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Morning light pours through the shutters, leaving golden stripes along the counters and stovetop. The kitchen smells of smoked ham and eggs and peppers and garlic and coffee, and so many other things that make Dan’s stomach loudly rumble in complaint at the temptation laid out before him.
It wouldn’t hurt to take a nibble, now would it?
No, he admonishes himself. This is for Phil.
A pre-birthday birthday present, specially requested by his best friend and business partner of 16 years. And boyfriend.
Dan grins. It’s silly how much the word boyfriend warms his body, especially after all this time. Phil has always been there - has always been his - and nothing has changed now that they’ve come out as collaboratively gay. It still feels weird to call Phil his boyfriend out loud.
But in his head, he’s young Dan again with the emo hair straightened within an inch of his life, hating himself but loving Phil. Then he’s slightly older Dan with curly hair he hasn’t quite figured out yet, tolerating himself but loving Phil. Then he’s post-Coming Out, post-Pandemic, post-Youtube Fuckery Dan, loving Phil and himself – and tolerating everything else.
He doesn’t need any labels on what he and Phil are, but it’s…nice. It’s nice to call Phil his boyfriend. His partner. His soulmate. His other half. His furnishings. His lover. His light.
God, Dan thinks, grinning. How cheesy.
He’s happy Phil isn’t a mind-reader. It’d inflate his already massive ego if he knew just how stupidly in love Dan is. How, even after 16 years, Phil still consumes his thoughts like he’s that fanboy watching his favorite Youtuber again.
Dan hums, and he moves over to the counter, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. He’s wearing an old black shirt that he’d somehow stretched out in the wash. He’s not entirely sure how he did it, but he’s not going to ask Phil what he did wrong. His boyfriend already has enough ammunition to use against him on the podcast.
Dan works through the piles of vegetables Phil had asked for the night before.
“An omelet,” he’d said, “with all the omelet things. No cheese though. Or milk. And no tomatoes! It’s not complicated, Daniel.”
Dan learned a long time ago to accept Phil’s vagueness. Phil wants an omelet, and Dan has an internet connection. He’s right; it’s not complicated.
Dan picks up an onion and peels back the papery skin. Their knife set is new – a gift from Louise – and the one Dan uses slices through the onion easily, moving through it in thick, even slices. He’s not really a cook, he’ll admit. He knows how to heat things up and throw things together in a saucepan. He can scan a recipe and figure things out. Eggs with a bunch of things (excluding cheese, milk, and tomatoes) is easy enough.
Phil wants an omelet, so Dan’s making an omelet.
The familiar drag of socked feet across the hardwood, and the soft, gruff quality of Phil’s sleepy voice come up behind him. Arms wrap around his waist, pressing Dan’s body closer to Phil’s warmth, and Phil hooks his chin over Dan’s shoulder.
“Morning,” Phil says, blasting cool mint into the side of his face. With how close he is, Dan’s happy he brushed his teeth.
Dan steals a peek at him as Phil presses a kiss on his shoulder. His glasses are slightly askew (Are they broken again? Dan wonders, already having flashbacks to the Superglue Incident), his blond hair goes in every direction (Dan reminds himself to remind Phil about his salon appointment that he’s definitely going to forget), and the neck of his white t-shirt is so stretched that Phil might as well be topless with how much skin he’s exposing (Dan wouldn’t mind that at all).
Dan brings his attention back to the cutting board.
“Coffee’s on the counter,” he says.
Phil makes a pleased sound and pads over. Dan’s shoulders settle when he hears Phil grab the mug and take a very audible gulp of the fresh coffee. His heart blooms. He loves nothing more than making Phil happy.
Phil throws his head back and sighs. “Oh, I love you…”
Dan grins. “I hope you’re talking to me and not the coffee.”
“You’re alright too.”
Dan’s about to say something when Phil appears at his side and gives him a soft peck on the cheek. Dan tries to chase his lips, but he meets only air. Phil’s already two steps back, leaning against the other counter with his mug, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You think you’re funny, do you?” Dan says.
