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“I still can’t believe" Dan lifts his hands to air-quote it, “'John' fucking ‘Smith’ reached out to you,” he blurts out the moment they get through the door into the house. He forces himself to use the alias, despite them being alone now, mostly because he really has to train himsef not to accidentally say it during one of their upcoming livestreams (not that Dan has any intention of mentioning him ever again). And also because acknowledging his real name now almost feels like giving him something.
Phil grins, closing the door with his foot, carrying the groceries further into the house and putting them onto a table. Dan does the honour of locking the door before following him after removing his shoes.
"I can't believe you said his actual goverment name in the middle of the podcast!" Phil says, jabbing a finger towards Dan in dramatic effect. "You know, that part is going to have to be violently bleeped before this ever sees the light of day." He then bends down to untie his own shoes.
“First actual censor on the Patreon? That’s me.” Dan winks, but the smile doesn’t fully settle. It sits crooked on his face, too tight at the edges. Phil just grins in that way Dan knows too well that says he clocked the tension instantly and is absolutely going to enjoy it.
“Mm. Our patrons are going to think we already can’t keep our promises.” He stands back up and nudges Dan’s foot with his own, casual, deliberate. “Uncensored content except when Daniel James Howell decides to scream someone’s real name into a microphone.” Dan scoffs, heat crawling along the back of his neck. "Several times."
“Maybe I wouldn’t have said it if you hadn’t waited until we were already recording to casually drop a ‘oh by the way, the guy who used to put his tongue down my throat sent me a message.’” His tone is light. His grip on the Seainsbury bag he picks up is not.
Phil’s laugh echoes as they head up toward the kitchen, that soft, breathy sound he only does when he’s genuinely amused rather than doing a bit for an audience. It irritates Dan more, which is unfair, but he’s too busy not crushing the side of the paper bag in his hand to analyse it. They reach the kitchen, the overhead lights humming to life as Phil flicks the switch. Dan sets the groceries onto the counter a little harder than he meant to; the loaf of bread inside gives a sad, muffled squish. He pointedly ignores Phil’s raised eyebrow.
Phil pulls the cereal out of the bag, humming like nothing in the world is more important than finding the right cupboard shelf. Something Dan thinks really shouldn't be so difficult at this point concidering how many times Dan has caught him snacking on them.
“I didn’t wait until we were recording,” he says lightly. “I simply… didn’t go out of my way to tell you earlier.” Dan shoots him a look, which Phil doesn't notice, putting the cearal in it's cuboard.
"I'm pretty sure that's the definition."
"Mmm," Phil hums, annoyingly unbothred. He’s doing it on purpose. Dan knows he’s doing it on purpose. That little lift of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head that says go on, be riled up, I’ll enjoy it. Not malicious. Never malicious. Just Phil being Phil, tapping the exact spot where Dan’s tolerance for nonsense has frayed.
"What did he even say?" Dan asks, letting out a scoff. He pulls the dishwasher tabs from the bag, placing them on the counter. Phil leans back against the counter.
"Really, not much. You heard on the podcast. Said he found the podcast funny, said you had-"
"Problems. Yes." Dan's voice sharpens more than he intends. And before he can stop himself he's off again. "Genuinly what's his problem? Acting like he knows anything about me. Or us."
"He doesn't," Phil says simply. "Please, like anyone who knows anything about us would say that. Very bold of him to come swinging into my messages by insluting you." Dan's mouth twitches. He hates that it does.
"I bet he messaged you because his ego got bruised," Dan says, trying to keep his voice clinical, somewhat logical. "We didn't even use his fucking name. I bet he got upset from being called John Smith." Phil grins at that. "Like that's how little we care about his sorry ass. He doesn't even get a cool name like Gordon." He decides not to point out how he'd insluted that name a few weeks ago. "Basic ass John Smith."
"Oh yeah, we care so little," Phil says, and gives a tiny, knowing look to show he has witnesses Dan’s not-caring energy. Dan pointedly ignores it, busying himself with peeling the sticker off the dishwasher tab box like it has personally offended him.
“Well I don’t,” he mutters, which would be more convincing if he hadn’t practically bitten the sentence in half. Phil pushes off the counter and steps closer.
“Sure,” Phil says, dragging the word out. “That was very evident when you tried to smother the groceries on the counter.”
"The bag was heavy," Dan insists in vain, concidering they've both carried it and it was definetely not heavy.
"I think I heard the bread cry out in pain."
"She's just being dramatic," Dan says, rolling his eyes. He looks over to the side towards Phil who has his eyebrow raised. He takes another step forward, reaching over Dan's hand to peel the sticker off himself.
"You know," he starts, voice softer. "You're allowed to be annoyed."
