Chapter Text
The wind was bringing a storm.
Dan liked summer storms, they were different from rest-of-the-year storms at its core, they brought high winds and rustling of trees, a low on temperature and sometimes, depending on where they were coming from, the faint smell of salty sea water.
But mostly, they brought a change in the air that felt like new life.
He sat at the stairs on the back porch of the house, in silence, letting himself be embraced by the wind, hoping that, if he continued to breathe deep this new air, the pressure in his chest would eventually go away.
Dan was no stranger to this feeling. Like his heart and his lungs were being pressed together by an invisible clasp, preventing him from breathing, walking, talking, even getting out of the bed sometimes. Sometimes, the weight pressing him down could be so strong that even his limbs and his muscles would be so fucking heavy that opening his eyes would hurt.
He was used to this feeling, but that didn’t mean he was okay feeling it.
So much work through so many years, and still he had absolutely no control whatsoever of when it would come back, like a constant reminder of his struggles, and his pain. He would be great one day, laughing and talking and playing games, properly eating and even going to the gym… and the next day it would be there, lingering on him like a payback, like his mind was getting revenge for him actually being able to be fucking happy for once.
So here he was, sitting in the concrete steps of the back porch of his house… their house, their own house which they had built with literal tears, breathing deep the stormy wind of summer, in an attempt of losing the thousand knots that were keeping his lungs from working, his cords from talking, and his mouth from laughing. He had managed to do the worst part on his own, getting out of bed, showering, getting dressed, stepping outside. He closed his eyes and extended his arms.
‘Please’, he whispered to the wind ‘please just let me breathe’.
The sound of his own voice reached his brain and instantly unlocked something in his guts, something that started to crawl up his body like poison, reaching the joints of his jaw and the sockets of his eyes burning everything and anything in its step, bringing the metaphorical pain to life in every single cell of his body.
He could feel it built up in his throat, his mouth producing saliva as if he was actually chugging poison, his stomach beginning to convulse in the wake of the tears. His hands, arms and legs throbbing, he could hear the sound of his own blood pumping through his body as he tried as hard as he could not to give in to the fucking pain.
But it was pointless.
***
Phil was paying attention.
Dan had gotten out of bed after him today, and that on itself was a yellow flag. It could mean anything, it could mean he was tired after a long week of recording and editing and plans with friends; it could mean he was incubating something, summer flu was a thing; it could mean he was lazy and wanted to be pampered, which he totally deserved; or it could mean that his depression was kicking in.
So Phil had been paying attention, and he didn’t like what came next. Little to no yapper, shower in the morning, coffee but no cereal, quiet hums instead of laughter. He knew what it all meant, and by now he was pretty confident that he knew exactly what to do, and what not to do. But that didn’t mean he was okay with it.
He was used to this pain in Dan’s face, and his silence, and his stupid attempts to make it look like he was fine, when he clearly wasn't. He was used to his slow movements and his empty smiles, his “fine, just tired”, his “don’t worry, it’ll pass”.
But that didn’t mean he was okay with it.
He wished he could get himself into that brain of his and poke it until it stopped screaming into Dan’s ears. He wanted to be able to release the press off his chest and fill it with love and sunshine, or whatever he needed to spark the light in his eyes back to life.
He knew Dan knew he had already picked up what was going on, so there was no point in bringing it up in conversation. It was just a matter of time. He had to wait until Dan came to him, after prodding his own brain looking for a reason for hours, and tell Phil what was going on. After that sometimes things got worse, sometimes they got better, but eventually it would pass, and they’ll be back to normal. The other normal, the normal where Dan laughed and screamed and made fun of him in and out of camera. This right now was normal too, but he didn’t like this normal, it wasn’t fun.
But because of that, because this was normal, Phil was paying attention.
And he noticed when Dan got out of the couch and went up to the window, staring at the distance. And he noticed when he mumbled “A storm is coming” so low that he could barely hear it. And he noticed when he walked out of the house and sat on the concrete stairs, looking as far as the skyline would let him.
And Phil sat up on the couch, let the ipad down and waited.
***
Dan heard his own scream as something unnatural and foreign to himself. He heard it but didn’t realize it was his own voice until he felt the tears coming down his cheeks, the pressure in his body began to give, and the pain in his eyes and his throat stung even deeper.
He screamed until there was no air left in his lungs, his voice cracked, his vision began to go dark and he was bound to inhale deeply to prevent himself from passing out. His hands, aching and stiff, retracted from their pleading position to his chest, and clutched his shirt as if that thin layer of fabric was the culprit of the weight he was feeling.
He screamed again, and again, and after the third one, his voice was less intense and the screams were shorter, and there was more crying than anything else, and in that moment he realized another pair of hands in his chest, clutching his own, another pair of legs wrapping him, and another heartbeat melting with his own in his ears.
He cried for a long time, while Phil embraced him quietly, until there was no more tears or sounds left for him to release. And then the sat there, silently, in the concrete stairs of their back porch, as the summer storm approached.
‘I like summer storms’ He said in a hush.
‘Me too’ Phil answered.