“Mm?” Phil grins at him over his mug, his eyes turning in crescents behind his frames.
Dan points the handle of the knife at him. “Phil.”
“Dan.”
“You can’t just do that.”
“Do what?” He does that fluttery eyes thing that makes Dan just want to push him over. Pretending to be innocent and all that. If only the fans knew how Phil tortures him on a daily basis.
“You can’t just leave me hanging.”
Phil turns the mug in his hands, suddenly acting like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I kissed your cheek. That’s allowed.”
Dan closes the distance between them in two steps, using his long legs how they’re supposed to be used – to never be too far from the love of his life. Phil’s back meets the counter when Dan presses forward, resting his hands on either side of him. He slides the knife away, remembering that it’s still in his hands, and pushes in until he and Phil bump noses. Phil’s already laughing and trying to (unsuccessfully) use the mug of warm coffee to keep Dan away. Dan easily plucks it out of his hands and sets it next to the knife.
“Dan—”
Dan kisses the side of his face, bumping the glasses. He reaches up and pulls them off, slipping them into the pocket of Phil’s sweatpants. Then kisses his temple. His jaw. The corner of his mouth. The edge of his chin. Dan kisses everywhere on his face that he can reach while Phil squirms and makes a noise that’s trying very hard to sound like disapproval and not managing that at all.
“Get off,” Phil says, still giggling. “You’re getting your opinion fingers all over me.”
Dan pulls back. “My what?”
“Your opinion fingers.” Phil holds up one of Dan’s hands. “They’re all cold and clammy. So opinionated.”
“What opinion,” Dan says very seriously, “are my fingers giving?”
Phil looks at the hand in question. He turns it over, taking in the callouses and crisscross of lines on his palm. He tilts his head, thinking, and then with great deliberateness, he brings one of Dan’s fingers to his mouth.
Dan’s brain short-circuits.
How does Phil still have this power over him?
Those aggravatingly beautiful blue eyes stay on Dan’s face as Phil swirls his tongue over the tip of his pointer finger. After a moment, he pulls it out with a pop, and says, “Mm, fresh opinions. Did you just get them from the shop?”
There’s a pause.
Dan, for some reason, finds it hard to form thoughts. He opens his mouth. Moves his lips. Waits. But nothing comes out. All his brain can provide is: Phil Phil Phil kiss Phil touch Phil pick Phil up tackle Phil down how far is your room oh fuck the room right then and there take him take him now Phil Phil Phil…
Phil doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know exactly what Dan is thinking if the stupid grin that takes up half his face is any indication. Phil laughs, and goes directly for Dan’s ribs, fingers finding the spots he knows well. Then, he goes for Dan’s neck, and Dan makes an undignified noise. He grabs Phil’s wrists and pins them down to the counter, which only delights Phil more, making a pink flush make its way up his neck. Phil loves how strong Dan is getting with his time at the gym, even if he still pretends he doesn’t like the Phil Squats (Dan knows he likes them. Dan knows he likes them very much).
“Don’t.” Dan growls. He hopes it sounds sexy. He can’t really hear himself the way his brain is still shouting PHIL PHIL PHIL.
“Come back to me,” Phil says between giggles, twisting his wrists in Dan’s hands until he can rub his thumbs against Dan’s skin. His hands are damp and soft and warm, and Dan has to try very hard to stay angry. “You left.”
“Someone distracted me.”
Phil looks past him at the food on the other counter and pouts. “You’re supposed to be making my birthday omelet and all you’re thinking about is sex.” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Is that all I am to you? A hole?”
“Oh, shut your hole! I’m trying to—” Dan tries to pull his hands from Phil, and his elbow catches the handle of the knife. It clatters off the counter and hits the floor, spinning once before it’s stopped.
They both go still.
Phil looks at the knife. He looks at Dan.
“Clumsy,” Phil says.
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
Dan glares at him, hoping it communicates everything without him having to remember how to use words that aren’t swears and slurs toward his partner. Phil presses his lips together and grabs his mug, once again the picture of innocence. Dan scowls as he picks up the knife, washes it, and returns to the cutting board.
