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August 10th, 2009
“Dan, dinner!” He hears his mother’s voice loud and clear from his bedroom.
This one time, when Dan was young — or, younger – he’d been startled out of listening to his favorite song by a neighborhood kid accidentally breaking one of the windows in his house with a ball. This feels like that.
Phil frowns, obviously not happy to be faced with the prospect of leaving his duck-herding story unfinished. Dan can tell that the disappointed look on his face is more concern than anything else. “D’you have to go?” Phil asks.
Dan looks at the clock above his doorway. It’s only six o’clock, earlier than they usually have dinner. But his dad is around this week – and maybe next week, and who knows how long before he gets bored again – so everything is different.
“Ugh, yeah,” Dan groans, “It sounds like I do.”
This is why he prefers to talk to Phil at night. To find a time that belongs just to them. But Phil is going on a trip with some uni friends early tomorrow, which means that he’s going to try to go to bed early – and that they won’t be able to talk tomorrow at all. It’s a bit pathetic, the way Dan can feel his heart groaning and creaking under the strain.
“DAN!! DINNER!!” his mother calls again. She’s on edge. He’s not doing much better. Of all the times that he wants Phil around. Then again, he quite literally always wants Phil around.
“COMING!!” he shouts back. Turning his attention back to Phil, he offers a weak, “Sorry.”
“No sorry,” says Phil, “Go eat. We’ll talk soon.”
“When?” Dan asks.
Phil hums. “Sunday?”
“Okay,” says Dan, “Okay.”
Right when he feels some of the life return to his body, that energy that he and Phil have, Phil leans in and kisses his monitor. Just gives it a little peck. Dan’s brain short circuits.
Is that his first time seeing Phil’s lips up close? Is that a normal thing to care about? Is he hallucinating? All of it? Is Phil a figment of his imagination, some character who escaped from a storybook?
Dan should do something. He should blush or smile or… kiss his monitor back? Instead, he sits there with his mouth a bit open like a fish. Phil definitely notices, judging by the way he winces.
“Oh, god. That was weird, wasn’t it?”
Dan is shaking his head before he even decides that he’s going to. “No,” he says, “No, no. It was… cute. Or, sweet, I mean. I, uh. I liked it.”
Weird thing to say. It’s not as if Phil actually kissed him. They’re not even in the same room. But you wouldn’t know it, not based on the way Dan’s flushed. He swears that his lips are tingling, as if that was an actual kiss, and a good one, too.
“Okay,” Phil says, visibly attempting to suppress a grin and failing miserably, “Well. I’ll let you go.”
Dan really really does not want him to. “Talk to you Sunday?”
“Talk to you Sunday.”
And then the screen goes dark, and Dan is stuck staring at his own fishy face. Fuck. He is blushing. Like, dramatically. You’d think he’s never spoken to another human being before. You’d think he’s never kissed anyone or had a crush or… whatever this is.
He can hear footsteps thundering up the stairs – his mother’s footsteps. He doesn’t move. Instead, he just lies down on his bed, pondering what exactly just happened. He’s got a weird little buzz going in the tips of his fingers. His heart is beating so fast it might be dancing. He feels… a bit like he has a headcold? It’s strange and wonderful, and unlike anything he’s ever felt.
He’s got the sense – maybe it’s narcissism – that hundreds of miles away, in his little green bedroom up North, Phil is feeling the same way.
October 19th, 2009
Phil’s heart has been in his throat since the moment he locked eyes with Dan on the platform at Manchester Piccadilly and yet, he is trying so hard to tread lightly. Phil is nervous enough. He can’t imagine how unsure he would feel if he were meeting Dan, whatever Dan is to him, while also being a teenager in a strange new town. Honestly, he thinks Dan is incredibly brave for even coming here at all.
Everything is weird. He feels like the world has tilted on its axis, but it’s almost as if it’s tilted to where it belongs. As if everything was just slightly off center until the moment he loosely wrapped his awkward, too long arms around Dan and said you made it way too softly, way too close to him, so close that he could smell his minty toothpaste.
Dan and Phil are virtually strangers. Even online, they’ve only known each other for a few months. That does not mesh at all with how Phil would remove his heart from his chest, give it to Dan, and trust Dan to hold onto it until he wants it back.
And still. He’s treading lightly.
Phil’s intense. He’s a romantic. He knows this, and he’s been smacked in the face a few times by the sad fact that most people just aren’t like that. There’s a tiny seed of doubt somewhere inside that tells him all sorts of things. That this is just a fun weekend to Dan. That they’ll never see each other again after Dan leaves. That he’s going to screw this all up.
