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Arguments these days tend to go the same way, because Dan always gets scared when it's time to commit to something.
What if we change our minds, he’ll say, what if the show bombs, what if we decide halfway through this that we actually just want our own careers, for real this time, that this whole duo thing is just holding us back from what we each want to do on our own. It’ll be really awkward to have to keep up the act each night. Or even worse, what if it gets too tense between us to continue and we have to cancel, and then we have to deal with the fallout and disappointment from fans and the mess of all those expenses and logistics with the venues.
It's always the same anxieties, the same lame excuses, because they both know by now that neither one of them is going anywhere without the other. So, most of the time it ends there, with a reassuring hug and you’re just spiralling, it’ll be fun, you love performing. And then they go back to being Dan and Phil, dynamic duo, partners in crime and absolutely everything else, tripping over each other's feet in the blend of messy domesticity and breakneck-pace work in this chaotic lifestyle they've committed themselves to. Dan pushes it off, Phil represses it, and they move on. Comfortable and consistent routine by now.
Except tonight, something feels different. They go off script. Something inside the Pandora’s box of emotions in Phil’s mind tempts him just enough to crack the lid open.
“C’mon, Dan," he presses, staring at his partner sitting across the kitchen table from him, whose dark eyes are focused intently on his laptop screen. "We can’t keep putting this off, or we’re going to actually miss our chance. What is this really about?” His voice carries a hint of desperation that borders on whining, but he’s past the need for self respect by now.
Dan’s eyes flick up, and Phil can recognize the line forming between his eyebrows as genuine annoyance. The kind of annoyance that comes when Dan is actually, truly pissed off, not just miffed because Phil’s eaten his cereal without asking. It's the kind of annoyed that comes out where he absolutely doesn't want to fucking talk about it.
"Do you really want to do this again?” Dan shoots back, making no attempt to conceal the emotion in his voice.
“Well, no, but we kind of have to," Phil tries his best to keep his voice level, even, calm, “because you keep brushing me off every time we actually start getting somewhere."
Dan rolls his eyes, and slams his laptop shut, a bit too hard for Phil’s liking.
“Okay, let me ask you something, then, Philip Lester," Dan crosses his arms and leans forward in his chair, making painful eye contact. “Do you really want to do the tour?"
Phil blinks at him, processing the question in his mind.
“What?" he eventually turns out. Dan rolls his eyes again.
“Oh, come on, you can't seriously sit there and pretend you’re excited for this, that I’m the one holding us back,” his voice is bitter. “You hate being on display. You hate the stage, you hate doing press, you hate people touching you and talking to you and asking you questions you don't want to answer. You hate sleeping on the bus, you hate-” he pauses for a second, that way he does when he decides not to say what he's really thinking and comes up with a stupid replacement. "You hate waking up early, black coffee, hotel breakfast, the nonstop grind. Just admit it."
Phil presses his lips together, clenching his fists against his thighs beneath the table. He can't help but feel a little frustrated, because Dan’s doing the thing he always does, where he's trying to start something and then claims he's just pointing out the facts and Phil’s actually the one who always wants to argue. Fuckin’ law school dropout.
But what he’s saying isn’t the whole truth. Phil does hate being on display, and he does hate press, but he's used to it by now. They've been doing it for years, and it's not about his feelings, it's about the experience and opportunity and meeting their fans. He can get over himself if it means doing something this important, this meaningful for their lives and careers. And Phil would say all of that, but he knows his partner, and he's not feeling charitable enough tonight to give Dan the satisfaction of winding Phil up so that he can pretend he doesn't have feelings and he's just an objective observer.
It's not about any of that. It never is.
Phil takes a deep breath. He reaches within, finding the love and strength that softens his eyes, and summons his best sympathetic voice, the kind you use to calm a startled animal. Because Phil knows Dan. Dan is scared, and when Dan gets scared, Dan runs.
