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Dan and Phil are wandering around the streets of Manchester an hour after sunset, illuminated only by the golden light cascading down from the edges of the streets. This is not an uncommon occurrence at this point. They met two months ago, to the day. In that time, they’ve visited one another – alright, Dan has visited Phil – four times. An average of once every two weeks, with hours of Skype logs in between. Passersby are probably starting to recognize them; two long nerds who only ever poke their heads out of Phil’s apartment to wander around the streets grinning at each other like idiots.
A two-monthiversary would have felt stupid to Phil just a little while ago, and, in fact, it had. When one of his York flatmates had blown him off for a Buffy marathon to take his girlfriend out to dinner on their monthiversary, Phil had rolled his eyes openly. To be honest, it still feels stupid. Phil had just come to realize that there are moments in life where there’s really nothing to do but be as stupid as possible. Where any other course would feel like lying to himself.
Christmas is sneaking up on the world. Every day, snow threatens to fall from the sky and then doesn’t. The slight bite of cold causes Dan to pull his fuzzy hat tighter over his ears. The storefronts in Manchester are all decked out in lights and tinsel. They have been since the day after Halloween, and it’s finally late enough into December that Dan doesn’t seem to think it’s stupid anymore. They’re bickering when it happens, because of course they are.
“I can’t believe you,” says Dan, exasperated and fond. He sounds that way all the time, though Phil suspects that he has a different tone of voice for people who aren’t him. And he likes that. It makes him feel special.
“There’s historical proof, Dan!”
“Of Santa Claus existing?” says Dan.
“Yes! St. Nicholas! The saint of… Christmas!”
“Okay, so, St. Nicholas was not the saint of Christmas.”
“Fine,” says Phil. He’s smiling in that subconscious way that he couldn’t prevent if he wanted to – which he does not.
“He was a 4th Century Greek Bishop known for his gift-giving and compassion towards the sick and the elderly. The tradition of Santa Claus is based on him.”
“Right,” says Phil, “So you agree with me. You know that Santa Claus is based on a real guy.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean that he is currently somewhere out there getting ready to jump from rooftop to rooftop for seven billion people in one evening.”
“Well, of course not,” says Phil. Before Dan can express his relief at dating a regular, logical person, he continues, “He doesn’t jump, he uses his flying sleigh. And it’s not seven billion people, because not everyone is Christian, Daniel.”
He’s winding Dan up on purpose. Dan knows that that’s what he’s doing. In Phil’s defense, Dan makes it so easy, and so fun. Dan stops in the middle of the street and stares him down, but his stare would feel a bit more scolding were he not grinning from ear to ear.
“And you never know,” Phil shrugs, “Maybe there is a Santa Claus. Maybe there is a tooth fairy. Maybe there is–”
Dan cuts him off. “I’m sure your mum would really appreciate hearing you say all this after spending so much money on your idyllic childhood, Phil.”
“You’re just mad that I have more whimsy than you,” says Phil, “At least we can agree that Santa Claus was a real guy at some point and not just a product of myth like Jes— wait.”
He didn’t even do that one on purpose, which makes it funnier when Dan starts squawking. “JESUS?? JESUS WAS REAL, YOU TWAT!”
Phil laughs. “I didn’t know you got so defensive about Jesus.”
“Don’t fucking play that card, Lester,” says Dan, pointing his finger into Phil’s face, “It’s not weird or culty to have a basic understanding of history.” Dan drops the mock angry voice, but Phil can’t stop giggling. He doesn’t know why it makes him happy when Dan yells at him. It probably helps that he’s never actually yelled, not angrily. Really, it makes him happy when Dan does almost anything.
Like now, he’s gotten such a sense of peace just from wandering around with him. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe love is supposed to feel like second nature, instead of a constant effort. Maybe it should scare him, to think to himself that he loves Dan, but it doesn’t. Nothing has really scared him all that much, not for the past couple of months.
“Actually, I’ve spent more time at church than you might expect. Mainly just because my grandma wanted me to go. Gotta keep the old lady happy. I’m sure it left me with some major unaddressed issues, though.”
“Dan?” Phil says quietly.
“I just realized that by saying the old lady, it kind of sounds like I’m talking about my wife. But then, how weird is that? Why do straight guys like to talk about elderly women when referring to their wives?”