He doesn’t want to scare Dan away.
The backs of his knuckles brush against Dan’s as Phil shows him around the streets of Manchester, but that doesn’t mean anything. Dan probably just swings his arms when he walks. It’s less easy to explain away what happens at the Apple Store.
The elevator doors slide shut. Immediately, Dan turns to plant a kiss on Phil’s cheek. The warmth that starts from the place Dan’s lips meet Phil’s cheek spreads throughout his body. You’d think no one’s ever kissed him before. Dan has to angle up a little bit to reach, which just makes Phil love it more. Love him more. Some people would tell him it’s way too soon for that, but those people have never been kissed by Dan Howell at the Apple Store, so really, Phil officially knows more than they do.
Dan clears his throat. He looks at Phil sideways, shy. Scared, even. “Sorry,” he mutters, “Just, uh. Cheekbones. It’s like you’ve got a giant target on your face.”
Phil laughs, a high, bubbly sound that Phil prays Dan doesn’t think is meant to mock him. He wants to say so many things. He wants to kiss Dan back, maybe on the lips this time. He’s thought about it more times than he can count.
Instead, he lets their fingers interlock. It doesn’t take much effort. They’re like magnets. And they stay like that until the elevator dings and the doors slide back open.
Phil makes sure to tweet out that picture they take together. He has a feeling he’s going to want it saved.
–
“I’m going to KILL you, Dan Howell!” Phil shouts from the opposite end of the couch.
Opposite end is actually generous. They’re sitting right next to each other, pressed side to side while the other half of the couch sits cold and lonely. The other side of the couch will survive. Dan is pretty sure that he won’t, if Phil moves even an inch away from him. He tries to ignore the way his stomach swoops when Phil says his full name. He’s never really appreciated how nice his name sounds until now.
“How are you going to kill me if you can’t even catch me?”
Phil hit a banana peel early on in the race. At some point, Dan lapped him. He’s in first place, and Phil is somewhere in tenth.
Phil makes a noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a scream. Then, the game is over.
“I swear, I’m not usually this bad,” Phil whines into the palms of his hands.
Dan laughs, a big, boisterous laugh that fills the whole room. “Okay, sure, buddy. You play MarioKart like old people fuck.”
Phil pounces on him. Shoves him so his back is to the couch. It’s typical horseplay but there’s something distinctly unfamiliar about the way Phil stays over him, propped up on his arms. Dan doesn’t move. How could he, when Phil is staring at him with those unlikely blue eyes? Dan charts their course as they glance down at his lips, then back up at his face again.
Do it. The words are on the tip of Dan’s tongue. He knows that Phil won’t cross that line until Dan asks him to. Somewhat inconvenient, considering that Dan feels like there’s a hand closing around his throat.
He’s happy that he’s here. He’d say that he’s got butterflies in his stomach, but he doesn’t like butterflies and he definitely likes this.
He also feels a bit like every law of the universe has been crushed under his feet. Like he’s doing something unforgivable, made only more unforgivable by the fact that he has no intention to stop.
So Phil has to kiss him. Because he doesn’t know how to ask.
But that’s not what happens. What happens is that the microwave goes off. Dan flinches at the noise, like he’s been caught.
“Oh,” Phil says in a monotone, disappointed voice, “Popcorn.”
Dan usually loves popcorn. He was the one who suggested they make popcorn. Right now, as Phil moves off him, depriving him of the warm weight that was just covering his body, Dan never wants to see another kernel is his goddamn life.
“Right.”
As Phil pads away to the kitchen, Dan draws his legs up on the couch so that he’s hugging his knees. He feels … a lot of things. Flustered. Happy. Sad. Scared. They all mix together into some fucked up frustration that takes hold in the empty cavern of his chest.
None of this is fair, and none of it makes sense.
If Phil was a girl, or if he was, they would have their tongues in each other’s mouths by now.
Dan huffs out a little laugh at the audacity of that thought.
“Wot?” Phil calls from the kitchen.
If Dan wasn’t already blushing, that would have done it. Sometimes he just sounds so Northern.
Dan follows him into the kitchen, where he’s struggling not to burn his fingertips on the edges of the popcorn bag. Dan takes it from him, sets it gently on the kitchen counter.
“Hi,” he says.
Phil smiles. “Hi.”
Dan fixes his stare on the grayish kitchen tile. “You know,” he mutters, “For a second there I thought you were going to kiss me.” Phil looks at Dan. “On the couch, I mean,” Dan elaborates as if there’s any other moment he could possibly be talking about.
