybe...maybe if I leave for a while, stop seeing you every day, it’ll give me a chance to figure things out.”
“Dan.” All harshness is gone from Phil’s voice, and you look up to find that the storm has turned into puddles that are threatening to spill down his face.
“But the second you walked out the door,” you continue, sniffling, “I missed you already.”
By now, the tears are spilling down your face too fast for wiping them away to do much good, so you don’t. You stand there and you cry and you look at Phil. It’s almost all you can do anymore.
“So no,” you say. “I’m not leaving. Not until you kick me out.”
There’s a moment of silence before Phil crosses the lounge. “I’d never,” he says as he wraps his arms around you. You can’t help it; you bury your head in his shoulder and sob.
Phil is swaying slightly. Whether he is rocking you back and forth on purpose or is still tipsy, you aren’t sure, but it calms you either way. You take deep breaths, the smell of limes and alcohol and soap filling your lungs until you can breathe easily again.
He keeps holding you long after you’ve stopped crying. Before he lets go, he kisses you--not on your lips but on the top of your head--and you wonder what you did to deserve someone who would do that after the way you’ve treated him. If anything, you should be comforting Phil.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, and for the first time in a long time, you mean it.
Before you can say goodbye for the night, he asks if you want to be alone. When you shake your head, he offers you his bed without hesitation.
You fall asleep wrapped in his arms, and you dream of a town destroyed by the rain. Buildings are flooded. Fallen trees line the streets. Your feet are submerged in a puddle. And all around the puddle--and next to the buildings, and in between the broken branches--flowers bloom.
2014
The fifth time it happens, you’re at a Youtube gathering, tucked away into a corner with Phil after a long night of being social, both of you giggling helplessly at some stupid thing you said.
(You don’t even remember what was so funny anymore. Maybe that’s because you are standing there mesmerized by the way the party lights reflect off Phil’s eyes, dancing like fireflies in a navy sky).
It has been a year since you and Phil talked things out, and life has been slowly returning to normal. At first you tiptoed around each other, acknowledging that night only in glances that no one else caught and frequent whispers of “Are you okay?” Now you don’t acknowledge it at all. You don’t need to. You’re best friends again, and you’re back to sharing clothes and staying up late to watch movies and falling asleep on the sofa together without feeling the need for it to mean something. You don’t share a bed, and you definitely don’t kiss. There just isn’t any need to mess with a good thing.
Of course, messing with good things is kind of your specialty. Especially when you’ve had just enough beer not to be bothered by the loud music and crowds and when Phil is still flushed and giggly from whatever it was you said.
Which is why it comes as such a surprise when it’s Phil who leans into you and presses his lips to yours.
It only lasts for a second, but it’s long enough to send your pulse skyrocketing. Phil pulls back, the mirth in his eyes replaced with worry. “I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step back. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“No,” you say, wrapping your hand around his wrist before he can walk away. “It’s okay.” You lean forward, but Phil takes another step back.
“There are people here,” he reminds you.
“I don’t care,” you say, and you’re surprised to find that it’s true.
He glares at the floor instead of at you. "That’s just the beer talking.”
“I’m not that drunk. And I mean it.”
He looks up. “Really?”
You step forward, counting fireflies. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“And what about tomorrow?”
“I’d like to kiss you then too, if you’ll allow it.”
That seems to convince him. With almost-steady hands, he grabs you by the front of your shirt and pulls you in.
His lips are just as soft and warm as they’ve always been, and yours are just as chapped, but you feel like you’re kissing him for the first time. Like there aren’t dozens of friends and acquaintances nearby and you’re back in the first apartment in Manchester, nineteen years old and giddy. Though, thankfully, your technique has improved since then.
You nip at Phil’s lip and he sighs into your mouth, allowing you to sweep your tongue inside. You’re sort of proud of the skills you’ve gained over the years and your newfound ability to take charge of a kiss. Phil must sense this, for it’s then that he decides to unclench his fists from your shirt and use his palms to push you back against the nearest wall.
For a second, you think he is pushing you away. Maybe he has decided this is a bad idea after all. But then he is back on you, open mouth pressed against yours and hands trailing down to pin your wrists to the wall.
“Is this okay?” he asks, pulling back after a moment.