“I'm willing to put up with all that if it means living our dreams. You know that,” Phil soothes. “I can just tell something is bothering you, and I…” he swallows hard. "It scares me when you get like this. When you think you can't talk to me.”
Dan breaks his pointed eye contact and lets out a frustrated groan (because Phil’s not letting him run). He rubs his face roughly with his hands, then drags his fingers back, raking them through the soft curls in his hair that he's learning not to hate, breaking them up into frizzy waves, and then clumsily drops his forearms onto the table in front of him. He stares daggers down at the table.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbles.
“What do you mean?”
“Like that. Like you always do. Like you know what I’m thinking, because you don’t. You don’t know fucking anything.”
“Dan-”
"You wanna know what I'm really feeling, Phil? Really?” he pushes. His tone of voice is bordering on mean. Intentionally so. Pushing.
“Yes." Because Phil does want to know. Otherwise he has no choice but to assume.
“I'm feeling like maybe this was a mistake. This whole Dan and Phil thing. Us."
Phil’s heart drops. Dan says it so plainly, but he isn't looking at Phil, still boring holes into the table with his burning gaze.
The words are supposed to hurt. He's doing it on purpose. Phil knows this play by now. I should just move out, so we can stop distracting each other and actually do some work for once. Dan loves putting walls up, building a barbed wire fence around himself. When you don't let Dan run, Dan pushes you away. But knowing what he's doing doesn't make it hurt any less.
"Danny, that's not fair,” is all Phil can manage. His voice is distant, small, fragile. He sounds like a child.
"You know what's not fucking fair, Phil?” Dan shouts, startling Phil as he pushes himself away from the table and stands up. Now he’s looking at Phil. He has that expression that he only gets when he’s feeling like this: afraid, angry, his eyes glistening with the emotions he's been hiding away. Cornered.
Because Dan always thinks he has to protect everyone else from how he's feeling, and that's how they always end up back here.
“Dan, please.”
"What's not fair," he continues, ignoring Phil, “is having to lie about who we are on stage every night across the entire world. Acting like everything is fun and fine and normal and we're having a good time with our little show while this big fucking secret eats away at us from the inside. Making all the people we love all lie about us to save face. Pretending to be happy being best buddies and wasting money on separate hotel beds and being paranoid every time we brush hands and acting like it's fucking normal that everything we do gets picked apart and analyzed and ruined and destroyed because I'm just too fucking scared to be honest."
Dan’s voice breaks, the tears he's held back through their bickering over the past few weeks finally springing to life in his eyes. Because that's what this is all about.
He turns away from Phil, covering his mouth with his hand, shrinking his shoulders in on himself. Dan hates when people see him cry. He hates taking up space. He thinks his stature makes him look scary, especially when he's angry. Most of all, he hates when his partner has to comfort him because he feels like everything bad that's ever happened to the two of them is his fault for hiding who he is. For being who he is.
Dan says he doesn't believe in anything, he's not spiritual in any way, but he sure seems to believe in karmic punishment.
Phil can't stop himself from getting up, walking over to Dan, ready to wrap him up in his arms and hold him until he's too tired to cry anymore. It's second nature. He's done it before, he’ll do it again, he’ll do it a thousand more times if that's what Dan needs. Because Phil loves Dan. He loves him so much.
“Please, don’t," Dan chokes out between silenced sobs as Phil approaches him with open arms. “Don't."
Stay away from me. Leave me alone. Let me ache and suffer and die in peace, hidden away from the eyes of everyone who loves me so they don't ever have to worry or feel sorry for me.
His need to hide is something Dan has in common with housecats, his own faulty wiring persisting years after it’s overstayed its welcome, just like that instinct carried down genetic lines for thousands of years. Showing weakness makes you vulnerable, being in pain makes you a target. It's best to hide it away until you're back to normal. As if Dan and Phil have ever been normal.
Phil doesn’t want him to run away. So, he stops short of Dan, hands stupidly hanging by his side.
“Danny, just let me be here for you. Whatever you need, tell me, and I'll do it.” Useless, desperate words that Phil's probably said thousands of times by now.