Phil hums. “I thought about it. I wanted to. But…” He gestures to the bag.
“Of course. The popcorn.”
“Kind of a stupid thing to worry about, in hindsight,” says Phil. He’s turning red.
“No, no,” Dan teases, “Can’t kiss anyone if your apartment burns down.”
That makes Phil laugh. Dan thinks that making Phil laugh is one of his favorite things.
“Do you want me to kiss you now?”
Dan could probably get away with a nod, or even a nonchalant sort of yeah. Instead, he says, “Please,” like he’s desperate, and he thinks he just might be.
–
It’s hard for them to keep their hands off of each other after that. Phil has the idea to film the video, but he doesn’t seem particularly focused on the concept. To be fair, Dan is hardly complaining.
“Imagine my face without a nose.” Kiss, kiss.
“Possibly the scariest thing in the house.” Kiss, kiss, kiss.
“That’s so interesting Phil. I bet they’re all so glad they can see the diagram.” Kiss.
Dan would feel embarrassed, wandering into Phil’s house and clinging to him, except that Phil seems to really fucking like him. At least, that’s what Dan thinks he’s getting from the rosy blush spreading over Phil’s pale cheeks and down to his chest, where his checkered shirt is just a button or two open. The gorgeous, slightly crooked smile that takes up most of Phil’s face.
In truth, Dan doesn’t have that much experience with feeling liked. He’s felt wanted and tolerated and pitied, but this is something else entirely.
Here he is, in the AmazingPhil’s family home – he hasn’t thought of Phil by his screen name in months, but he emphasizes it for the sake of the point – getting kissed silly not despite the fact that he’s drawn cat whiskers on his face and is generally being strange as hell, but somehow because of it.
He doesn’t think about just how much of this video they – realistically, it’ll just be Phil – will have to cut out. Or the fact that this three minute video is taking them hours to film because they can only focus on the task at hand for seconds at a time.
He doesn’t even really think about who he is, where he’s coming from, or the fact that there’s a train that’ll take him right back there uncomfortably soon. None of that matters.
He’s been transported to a whole other universe where the only thing that exists is the sparkle in Phil’s pretty eyes, Phil’s arms around Dan’s waist and Dan’s hands cradling Phil’s face. The soft push and pull of their lips. He knows that he should be self-conscious of his shaking hands, the little noises punching their way out of his chest, but how could he be? He’s right where he belongs.
When Phil tackles Dan to the ground, kisses him again, then breaks away with dilated pupils and glossy lips, Dan thinks to himself, I wish I could stay here forever.
Except, apparently he doesn’t think it to himself. Apparently, he says it out loud.
And when Phil answers, “You can. I want you to.” God help him, Dan almost believes every word.
October 13th, 2025. Nearly sixteen years later.
Phil leans forward on their half-and-half bed and stops recording. The red light on the camera goes out. He turns his attention back to Dan, where it belongs.
Dan, for his part, has brought his knees up so he’s sitting criss-crossed, but he hasn’t moved otherwise. He’s not looking back at Phil; instead, he’s staring into the middle distance, somewhere in the direction of the camera but not quite at it.
It’s not a secret that they would have come out as a couple a long time ago if Dan had been comfortable with it. Of course, Phil had reservations of his own – mainly in terms of not being able to protect his own privacy – but it came mostly from Dan. That’s not a bad thing and it’s not his fault, but it does mean that Phil is paying close, close attention
Dan could call it right now. He could say, “Never mind, I’m not ready,” and Phil would delete the footage on the spot. He’d be heartbroken, again, but he would do it. Because it’s them: Dan and Phil against the world. Dan and Phil against anything.
He rests a hand on Dan’s knee. “Alright, Danny?”
When Dan turns toward him, there’s no fear, no shock or hesitation. Phil wonders where he’s seen Dan’s expression before, and then he remembers that meme of the dog basking in the sunlight. He giggles.
Dan laughs, too. “What?”
“Nothing,” says Phil, “Doesn’t matter. I just love you.”
Dan looks at Phil for a long moment, and Phil wonders what exactly he’s looking at that he hasn’t seen thousands of times before. He doesn’t ask.
Maybe Dan’s not seeing anything new. Maybe that’s the point.
There’s no way of knowing who leans in first. Dan and Phil sink into their first kiss as an out couple like they’re falling into bed at the end of a sixteen-year day. It doesn’t feel like a revelation anymore. It feels like coming home. That doesn’t stop them from dissolving into laughter as soon as they break apart, as in love and disbelieving as they were on that very first day.