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Dan opens their bedroom door as slowly and silently as he can on the off chance Phil is sleeping. He hopes Phil is sleeping. He knows he probably isn’t.
“Dan.”
The word is little more than a whisper. A whimper. But definitely awake.
Dan tiptoes across the room and kneels next to the bed, his left knee giving a resounding crack in the silent room. Fuck, he’s getting old. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he flips the icepack on Phil’s forehead to the cool side and rests his forearms on the mattress, careful not to jostle him.
“Is it helping at all?” The “it” he whispers about is another triptan. One that is supposed to actually help this time, but Dan is only pretending to be optimistic about because one of them has to be.
“No.”
And that’s why Dan isn’t an optimist. “It’s been two hours. Do you want to try the second dose?”
“Need ondansetron first.”
Great, nausea has joined the headache and dizziness party. Phil cannot catch a break. Dan slides Phil’s bedside drawer open. Is it bad that his fingertips blindly know exactly which medication is which? Probably. He pops an ondansetron pill out of its packaging and taps it lightly against Phil’s lips. Phil accepts the pill on his tongue.
It will be at least 15 to 30 minutes before that kicks in enough to try another dose of the probably useless triptan. If nothing else, maybe the combination of pills will make sleep stronger than the pain for an hour or two.
Dan stands, aiming to leave Phil in peace for at least 15 minutes, but Phil latches onto him, snagging Dan’s wrist between clammy fingers.
“Hey. Okay.” Apparently this is a Class C migraine: clingy, in need of comfort, wanting Dan close. So he slides onto the bed. The position Phil settles in with soft groans doesn’t seem very comfortable. He’s mostly on his stomach, with the left side of his face pressed to Dan’s sternum, his left hip still on the mattress and his right hip digging into Dan’s left, and his right leg thrown over both of Dan’s, trapping him there, as if Dan would actually try to leave at this point.
But settle Phil does, clutching the bottom-right edge of Dan’s shirt in his fist like a security blanket, shifting occasionally, but that seems to be more due to pain or nausea than positional discomfort.
Taking a chance, Dan ghosts the fingertips of his right hand up and down Phil’s spine. “Okay?”
Phil hums, and Dan feels the reverberation through his own chest. So Dan adds a little more contact between his hand and Phil’s back. A little more pressure. He continues the motion above the collar of Phil’s T-shirt, rubbing his neck all the way to the base of his hairline, where Dan knows his pain sometimes lives.
Maybe Phil only relaxes a fraction of a percentage, but that’s something. So Dan doesn’t stop. At least not until Phil asks for the second dose of the triptan. Dan gets it for him with a drink of water and low expectations.
When Phil resumes his previous position, he guides Dan’s hands to the back of his head.
“Here?”
“Please.”
So Dan focuses his massage along the base of Phil’s hairline, alternating between a light touch and medium pressure. He uses his thumbs to rub circles over the back of his scalp, from the center line, out toward his ears.
After a while, Phil’s grip on Dan’s security-blanket of a shirt starts to loosen. His fidgeting slows and finally stops.
“Thanks, Dan.”
Dan matches Phil’s whisper with his own. “Sleep.” Then he rests his warm hands on Phil’s back as his breathing evens out and the rest of his body relaxes.
He makes a mental note to Google head massage techniques for migraines.
“I read online that putting your feet in really hot water while putting an ice pack on your forehead and the back of your neck helps some people’s migraines.”
Phil squints up at Dan from his spot on the sofa where a headache is making itself an unwelcome guest. “Don’t fuck with me when I’m in pain.”
“Not. I Googled things that help people. That was one of them.”
“You did?”
“Look, if you don’t want to try it—”
“I do. I will.”
Dan pats Phil’s knee before going to turn on the water in the tub. Once the temperature turns, he puts in the stopper. While the water collects, he grabs a chair and a few towels. He tests the chair and water depth with his own feet. Fuck, that’s hot, but yeah, the chair works and the depth is enough to cover his feet, so he cuts the water off. His head doesn’t feel any different with his feet in the water, but he’s never had a migraine, so what does he know?
