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Phil’s sitting in the lounge, completely engrossed in playing the new Dragon Age game like he has been for the last three hours, when he hears the front door slam downstairs with a force that practically rattles the whole house. Phil’s heart hurts for Dan a little, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa. He knows by now, a few months into Dan going to therapy, that he’ll come to Phil if he needs to talk about it.
He does, sometimes. There have been days where he’ll come home from therapy in a reflective mood, wanting to mull over what he and his therapist had talked about, tentatively excited about something she had suggested to help with his depression symptoms and negative thought patterns.
That’s not going to be today, and Phil knows it. Even when they’re not in the same room, he can read Dan’s mood better than he can London’s weather. He knows by the slam of the door that Dan’s feeling raw and tender right now, that he’s had the kind of therapy session that requires him to be alone with his thoughts in his own room.
But then, eventually, like he always does, he’ll come to find Phil. He’ll come and curl up on the opposite side of the sofa, and they’ll quietly share space for the rest of the evening.
So Phil doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa. He takes a sip of his lukewarm cocoa and keeps his eyes trained on his game, listening to the thuds of Dan’s boots as he drops them to the floor outside their front door, and the heavy treads of his socked feet as he ascends the stairs and heads to the kitchen.
The footsteps stop, then: “Phil?”
Phil wildly mashes the buttons on his game as he attacks an enemy. “What?”
No reply, which he’d expected. Dan knows perfectly well how nosy Phil is, and that he’ll eventually get curious enough to come and investigate. After a few long moments, Phil pauses his game and sets the controller down on the sofa, heading into the kitchen.
Dan’s stood there in the doorway, still dressed in his winter coat. His cheeks are pink from the cold, and the ends of his straightened hair are starting to curl from the rainstorm outside.
“Hi,” Phil says. “How was therapy?”
“Fine,” Dan says. His jaw twitches.
Phil takes a step into the kitchen. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Just came in here to get a snack, but now I want to know why the kitchen looks like a literal nuclear bomb went off.”
“Because I made hot cocoa,” Phil says. “Do you want me to make you one?”
“Hmmm. Maybe in a while,” Dan says. “But why–” He gestures helplessly at the kitchen. “Why.”
“Well, because I needed a mug, and a spoon, and the cocoa mix,” Phil says, gesturing at the three open cabinets and drawers in turn. “And then I decided to try heating up the milk on the hob this time, because it burned in the microwave last time and smelled horrible, remember?” He points over at the milk-encrusted pot. “It worked really well, I think.”
“But why do all the cabinets need to be open?” Dan’s tone is tense. He’s clearly not in a good mood.
Because I totally forgot and only just remembered now that we’re standing here looking at it, Phil thinks, a little bit of guilt twinging in his stomach, but he doesn’t say it out loud.
“I thought I might make another later after I finished this one,” he says instead. “And I thought you might like one when you came home.” Neither of which is a lie, not really. He usually has more than one mug of cocoa, and Dan does like a hot drink sometimes after talking to his therapist.
“I just hate coming back from talking about my brain being a mess to have to look at more mess,” Dan says. “I don’t get what’s so hard about just–” he gestures at the open tin of cocoa mix, its lid sitting next to it on the counter, “putting stuff away. And closing the cupboard doors.”
“That’s just how I do things, Dan,” Phil says. “I don’t really know why. I guess maybe I just like having everything out when I’m making something. Sorry if it’s annoying to you.”
“Well, it is,” Dan says. “It’s really annoying.”
“You’re being a bit of a twat right now,” Phil snaps. They call each other that a lot, in a way that has almost become a weird sort of affectionate pet name over the past few years. But it doesn’t feel like that now. Phil can immediately see the flash of hurt in Dan's eyes when he says it.
“I need space right now, I think. Sorry,” Dan says, and pushes past him, out of the kitchen and down the hallway.
“I shouldn’t have– I’m sorry too,” Phil says, watching him disappear into his room, but he doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t try to explain that the kitchen is a mess because he really, honestly just forgot to clean it up.
Again.
—
He gives it half an hour.
Dan often needs longer than that to decompress after therapy, sometimes even all afternoon. But as Phil returns to his spot on the sofa and tucks his quilt back over his legs, all he can think about is how he needs them to talk, to work out what just happened in the kitchen.
He knows Dan won’t mind him interrupting his alone time, not today. He’ll probably be expecting it, really. They’re nothing if not an overly co-dependent couple who talk too much about their thoughts and feelings.
His mind drifts as he starts Dragon Age up again. His current quest, so engaging to him just five minutes ago, is completely uninteresting now. All he can think about is the crinkle of tension between Dan’s eyebrows and the messiness of the kitchen. A nuclear explosion, Dan had called it. Phil turns the phrase over and over in his mind.
Here’s the thing.
Phil knows he has a bad habit of leaving the kitchen cupboards open. Of leaving socks lying on the coffee table, and all his hair products scattered on the bathroom counter because he hates putting them away in the cabinet where he can’t see them.
