Work Text:
–
Everything you see out here will die
Oh, it's a matter of time
Till it's fields of ice and reflector lights
Till it's our town
–
It was strange, really, being there, static almost.
Bugs sang along to some cacophony of cars and sirens, electricity poles and the mailman ringing doorbells. Everything sat exactly where it should be. Yet his heart felt out of place, like the first cicada to come out of its shell, waiting to scream at full volume, looking for meaning or something else inside its own existence, listening to the whispers, the constant rattle of the trees. Not wrong, just new, or as old as the whole universe.
If Dan could be as honest with himself as he promised the new era granted, he would say he felt out of place, lost in a thousand feet of deep ocean but, at the same time, completely right and stable as the ground beneath his feet. It was beautiful, really. The breeze coasting through his face, the smell of grass and sweat, the loud noises of the city drowning in with the bugs symphoning along. It was meant to be, honestly; just as wrong as it felt, it was meant to be.
He watched as a single leaf detached itself from the tree above, tumbling in slow, erratic circles before settling on the sun-bleached cushion, thrown out and forgotten some summer night, lives ago, when he used to breathe in the weight of the world. It was the end of August now, that liminal space where the heat still clung to the skin but the light had begun to turn gold and tired. Soon, the quiet would change, the air would sharpen, and this version of him would become another ghost in the rafters of the house, wandering around memories in the garden, his garden.
He wondered if the transition would be as seamless as the changing seasons, or if he would always carry this splinter of displacement, a reminder that he had finally learned how to breathe just as the atmosphere began to thin but every breath was still clouded with smoke even after all those years. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than wherever he had been before, better than what he found himself willing to admit he was worthy of.
For now, he simply closed his eyes, letting the vibration of the world settle in. It wasn't unlike him, really, being this melancholic, completely still as the world rustled distantly, but he couldn't help smiling lightly, hearing the usual and oh-so-rehearsed thumping of the heart that sat beside his, so distant yet so close to his chest, like a part of his own, and it was beautiful, truly beautiful.
-You're thinking too loud,- the sluggish but endeared voice he knew just as well as his own exclaimed from somewhere below him, laying on the grass, the atrocious yellow towel framing his face like something painters would be put in history books for, absolutely beautiful. -And you're stealing my sunshine-
Phil, always his in the strangest of ways, was looking up from where he lay, book in hand, soft and glowing like he was meant to be, and completely his in every sense of the word. In his own strange and twisted ways, Dan always imagined the day he would pack his bags and leave, too burned out by the shadow his partner cast, too overwhelmed by his busy mind, too scared of missing something greater than what he got assigned by the great destiny he so fiercely believed in.
But he never did.
Just like the bugs returned every season despite the pollution, just like the sun returned after every storm, after each and every one of their most difficult times, he returned. Always a constant. Always his.
-Come here, dickhead, lay down with me, get out of your head.- He sounded amused but oh so familiar with the way his lover pursed his lips, like he was looking for all the answers to the world, for the meaning of life itself. Dan couldn't do more than laugh lightly and give in to every wish of his personal heaven, even if it meant having fresh-cut grass stabbing at his neck in an uncomfortable rhythm lined perfectly with each of his breaths in a promise of a nasty rash later.
But it was worth it.
- You know the world is ending, right?- he breathed out, trying to make sense of the mess floating around his core, like an incessant ghost. -Politics are shit and there's wars everywhere and another fucking pandemic somewhere in the sea because some fucking rich person got into a fucking hobby again and-
-Yeah, you did a whole show about it, you know? I’ve watched it- Phil cut him off mid-thought. Having dealt with his bullshit for so long was a gift; he could sense the spiral coming miles away. Maybe that was the reason he declared a screen-free evening and went outside, not exactly inviting Dan over but knowing him enough to know that he would eventually give the moaning a break and join him.