Phil leans against the counter and watches Dan as he drinks his coffee. This is something Dan quickly got used to when they started “hanging out.” Phil enjoys quietly existing in whatever room Dan is in, not really doing anything and not feeling the need to fill the silence. Just present. Dan didn’t know how much he needed someone just present in his life until he met Phil.
Dan works through the rest of the onions. Slices the peppers. Gets the pan on the heat. He works quickly, thinking about Phil’s smile and how his face will light up when he takes the first bite of his birthday omelet.
“Can I express an onion?” Phil asks.
Dan’s hand pauses on the pepper.
He turns around slowly. “Can you what?”
“Express an onion.” Phil says it like it’s a normal sentence that normal people say. He gestures with his mug toward the cutting board.
Dan laughs once, involuntarily. There’s a beat of silence that he expects Phil to fill with an explanation, but all he gets is a stare.
“Is that a Northern thing?”
“Having an onion? No, Dan, I’m serious,” Phil says, pushing himself off the counter.
“You want to express an onion.”
“Yes.”
Dan considers him for a moment. Phil’s face is entirely genuine, not a cheeky smile or twinkling eyes in sight. Dan would love to say that he can tell right away when Mr. I Love Lying is messing with him, but that would be, appropriately enough, a lie.
“Fine,” Dan says. He steps back from the board and holds the knife out handle-first. “Express your onion."
Phil moves over to him, ignoring the knife completely. He stands in front of the cutting board and gestures at the pile of sliced onion.
“You cut them too thick,” he says.
“That’s your expression?”
“They’re good, but when they go in the eggs they make everything break apart.” Phil takes the knife from Dan and puts it down without using it. “You want them thinner. Plus they’ll be more consistent.”
Dan stares at him. “Phil, what the ever-loving fuck are you talking about?”
Phil points at the pile on the board. “The opinions.”
Dan looks at the pile. He looks at Phil.
He picks up one of the slices and holds it up between them. “You mean the onion.”
Phil shakes his head slowly, the way he does when he thinks Dan is being deliberately obtuse. “Onions aren’t fruits.”
“They’re not – Phil! They’re vegetables!”
“Either way, they’re not food. You can’t eat an onion.”
“Did you hit your head? Do we have to go to A&E?”
“What do you think onions are?”
Dan shakes sliced onion in Phil’s face, making a few fall to the ground. Neither bother to clean it up. Phil places his hand on Dan’s and lowers it.
“Daniel. An onion is like…” He thinks for a moment and then brightens. “You look really sexy with your hair like that. That’s an onion. Do they not teach that in Winnersh?”
Dan looks at him for a long time. He’s growing tired of this joke. He hasn’t mixed the eggs and veggies yet, and smoke is already rising from the (empty) pan on the stove. He reaches over to switch it off and puts the sliced onion down on the board. He walks past Phil, his shoulder brushing his as he goes, and takes his phone from where it’s charging on the counter.
“You absolute idiot,” Dan says. He doesn’t mean it. He hopes Phil knows he doesn’t mean it. But he doesn’t want to play this game anymore.
“What’re you doing now?”
“Looking it up!” Dan types in the word and waits for the page to load. “Read the definition, Einstein.”
He holds the phone up. Phil walks over and leans in, squinting at the screen. Dan remembers that Phil’s glasses are in his pocket, but obviously, Phil doesn’t. Frankly, Dan’s so over his boyfriend’s trolling that he’s just not going to tell him.
He reads it, and then looks at Dan.
“Do you know what words mean?” Phil asks.
“Do you know what words mean?”
Phil takes the phone from Dan’s hand and turns the screen so he can read it. “Look.”
Dan looks.