Dan just shakes his head, and Phil understands. Because Dan hates asking for things. He hates being an inconvenience. He always has.
He doesn't resent Dan for it. God knows Dan’s had enough pain in his life to justify his fears. Phil just resents the invisible wall that he builds between them, because no matter how many reasons Phil has to love him, Dan doesn't think he deserves it.
“Just leave me the fuck alone," Dan whispers into his hand. There's no edge to it, no hatred or malice in his voice, at least not for Phil. Just fear. Primal, animalistic fear.
So Phil backs away, slowly, carefully, because he doesn't want Dan to run, and settles back in his seat at their shared table, watching the person he loves most in the world fall apart in front of him and feeling absolutely, positively useless.
Dan sniffs hard and roughly scrubs at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Eventually, he straightens up, and avoids eye contact with Phil as he silently, carefully plods his way to the kitchen. Phil hears a cupboard open and glass clinking, Dan rummaging through their cellarette. He watches, still feeling useless, as Dan stalks his way back to the lounge (bottle in hand), snatches the throw blanket off the sofa, and opens the door to the terrace.
“Please, don't worry about me," he murmurs, barely audible, body turned away from Phil, and steps out, closing the door behind him.
Phil holds it together as he stands up, walks down the corridor, and opens the door to the bedroom. He carefully takes his glasses off and sets them on the bedside table, then mechanically sits down on his side of the bed. Once he's settled, he takes a deep breath, and feels his heart shatter into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.
He flops over onto his side, twists to grab his pillow, and presses his face into it so he can scream in silence until fat, wet tears start to form in the corner of his eyes.
His chest aches.
Phil fucking hates everything and everyone that ever made Dan feel this way, that made it so he thinks he's broken and wrong and bad and deserves to feel hurt, that he can't live out his dreams or doesn't deserve to because of what he is, that he has to hide away because bravely being himself means that the whole world will reject him. But he can never hate Dan. Because it's not his fault, it's the entire horrible stupid cruel world that Phil tries so hard to love and trust and convince Dan that it's okay for them to exist in. This fucking world that only seems to punish him for his optimism.
Phil lets out bitter sob after bitter sob, until his gut clenches with nausea, his throat feels rough and scratchy, and he’s thoroughly worn himself out. It’s not cathartic, just painful.
He turns onto his back and rubs his sore eyes so he can stare up at the blurry impression of the ceiling in the bedroom they pretend doesn't exist in the flat they pretend they don't have.
Getting angry won't solve anything, crying won't solve anything. It's not the world's fault, it's not Dan's fault or his. It's not anyone's fault, really. It just is what it is. It's the life they've built, the bed of lies they've made that they now have to lay in. He knows this, he knows, he knows it all, but what else can he do? Here he is, the majestic lion hidden away and curled up in a cave of his own, scared and in pain and crying alone because as much as he hates to admit it, he doesn't like looking weak either. Guess there's part of him that still thinks he has to act like a man.
He coughs, trying to clear the horrible phlegmy feeling that lingers his throat and the budding headache that always seems to follow these bursts of emotion. The actual logical self-preserving part of him, not the instinct that wants him to hide so he can die alone in peace, tells him that he should get some paracetamol. That usually helps, or at least he likes to think it does. So, reluctantly, Phil pushes himself off of his back, grabs his glasses, and trudges through the corridor back out to the lounge.
He catches a glimpse of Dan on the terrace, back turned to the door. He's got the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a half-empty bottle of rosé in his hand, the kind that Phil always buys for them because he likes his drinks sweet and inoffensive.
Because when Dan gets scared like this, the thought of Phil comforts him.
Phil's not a narcissist for thinking that, Dan’s said it outright. Once on a much happier night than this, when they were younger and more naive and still scared but in a different way, cuddled up on Phil’s bed in Manchester, Dan had murmured it into the dark between them. For some reason, that memory doesn't feel all that comforting to Phil when he’s standing here on the other side of the glass.