"I'm not annoyed." Dan stands a bit straighter like his posture will get the truth to change. Phil just gives him another look in response. Soft, fond, unbelievably perceptive in a way only a Lester can be.
"Dan, he messaged me to talk shit about you. Anyone would be annoyed." Dan takes a breath, shaking his head just slightly.
"Yeah, well he doesn't get to do that." The words come out low and stubborn. "He doesn't know you anymore. And he definetely doesn't know me." The edge in his voice surprised even himself. Phil's smile softens, and he nudges Dan's hip with his own.
"Exactly. His opnion doesn't matter. Not even a little bit." Dan lets out a breath, the kind that vents heat more than it cools anything down. He presses his palms to the counter, grounding himself in the smooth, familiar surface.
“It’s just,” he starts, then cuts himself off with an irritated flick of his hand. “The audacity. Like, genuinely. He crawls out of whatever hole he’s been living in, messages you after sixteen years, insults me, and then doesn’t even have the spine to answer a ‘what’s up’?” Phil snorts, amused and sympathetic in equal measure.
“Very socially adjusted behaviour.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Dan pushes away from the counter entirely now, pacing a small, frustrated semicircle around the kitchen island. “Who does that? Who sends the equivalent of a flaming bag of dog shit and then ghosts when asked to elaborate? And this is the guy claiming I have problems?” He gestures wildly at the air. “Mate, look in a mirror.” Phil watches him with the softest grin.
“Or don't. He might fall in love with himself.”
“Right?!” Dan jabs a finger in Phil’s general direction, as if Phil is the one who needs convincing. “Meanwhile you and I have been together longer than that man has probably held any stable friendship, job, or, well, relationship. And he thinks he has any sort of insight into our relationship because he listened to a podcast episode? Get a grip!"
"Told you. He doesn’t get to have opinions about us.” Dan feels Phil's words settle under his skin, loosening something tight. It’s stupid really; nothing about their relationship is fragile; they've been through more shit than the average relationship and a random ex's insightful opnion doesn't matter in the slightest. But Phil saying it still hits him somewhere steady. He folds his arms, trying for nonchalance, failing miserably.
“Well, he just looks like an idiot now. Imagine messaging your ex of sixteen years just to insult their partner. I'd actally crawl into a hole and die. No, I take that back, I wouldn't even message them because I'm a somewhat socially adjusted person.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a choice,” Phil says, taking a step closer. “One that tells us a lot more about him than anything he tried to say about you.” Dan huffs, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite his best efforts.
“Yeah. Pathetic, really.” Phil bumps his shoulder.
“Utterly.” Dan finally meets his eyes fully, irritation thinning into something calmer, warmer.
“You’re not… like, bothered, right? That he reached out?” Dan can't help but ask, and Phil’s expression does a quiet shift; softer, sure, but also certain.
“Not even a little bit,” he says. “I know exactly where I am. And with who.” Dan feels his throat tighten, not uncomfortably. He looks away first, but he can’t hide the way his shoulders drop, tension unwinding.
"Good," he mutters.
"Good," Phil echoes. Dan takes a breath, and then his eyes flick upwards.
Of course.
Of course the stupid cuboard is open.
The moment of sincerity cracks, not unpleasantly, but in that familiar way their life always folds back into itself. Dan shakes his head, half at himself, half at Phil.
"You forgot to close the cuboard," Dan says in the most deadpan voice he can manage. He doesn't understand how someone doesn't learn. Surely, surely after 16 years of commenting on it you'd think someone would learn to close it, even once in a while. Phil follows Dan’s gaze upward, sees the offending cupboard door and grins.
"Oh," he says completely unapologetic. "That." Phil doesn’t move to close it immediately. If anything, he seems proud of the chaos he’s created. Dan stares at him for a long, unimpressed beat.
"That," Dan repeats flatly. "Has been open for the collective time of half the time we've been living here. And that isn't even counting out past apartments." He sighs. "I just don't understand how you do this every single time." Phil shrugs, still smiling.
"Habit."
"A habit I've spent years worth of energy trying to break."
"And yet," Phil says, patting Dan's shoulder as he passes him. "You're still here." Dan scoffs.
"I only stay because you're the only one who can do the laundry." Phil laughs in response, finally stopping by the bin.
"Open can," he says in the worst american accent ever, and throws the sticker he previously pried of into it. And finally, on his way back as the bin closes behind him, he closes the cupboard. "There, happy?"
"Yes, it really is that easy to make me happy, Phil." Phil grins back at him.
"Glad I could improve your day." Dan snorts, empying out the last of the grociers onto the counter.
"Don't act like this is some sort of great growth moment for you. I'll come in here later and find that exact door open."
"Come," Phil repeats. Dan closes his eyes. Slowly. Painfully.