“More than,” you respond before your lips meet again.
You eventually have to pull apart for air. While you’re still panting, trying to catch your breath, Phil dives back in, trailing kisses from your cheek to your jaw to your neck. You gasp when he starts nibbling at your collarbone where it peeks out of your shirt.
While Phil is occupied, you remember where you are and take the opportunity to look around, prepared to be met with shocked stares or maybe even people taking videos on their phones.
Instead, no one is paying you any attention. You look left and right, but almost everyone is chatting or dancing or doing shots or asleep on a chair. Felix and Marzia are busy having their own make-out session on a couch on the opposite side of the room. You make eye-contact with Jack, who smirks and gives you a thumbs up before going right back to talking to Louise as if nothing happened.
It’s like they don’t even care.
About that time, Phil starts sucking on the area where your shoulder meets your neck, and you whimper involuntarily. Phil smiles into your skin before lifting his head to smile at you, and you realise with a sudden jolt that it doesn’t matter if other people care, because he cares. You care.
“Are you about ready to head home?” he asks. Given what he was just doing, that should sound suggestive. But it’s Phil, and he looks as tired and happy as you feel, and you know that there probably won’t be any more making out tonight.
You nod anyway, suddenly struck by how sleepy you are now that the initial rush of kissing Phil has worn off. He takes your hand and leads you through the crowds and out into the cool London air.
He must be more exhausted than he has let on because he falls asleep in the cab, head lolling against your shoulder and soft snores escaping his mouth. It’s so endearing that you don’t want to wake him when you arrive at the flat, but it doesn’t seem to matter because he only half-wakes up long enough for you to drag him upstairs and put him in his bed. He closes his eyes and sighs as soon as he hits the mattress, so you take off his shoes and pull the duvet over his shoulders for him.
Just as you are about to leave, his hand shoots out and grabs at yours.
“Don’t leave,” he says with his eyes still closed.
“You’ve been awake this whole time, haven’t you?” you say, but you toe off your shoes.
“Only partially.” He smiles into his pillow. “I like it when you carry me.”
“More like drag you, you great lump.” You lift the covers. “Scoot over.”
He does so without protest. You climb into bed next to him, slinging an arm over his waist and leaning your head against his chest.
“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, closing your eyes. “Unless I have to, like, use the toilet or something.”
“That’s good,” Phil yawns. You agree.
You listen to his heartbeat until it puts you to sleep, and you dream you are in a field full of fireflies. At the center of the field is Phil, shining brighter than them all.
The Next Morning
You actually do wake up with a full bladder.
You look over to find Phil sleeping soundly next to you, fringe falling over his eyes. You might be able to slip away without waking him, but despite what you said last night, you really don’t want to risk him waking up alone. After all, you have a more important promise to keep.
You reach over to brush his hair back, continuing to run your fingers through it until his eyelids flutter open. You look into his sleep-dazed eyes.
You don’t see sky or water or fireflies.
You just see Phil.
You see the bits of crust that have collected near his tear ducts and the bags under his eyes that he always wakes up with no matter how much he has slept, and your heart pounds with the knowledge that you still find him beautiful.
“Hi,” you say with a grin.
He smiles back sleepily. “Hi. You look like an unkempt hobbit.”
“You should have seen your hair a minute ago.”
“Did I look like Haru?”
“More like yourself back in 2006,” you say as you ruffle his hair, returning it to its former disheveled state.
Phil wrinkles his nose.
You laugh as you use your fingers to comb his hair back into place. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Anyway, I have to use the loo, but I wanted to make good on my promise first.”
“What promise?”
“This one,” you say, leaning over to peck his lips.
“Oh, that one,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you in for another.
He pulls away after a few seconds, nose wrinkled again.
“What?” you ask.
“Morning breath.”
You chuckle. “Well you aren’t exactly minty fresh either.”
“Lies. Now go, and don’t come back until you’ve brushed.”
“Fine,” you sigh. You throw your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up, stretching your arms above your head and yawning.
When you return a few minutes later, you find that Phil has already fallen back to sleep. Or he’s faking it again. Probably that.
You climb back into bed and curl yourself around him. An extra hour can’t hurt.
For once, you feel like you have all the time in the world.