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There is a box in Phil's parents' attic labelled "Philip - Drawings - Ages 3-8."
Actually, there are loads of boxes in Phil's parents' attic — boxes upon boxes, piled on long, narrow shelves that cover the attic walls nearly from floor to ceiling, each one carefully labelled with its contents. There is 'Important Papers (Various)' and 'Martyn - Secondary School' and 'Medals, Pictures, Etc. - Very Precious Items' and on and on and on.
And, at the centre of the top shelf, there is 'Philip - Drawings - Ages 3-8' — the one box that Dan can't seem to keep his eyes off of.
They're in Manchester for Phil's brother Martyn's birthday, which is tomorrow. But Martyn's not arriving until the morning, so Dan and Phil have an evening to kill, and Mrs Lester determined that it would be the perfect opportunity for Phil to start sorting through some of the stuff in the attic.
"It's already nearly November; we're moving house in just a few months," she'd reminded him. "And there are still an awful lot of boxes in the attic with your name on them, Phil. So unless you want to spend Christmas and your birthday going through boxes..."
Phil had sighed and glanced apologetically at Dan, who had laughed and said it was fine, he wanted to help.
So now here they are, sat on the floor of the attic, sorting through a box of random crap labelled 'Clothing, Toys, Etc. - Mostly Phil.' Or rather, Phil is sorting through it. Dan is offering occasional, mostly unhelpful advice and trying his best not to get too distracted.
"Oh, look at this t-shirt!" says Phil, jarring Dan from his thoughts. He pulls a folded lump from the box in front of him. "A bunch of kids from my primary school signed it at the end of Year 6," he adds, unfurling the t-shirt to reveal the mess of chicken-scratch signatures that cover it. He looks up at Dan. "Keep or bin?"
"Er, I dunno," Dan says. "Whatever you want."
Phil regards the t-shirt contemplatively for a moment, rubbing his thumb over one of the names. "I think I had a crush on this girl," he muses.
"Okay, bin," Dan amends, and Phil bursts out laughing.
"You're jealous."
"Maybe."
"Of some ten-year-old."
"Shut up."
Phil rolls his eyes, still smiling, and lobs the t-shirt onto the "bin" pile, then turns his attention back to the contents of the box.
"Aw, this is broken," he says, pulling out a small plastic dinosaur. "It's supposed to make noise or something, but— Oh wait, I think this is actually the one from my great uncle, and..."
Dan's not really listening. For the hundredth time that evening, his eyes wander to the boxes still on the shelves; rove over the descriptions scrawled on their sides; settle, as always, on 'Philip - Drawings - Ages 3-8.'
"Dan? Hello?" comes Phil's voice, and Dan whips his head around.
"Sorry, what?"
"Should I keep it?"
"Oh. Er— yeah, I reckon so, yeah," says Dan, nodding.
Phil gives him a look. "Were you even listening?"
"Kind of?" Dan says guiltily. "Sorry, I was just..." He points up at the shelves, no longer able to contain himself. "Is that box, like, drawings from when you were a kid?" he asks. "That, er, one that says 'Philip drawings' on it?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, it is," laughs Phil, his eyes following Dan's finger. "Yeah, all my childhood masterpieces. There's some pretty funny stuff in there actually, like weird stuff, from when I was really little, 'cause my parents saved like... basically everything I ever drew from birth."
Dan processes these words for a moment. Then: "Can I see?"
"Err... yeah, alright," Phil says with a shrug. "I mean, I already know I want to keep it all, so I wasn't gonna bother going through it today, but..." He shrugs again, and replaces the dinosaur in the box in front of him. "Sure, why not?"
*
They retrieve the box from its place on the top shelf and set it between them on the ground. Phil removes the lid to reveal a tall stack of papers of varying sizes and colours — the titular drawings.
Dan glances at Phil, then lifts out the first drawing in the pile.
It's a humanoid figure, drawn almost entirely in purple marker, with four legs, three arms, and a squiggle of yellow hair. 'Auntie Bev & handbag,' it says at the top of the page, in Phil's mum's handwriting, and in the bottom right corner is the attribution, 'Philip, 16/8/90.'