He decides to leave Dan alone like he’d asked, even if every part of him is aching to go out there and hold him and kiss him until it's all over. Instead, he shuffles into the kitchen, makes himself a Ribena and pops out two tablets from the strip of painkillers. He stands at the counter as he swallows them, keeping his head tilted back and breathing in slowly through his nose. Deep, calming breaths that go in slow and come out even slower. The kind of breathing that Dan's therapist taught to him, and then Dan taught to Phil. Because they take care of each other like that.
Phil shakes that thought from his head, and turns his attention back to the glass by his hand. He takes a sip, slowly, feeling the ice against his lips and the condensation against his palm. He lets the sensation bring him back down to earth, into his body, so he can decide what to do next. Eventually, his brain clarifies enough to form a productive thought. It tells him to do what he always does when he's feeling low and missing Dan.
He carefully retreats to the bedroom with his drink and laptop, and props his pillow up against his back so he can sit comfortably. He sips as he scrolls through his own channel, past years of him sitting on his bed alone and talking to the camera, until he gets to what he wants. He clicks on the thumbnail, and lets it play.
“Why do you always make cat whiskers on your face?” Dan of the past asks.
He sets his glass down on the bedside table. It always kind of hurts to watch these videos, but it's a bittersweet hurt that Phil can't stop himself from craving. He can't help his fondness for the boy he fell in love with. He lets himself have this.
Back then, it wasn’t easy, but it was all a lot simpler. There weren't as many people watching. It was nice, so nice, to be with a boy who actually seemed to care about him, when Phil had almost felt like giving up after one too many failed attempts at finding true love in university. Dan was fun and sweet and silly, and liked most of the same things Phil did. Even when it came to the things they didn't have in common, they would never mind listening to the other ramble on for hours, because, well, it was a part of them, and they wanted to know and love every part of each other. They were just so compatible, in so many ways. They got each other like nobody else in the world had, and nobody ever would.
Dan's words echo in Phil’s mind.
I'm feeling like maybe this was a mistake. This whole Dan and Phil thing. Us.
Phil knows he didn't mean it. Dan was just trying to provoke Phil, to get him to argue and yell and be mad and hurt enough that Dan can feel unwanted enough to justify his leaving. So he can stop feeling like a burden. So he can stop feeling like he's holding Phil back.
“If you came with a warning label, what would it say?” Dan's voice asks from his laptop.
Phil slams it shut, in the same way that Dan does when trying to get a rise out of him. A split second of audio (“Danger!”) lingers as he shoves the laptop away from him. He feels like he's going to be sick, or maybe just cry again. He crosses his arms over his chest, and squeezes his eyes shut, not looking forward to either outcome. Deep breath. Slowly in, then slowly out.
There's the smallest, tiniest piece of Phil (the frightened, injured cat that curls up in its cave alone) that would be okay with letting go. Seeing where the wind takes them after setting out their own. But the overwhelming majority of Phil, the pillar at the very core of his being, says no.
How could he want anybody else but the boy he fell in love with all those years ago? How could he want anything but to spend the rest of his life with his beautiful and intelligent and sweet Dan? How could he want anything but to see that smile every morning when he wakes up, until they both grow old and pass (peacefully in their sleep, at the exact same time, because he doesn't want to spend a minute without his Dan)? How could his Dan ever think, ever begin to believe that Phil could get on without him?
Phil knows Dan: the real Dan, past the rough exterior, the snarky face he puts on to the world, his edgy jokes and his dark clothing that he uses to shield himself (to keep people from getting too close). Soft and sweet, and scared and vulnerable, aching with the need to be loved and understood and cared for and accepted and safe. Things he’s always been afraid to ask for, because if you never ask for anything, you can never be disappointed. But Phil doesn’t intend to disappoint. He’s never wanted anything more than to give him all those things, every day, forever.
How could Dan even think of taking that from him?