-You didn't let me finish. I was about to say that things are pretty shit right now, but I don't mind this, you know? Us here, with the world out there, knowing us. - He exhaled quietly, gathering the weight of those words again.
Phil was quiet for a moment after that, the kind of silence that was full, stretched thin between them, knowing exactly what it meant without needing any explanation, carrying a decade of scars scattered between the two beating chests laid on the grass over the sound of the cicadas.
Somewhere down the street a dog barked once, offended by something invisible. A car door slammed shut. Their neighbors danced around the kitchen like some fairytale they would never have. The leaves creaked with the wind and the world kept moving.
Dan watched a cloud drift lazily across the sun. For a second, the warmth disappeared from his skin and the world cooled around the edges. He toyed with the idea of letting his mind slip away, letting the darkness that never truly left take over, letting the doubt creep its way around his heart.
-I know,- Phil breathed eventually, his eyes hiding the depths of the sea he had worn around since birth, his voice almost a whisper, just breaking above the noise of the city. It was infuriating how simple he made things sound.
-No, you don't,- said Dan, trapped somewhere between disbelief and the credence years of sharing their deepest fears had provided.
-I do.- Said simply. Dan turned his head enough to see him.
Phil rested with his eyes open, book in hand like the promise of a lifeline, though it lay open against his chest now, forgotten halfway through whatever chapter he had been reading -or pretending to read- as an excuse to lay down in the last of the August breeze. God knew he was way past caring about novels and fantasy worlds.
-You spend so much time preparing for disasters that you forget to notice when one doesn't happen. I know your mind laddie.- Dan groaned immediately, shame creeping its way to his cheeks, and he basked in it for a second, feeling cold fingers probe at the usual red spot next to his chin.
-Jesus Christ.- He laughed, amused and wet, somehow closer to a sob trapped in his throat than a proper laugh.
-What?- Phil, now with his hand caressing lovingly at the side of his neck, pressed between guilt and humor after his lover's silence, whispered. No volume louder was needed. He knew he was heard, his voice amplified by whatever feeling tied them together after all those years.
-That's exactly the kind of thing people put on mugs.- Dan let the laugh shake his ribs, tearing something buried deep. -Or those corny images your mom sends us on the family group on WhatsApp.-
Phil laughed, bright and easy, and there was no sweeter sound in the entire world. No, not to him, not at that moment.
-It is not.- He punctuated the statement with a light hit to Dan's shoulder.
-It absolutely is!- He laughed, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of ash from a fire someone had started somewhere. The smoke curled through the neighborhood, mixing with freshly cut grass, Phil's sweet body wash, and summer asphalt. The familiar smell settled somewhere deep in Dan's chest.
The world wasn't ending today.
Maybe it would tomorrow.
Maybe next week.
Maybe in ten years.
The headlines would keep popping up. Politicians would keep lying. People would keep finding new and inventive ways to disappoint and hurt each other, hunting one another for sport while children died in famine and billionaires watched the stars from yachts. The ocean would boil over. The forests would burn from some idiot's gender-reveal fireworks. Someone, somewhere, would always be hurting, and the weight of the world would always be buried deep in his bones, the same way it always had been, the curse bestowed upon him with his first cry.
Yet here he was.
Phil beside him, stealing entire chapters without turning a page, creating universes within the blue of his eyes and disarming entire armies with his sweeter-than-life laugh.
Here the cicadas sang themselves hoarse in the trees, looking for the one meaning for their lives. Here the grass itched against the back of his neck and the sun lingered stubbornly above the ever-present London fog.
For the first time in a long while, Dan allowed himself to think that maybe happiness wasn't supposed to be permanent. Maybe it wasn't some destination he'd missed, always so busy looking for new ways to hide who he was from every pair of eyes that perceived him. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't on the wrong train going one hundred miles per hour after all.
Maybe it was this.