"'Auntie Bev'?" Dan reads aloud.
"Wow, it looks exactly like her," laughs Phil, scooting closer for a better view.
Dan raises an eyebrow. "Is your Auntie Bev a fucking... mutant purple centaur, or something?"
"Okay, well. Maybe not exactly like her," Phil concedes, smirking. "But it's cute, isn't it?"
"It's got four legs!" cries Dan. "Why the fuck would you draw your poor aunt with four fucking legs?"
"I was three; who knows how a three-year-old's mind works?" Phil says blithely, reaching into the box and picking up the next drawing from the stack. "Aww, look at this one," he exclaims. "It's my whole family and our bunny Holly!"
So Dan sets down the portrait of Auntie Bev and peers at the drawing in Phil's hands: Four colourful stick-figures, surrounded by a dark green circle and several multicoloured blobs. The label above this throng, evidently written by Phil's dad, reads, 'Mummy, Daddy, Martyn, Philip, and Holly (all stood inside of a fish).'
"'Stood inside of a fish'?" Dan snorts.
"Apparently so, yeah," says Phil, his lips twitching with laughter. "I mean, I can kinda see it, right? Like, this is the fish's body," he says, tracing his finger over the green circle. "And this is like, the tail, I guess?" He points to an orange scribble.
"And where's the rabbit?"
"She's right here," says Phil, indicating a grey blob floating beside the smallest of the four stick-figures. "I'm holding her," he adds, as though it should be obvious. "See her little ears?"
"No, what ears?" Dan retorts.
But Phil has already moved on to another piece of art, this time a sheet of paper covered almost entirely in sunset-hued scribbles. 'Playing in autumn leaves with Martyn,' Phil's dad has inscribed at the top of the page, and below that, smaller and in parentheses: '(Phil says that he is the black shape amid the leaf pile and Martyn is the blue one).'
"You know, I'm really quite thankful for all these descriptions my parents wrote," Phil laughs, ghosting his fingers over the black and blue forms nestled among the fiery squiggles. "Because uh. I would never have known what this was supposed to be. It kinda just looks like... abstract expressionism or something." He glances up at Dan, his eyes twinkling.
Dan stares at him for a moment, then snatches the drawing out of his hands. "It looks like shit, is what it looks like, no offence," he says.
He feels bad almost immediately — not quite bad enough to take back what he said, perhaps, but bad enough so that he can't bring himself to look up and see the no-doubt hurt expression on Phil's face. So he just sits there, glowering down at the drawing, waiting for Phil to speak.
"Wow, Dan," is what Phil says at last, after what feels like an eternity. "You're, um. A pretty harsh critic, huh?" His voice sounds strange, like he's attempting to laugh but can't quite manage it.
Dan just shrugs, and Phil exhales shortly.
"Sorry, did I do something?" he asks. "Are you like— angry with me for some reason?"
"No. I'm not angry," Dan mutters. "I dunno."
A few moments pass in silence. Then Phil clears his throat. "Okay," he says. "Well, sorry I wasn't born with the artistic talents of Leonardo da Vinci or whatever you were apparently expecting." He pauses, then continues, more quietly, "Do you think we could be done with this box now? And just go back to the other stuff?"
"Fine, yeah. Here," says Dan, shoving the leaf pile drawing in Phil's general direction, not really caring when it crumples against Phil's arm. He lets go, and it falls to the ground. "Sorry," he mutters belatedly.
Silently, Phil picks up the drawing and smooths it out over his knee. Then he looks up at Dan. "Why are you being like this?" he asks.
"I don't know."
Phil frowns, obviously waiting for a better explanation, and Dan lowers his eyes.
"I just—" He hesitates, glaring down at his fingernails. "I guess... I just expected, like, if your parents actually saved all your art, that it would be like... really amazingly good, or something," he says at last.
Phil frowns slightly. "Well, I mean... they're my parents," he says, sounding almost apologetic. "Obviously they weren't gonna look at something I drew and be like, 'Oh, this is crap, he made her purple with four legs, let's bin it.' They're like... completely biased, you know? They probably did think it was all really good."