The screen shows the Merriam-Webster page, the first link he clicked. Under the word opinion, where Dan expects a definition about beliefs and viewpoints, he sees instead:
A widely cultivated Asian herbaceous plant (Allium cepa) of the amaryllis family that has a pungent edible bulb and that is closely related to garlic…
Dan’s jaw drops. He grabs the phone and goes back to the search results. Right there, under the stupid AI explanation, is a photograph of what he has spent the last ten minutes or so chopping up. He clicks the IMAGES link and scrolls through endless photos proving Phil right.
“Phil, who’s that?”
Dan turns to see himself.
In the kitchen doorway.
The other Dan stands there in Dan’s black joggers and black t-shirt, with Dan’s mullet and Dan’s face and Dan’s exact expression of morning confusion. For a deeply strange second, Dan’s mind jumps back to all those conversations about what he’d do if he encountered his clone, and his eyes trail down to the other Dan’s exposed clavicle.
Dan shakes the thought away before it can fully form, remembering the situation he’s currently in.
“Phil.” Dan – the real Dan – says.
Phil looks between the two of them with his mouth open.
“Who…who is he?” Phil asks.
Again, Dan has no words to provide. He isn’t sure he has the answers to anything at all. The floor feels wrong under his feet, like he’s trying to step across a rope bridge. The other Dan has Phil’s attention and is saying something, but Dan can’t process anything. He starts to move. The other Dan makes a grab for him, but he avoids him easily and goes through the doorway. He hears calling. Shouting. His name. In Phil’s voice.
Then,
“That’s not Dan.”
“Then who is he?”
He walks down the hall and toward the door, but their house (Whose house?) seems to stretch endlessly, much, much longer than it should be. Then Dan himself starts to stretch. Longer and longer until his arms touch the ground and his head touches the ceiling. He runs now. He thinks there’s more shouting, but he’s not sure. All he can hear is his heartbeat.
Thuh-THUMP! Thuh-THUMP! Thuh-THUMP!
The front door pulls away from him. It’s too far. He’ll never reach it. To his left, he sees a shadow. Someone is behind him. He runs faster. His breath is too ragged. His chest feels like it’s going to explode. His legs beg for mercy. But he can’t stop.
Thuh-THUMP! Thuh-THUMP! Thuh-THUMP!
Cold air brushes the back of his neck. In it comes a familiar smell.
Mint.
PHIL. PHIL. PHIL.
Thuh-THUMP! Thuh-THUMP! Thuh-THUMP!
There’s another shadow. A hand. An arm. Reaching out. Ready to grab him. Voices. Louder. Louder. Screaming.
Dan does the only thing he can and reaches out.
His hand closes around the cold metal of the front door handle, and he flings it open.
Runs out.
Into.
Nothing.
Then: his bedroom ceiling.
He’s in bed, shirtless, sweat coming down in rivulets down his body. His heart is in his throat, and he struggles to breathe. Then. A sound. Next to him.
Phil sits up beside him with his arms folded, hair flattened on one side, glasses on, and an expression of extreme annoyance.
“You were yelling again,” Phil says.
Dan sits up.
“Phil,” he says, his voice rough with desperation. “What’s an onion?”
Phil uncrosses his arms. “What?”
“Tell me what an onion is.”
“Dan, what’s—” Phil searches his eyes, finally looking at him properly. Phil’s eyebrows draw together. “Are you alright?”
Dan’s almost afraid to touch him. Almost afraid of again loving someone who isn’t his.
“Please. If you love me.”
Phil takes his hand. It’s warm. Soft. A little damp. Phil’s. Phil’s hand is Phil’s and Dan’s hand is Phil’s and Dan’s heart is Phil’s and he feels insane that so desperately wants this to be his Phil. Then he sees them: those patient, beautiful eyes; that small, concerned smile; those lines between his eyebrows that form when Phil doesn’t know what’s happening to Dan, but damn if he won’t try his hardest to be what Dan needs.
Everything that makes up his Phil.