His desk looks the same. It looks like the inside of his mind, he thinks: random bits and bobs lying around, remnants from projects he swears he’ll get back to at some point. A whole rainbow of post-its stuck to his computer monitor and the surface of his desk, little notes to himself in scribbly handwriting, reminding him about potential future video ideas, or news stories he wants to share on the next radio show.
It’s chaotic, yes, and he knows that. But it’s just the way he’s always done things. He knows where everything is amidst all the piles, and it works for him.
Kinda.
Except when it doesn’t.
Phil mashes the attack button on his controller fruitlessly, watching his character’s health bar dip into the red on screen.
He knows he can be a lot to live with sometimes. He’s heard it from his parents and brother, and from his uni flatmates too. It just sometimes feels like pushing an impossibly heavy boulder uphill to actually get himself to follow through on tasks and stay organized in a way that works for other people.
Even Dan, sometimes, as much as he hates to admit it.
Most of the time, it feels like they’ve got a psychic connection, that they can practically read each other’s minds. He’s never had it like this with anyone else. But sometimes, on certain rare occasions like this, it feels like there’s something strangely immovable in between them.
Phil knows he’ll never fully be able to understand what one of Dan’s depressive episodes feels like – not that he ever wants to. And maybe Phil’s tendency to be scatterbrained and anxious will be something Dan can never understand either.
On the tv screen, Phil’s character dies to an enemy’s sword. His fingers tighten around the PlayStation controller in frustration, and he tosses it once again to the sofa next to him. There’s absolutely no use in continuing to sit here like nothing’s wrong, not when he needs to talk to Dan right now.
He pushes the quilt off his lap and stands again, heading out into the hallway. He eyes Dan’s half-closed door, tempted to go straight there and burst in, demanding that they talk.
But then he remembers that Dan initially came into the kitchen looking for a snack, and every conversation goes better when there’s a snack.
So he turns and heads into the kitchen instead, making straight for the half-full box of Tesco mince pies sitting on the counter because he knows they’re Dan’s favourite December treat. He pops the remaining two pies onto a plate.
The cocoa tin is sitting next to the now-empty box, its lid lying on the counter, a light dusting of cocoa mix spilled around it. Phil stares down at it. It really is a mess.
He’s going to make this right.
He opens their mug cabinet, grabbing Dan’s current favourite mug, the one with little dinosaurs all over it. He scoops cocoa mix into it and his own Totoro mug, giving them each a spoonful more than the tin says. Phil’s got more of a sweet tooth between the two of them, but he knows his partner well: Dan likes his hot drinks rich and flavorful.
Plus, chocolate always makes things better. (He hopes.)
He pours more milk into the pan. While it heats, he makes it a point to put the cocoa tin back on its shelf, close up all the cupboards, and wipe down the counters. By the time he’s stirring the hot milk into the cocoa mix and placing marshmallows into the mugs, the kitchen is back to its original state.
Balancing the plate of mince pie on top of one of the mugs, he heads out of the kitchen and down the hallway to Dan’s room. The door is halfway shut, so he taps lightly on it with his socked foot.
“Dan?”
“Come in,” he hears, so he pushes it open. Dan’s lying on his bed, on top of his duvet, staring listlessly at his phone. He’s taken his coat off; it’s been tossed across his piano bench, its sleeve trailing down to touch the floor. Dan looks up at Phil when he enters and sets his phone down onto his bedside table.
“I brought you something,” Phil says, holding out the dinosaur mug. The marshmallows slosh dangerously close to the rim, but fortunately, nothing spills onto the bed.
“You made me cocoa,” Dan says. His expression softens, and he sits up to accept the drink, wrapping his fingers around the mug.
“Yeah, because you said before that it makes you feel more relaxed after therapy. It’s the peppermint one you like, the one you said makes you feel super festive, like–”
“Like a Christmas orgasm in my mouth,” Dan finishes, breathing in the steam.
“And mince pies too, because you said you wanted a snack earlier.” Phil hands over the plate.
Dan stares down at the little pastries, a small smile on his lips. “Thanks. I really don’t deserve this.”
“You do,” Phil says firmly, setting his own mug on the bedside table.
“Okay. I do,” Dan echoes. Phil knows it’s something he’s been working on with his therapist, letting himself accept that he’s deserving of compliments and nice things. “But still. I’m sorry, Phil. I really was being a twat to you earlier when I got home. That wasn’t okay.”
Phil slides onto the bed next to Dan. “Do you want to talk about it? Was therapy rough today?”
“A bit, yeah. We talked about how I’m really anxious to go back to my hometown for Christmas.” Dan shrugs. “It just put me in a weird headspace, I think. You know how it is. Don’t really want to talk about it right now, though. ”
Phil nods. He knows Dan will probably want to talk about it eventually, perhaps over dinner tonight, or tomorrow, or even in a few weeks, when he’s gone to a few more sessions and talked it out with his therapist some more. But Phil learned early on when Dan started going to therapy this year that he shouldn’t push him to talk.
“I’m sorry too,” Phil says softly after a few moments. “I completely spaced it.”
“What?”
“Tidying up the kitchen. I just forgot, honestly.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten annoyed with you,” Dan says. “It usually doesn’t bother me that much.”