"Yeah," Dan says. He feels kind of numb. "I was just... surprised. That's all. I dunno."
Phil nods slowly, and there's still a sort of shadow lingering behind his eyes, some residual hurt or anger or disapproval or something, but he seems basically satisfied. "Look, we're probably both going a bit stir crazy up here," he offers. "How about we put away this stuff and get out of this attic, take a break; have some dinner or snacks or something."
"Okay," Dan says gratefully. "Yeah, food sounds good."
So they pack everything up, and head downstairs to eat.
And Dan tries to forget about the box of drawings. And he almost manages.
*
They sleep in Phil's old room that night, like they always do when they visit Phil's parents' house. It doesn't really feel like Phil's room anymore, not since Phil's mum redecorated a few years ago: The blue and green walls have been painted salmon, the bed replaced, the Buffy memorabilia taken down. But it still feels welcoming, and cosy, and as they lie in bed with the lights off, Dan is filled with a strange sense of comfort.
Phil is breathing evenly beside him, his hand settled drowsily on Dan's head.
"Phil?" Dan whispers into the darkness.
"Mmm," Phil murmurs, shifting slightly under the duvet. "What?"
"You asleep?"
"No, not yet. Almost."
"Okay," Dan says. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Erm. Phil?"
"What?" Phil asks, and this time he sits up slightly in bed, removing his fingers from Dan's hair in the process.
"I used to draw a lot," says Dan. "When I was little."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I—" For a moment, Dan feels weird, like he might start to cry, and he really wants to ask Phil to touch his hair again. But then the feeling passes, and he says, very evenly, "Yeah. I really liked to draw."
"And uh..." says Phil, "I'm guessing you were a lot more talented than I was?" His voice is teasing, but there is perhaps an undercurrent of bitterness there. "Always got the number of legs right?"
"I don't know," Dan replies. "My parents never saved any of it." Beside him, he feels Phil go perfectly still. He keeps talking. "Like, if I showed them something I drew, they'd sort of, you know, laugh and pat my head and stuff, and then they'd just..." He shrugs. "Throw it away. I mean, sometimes they kept it. For a while, you know. Put it on the fridge or whatever. But they always threw it away eventually."
"They— threw your drawings... in the bin?" Phil says haltingly, after a few moments. He sounds incredulous. "Like— in front of you?"
"Yeah."
"But what'd you— Like, as a kid, weren't you—" Phil pauses. "I- I dunno, that just seems really, like... discouraging?"
Dan laughs. "Well, I stopped drawing, so."
"Dan..." whispers Phil. "That's really sad."
"It's okay," Dan assures him, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't care. And I think my grandma kept some. Maybe."
"That's... still really sad," Phil says, softly.
"No, it's fine; it's not— It's not sad. It's just, like. A thing. I guess. I dunno. I only told you 'cause, like. I'm sorry I was such a dick earlier. I just— I dunno, seeing those drawings and stuff—"
He doesn't finish the thought, because can't quite bring himself to articulate, not even to himself, exactly what he'd been feeling up in the attic, surrounded by Phil's childhood drawings, each one carefully labelled and dated and packed away like some kind of precious fucking treasure.
But it's alright. He doesn't need to articulate it.
Phil curls toward him; takes his hand; kisses his collarbone, his shoulder, his lips. "Dan," he says gently, in between kisses. "It's fine."
And Dan cries a little, and kisses him back.
*
They lie there silently for a long time, nestled together in the dark, their arms around each other and their legs intertwined.
"You should draw again," Phil says eventually, breaking the silence.
Dan is nearly asleep. "Mmm," he mumbles. "I do draw, sometimes." He trails a finger down Phil's arm. "I drew my channel header. And I drew for my 'Draw My Life' video."
"I mean, like, proper drawings. Just for fun," says Phil. "Like, if you think you'd enjoy it, you should." He presses a kiss to Dan's hair. "I'd like to see."
And Dan kind of wants to just laugh and make a comment about being shit at everything related to art, but he's so tired, and Phil is so soft and warm beside him, and... it sounds sort of nice, the idea of drawing something for fun.
And so,
"Maybe," he says sleepily. "Yeah, maybe I will."
*