Armed with two ice packs and a bit of hope, Dan gives Phil’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Ready?”
Phil trails behind Dan like a puppy.
At the side of the tub, Phil sits on the chair and cautiously lifts one foot over the edge. The second his skin hits the water, he gasps and pulls back. “Is the pain in my feet supposed to distract me from the pain in my head? Is that how this works?”
Dan crouches down and sticks his hand into the water. It’s bordering on uncomfortably hot, but not hot enough to burn. “Try. If you can’t stand it, I’ll add cold water.”
Phil takes a breath and lowers his right foot into the water. Then he swings his left leg over the edge and submerses that one, too. He releases the breath very slowly. “Okay. It’s okay.”
Dan hands him one of the ice packs, wrapped in a thin towel. “Put that on your forehead.” When Dan places the other against the back of Phil’s neck, he gasps, and Dan immediately pulls the it away. “Okay?”
“Yeah. It’s…a lot. A lot of temperatures at once. It’s okay, though. Go ahead.”
So Phil heats his feet and they cool his head and neck.
“How does your head feel?”
“Kind of forgot I have one.”
Mission accomplished, hopefully. They sit in the dark, quiet room for about twenty minutes, until the ice warms and the water cools.
Dan removes the ice pack from Phil’s neck. “The internet says you can be done now.”
Phil abandons his own ice pack and sits up slowly, bringing one foot out of the tub and onto a towel, then the other.
Dan drops to a crouch and dries the tops of Phil’s feet so he won’t have to bend forward. When he’s done, he puts his hands on Phil’s knees. “Any better?”
“Maybe?” His gaze is somewhere over Dan’s left shoulder when he says it.
“Are you lying?”
“Maybe.” This time he’s looking right at Dan with blue eyes that are still clouded by pain. “Thank you for trying, though. Really.”
“Did it make it worse?”
Phil shakes his head quickly. Too quickly, if his immediate wince is any indication. “No. Definitely not.”
“Okay, then. No harm done. Want to go lay down until it’s gone?”
Phil bites his lip. “Come with me?”
Dan does.
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Phil lets his head flop back against the sofa. “I’m not hungry.”
“Need your nausea medication?”
“No. I just don’t want to eat.”
Dan believes him, but he also knows that if Phil goes to bed with the start of a migraine and without eating anything, he’s going to wake up tomorrow in a world of hurt. “So I read something else on the internet that people say helps.”
Phil drops the arm he’d flung over his eyes and studies Dan with mild interest.
“Extra salty French fries with a caffeinated soda. Like Coke. That specific combination seems to work for some people.”
“Are you just saying that because you want Deliveroo fries and dips?”
That is an added benefit, but fuck if he’s going to admit that to Phil. “You need to eat. There’s a chance this might help. Does it sound good at all?”
Phil sighs. “Fine. I’ll try it.”
For as much as Phil claimed he didn’t want to eat, he dives right in when their order arrives. Praise the Deliveroo gods, the fries are still hot and crispy. Even more importantly, they remembered every single one of Dan’s requested dips.
Dan nods to the half-empty container of fries in front of Phil. “Good?” Usually Phil is more of a sweets guy than a salty guy, but he’s making as much of a dent in the salty fries as he is the sugary, caffeinated soda.
“Yeah. Tastes really good.”
“Helping yet?”
“Give it time.”
Phil has much more patience than Dan, and Dan’s not even the one with the headache.
When the food is gone, Dan cleans up, letting Phil curl into the sofa with a pillow and a rerun of a show he doesn’t have to pay attention to. But when Dan returns to the sofa, Phil is sitting up, giving his head a shake like he’s testing the rattling of his brain in his skull.
Dan freezes at this unprecedented turn of events. “What are you doing?”
“I think the fries and soda helped?”
Dan scrunches his nose. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah. I feel better. A lot better. It’s almost completely gone.” When Phil looks up at Dan, his eyes are clear and absent of pain.
“French fries. And Coke. Actually helped”
Phil grins. “Have that Deliveroo app at the ready, Danny boy.”
