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Dan doesn’t even remember being conscious of it, the first time. He always climbs over Phil like he’s a jungle gym, always ends up sprawled in his lap or on the floor by his feet or just – wherever he stutters to a stop. It’s not something he thinks through any more.
“You watching?” Phil mumbles. His fingertips scratch through the hair at the crown of Dan’s head, idle. His hand’s heavy when he lets it rest for a moment.
Dan doesn’t really have an explanation for why his face tipped into Phil’s thigh, at some point. He doesn’t have an explanation for why his eyes are closed. He doesn’t have an explanation for a lot of things.
“No,” he says, soft like it’s an effort.
“Comfy?” Phil asks. Dan feels him wiggle, but he’s careful to keep the hand on Dan’s head, not jar him out of his spot.
Dan shrugs.
--
Phil’s ignoring him again.
Or – not ignoring him. And not again. He’s not supposed to think about it like that.
Maybe the fact that he’s not supposed to doesn’t really matter.
Regardless. Anyways.
Phil’s focused. That’s what it is. He’s working. He’s staring down at his laptop with a frown, doing – probably whatever it is that Dan isn’t doing. He can’t really remember what that was now.
He got the laundry done, at some point. Ordered the Tesco and then made Phil unpack it because he was – somewhere. That’s another gap in the day that he’s trying not to think about.
The bed had been boring. Standing at the window had been boring. Food had been tasteless, which usually means the bed would be nice, or at least not viscerally infuriatingly itchy, but – it wasn’t, so. He doesn’t get it.
He scratches his nose. He’s not sure if it itches or if he’s just fiddling. He stares at Phil’s face. He doesn’t think he’s supposed to stare at Phil’s face.
Phil’s still curled up in his spot, exactly where he was a minute ago when Dan zoned out for the eighty-ninth time. His face is all stiff with focus. Dan has half a mind to go and shove his way into his space, press a kiss to his jaw and tuck his knees in close and see what happens.
It’s just – it’s just.
There’s that little stutter in his head, that little voice that whispers you’re being a pest. Usually Phil is patient with him, but – it’s patience. That fucking nasty word. It’s not happiness, or joy, or want, or any of the good words. It’s just patience that lets Dan act like this, lets him act unruly and frustrating at the worst possible moment.
He’s not meant to sink into that dark goo. He’s not meant to bother Phil, either, even if Phil always says that he doesn’t mind, lying through his fucking teeth to keep Dan from going off the rails.
What am I allowed to do, he wants to ask, but – the answer is probably the dishes, so he doesn’t.
He’s not really sure why he ends up where he does.
The lounge isn’t that big, doesn’t take more than a few steps to cross. Phil’s eyes flicker up to watch him for a moment, tracking while Dan comes closer and then sinks to his knees.
“Um,” Phil says, eloquent.
“Uh?”
“I’m sort of – typing?”
His focus is all on Dan, now, studying him like he’s a puzzle that Phil can’t quite sort out the edges to.
“Oh, I.” Dan’s wavering, now that he’s – on his knees in front of his boyfriend, which probably should have pinged some sort of alarm in his head that obviously didn’t get any message about all this. “You can type?”
“Yeah?”
He thinks Phil’s asking a question. He’s not really sure what the question part is.
“Can I just –” he shuffles closer, looking down so he doesn’t have to see how Phil’s frowning still. His head tips towards Phil’s thigh.
Phil’s still stiff and uncertain for a moment, not typing or touching Dan’s hair or anything, but – there’s something nice about it. Phil’s dumb old joggers are soft against his face. There’s still light coming in at the edge of his vision, if he opens his eyes, but it’s dulled and blurry.
He breathes in. He breathes out.
It’s like the weird furious lightness in his chest becomes something real and solid again, settling in one spot instead of darting manically from one thing to the next.
