The screen blared against Phil's eyes, the words buzzing, never quite staying still for more than a second. There was a crumb stuck under the 'f' key. Phil leant back, feeling the chair give just slightly and his back click with a slightly discerning crack. He was getting old. He had to resist the urge to check for grey hairs. Last week he had phoned his mum and hung up in tears. A mid-life crisis. That's what people had named it. Phil hoped not. He was only 29. He was sure that if you cut open his arm his blood would spill yellow. And not the yellow like the sun, the yellow like the oozing of grease onto the plate, slow and moving. Sludgy. Like Phil. There was a thread spilling from his sleeve. He would pull it, if it wasn't Dan's cardigan. He was tempted to pull it anyway. The words were still buzzing and the concept of entanglement seemed especially alluring. The young pebble rattled in the pit of his heart.
That's what Phil hadn't been prepared for. It was weird. His entire life was like a procession of reveals, marching along, tail feathers flying behind them. He remembered small eyes and a small smile. And there are a thousand things he could talk about him not understanding at the age of five. But the most prominent was the concept of hiding. That people grow up and realise that the world has always been hidden, to trick you into staying, to trick you into populating, into fertilising the ground, if you knew from the offset no one would stay. But Phil had grown too attached to leave. He could see beauty in the destruction. He had grown attached to the plants that grew on the windowsill, their green leaves still searching for the sun, he had grown attached to the slight creak of the sofa as he sat down, and he had grown attached to people too, his skin melding with theirs, forming a bond that only stretched with distance. His mother who listened to his pathetic cries over his pathetic life, his brother with the smile, and the swirl in his hair that ran the same way as his, his old friend from university and his daughter with the beaming smile. But most of all Dan.
Dan with the soft smile in the morning, and the eyes the burned when the lamp switched on. Dan with the legs that somehow always ended up on Phil's side of the bed, with the collar bones which disrupted the flow, jutting like a wave, climbing like a mountain. Dan who he could see in the walls and the carpet and the sofa and the window and the birds outside. Dan who was currently asleep on the sofa behind the desk.
I like to watch you work.
The small glint in the eyes, the dimples that folded like creases in a pillow.
The gentle eyelids that fluttered as he slept. Dan always fell asleep when Phil was working.
Come on you have to get some fresh air
Dan whined but there was a ball in Phil's chest that was constricting and breathing, a small orb that was threatening to take hold. Dan's fringe was still slightly wet and curling from his shower and his hood fell slightly to the left. His right hand played subconsciously with the zipper on his hoodie and his shoes were two sizes too big (on account they were Phil's).
The computer glared at Phil.
I have such a lot to do.
Five minutes? Buster wants to!
The small dog was held up in a lion-king style and his eyes seemed to look into Phil's soul. The orb relaxed slightly.
Fine.
Outside it rained. Small pieces fell like dew drops, clinging to the edge of Dan's hood and to the back of Phil's neck. Small tickles. Pitter patter.
Buster ran in circles and rolled in the grass. There was a squirrel perched in the tree and the clouds melded together to form one large, grey cloud. A Super cloud! Dan would exclaim and Phil would catch the glimmer in his eye.
Phil wove his hand into Dan's and let Dan look up at him. It's nice to have you back. Dan would whisper as he leant into him and it would feel a little too much like a film for a man who spent multiple hours a day staring at a grey notice board. Phil clutched Dan's hand a little harder, using his other hand to curl Dan's hair behind his ear. He kissed him and the rain ran off his nose.
Buster started to bark and Dan started to laugh and the rain started to fall harder than before, crumbling the orange leaves as a sacrifice. Phil felt a laugh escape from his throat and the orb scrunched into a smaller ball. The computer sulked in silence back at the house.
The rain became inescapable, throwing itself down in anger, desperate to catch something in its slippery fist. Phil let it fall upon him, dragging Dan with him as he ran, Buster barking at his ankles, his small feet sliding along the leaves.