Dan flops onto the sofa and kisses Phil and tastes salty sweet relief.
It doesn’t work every time. One day, they’re out with Phil’s family when the migraine starts, and by the time they try the “fries and Coke” combination when the pain is still there the next day, it does nothing. So the miracle cure has its limits. But it helps sometimes, which is better than never. They add it to their arsenal along with the medications that do work, dark and quiet rooms, head massages, and ice packs.
One week, all of Phil’s triggers conspire together: the barometric pressure is dropping, he’s stressed and overworked due to some deadlines they have coming up, he drank probably more alcohol and less water than he should have when they went out over the weekend, and now he’s paying for it with severe pain on day three of a migraine, well outside of the “fries and Coke” window. He might as well have thrown some chocolate into the mix for the hell of it.
Medications aren’t helping much. Head massages aren’t helping much. Even sleep isn’t helping much. Dan’s threatening to drag him to A&E if it doesn’t break soon, but Phil assures him it will break. It always does.
In the meantime, Dan worries and gets further behind on their deadlines and Googles more migraine remedies.
“So I read another thing to try on the internet.” He’s keeping his voice low as he traces light patterns over Phil’s forehead in the dark.
“Hm?”
“It’s going to sound weird.”
“Don’t care.”
“You place a banana peel on your forehead and an ice pack on top of that. Something about the potassium, maybe?”
“Dan.”
“Some people do potato slices, but we don’t have any potatoes.”
Phil groans.
“It can’t hurt, can it?”
He considers. “If you take a picture of me, I will kill you.”
The thought honestly hadn’t crossed Dan’s mind but he would never. Probably. Maybe.
In the kitchen, Dan eats a banana, because he’s not going to let a perfectly good piece of fruit go to waste, and takes the peel and an ice pack into their bedroom.
Phil squints up at him in the darkness. “We’re really doing this?”
“Hey, you didn’t actually think the fries and Coke were going to work either, did you?”
Phil grumbles something unintelligible under his breath and closes his eyes.
Dan sits on the edge of the bed, pulls off the largest section of banana peel, and slops it mushy side down onto Phil’s forehead.
“Dan!” Phil’s eyes fly open.
“What? What’s wrong?” Dan grabs the peel back.
Phil wipes furiously at his hair. “Would it have killed you to push my hair out of the way? Now it’s got banana guts in it!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s fruit. Calm your tits.” But Dan grabs a tissue and wipes any “banana guts” out of Phil’s hair. Then he gently pushes said hair back from his forehead before placing the peel flat again. A smaller section of peel covers the base of his forehead, right above the eyebrows, and an ice pack holds both pieces in place.
Phil pokes one finger at the ice pack without opening his eyes. “Done?”
“Yep.”
“How long do I keep it here?”
“Until it helps?”
Phil manages to keep it there for 45 minutes. It doesn’t help.
“Did you take a picture of me?”
Dan wipes Phil’s forehead clean with a cool cloth. “Nope.” Technically it’s not a lie. He took two pictures.
“Good.”
Peel or no peel, the migraine is finally gone the next morning.
Their bed smells like banana for at least a week.
“Are you sure you feel up to this?” They’re about to leave for a fundraiser they committed to attend a long time ago, but Phil has a headache.
“I took ibuprofen.” He squints out the window. “I just wish it wasn’t so bright out today.”
“Here.” Dan takes the cap from his “We’re All Doomed” sample merch box that has been residing on the counter and places it on top of Phil’s head. “That okay? It will keep the sun out of your eyes.”
Phil nods. “Yeah.” He slides his backpack onto his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Dan keeps a close eye on Phil, but as the morning progresses, he seems a little more relaxed. A little less pain-tinged.
He hands Phil a water bottle when they get a second to themselves. “Did the ibuprofen kick in?”
“Yeah, and I really like this hat.” He adjusts the brim over his eyes. “It helps with the sun, and it’s like the perfect tightness or pressure on my head. I think it helped with the pain.”
Dan raises his eyebrows. “So you’re saying I should market my merch hat as a migraine relief tool?”