“I just always forget about stuff like that,” Phil says. “It’s frustrating. I really wish I didn’t.”
“Why do you, then?”
Phil gives him a look. “If I knew, do you think I’d still be doing it?”
Dan snorts. “Fair enough. Stupid question.”
Phil eats a bite of mince pie and actually considers it. “I guess it’s just like… it just kinda happens. Always has, even when I was a kid. I’d come home from school and leave a trail of my school things behind me. My dad said he always knew where I was ‘cause he could just follow my trail like Hansel and Gretel, and one day a witch was going to follow me and eat me.”
Dan smiles. “Sounds like something he’d say.”
“Yeah.” Phil laughs. “God, I can’t wait to visit him and Mum next week. Can’t believe it’s almost Christmas. I miss them.” He sets the now-empty plate on the bedside table. “Wish you were coming with me, though.”
“Yeah. Me too. You’ve gotta bring me back some of Kath’s mince pies, yeah? They’re a hundred times better than these Tesco ones.”
“Of course I will.”
They sit quietly for a long while, drinking their cocoa. Phil’s marshmallows have melted into a delicious foam on top, and the heat steams up his glasses a little every time he takes a sip.
“Is it weird,” he says eventually, “that sometimes, cleaning up or shutting the cabinets feels like the most impossible task in the world?”
Dan shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, I feel that way sometimes.”
Phil shakes his head. “But it’s not in, like, a depression way for me. I know it’s not.”
Dan looks over at him. “What’s it like for you, then?”
“It’s just…” He pauses, his finger tracing over the Totoro on his mug, searching for the right words. “Sometimes I just start thinking about everything that has to get done to make the kitchen clean again, and it feels so boring and horrible that I just… don’t. I end up leaving everything a mess in hopes that future Phil will want to deal with it. But he usually doesn’t either.”
“So it’s like you’re overwhelmed by it?” Dan says.
“I guess.” Phil shrugs. “I don’t know if that’s exactly the right word, though.”
“What is it, then?”
“Usually, it’s just that there’s just something more interesting I’d rather be doing, and I’m so focused on it that I completely forget to do boring things like tidying up. Like today, I was really looking forward to playing my game and drinking my peppermint cocoa.”
Dan nods and makes a thoughtful little humming noise.
“Is that stupid?” Phil says. “I mean, I can spend half a day playing a game I’m really into, or sitting at my computer and tweaking the editing of a video so it’s perfect, but I can’t even bring myself to take three seconds to close a cabinet door?”
“Phil,” Dan says. He sets his cocoa mug down on the bedside table. “You’ve lived with my shit for five years now, haven’t you? Of course it’s not stupid.”
“It’s not?”
“Nope. You’re the best fucking person in the whole world, whether the cabinets are open or closed.” Dan presses a kiss to Phil’s lips. “I mean, if you’re actually worried about it, you could always go to therapy like I do.”
“Don’t want to,” Phil says immediately. “You know I don’t think therapy would work for me. I hate people telling me what to do.”
Dan snorts. “I’ve told you before, she doesn’t tell me what to do. She just, you know.” He gesticulates vaguely with his hand. “She talks with me and helps me figure out what the hell’s going on in my brain. Challenges my negative thoughts. Helps me set goals for myself that I can work on in between appointments. That kind of thing.”
Phil shrugs noncommittally. It's not the first time he's suggested therapy, and Phil knows it won't be the last.
“I used to think it was kinda stupid too,” Dan says. “But after this year, I kinda think therapy could help everyone.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Phil says. “You know I don’t. I love that you’re going and that it’s helping you. I just don’t think it’d work for my weird brain.” He might go one day though, he thinks. If he's honest with himself, he could probably benefit from talking to someone who's not Dan about his anxiety, and how it's felt having to keep his relationship with Dan private, and, yeah, maybe even the fact that staying organized feels impossible. But that's for another day – another year, even.
“Stubborn,” Dan says, but it sounds fond, and he lets the matter drop.
“Like a donkey,” Phil agrees, and kisses Dan’s hair. “But not about everything. I cleaned up the kitchen after I made us our drinks.”
“Thank you,” Dan says. “I love you. And I’m sorry again for earlier.”
Phil smiles and leans into him. “I love you, too. Even when you’re all grumpy and emo.”
“Hey, I thought you liked emo boys. Thought you purposely got this haircut to try to attract one.” Dan reaches over to tease at Phil’s hair. He’s probably got a super unattractive splinge right now, but he doesn’t mind it so much when it’s only him and Dan.
“I do like emo boys,” Phil insists. “A whole lot. I especially like ones who have a talent for being patient with me, even when I keep on leaving socks on the table and open cupboards in the kitchen.”
“And I like boys who are lovely and sweet to me,” Dan says. He moves closer and curls up, his arm wrapping around Phil’s chest in a loose hug. “Ones who always manage to surprise me and keep me on my toes every single day.”
Phil smiles and moves closer, looping his arm around Dan so they’re laying down, cuddling properly. “Admit it. This relationship would be so boring without me.”
“It would,” Dan says. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”