He must have started crying again at some point, because his face is wet with tears. His instincts tell him it sucks, it's gross, he hates it. But if he's brave enough to challenge the dying cat in his soul, maybe he could just let himself think, for just a moment, that it's not so bad to cry. Maybe he needs this. Maybe it's okay to let the hurt wash over him and through him, so he won't have to carry it anymore. Maybe it wouldn't even be so bad to cry with someone else.
Misery loves company.
He takes another deep breath, and convinces himself to be brave enough to leave the cave. He gets up, feeling unsteady, feeling so afraid, but so determined to make this work. Everything. Dan and Phil. Us. They'll make it all work through everything, like they always have.
Dan and Phil versus the world.
He trudges through the flat until he stands at the door to the terrace, where Dan is still facing away, staring wistfully out at the London skyline. He looks beautiful, even curled up like this, all dark and lit around the edges. Phil, cowardly lion he is, summons all of his bravery and carefully slides open the door.
“Danny?” he calls out, softly as he can with the after effects of tears still lingering in his voice. Dan shifts slightly at the sound of his voice, straightening up. “May I join you?”
Dan turns enough that Phil can see him in profile, but not enough to face him directly. He sniffs hard, and nods silently.
Phil steps out, closing the door behind him, and makes his way over to his partner. He sits down, slowly, carefully, still a bit afraid that Dan will run off if he makes too loud a noise or too sudden a movement. Dan finally turns to face him, and it’s clear he hasn’t stopped crying since they fought. Even when his eyes are puffy and his nose is red and tear tracks run down his cheeks, he looks beautiful. Dan’s always been a pretty crier. Phil looks like a rat.
Dan lifts his arm, gesturing for Phil to cozy up with him under the blanket.
“‘S’cold out here,” he says. Phil obliges him, shuffling closer and letting Dan wrap an arm around him. Phil rests his head on Dan’s shoulder, and they lean into each other, because they’re hidden here, safe, allowed to touch. They always fit together perfectly, they always match. He presses a kiss to the side of Dan’s face, just below his cheek, and looks up at his best friend’s sad, puppy dog eyes.
“You alright?” Phil asks, even though he knows the answer.
Dan breathes out a laugh, that laugh he does that’s a single short burst, but there’s an air of melancholy to it now, because nothing about this is funny. He shakes his head slightly, not enough to disturb Phil, and sniffles.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be alright,” he says plainly, like it’s just a fact that he and Phil both have to accept. Phil’s never accepted that, though. He doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Dan’s waist and cuddles closer to him. Dan puts down the bottle in his other hand (it’s empty now anyways) and pulls Phil in tight, kisses the top of his head. He’s warm, and soft, and all Phil’s. His Dan. He wishes he could hold his Dan like this all the time, forever.
“I’m sorry I made you cry,” Dan whispers into Phil’s hair.
“You didn’t make me cry.”
“You can’t lie to me. I know you like the back of my hand.”
Phil sighs, because he knows what Dan’s thinking. He can hear the effects of the alcohol on the edge of Dan’s words.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Useless words.
“Yeah, it was,” Dan says, but what he means is it’s okay if you hate me, I’m a bad friend, you deserve someone better, just leave me here, it’s okay, I’ll understand. Phil’s heard it all before, the broken record that is Dan’s self image. As jealous as he can be, as much as he loves Phil in his own private way, he always seems ready for Phil to walk away from him at any time. Maybe that’s why he keeps building the wall, so he won’t have to watch Phil when he goes.
“You can’t scare me away, Danny. I know you.”
Dan doesn’t say anything back, so Phil just holds him. He sits with him and runs his hands over the curve of Dan’s spine, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing for a minute or two. Then Dan’s breath hitches, and his shoulders tighten up under Phil’s fingers.
“Phil, I’m such a terrible person,” Dan breathes out, a painful-sounding sob ripping through his body. His head drops down and he buries his face in Phil’s shoulder, wine-soaked voice barely audible against the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know why you put up with me. I’m so mean.”
I’m just holding you back. It's not fair to you.
