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Phil hasn’t seen Dan for several hours. It’s Sunday, and sometime before noon, Dan announced he’d scheduled a session with his straight European gamer friends and disappeared into the office. It’s already getting dark out, and Phil hasn’t even spied a shadow or a fingertip since.
Which is fine, of course. They live together. They woke up in the same bed, they’ll go to sleep in the same bed later—they have been for over sixteen years. It’s fine. He can spend a Sunday afternoon by himself, on the couch. He’s reading Project Hail Mary, and that’s a fun time. And no screen is scrambling his brain. It’s a very chill, very good Sunday.
The house is too quiet. Contrary to his behaviour on every other day of the year, Dan isn’t yelling at his computer today. The quiet makes Phil twitchy. He’s read the same sentence three times now and still has no idea what happened. With a sigh, he closes his book and rises from the sofa. He’s still in glasses, a worn jumper, and his Minecraft pyjamas, hair messily pushed out of his face—because it’s Sunday. Phil wanders around the lounge before shuffling to the kitchen. He’s not hungry but a bit peckish. Mostly, he's bored. He stares out the window, feeling a bit forlorn.
For fuck’s sake. He’s thirty-nine. Not only that, but he’s a decently functioning adult. And he feels lost after not seeing his boyfriend for six hours? And yeah, boyfriend feels like the most adequate description at this moment, because if anything, Phil is acting like a teenager. He opens the fridge and stares. They don’t have a lot of food at home—mostly because they rarely cook. Also, because they couldn’t be arsed to go to the shops. Food shopping is exhausting. He ponders the contents of the fridge for another thirty seconds. Fuck it, he’s making a sandwich. That’s always a good idea. Toast is nice, so is butter. They’ve got some leftover lettuce. He can work with that. He plops two slices of bread into the toaster, then hesitates. Then, he adds two more. He’s making Dan a sandwich. And it’s not an excuse to go downstairs and interrupt him doing whatever he does. Absolutely not. He’s being very loving and concerned that his partner, soulmate, love of his life, best friend, favourite person in the world, is well-nourished and healthy. He’s being selfless, if you think about it.
Phil prepares two sandwiches and gets two cans of Dr Pepper from the fridge, then he pads down the stairs and bumps his hip against the office door. There’s a muffled sound. It’s not exactly a yes, please enter lover boy, but … come on. They really don’t have boundaries.
Phil pushes the door open and slides inside. Dan is sitting cross-legged on the office chair—it’s akin to a pretzel situation, his limbs don’t appear to be in the correct order. He’s chewing on his headphones, eyes focused on the screen.
“Hi,” Phil says quietly, placing the plate and drinks on the desk.
Dan only raises an eyebrow, not paying him any mind. He types something into the chat. Phil plops onto the other office chair. Dan says something unintelligible into the microphone. Someone in a different country replies, voice muffled by the headphones. Phil scoots closer and puts a hand on Dan’s knee. Dan’s free hand lands on top of his, and he squeezes Phil’s fingers.
“You need to eat,” Phil says. Dan waves him off. “I made you a sandwich.”
“I’m fine. No, I’m not talking to you. My boyfriend made me food.”
One of the other guys laughs loud enough for Phil to hear. Then he says something. Someone else sends a message to the chat. Go eat w/ the bf.
Phil grins and leans even closer, resting his chin on Dan’s shoulder. Dan sighs, says goodbye, and logs off. He un-pretzels his legs and turns to Phil. “Do you need attention?”
“I made you food. Lovingly,” Phil protests. He pushes the plate closer to Dan.
Dan shakes his head, grabs one of the sandwiches, and takes a bite. “You are utterly selfless.”
“I am! What if you starve? What would I do then, hm? Get the life insurance and spend my best years with hunky men on a beach? Wait, actually, that doesn’t sound—hmpf.” Phil can’t finish his sentence. Dan pulls him closer by the office chair, trapping Phil between his knees and leaning so far into his space, they’re sharing a breath.
“Please, continue your fascinating vision of half-dressed men on a beach. I want to hear all about it,” Dan murmurs, taking another bite of his sandwich. “This isn’t half bad, by the way.”
“I mean, you can’t really fuck up bread. It’s inherently great,” Phil concedes, still preening a bit. He’s a slut for a bit of praise, and he really can’t help himself.
“The naked men?” Dan insists. His tongue flicks out, licking a crumb off his chin. Phil’s eyes dart to his mouth.
“What naked men?”
“The ones on the beach, Phil. Keep up.”
There’s a warm hand on Phil’s thigh, burning through the fabric of his pyjama pants. “No hot men. No beach. I’m very happy.”
Dan laughs and leans back, sinking into his chair. His hand moves down, pulling Phil’s leg up so his foot rests on Dan’s thigh. “Well, that doesn’t sound like you’re being held at gunpoint at all.”
“I’m never doing anything nice for you again,” Phil grumbles, grabbing the other sandwich.
“I missed you.” Dan taps his shin.
Phil’s eyes light up. Sometimes he forgets—for a short moment, he actually forgets how long it’s been, and he’s twenty-two, and Dan tells him how much he likes him. His heart skips a bit.
“It was pretty boring all alone up there. You took too long.” Phil pouts.
“Shit, maybe we are toxically co-dependent,” Dan muses, opening the Dr Pepper.
“Well, I’d rather be toxically co-dependent with you than healthily independent with anyone else,” Phil says as he relaxes into the office chair. He stretches his legs over Dan’s lap and takes a sip of his drink.
“And we told the people we’re not romantic.” Dan grins at him.
“Hmm, maybe we are bit.”
“What can I say,” Dan murmurs, eyes hooded and tired. “We love lying.”