"Really?" Phil doesn't even attempt to hide the grin spreading across his face.
"What?" Phil asks in a tone of faux-innocence. "I'm just engaging in your yapping."
"You're thirty eight," Dan reminds him.
"And still youthful in spirit," Phil says, resting his hand under a chin in that pretending to be innocent way.
"You're twelve in spirit."
“I’m just saying, you can’t drop words like that into the conversation and not expect me to latch on. It’s muscle memory at this point.” Dan groans, long and theatrical, tossing the empty paper bag toward a counter on the other side of the kitchen closer to their recycling bin. It bounces off the edge and flops onto the floor. Of course. Phil immediately lights up.
"Wow, you really came close that time." Dan gives him a look.
"I'm leaving."
"No, you're not."
"I am."
"You're not," Phil says, smiling. He walks over and crouches down to pick up the bag, opens the counter and throws it in the correct bin. "See? I conribute. I don't just make a mess by throwing stuff on the floor." Dan crosses his arms.
“Yeah, Phil Lester, never made a mess in his life.” He flicks his gaze toward where the cupboard would be open if Dan hadn't told him of. Phil follows the look, grins, and turns back around.
"See? I'm getting better."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Dan says, letting out a short breath of a laughter.
They stand there in silence for a moment, just watching each other. Dan has no doubts if the audience could see them now there'd be comments about heart eyes and love eyes or whatever. Something that used to make him so scared, that he was so obvious when he wasn't ready to talk about any of it. But now… How could he not look at Phil like that?
Not when it's Phil of all people. Somehow still here sixteen years later. Sixteen whole fucking years. That's almost half of Dan's entire life. The messy bits. The really good bits. The bits he'd rather disolve in acid. There's something so absurd and grounding in it all at once.
Phil tilts his head, eyes soft, the corners crinkling just a little.
“What’s going on in that brain?” he asks gently. Dan sniffs out a laugh he doesn’t quite mean to.
“Nothing,” he says at first. Phil raises one eyebrow. That dangerous kind of gentle way that means Dan’s not getting away with anything. Not that Dan minds. Hasn't for a long time. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous," Phil teases. Dan huffs in response.
"Shut up." But he doesn't look away. Can’t really. Not with Phil standing there looking at him like he’s something steady, something worth staying for. Something worth all of it. And while it took a while for Dan to believe that look, he's glad he can.
It’s ridiculous, really. The earlier flare of irritation, the way that stupid message had hit him sideways. Dan had somehow let it jab at him. Let his mood twist just because someone who belonged squarely in Phil’s past had decided to peer into their present like he had any context at all.
It's stupid.
Because Phil is always here. Never pulls away, never dismisses him. Even when he definetely deserved it. Not when Dan’s brain is being loud. Not when it sinks. Not when it flickers. Not when it tries to convince him he's too much or not enough or whatever flavour of wrong his neurotic ass decides on any given week.
Phil is always there, looking at him like he is now. Maybe they're right about that love eyes shit. Dan clears his throat, trying to force the warmth back down to something manageable.
“It’s nothing important,” he says, softer. “Just… realising how dumb it was to get worked up.” Phil hums thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side slightly.
"I didn't think it was dumb."
"Phil." Dan gives him a look.
“What?” Phil shrugs, smiling in that maddeningly sincere way. “I like when you care. Even if it’s about stupid people doing stupid shit.” Dan snorts in response. Keeps looking at Phil.
His best friend. The love of his life. His everything.
“It’s just odd,” Dan says quietly. “That someone who meant so little could still put a pebble in my shoe for an afternoon.” Phil's smile softens.
"Hey, no one goes through life without a few pebbles in their shoes every once in a while. Still, doesn't change where you're walking. Or with whom."
"Wow, very poetic, Phil."
“I can be wise when the mood strikes.” Phil lifts his chin, mock regal. "Like a fortune cookie."
"Fortune cookie? Is that really what you want to compare yourself to?" Dan asks, amused. Phil opens his mouth, definitely to dig himself deeper, then seems to think better of it. He just smiles instead, slow and warm. Dan lets out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
"You alright now?" Phil asks. Dan smiles, nodding.
"Yeah, I'm alright." Phil’s shoulders ease at that. He doesn’t say anything else; just watches him, steady and patient and stupidly fond. And it hits Dan again how absurdly lucky he is. How absurdly simple it feels, standing here with him in their kitchen full of scattered groceries and a closed cupboard that definitely won’t stay closed.
Dan looks at him for a long moment and feels something unclench in his chest. Then he rolls his eyes, just enough to break the tension before it gets too sweet.
“Stop looking at me like that.” Phil's mouth curves.
"Make me." Dan can't stop the huff of air from releasing.
He doesn't move first. Or maybe he does. It ends the same way either way.