Phil’s hand lands on his head for a moment, awkwardly patting like he’s not sure what to do. Then he’s back to typing. The little clatter turns into white noise. Every once in a while he hums under his breath, or asks some inane question like “blue or glitter?” and then doesn’t wait for Dan to answer. Sometimes his fingers end up in Dan’s hair again, when he’s playing something back.
It’s nice.
He’s not really sure how long they stay there.
“Hey,” Phil says, quiet. His fingers tug a bit at a curl. He does that funny thing where it’s like he mis-aims for a moment, lets it slip through his fingers even when he’s trying to pull on it.
Dan’s legs fucking ache. His neck feels weird when he finally raises his head, like he’s been there longer than a human body was built to be.
“Bed?”
“Leaving?” Dan asks, squinting like he’s a mole that’s never seen the light of day before.
“Yeah,” Phil says. He has his focused face on again. “Like, to a human bed. Like where humans sleep? Horizontally. They sleep, uh, laying down, on a – like on a large pillow. You wanna try it?”
--
It’s not a thing. Or it is a thing, but – there’s no explanation for it.
Kneeling, he keeps googling. Kneeling boyfriend? Sitting? Face on leg?
So far he’s read a bunch of Wikipedia articles about religion, and body language, and some fanfiction he found that didn’t make much sense because it was just about a bunch of people he’d never heard of trying to fuck each other, and some pictures of butts. Lots of pictures of butts, really.
“Anything?” Phil asks, the nine thousandth time he finds Dan staring at a Wikipedia page about niche aspects of Catholicism.
“It’s like a horny thing? Uh, the thing, not Catholics.”
“Is it like cockwarming?”
Dan blinks. He thinks his face is probably red. There’s something about the abrupt way that Phil talks about sex that’s always half funny and half startling and half hot, even now. “I… what?”
“Like, you know. Like you just have to sit there?”
“I don’t know,” Dan says. “I guess?”
“You could put my dick in your mouth, I guess,” Phil says. His expression doesn’t betray any particular interest in the idea, which – bewildering. Dan’s just now remembering that they’re not the same person, even if it feels like it sometimes. “Like an ice lolly.”
“Is this hot to you?”
Phil shrugs. “Ice lollies?” he asks, idle. He’s got that weird bouncy ball he bought at the shop in his hands already, eyes crossing while he tries to focus on it as he tosses it between his hands. It’s like he doesn’t even know what his own mouth says sometimes.
“Well,” Dan starts, trying a completely different track since that one was a bust. “I don’t think I’m horny about it, so.”
“Okay.”
“Unless you want it to be, like, a sex thing?” he tries, since – it’s not really clear what Phil wants out of this. Maybe he should find that out.
“What’s it feel like?” Phil says, like he didn’t hear that part. He’s exhausting.
Dan – doesn’t even know the answer to that, either. “It’s like. You know when. Like. You know when you fall asleep in a pool floatie?”
“No. I don’t like drowning.”
Dan scowls at him. “I don’t like drowning either. And I didn’t drown, anyways. Why are you not following me on this?”
“Get a better metaphor,” Phil grumbles.
Dan flicks his cheek. He thinks about it some more.
“Remember when you were all mad about that thing so then we had to fuck for like, a million years before you would go to sleep?”
Phil blinks at him. Dan finds it a little satisfying to throw him off.
“So it is a sex thing?” he finally demands, once he’s finished processing.
“No. I mean? I don’t know. No, it’s, no? It’s the falling asleep part.”
“So your comparison,” Phil starts, in that voice that definitely means that Dan is about to get mocked for something that isn’t even that funny, “is that it’s like fucking because sometimes we fall asleep after. And your thing is like that because you also fall asleep?”
Dan huffs. “You’re literally the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”
--
Mostly they don’t talk about it.
It, whatever the fuck that is. It gets slipped into the special pile, next to Dan’s weird stories and their entire sex life and the way that Dan goes completely off the rails, sometimes, devolves into a shaking little mess with no warning.