Phil's glasses slid down his nose approximately every 0.56 seconds but today was not a day for contact lenses. Nor was it a day for shaving, apparently. Or even brushing his hair.
The words were in his head. Somewhere. But they were not on the page. They were dancing free around his mind, enjoying a safe haven from the regulations of grammar and form, they were falling free through the sky. Phil wondered why no one had made a device for extracting words from the head. Although it did seem cruel. They only wanted to be free.
Phil's head hit the desk. He seriously wondered why he had ever decided to do a PHD. In micro-biology no less.
The door squeak could be heard from three floors up, echoed by the hitting of Phil's head on the desk and Buster barking. Dan threw his keys into the bowl and wondered whether today was the kind of day where he could shout his hellos up to Phil. Phil stared at the clock and urged the time to go backwards. His dressing gown still wound itself tightly around his waist.
"Phil?" Dan said peering through the door, the collar of his uniform peeking over his death-black jacket. Phil's eyes were bright red. He didn't lift his head off of the desk. He wished it could have arms and hug him back.
"Phil, are you okay?" Dan bit at his lip.
"Yeah"
Dan leant against the door frame "Are you sure?"
"No" Phil's eyes itched with tears by they were too dry, instead he just ran his crumbling hands through his far too greasy hair.
"Here, come here" Dan said, opening his arms and beckoning Phil over for a hug. Phil fell into Dan's arms like a small child, and let him lead him away from the blaring computer.
The hallway was somehow lighter despite the lack of a window, and Phil's dressing gown was unweaving itself slightly, leaving room for Buster to lick at Phil's knee.
"Here, sit here" Dan said, dropping Phil off like a small child on the sofa, Buster following behind him.
Soon enough there was a hot chocolate in his hand, its steam just warm enough to ebb away at the anxiety building in his chest, but not quite warm enough to stop his shaking hands. Dan watched him worriedly (and Buster was asleep by the fire).
"Hey Phil, do you think maybe you might be doing too much?"
"I have to do it Dan" Phil regretted the snap in his voice almost immediately. Like snapping a pencil in rage and looking down at the broken remains, Dan's face seemed almost as shattered, his features shrinking back a little and his eyes staring into his drink. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm just tired."
"It's okay" Dan said, but his voice was smaller.
The water washed against the grimy edges of the bath, seeping into the pores of the crumbling seal of the tub. The taps were getting blacker and the shower curtain had three visible holes. There would always be something to be done. But Dan was in Phil's arms and he tried not to worry about it.
Dan's hair fell against his cheeks. It was significantly softer than Phil's and Phil's finger stroked gently across his earlobe. The water was pinkened slightly and the odd bubble floated past but mostly it was quiet. And not the kind of quiet where the silence pins into the temples and the prickles at the skin and a thousand screams echo in the air, but the kind of quiet where everything is still and a gentle leaf floats in the wind's breeze.
And when Phil watched Dan sleep that night, a slip of moonlight falling through the gap in the curtain, he was thankful for a calmness to distil his chaos. He was grateful for Dan.
His mind was less chaotic. The black scribbles had reorganised themselves into lines somehow and the sea was only lapping against the shore. Phil rolled his sleeves up and pressed his fingers against the keyboard.
And everything fell into place.
It was a rare moment, one scarcely found among the roughage of life. But it can be found sometimes, hiding shy behind a rock or half way up a twig less tree. The black letters found their place. And Phil's heart beat regularly, the steam from his coffee curling around his fingers in small hugs to keep them warm.
Dan rose from bed, his hair half matted and his pyjama top slipping from his shoulder. Small lines had engraved themselves into his cheeks. He could hear Phil's fingers against the keyboard and he treaded lightly, passing the study and leaning briefly against the doorframe. Phil was hard at work, his eyes fixed on the screen and his fingers moving so fast it had to be instinct. A small smile reached Dan's lips. He was going to be okay.
A small thing i wrote a while ago and never uploaded bc i don't really write anymore and i am sad about that