An ordinary August afternoon, a yellow towel so ugly it bordered on offensive, and one that he had no recollection of ever buying, a half-read book, a heartbeat beside his own. The whole world touching him with the very tip of its fingers, moving in the slowest of manners, like time itself was theirs.
Something small enough to fit in his hands and large enough to carry him through another season, another storm, another hot day, here in his garden, with all the bugs crawling around and having secret wars over nothing but instinct and survival, no politics or dreams of gluttony and greed moving them. Beside him, Phil reached over without looking and tangled their fingers together.
Like muscle memory.
Like gravity.
Like coming home.
Under the fading afternoon sun, Dan let himself count the things that were real, like clockwork or like the usual state he had trained himself into after years of dealing with the inexplicable horrors of his own mind. The rough blades of grass caught between his fingers. The weight of Phil's hand tangled with his own. The distant hum of traffic moving somewhere beyond the trees, A plane carving a white scar through the sky on its way to somewhere else that wasn't the confinement of his garden.
The world kept insisting on existing around him, stubborn and ordinary, like it always did, like it always would.
He wondered how many moments like this had slipped through his hands over the years, lost to worry before they ever had the chance to become memories. How many sunsets had ended unnoticed while he stared at screens, reading headlines that would be forgotten by next month. How many summers had dissolved into autumn while he prepared himself for disasters that never arrived, for the day someone would finally break into their secret and spoil, for the last time, every ounce of security he had fought with sharp claws and teeth to defend. How many airports, hotels, bars, convention tables, and meetings had been drowned in fear of the eyes pursuing him and his big secret.
The thought should have made him sad.
Instead, strangely, it didn't.
Maybe that was growing older, not becoming wiser or braver or more certain. That, he knew for sure, he wasn't. He was just as scared of butterflies and staying still as he had been at seventeen but now he was learning that most days weren't battles to survive but places to inhabit. Learning that peace rarely announced itself. It arrived quietly, disguised as an ugly towel, a half-read book, and the person who knew every ugly corner of his mind and stayed anyway, with or without the world's consent.
The sun slipped free from behind the clouds once more, warm and golden against his face, bringing into focus the freckles that adorned his skin, the lines that displayed his age, the love and laughter but also the worry trapped between each and every one of them, like a map promising that everything would be alright. Somewhere above them, the leaves rattled softly, already rehearsing for autumn.
Soon enough, the garden would brown at the edges, overgrown with weeds and the last of the wild, spiky flowers, the cicadas would disappear into the earth again, the evenings would arrive earlier and earlier until summer became another thing they talked about in the past tense, dreaming about a getaway to a warm beach hidden somewhere in the world.
But that was alright.
For once, he didn't feel the need to hold the season hostage, It could leave when it was ready.
He would still be here.
They would still be here.
But most of all, Phil - his Phil- would be there.
They could be like this, lying on the grass, pretending that this excuse for a sunny day was the most perfect place to be and it was. Right at this moment, it was.
Because the weight of the world could wait for a while.
Just for now.
Just while they basked in the sun in his garden.
Their garden.
The one they built with stepping stones full of love and fear, like a sanctuary for everything they had gone through, together but oh so alone in every sense of the word. With the cushions forgotten from summers ago and bleached by the sun. Back when the plague was real, when Phil made lists to drown his worries about Dan dealing with the world alone.
But it was their garden.
In the home they made with every decision and press of buttons, with every argument and sob shared between whispers and promises of better days, holding hands and breaths in secret, pushing their feelings away and their beds together, long before either of them really knew what those promises meant, what that love meant.
And maybe that was enough.
Not forever.
Not for always.
Not in the grand scheme of a universe that swallowed stars whole and forgot their names but enough for an August afternoon, enough for two people stretched out beneath a tired sky, listening to the cicadas sing themselves breathless.
Enough to make the ending of summer feel a little less like an ending at all.
–
Late August angst and a pointless night
Oh, and the feeling of being alive
For the first time
In a long time
–