Work Text:
Dan feels as though all he does these days is stew.
He stews in his resentment, hates that even in the comfort of his home the walls feel like they have ears, have eyes, have fingers and a conscious mind to type out all of his deepest, darkest secrets where all the world can see.
He stews in his hatred of the great big cruel world in general, and of his audience in particular—this audience that cares too much about the things he’d rather they ignore, and not enough about the things he wishes they did.
He stews in hatred of himself, because it feels ugly and ungrateful to resent the people who allowed him to drop out when university was too much to bear, who keep a roof over his head, who let him make jokes for a living. Because of them, he gets to live in his dream city, with his dream person—with who would be the love of his life, if that was the kind of shit he could have.
He stews in longing for a version of himself, only a few years back, wide-eyed and hopeful that he could have Phil, and also have the whole world at his feet, without having to compromise.
He stews in guilt at how he’s treating Phil through it all. Most of the time he feels like he’s compromising too much, leaning too heavy to one side of the wall he’s straddling. He’s afraid that he’ll fall over and Phil will be on the other side.
But he’s just doing what needs to be done. This space he put between them is necessary—he can’t get used to sitting too close, or laughing too loud, or staring too openly, because then it might be too noticeable, in videos, in conventions, in grocery lines.
And that would be disastrous. What could he do then? Certainly not anything media-adjacent, maybe he’d have to go back to his sorry attempts at being a lawyer. Absolutely not—if putting his professional life ahead of his personal one is what it takes to keep it, he’ll do it. He’ll continue what he’s doing. He moves through his days as a robot, focused, mechanical, pragmatic, emotionless, and Phil—Phil understands. He has to. He’s the only person in the world who could. Yes, against his own interests, he does. He bears with it. The thought sits heavy as a stone in Dan’s stomach.
If he’s so certain that Phil gets it, why is he standing outside his bedroom door, unsure if he’s allowed in? The door is closed but not latched. It would likely open with a particularly heavy and well-aimed sigh. His partner is on the other side, he probably doesn't even need to knock—once upon a time he didn’t. Maybe he does now. If Phil was being fair, he wouldn’t let him come in at all.
He’s not fair, though, not with himself. The door is closed now, but come nighttime it will probably be open again. Dan doesn’t like the dark or sleeping alone, and unless he did or said something particularly heinous, Phil will always extend him the kindness of understanding that. Dan doesn’t always take it.
He doesn’t knock, and doesn’t let himself in unannounced. They’re fine today, but the door is still closed.
It’s a peaceful afternoon. Dan is playing Mario Kart in the lounge.
Uncharacteristically, his finger slips and he falls off the map. It’s silly. He chuckles and looks to Phil’s place in the couch, to see him laugh at him, tongue between his teeth. Phil isn’t there. The smile fades from Dan’s face and his hands freeze. The empty space makes Dan feel as though he accidentally entered someone else’s flat. But no—he’s in his long-moulded sofa crease, with the controller they bought in his hands, their posters hanged on the wall. It’s his place, it just doesn’t feel like it.
Eventually, he looks back at the screen. By now he’s in last place, there’s no point in finishing the race.
He puts the controller to the side, and waits until the scoreboard comes up. He’s in last place, but still high up overall—he could still get a podium finish if he wins the last race. He exits instead. This is a lot less fun alone.
He could go get Phil, of course he could. They haven’t fought today, or even yesterday—Phil is just giving him the space he thinks Dan needs. Because Dan has told him so. Repeatedly. Dan has a hard time making up his mind as to what he wants. He does want space, but right now he wants Phil next to him more. It’s not fair to keep giving him mixed signals. But—he’s already not being fair overall, what’s one more instance?
He gets up, and sits back down again. He doesn’t think he can bear repeating the hallway conundrum from earlier. He’ll hesitate again, and Phil might even open his door and Dan would have to explain why he’s standing motionless outside his closed bedroom door, like a creep.
He has his phone with him. Calling is silly, but texting less so.
‘wanna come play mario kart w me?’ It’s an olive branch. There’s no war.
He stares at the message until the little check indicates that Phil has read it. Good. But then—he doesn’t reply. Dan keeps staring at it, his knuckles turning white and shaky around the phone.
There are footsteps and Dan drops the phone next to the controller.
“Hey.” Phil says, a soft smile on his face. He’s not mad at him.
Dan tries to contort his face muscles to match. It’s not difficult. His cheeks feel stiff but smiling at Phil will hopefully always be the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey!” He pats the space next to him and Phil sits down. He’s closer than he usually is these days, but it’d be weirder to sit somewhere else after Dan had patted the seat. Dan both cringes and is grateful for his awkward gesture.
Regardless, they don’t talk much before they start playing, and once they do, it’s mostly playful jabs and insults at each other’s driving abilities, or cars, or characters, or fictionalized mothers. It’s a familiar rhythm. It’s the best thing in his life.
“You’re too good at this.” Phil throws the controller aside with a sigh, as he falls off rainbow road once again.
“Giving up already?”
“Mhm.” Phil is clearly done, both with this race and Mario Kart in general, but he’s still sitting next to him. Dan is growing tired of it too, he has a video script to finish, and a PC game he’d been meaning to play but—he’s not ready for this moment to end. He keeps playing, and Phil watches the screen. At some point he yawns, and lets his head fall on Dan’s shoulder. Dan manages to not tense up, but his breath catches nonetheless. Phil is kind enough not to mention it.
“I love you.” It slips through Dan’s lips against his will, though he’s not sure why he was trying to keep it in the first place. Phil lifts his head just long enough to press a kiss Dan’s shoulder through his t-shirt.
“I love you too. I hope you know that.” He replies at last.
“I do.” He does, he really does. And yet—
I know you still love me—do you still like me? Dan can’t bear to ask. The answer will be yes, of course, because Phil would never admit the opposite, especially not when they’re in this moment of peace, rarer than Dan would like, to fault of his own. But maybe he’d hesitate before answering, and all the times he looked at Dan like he didn’t recognize who he’d become would spring to the front of both of their minds. He can’t risk it.
“Good.” Phil snuggles even closer to him. Dan can’t focus on the screen in front of him anymore.
“Do you wanna watch something?”
“Not really. I’m tired. I think I’d just fall asleep.”
Dan sets the controller aside and turns off the TV.
He pokes Phil’s side gently, not enough to make him actually ticklish but enough to elicit a breathy chuckle.
“Lazy. We haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“Shush. Let me nap.”
And Dan shushes. He feels awake and alert and still he leans further back into the cushions, Phil follows. Dan moves his arm to wrap around Phil’s shoulder and the movement makes Phil’s head slip closer to his neck. Dan squeezes him even closer.
Soon enough Phil’s a dead weight, and soon enough Dan’s arm gets tingly, and the breath and hair on his neck kind of make him want to pull out his teeth one by one. It doesn’t bother him enough to move away, though.