Phil takes a drink of water. “It’s better than a banana peel.”
Dan laughs and tugs the brim of the hat down over Phil’s eyes.
“Dan?”
“Hm?” They’re in the dressing room of the venue for one of the US tour stops. Minnesota? Missouri? Michigan? Too many states start with M.
“I think I’m getting a migraine.”
Dan’s least favorite M of them all. He sets his laptop aside and focuses on staying calm to balance out the panic written all over Phil’s face. He’s had a few migraines on tour, but this is the first one he’s had this close to the start of meet and greets, sound check, and the show. They only have a couple of hours at most.
But all they can do is treat this the best they can. They’ve talked through contingency plans for what to do if this happens, but hoped they’d never have to use them.
Dan gets up and grabs Phil’s backpack, going straight for the compartment with the medications. “Prescription or ibuprofen?”
Phil looks down at his phone screen. “There’s not enough time. If I take the prescription now, I’ll be half asleep.”
Dan gently removes the phone from Phil’s hand and sets it on top of his own laptop. “No more screens. And that’s okay. If you need the prescription and sleep, you need the prescription and sleep. Don’t worry about the time.”
He bites his lip and looks up at Dan with uncertainty. “Ibuprofen. But maybe fries and a Coke, too?”
Dan wants to call him on it. It seems like this is the choice Phiil is pressuring himself to make, not the one that’s best for his health. But he takes the answer at face value and hopes for the best. He gives Phil two pills along with his water bottle. He also digs the WAD cap out of the backpack and places it on Phil’s head. “I’ll see if there’s a McDonalds around here.”
When he pulls up Google maps, he has to laugh. It’s the US. There are like seven McDonalds to choose from, and the closest one is two blocks away. He puts in the order for extra salty fries and the biggest Coke they sell and sends an SOS text to the team asking if someone can pick it up.
Then he helps Phil lie down and get as comfortable as he can on a too-short dressing room sofa. He switches the overhead lights off and turns on a small lamp and sits quietly in the dark room.
Phil eats the fries and Coke and sleeps a bit and wears the cap and talks Dan into a head massage. He says he feels much better by the time they have to actually leave the dressing room, and Dan believes him. They day and the show go smoothly, and he doubts anyone in Maine or Maryland or Massachusetts or wherever they are has any idea Phil had a migraine a few hours ago.
“Feeling okay?” Dan chugs half a bottle of water, still breathing hard and sweating after running off stage and back down to the dressing room.
“Feel great. Head is completely fine.” Phil flops onto the sofa with his phone, not sweaty in the least.
“Good. I’m going to shower so we can get out of here.”
“Hey.” Phil snags Dan’s wrist before he can get very far. “Thank you. I was scared today was going to be a disaster, but it wasn’t. Thank you for saving the day. Again.”
Dan feels a tug somewhere deep within his chest. “You saved plenty of my days. All of them, really.”
“Sappy.” Phil places a kiss to the inside of Dan’s wrist and then lets go. “Now shower. You stink.”
Dan laughs, but does as he’s told.
When he’s dressed in clean clothes and toweling off his hair, Phil holds up his phone. “You Tweeted a picture of me?” On the screen is a picture of migrainey-Phil from earlier, sound asleep on the sofa, wearing the WAD cap.
“Yeah.” Dan starts packing up his bag. “It’s cute. I was bored. Everyone loves it.”
“Hmph.”
Dan zips his backpack. “You’re not angry, are you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good. I mean, it’s not like I posed the banana peel picture or anything.”
There’s a second of silence. “What banana peel picture?”
It’s only then that Dan realizes his mistake. “Never mind.”
But Phil is already on his feet. “Dan? What banana peel picture?”
Dan quickly scans the room for anything else that might belong to him and scoops everything into his arms. “Gotta go! See you on the bus!” Then he’s running.
“Stop! Give me your phone!”
He laughs and keeps going. He won’t Tweet the banana peel picture. He’s not that mean. But he will keep it for himself.
And he will hold onto the moments when Phil is able to run down the hallway behind him like this, laughing, somewhere in a state that starts with M, migraine-free.