When Dan can't push anymore, he gives you an out. He shows you the door, opens it, and steps to the side.
Phil feels his eyes burning again, his shattered heart aching with the effort of keeping his tears at bay. Dan always thinks Phil is ready to walk out the door, but when he thinks Phil wants to walk away, what he really wants is to hold on tight and never let go. And Phil will do it. He’ll do it a thousand times over, as many times as he needs. He’ll do anything if it means he gets one more minute with his Dan.
“You know that’s not true.” Phil squeezes his arms around Dan.
“No, it is,” Dan whimpers, “I’m so awful. I’m so fucking complicated. You deserve someone better than me.”
I’m sorry I can't just be normal. I’m sorry you have to hide because of me. I’d understand if you didn’t want me.
Dan had once told Phil about a lonely night he had as a teenager. Everything had seemed so hopeless, and Dan had thought that nothing could ever get better. He was alone then, felt that nobody would ever actually want to be his friend, that nobody would ever love him. He’d thought he deserved that fate, because he was completely broken, a horrible and corrupted thing that couldn’t be saved.
He’d thought there was no other way out.
Dan had failed in what he tried to do, of course. He’d said that he was glad he did, because if he had succeeded that night, he never would have met Phil. He never would have met someone who so wholly, truthfully believed that being gay was a good thing, and that it was a good thing Dan was gay, too.
Dan thinks Phil saved him, but he doesn’t think about all the ways he’s saved Phil, too. Dan’s changed his life and opened up his world in a thousand ways Phil can never repay, that he can never articulate because he’s just not good with his words the way Dan is, forever feeling clumsy and inadequate, but never feeling undeserving of Dan’s love.
“I don’t want anybody else, Danny. I want you. I’ve always just wanted you,” he murmurs, feeling the tears start to creep back into his throat.
Dan lets out a shaky sob.
“I want you, too.”
The thought rises back to Phil’s head, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to cry with someone else. So, he does. Because that’s what this is all about.
He lets himself cry into Dan’s shoulder as Dan does into his, and they hold onto each other on their terrace under the starlit sky. It feels truly cathartic this time, and wholly pathetic, and entirely necessary.
On another night, years ago, they’d sat under the moon and stars in the back garden of Phil’s childhood home. They’d held each other, just like this, because Dan always hated the part of their visits right before he went home. I just want to stay with you forever. Because Phil wasn’t just a boyfriend to him then, but a home; the one person in the world that Dan could be completely himself with. What Dan still didn’t know, or more accurately chose not to believe, was that he was the same thing to Phil.
Dan and Phil against the world.
Eventually, the tears slow to a stop. They hold each other tighter still for just a bit longer, until Dan sniffs and leans away and says something about how gross he must look. Phil just smiles and shakes his head because he’s always been so oblivious to all the most beautiful parts of himself. They sit pressed together, always inseparable, looking up at the faint blinking stars in the hazy London sky.
“I’ll do the tour,” Dan breathes into the night air, his scratchy voice now slightly less slurred than before. “I’m sorry for making this all so complicated.”
“Tour’s the least of my worries right now,” Phil says, gently running a hand over Dan’s back, “and you don’t have to keep apologizing for this. You know I understand.” Dan just sniffs and shrugs.
“Doesn’t make it suck any less for you.”
Phil resists the urge to roll his eyes, because it’s not Dan that he’s annoyed at.
“Then I forgive you,” Phil relents. “Will that satisfy you?”
Dan shakes his head. “I’m never satisfied.”
“Yeah, I know.” Phil smirks. Dan gives him a shove and smiles, a real smile, for the first time that night.
“Pfft, shut up,” he says fondly, “You think you’re so funny.”
A content silence lingers between them for a moment, but Phil still isn’t satisfied, not until he says what he’s been thinking.
“Danny, you know I love you no matter what, alright? I’m not going anywhere, so stop trying to scare me off.”
Dan lets out a low sigh, and nods.
“I love you, too.”