It’s – something, though. Something to do. Something to try that might make some kind of a difference.
Phil doesn’t mention it for ages, even when they’ve talked about it in other contexts. He lets Dan sink to his knees by the sofa, right after dinner, or while they’re watching a movie, or when they’re trying to nap, or while Phil’s frantically working to keep them afloat. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t worry much anymore that he’s not playing his part correctly.
Dan doesn’t need much from him, anyways. He just needs Phil to be there. He can take care of himself, as long as – as long as his boyfriend is willing to sit there and scratch his hair and make sure he looks up long enough to unkink his stupid spine.
There’s just – the time that gets filed away as That Time.
“Fuck,” Phil says, under his breath, in that voice that means that Dan’s not meant to be listening. Or Phil thinks he’s too far gone to notice. Whichever.
“I just. I just – it’s like – I just? And then – but –” Dan’s babbling. His ribs hurt from just trying to breathe, which seems – altogether stupid. He had a water bottle that he was meant to be drinking a moment ago, but now that’s on the floor somewhere. “But I just can’t – Phil. Phil?”
“I –” Phil starts, and then Dan’s off again, one word after the other like they’re just tumbling out.
Dan knows there’s a thought in there, something sensible, but he cannot figure out for the life of him how to get it into Phil’s ears in a way that makes any sense. “It’s just like they never – they never – and I can’t – and – ugh, god. Fuck. I just?”
He feels a little tap on his shoulder, one-two-three. Phil’s eyeing him, wide-eyed and nervous. “Floor.”
Dan gapes back. “Floor?”
“Um,” he says. “Like.” He very slowly sits on the sofa, careful like he’s trying not to spook an animal or something. Phil’s not even good at that. “Floor?”
Dan’s just – hovering over him for a moment, totally lost. He doesn’t really know if he wants to do that, but Phil’s staring at him intensely, tugging a little at the wrist that’s pinned between his fingers, so –
“Thanks,” Phil says, softer, once Dan’s sinking. Maybe he lets his forehead land on Phil’s thigh with slightly too much force, but whatever.
“Whatever,” Dan says. Simple. One fucking word. He can do that.
“Thanks,” Phil repeats.
Phil’s voice has lost that desperation that it gets when he’s just trying to break through Dan’s head. He seems more okay like this. Maybe he sees something in Dan, or maybe it’s just – easier for him. Dan doesn’t know.
“I’m not supposed to talk, right?” Dan mumbles. He twists his hands together, tries to keep his eyes closed because that’s the part that works, he thinks.
“I don’t think so,” Phil says. He doesn’t seem sure, really.
Dan sighs. “This is boring.”
Phil’s hand is heavy and lax on the back of his head. He’s trying to scratch a little, but he just seems – deflated. Tired. That’s probably Dan’s doing.
“Okay,” Phil says, after a minute.
“Can I do anything?”
“What happened to not talking?”
“Boring.”
“Not talking seems like a project,” Phil says. “For you.”
He’s right, but he’s annoying. Dan clamps his mouth shut, headbutting him again just because.
“You’re supposed to be polite,” Phil informs him.
“Who says?”
“The internet people.”
“Oh,” Dan says. His eyes finally want to stay closed, which is a blessing. He loops his fingers around Phil’s ankle. He doesn’t really have much to say about whether he’s supposed to be polite or not. He probably is. That seems true. “That seems like a lot of effort.”
“Isn’t that the point?” Phil says, soft again.
--
It’s weird to say that that changes something, but – it’s still filed as That Time in Dan’s head. Something does shift, he thinks.
He doesn’t notice it for a long time. There’s months where he curls up at Phil’s feet when he feels like it, when he can’t quite take being closed in by Phil’s arms, but doesn’t want to stray too far away. It’s a funny thing, how it’s a middle ground between being independent and just – safe. Safe, and quiet, protected by something bigger than he is. Even if it’s just by Phil, who’s scared of like, most bugs, really. He’s not that brave. He’s just braver than Dan can manage, most of the time.