“Dan,” Phil repeats.
Dan laughs, sheepish. “Yeah, I know, I’m talking about nothing. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for talking about nothing,” says Phil, “I like talking about nothing with you.”
Dan’s cheeks go a little pink, and Phil wants to kiss him. But not right now. “Okay,” says Dan, “Good.”
“Dan, I love you.”
The smile melts away from Dan’s face.
As much as Phil was maybe hoping for that perfect movie moment where Dan jumps into his arms, he knows that this is the more realistic reaction. He’s been able to pick up scraps of Dan’s life at home from what he’s mentioned in conversation, even if they’ve never sat down and properly talked about it.
Dan turns away from him and takes a seat on a park bench near the side of the road. Phil takes a moment to wonder why there’s a bench in this specific location, before realizing that really, nothing has ever mattered less.
“Can I sit next to you?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet.
“Of course,” says Dan.
Phil sits down. He’s unsure how much time passes before either of them say anything, and he tries not to worry about it. Instead, he takes to watching the dog walkers pass by, mentally rating each of them on a scale from one to ten based on whether or not he thinks they look like their dogs.
The silence that sits between them is fragile and comfortable. Phil hopes that it feels comfortable to Dan, too. As hard as his heart may be beating against the confines of his ribcage, he only said what he said because it felt right to him. Because, honestly, it’s been threatening to claw its way out of him since the day they met in person.
Phil tries to tell Dan as much a couple of times – not the second part, but that he expects nothing from Dan. Every time he tries, Dan shushes him gently until Phil gets the message. He does something that’s not always easy for him: sitting in silence and letting Dan have a moment to think.
When Dan breaks the silence, his voice wavers. “I need to tell you something.” Phil knows that there’s an age difference between himself and Dan, but this is the first time that Dan has really seemed young to him. He sounds scared. Phil wants nothing more but to fix it.
“Anything,” he promises.
“No one has ever said that to me before except my grandma.”
“And your mum and dad, surely,” Phil says casually. Too casually. When he looks up at Dan, his eyes are dark, clouded over, somehow painfully present and somewhere else entirely. Dan meets Phil’s gaze, silently begging him to understand. Phil feels his heart break. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Phil doesn’t know what to say. He just sits there and thinks about all the times he went off to school with a kiss and an I love you from his mum. Even his dad, who is not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, understood the importance of telling his sons how much he cared for them. It was casual in his house. He still hangs up calls with Martyn by telling his brother he loves him. Not all the time, but enough.
“Dan, I’m so sorry.” He’s not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for, or about.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” says Dan. “It’s just. You understand why I can’t say it back right now, right?”
Phil nods. “I do, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to say or do anything. I wouldn’t have said it if I’d known–”
Dan intertwined his fingers with Phil’s in the space between them on the bench, keeping Phil beside him where he belongs. “Do you regret saying it?” he asks, “Do you want to take it back?”
“Of course not!” says Phil.
“Good,” says Dan, “I don’t want you to take it back, either. It just… might take me a while to say it.”
“Okay. I understand.” Phil tamps down his disappointment.
“But Phil,” says Dan, “I want you to know… just because I can’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. Okay?”
Maybe it’s just the Christmas spirit invading his brain, but Phil feels like the Grinch at the end of the movie, when his heart grows three sizes. Because Dan is right, isn’t he? Loving someone isn’t just saying I love you. Making someone a homemade present or telling someone that a joke made you think of them can also mean I love you. Staying on Skype with someone past two in the morning, traveling hours to visit, telling stories in bed when you should be sleeping, complimenting someone’s work, intense eye contact and smiling ear to ear at someone’s stupid jokes. And when Dan squeezes Phil’s hand, that feels a lot like I love you, too.
Does Phil believe that Dan will get around to actually saying those three words at some point? Absolutely. Knowing the two of them, it’ll probably be sooner than they expect. But he doesn’t need to hear it to know that he’s loved.
“Okay,” says Phil. The disappointment is nowhere to be found. “I get it. Thank you.” Dan smiles. Phil smiles back, and that comfortable silence blooms again between them. When Phil says, “Wanna go home and play Crash Bandicoot?” Dan knows exactly what to read between the lines.