“An onion is a delicious vegetable that makes food better. It’s round. Makes you cry when you cut it — wait, isn’t there a way to not cry? You have to cut the eye or something. Do onions have eyes? They can’t see, obviously, so why do we call them—”
Dan launches himself at Phil, knocking off his glasses to somewhere, but – fuck – Dan doesn’t care. He kisses Phil’s temple, nose, cheeks, and then finds his lips. His fingers curl around Phil’s hair, pushing him closer. Dan feels delirious, giggles bubble up from his chest, but he doesn’t stop kissing. He refuses to breathe. All he wants is PHIL PHIL PHIL.
Phil’s the one to detach. He pulls back and then slips out of bed. Dan makes a noise between a whine and a sob. He suddenly realizes his face is wet and hopes it’s saliva or sweat and not tears.
“Where are you—”
“I will not have another Superglue Incident,” Phil says, getting down to his hands and knees on their bedroom floor. “I don’t want to accidentally step on them in the morning.” Phil turns away from him, still searching for his glasses, and Dan takes the opportunity – as he always does – to blatantly ogle his partner’s perfect fat ass.
After what feels like ages (which Dan chalks up to just him missing Phil’s warmth in bed), Phil makes a triumphant sound and holds up his glasses in one hand.
“Okay,” Phil says, joining Dan in bed. He wraps an arm around him, and Dan snuggles in close. He takes a moment to just breathe him in. “So what happened in your nightmare?”
“It was so fucking weird,” Dan says. He pulls away from Phil to look him in the eyes.
He needs to see those eyes right now.
“Was it…” Phil pauses, bites his lower lip, and Dan can tell that he’s trying to find the right words, “your family?”
Dan shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t like – listen, when I say fucking weird, I mean it. There was an onion – and the phone showed – but then the other Dan – I grew longer and I’m Dan Howell, I’m already fucking long – and the door was so far away and –” He tries to include everything before his mind catches up the present and makes the dream fade away. He cuts off in the middle of sentences, trying to piece together everything and make sense of it himself while also explaining it to Phil.
Dan stops when he notices Phil’s shoulders shaking up and down. Even in their dim bedroom light, Phil’s red face shows just how hard he’s struggling not to laugh. Dan lies back against the pillows.
“Wait, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. What were you saying about an onion?” Phil says, grabbing Dan’s arm, but Dan shakes his head.
“It doesn’t matter.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep inhale. This room is his room. This bed is his bed. These sheets are his sheets. He places a hand over his heart and focuses on breathing while he counts backwards from 100. He knows how to calm himself. He’s written a whole book about it.
Phil snuggles up to him, so Dan turns to face him but doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t need to see Phil to know he’s there. An arm wraps around him and pulls him closer. Phil stays perfectly still until their heartbeats settle into the familiarity of each other, and they beat as one.
“I have strange dreams too, you know,” Phil says.
Dan laughs softly. “Not like mine.”
“I dreamed last week I was a lamp.”
“That’s whimsical. That’s a whimsical dream. Not the psychological torture my subconscious is putting me through.”
Silence. It goes on for so long that Dan thinks Phil’s fallen asleep, so he starts to fall back into dreamland until he hears Phil say in a very small voice:
“I was a very stressed lamp.”
Dan lets out a breathy laugh and gives Phil a peck, easily finding his lips with his eyes closed. He feels Phil’s smile grow against his own.
“Dan?”
“Yeah?”
“If it wasn’t about your family, why don’t you share your dream on the next podcast? I’ll share my own dreams, and we’ll have Phannies weigh in on whose dreams are weirder.”
Dan groans. “They’ll just vote for you because they like making you win.”
“But we need someone to be objective!”
“Phil.”
“Dan.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Okay,” Phil says. He gives Dan another kiss and then rolls over to his side of the bed.
Dan is so, so close to sleep. He’s already in the clouds with hopping bunnies, and hundreds and thousands pouring around him when he hears Phil’s voice again.
“Dan.”
“Phil.”
“Let’s share the dreams on the pod anyway. It doesn’t have to be a competition,” Phil says. “I’m curious about how other people interpret our dreams. I’m just…” He pauses, and Dan waits. “I’m interested in the Phannies’ olympian on the matter.”
Dan’s eyes pop open.
“Their what?”