It isn’t like that, now.
Dan’s just – garbled. Wandering. His insides are all mixed up, intestines where his throat should be and feet where his hands were. That – that doesn’t make any sense. That doesn’t make any sense, really. Doesn’t make sense that that could just happen, but then it doesn’t make sense that his feet are wobbly like they’re just learning their jobs, even though he’s far too old for that now, paces like this far too often for them not to recognize it, and his hands feel stiff like they don’t know what to do, either, and –
He jumps at a knock on the door.
On his door, which is closed because – some reason. He’s not really clear on why it felt so necessary to close it, and maybe the Dan that did that was out of his mind, or maybe he was sensing something in the air, or –
“Babe?”
“Yeah,” he manages to say, all high and stupid.
Phil peeks around the edge of the door, uncertain.
That’s why he closed it, he remembers. Not because of ghosts or whatever. Not because of some bad premonition. He closed it because he’s seen this so many fucking times, Phil wary and uncertain in his own home just because Dan is acting awful again, moving a thousand times too fast for anyone and jumping out of his skin at the slightest thing.
“Alright?” Phil says, still hiding behind the door.
Dan doesn’t think – he doesn’t think he’s like – he doesn’t know why Phil’s hiding like that. He doesn’t think it means anything, except that it always happens, because Dan’s – Dan. Because he’s too much, too big and too loud and too intense and too rude and too fragile to be trusted with much of anything.
“About tour?” Phil asks, quiet.
He’s asked to cancel it about ten times, now, but Dan’s – too stubborn, as usual. Too stubborn to do what Phil thinks would be best for the both of them, too bossy and too ego-driven and too – too much, all the time.
He doesn’t know when his face went all wobbly. He doesn’t notice until he sees Phil’s face soften with recognition, watches him push the door open so he can finally stand in Dan’s stupid angst dungeon.
Dan can’t explain why the open door scares him. Can’t explain why he needs to be contained like a zoo animal, why their flat is too big even if it was fine an hour ago.
“Please,” he croaks. He’s not sure what he even wants. “Door?”
Phil glances around for a moment like he doesn’t know what a door even is, before he catches on and pushes the stupid thing closed, leans into it until the latch clicks closed and everything.
“Here,” Phil says, when he turns back to Dan. He’s steady, arms already reaching for him. “C’mere.”
“Fuck,” Dan mumbles. Fucking nuts, he thinks, idly. Phil’s arms close around him, but then Dan’s breathing too fast, squirming and flailing.
The arms drop. Phil raises his hands like it’s a peace offering. Dan’s still – he’s so fucking scrambled. So frustrated and so sleep deprived and so annoyed and so incapable of taking the one life raft that Phil can offer him right now. It’s fucking – weird of him to not want to be touched, not want to be held. Maybe he’s feral. He doesn’t know.
“Dan,” Phil finally says. “Floor, please?”
“What?”
“It’s down there,” he says, helpfully pointing.
Dan stares at him. It’s not like – Phil hasn’t asked before. Because he did, that one time. It’s just – do they do this?
It doesn’t matter, he supposes. Mostly because Phil’s got a hand on each of his arms already, steering him towards the bed, pushing and pulling downward before he’s even sat down himself. Dan half expects to riot at the bossy contact, but – it’s simple. It’s not claustrophobic, if Phil’s barely touching him anyways.
His knees hit the soft rug next to his bed. Phil taps the back of his head, and Dan’s not even sure if he meant it, but he bows forward anyways, sinking his forehead into the mattress and closing his eyes. He tries to breathe through it.
Phil has to scoot across the bed to get into the right spot, somehow almost kicks Dan in the process.
“Dan,” he says, softly, after a bit of wiggling.
