Written a few months ago but never put up here. This was written for a prompt I received on tumblr (arcticphan) and is based around Troye Sivan's (who I adore with all my heart) song 'Ease'. Hope you enjoy.
The stars filtered through the front window, shimmering small white lights across the dashboard and across Dan's shaking hands. A car park. In the dark. Monday night. A single coke can drifted across the faded white line. The lights swam in front of Dan and in the distance there was shouting and music.
There were streaming lights.
There were screaming fans.
There was laughter and shouting and glee.
And then there had been a hotel room, bare, the sheet a white that was far too crisp and a desk with a complimentary pen. A year. A whole year he had been on the road, touring, singing. And he loved it. He loved it. He loved it? He wanted to scratch marks into the headboard, one day, two days, three days, except he never stayed anywhere for more than two days. He wanted to scratch Dan was here across the sky. He wanted a home. The picket fence with the curling daisies and small post box which said 'welcome to the Lesters'. He wanted everything he and Phil had talked about once upon a time.
I'm afraid of the life that I have made.
He thought of each of the gleeful faces, waiting in line, for their shot, for their shooting star in a dark sky and he tried to grip tightly onto his reality, like he gripped onto his dream, like he gripped onto the duvet (it's still not Phil). A blur of purple lights. He wanted solid. He wanted Phil.
And then he was driving.
Driving through the night (slightly too fast), past the faces (who would recognise him?), not telling his manager (who was gonna flip), sneaking past his guards (he was only small).
Head in hands in a vacant car park in Liverpool. Sounds like a Morrissey song. He knew what Phil would say if he were here, he'd crack the jokes hiding the concern behind his raised eyes. He'd weave his hands through his (once curly) brown hair and say it's alright. And it would be. Because Phil Lester was made of starlight. He tried to think of Phil, sat at his desk, chewing his pen (a small black stain on his lip). He laughed when he thought of their opposing lives. Phil studying a master's degree in history, his glasses round and his eyes big and welcoming and Dan streaming across the stage. His life tucked away in a drawer back home, small pieces being taken and scattered across the stage by uptight women in wigs and glasses who pointed at maps. (Dan was crying). He liked his draw, his little slice of home, the smell of Phil's shirt and the feel of his lips. He was losing it.
But the truth is the stars are falling, ma/And the wolves are out c-calling, ma/And my home has never felt this far
He wanted Phil (made of starlight) under the stars. 3am. Phil was asleep. His mind drifted to an old thought, one rotting in the back of his drawer. An apple core left to long to the air. An old sock. What if we're too different. We're always apart. Why can we not match? Truth was he was a leather shirt and Phil was a comfortable pyjama top. Different. Both needed. Both needed? His mind was spiralling, tears were spilling.
But all this driving/Is driving me crazy/And all this moving/Is proving to get the best of me/And I've been trying to hide it/But lately/Every time I think I'm better/Pickin' my head up, getting nowhere
The phone vibrated. A word splattered in the darkness. Phil. He knew. A shaking hand.
"Hi Dan"
A whisper.
Dan could imagine it. His checked pyjamas buttoned to the top, McGonagall (the cat) curled across his knee, a tea in one hand, keeping his voice down (an old practice learnt in his parent's house (it was past 10pm)). Dan imagined he too was looking at the stars. But maybe Dan was just too sappy and poetic.
"Phil." Dan said softly, his voice choking and hiccupping. The stars re-aligned. The music grew quieter.
Take me back to the basics and the simple life/Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease
"Are you okay Dan?"
"Yes" (Dan choked on his lie)
"Address?"
"You're in bed"
"So?"
"Address"
"In Liverpool somewhere"
"Helpful"
"Hanover Street I think"
"Gotcha"
The leather enveloped Dan. His back felt soft and warm and his face felt damp and warm and his legs ached and were glad to be rested. The stars watched over him. His face smaller in sleep, softer, younger, pressed against the back of the chair.
That's how Phil found him, asleep on the passenger seat, quiet and unassuming. Not the star. Not the headliner. Not even the active Dan who pushed for himself to be liked. The very essence of the person. Phil felt honoured to witness his lifeform flutter in front of his eyes. He knocked against the glass gently, watching Dan's face smile softly beneath an escaped curl. The door opened. And Phil climbed into the car, letting Dan fall against his shoulder. He weaved his fingers through his hair. Dan breathed softly and Phil hummed under his breath. The stars winked. The stars blinked.
Your touch, my comfort, and my lullaby/Holdin' on tight and sleepin' at night
"It's all going to be alright"
Truer words had never been spoken. A bigger lie had never been spoken. A roller coaster spinning on the track, off the track, through tunnels and bends, lights flashing, screams, loop the loops and skies of blue and grey and orange and all the colours. It will go up. It will go down. It will be flat. It will spin. There's no predicting, there's no directing, there only is. It will be alright. And then it will be not alright again. And then it will be alright again. The mystery of life that is terrible one day and wondrous the next.
Phil's heart beat through Dan's shirt.
Phil hummed under his breath, his arms heavy and light and Dan felt softer, lighter. There was still a dark corner, a heavy corner, a battle corner. But it was fading. The starlight was coming.
Thanks for reading! Have a great day!