Dan doesn’t know what he wants, so he stays put. Phil grabs his hair instead, twisting his fingers into it, which – maybe it’s a bit much, but the firm tug is something to focus on for a moment. He keeps his eyes closed. He only half understands what’s happening, and then Phil’s let go of his hair, gently pushing his face back down until it lands on Phil’s warm thigh.
“Your hands don’t have to be like that,” Phil says, after a beat. Dan finally registers that his right hand has a deathgrip on his left wrist, yanked and twisted behind his back like he’s holding himself back from something.
“What if I want them to be,” he mutters.
“Yeah?”
“Whatever,” he says. It feels right, for the moment.
Phil’s hand skims over his back, over his shoulders, up and down. Phil mumbles something that sounds like hey, breathe. Dan tries to match the rhythm, tries to focus on his soft hands and on the muscle under his forehead.
“I like you,” Phil says.
Dan snorts, but – he knows it’s genuine. He knows Phil will tell him again, later, and probably again after that. It feels like the most unlikely thing in the world, but Phil’s relentless.
“Like you,” he mumbles. Phil’s hand lands warm on his neck, steady and familiar. Until –
“Hang for a minute?” Phil asks. He doesn’t wait for Dan to answer before he’s getting up, only pausing to push Dan’s head back towards the mattress. Dan’s not really sure where he goes. He drifts for a minute, even though the room feels weirdly empty without Phil in it.
“Sorry,” Phil says. Dan doesn’t want to look up and ruin whatever this is, doesn’t want to go back to where he was before all this. He grunts in response.
“You need me or you good?” Phil asks. Dan wants him, but – he’s just meant to stay quiet, keep his head down and settle. Phil’s around, anyways.
“M’good,” he says, muffled into the mattress.
“Okay,” Phil says. Dan thinks he feels him kneel at Dan’s side, fiddling with something. Finally his hand trails down Dan’s arm, and his fingers pry Dan’s sore hand out of its fist. “Got an idea,” Phil says. Dan has half a mind to say that that’s obvious. He doesn’t.
Some kind of heavy ass bracelet ends up on his empty wrist. Or – oh. The fucking cuffs that Phil likes so much, probably. Dan didn’t really get the appeal of weighted blankets for your hands until now. Phil carefully does up the other one, handling Dan’s sore arms like they’re glass. Once they’re both on, he tugs both of Dan’s arms from behind his back, guiding them until they’re laid out on the bed, pausing a little when his shoulders crack loudly.
“I’m not gonna clip them,” Phil says. “But it’s like –”
“–weighted blankets for your hands,” Dan mumbles, rote. He thinks he hears Phil laugh. His hand lands heavy on Dan’s head, again, carding through his curls for a minute.
“Yeah,” Phil says, soft. Then he’s standing again. Dan listens to him pad away, but then there’s a few soft clicks, and all he can really hear is the soft music Phil puts on. He drifts again, waiting. Phil wanders back and leaves something on the blanket by Dan’s hands.
He does the same routine with tugging Dan’s hair instead of just asking him to lift his head. It’s weirdly nice, though. Nice to know that they don’t have to talk to get it sorted out, he thinks. It doesn’t matter if he’s too turned around to talk. Phil’s happy enough anyways, silently putting Dan where he wants him and just telling him what’s going to happen and when.
“Thanks,” he says, when he’s settled against Phil’s leg again, rearranged his arms so they’re draped over his lap.
“Worked?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Oh, wait?” He reaches for something, almost dislodging Dan from his spot.
Dan whines, soft and pathetic. Except – Phil drapes the last thing he’d left on the bed over Dan’s shoulders.
“Oh,” Dan breathes, head landing back on Phil’s leg. It’s probably embarrassing to say that he moans. It’s a little true, anyways.
“Thought you’d like it,” Phil says, tangling his fingers in Dan’s hair for the millionth time, once he’s finally got the stupid weighted blanket arranged perfectly.
“You’re a genius, Phil,” Dan mumbles. He barely remembers falling asleep.