Doors Closed and Windows Open
It all started with a kiss.
Things had started out as an innocent (well, as innocent as it could get, seeing as it was the two of them, after all) tease for the fans; just a bit of gay chicken. Perhaps they shouldn't have taken a leaf from Chris and PJ's book—obviously leaning in as close as possible before flinching back didn't work as well for them as it did for everyone else. Because when they were close enough that Phil felt Dan's breath puffing onto his cheeks, and when he felt the light brush of Dan's nose against the tip of his own nose, something strange unclicked inside of Phil's brain.
The camera was rolling, trained on their faces, and Dan's pants were almost certainly showing over the too-tight edge of his trousers, and Lion's little plush face was trained down on them from above, burning holes into the back of Phil's neck, but these ordinary things were slowed to a halt inside his mind as Dan's top lip accidentally bumped into Phil's lower one.
Dan shot backwards as if he'd been tasered. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, a little laugh getting lost somewhere in his throat. "That's a scene for the chopping block, yeah?"
Phil may have smiled a bit as an automatic response, the left corner of his mouth rising slightly. It didn't matter though, as Dan wasn't looking at him; in fact, Dan was looking at anything and everything that was not Phil.
"Well," Dan said a little too loudly, hoisting himself up to his feet, "I think we've got all the footage we need for 'Phil is Not on Fire 5', so I think I'll just begin editing."
"Right, yeah," Phil might have said, still seated on the floor with his back pressed to the sofa. And if his voice left his mouth a little strangely, Dan certainly wasn't stopping to question it in his haste to exit the room.
Lion's eyes burned the back of Phil's exposed neck, plastic and judgmental. "Shut up," Phil mumbled to the toy as he stood on legs that shook slightly under his lanky frame—because he'd been sitting on them, Phil told himself silently, and not for any other ridiculous reason—and stumbled towards his bedroom.
Slipping into his space robot pajama bottoms was easy enough to do and didn't require his brain, which was excellent as the young British adult had firmly switched it off. Now was not the time for thinking, because what on earth would he need to think about, of course there was nothing. Tucking his legs underneath his warm duvet and automatically wrapping his arms around Totoro was wonderfully mindless as well. But when the light went off and the creaking of the flat settled into quiet, Phil's brain made itself known again; something was different, and Phil felt it with every fiber of his being.
"Please just don't," Phil murmured, rolling onto his side. He sometimes talked to himself when his thoughts became too loud to hear properly. "Let's not go there." But his mind seemed determined to go there; it was like a toothache that his tongue couldn't leave alone. After struggling for several minutes, he rocked back onto his back and sighed. All right, then, he surrendered.
Images of Dan flooded his mind, thoughts he'd kept dammed up for some time now; thoughts he hadn't even known were forbidden simply because he hadn't known they'd been happening. Thoughts of the younger man's brown eyes with the curled gray lashes, memories of the dimples that flashed every time he smiled or the boisterous laugh of his split any uncomfortable silences. Dan had a lovely nose, Phil thought, thinking of the angle.
And well, really, so what? Daniel Howell was an attractive man; everybody with eyes could see that. He was tall and well-proportioned, with features that fell into the 'conventionally handsome' category; and he took care of himself. Appreciating the aesthetic was no crime. So why did these thoughts feel taboo, somehow, and wrong?
When had things changed, Phil thought, feeling rather miserable as he squashed Totoro closer to his chest, the violet-gray plush fur ruffling over his fingers. When had Dan's smiles become more than just a flash of teeth, and transitioned into something warm inside Phil's heart, like a tiny sun? When had Phil started looking at Dan's hands, really looking, when the fingers were spread out over a keyboard or clenched tightly around a game controller?
"This isn't right," Phil sighed. "Not right at all."
Feeling remarkably unhappy, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
…
Morning dawned, rainy and filled with headache. When the tepid shower didn't soothe the pounding in his skull, Phil stumbled from the bathroom clad in his after-shower couture which consisted of, as Dan would say, "Enough towels to clothe a nation," in search of some painkillers. Of course, they were out.
"Shreddies for breakfast, dear?" a wheezy voice inquired. Phil turned his head a few inches to see the Queen herself peering unseeingly at him.
"Oh dear God," he yelped, stumbling into the breakfast bar and bruising his hip in the process.
Laughing hysterically, Dan slipped the mask off. "That never gets old!"
Not feeling entirely in the mood to be pranked by cheap paper masks, Phil scowled and turned his back. "Yes, I suppose," he said, sounding more childish than he'd intended.
"Aaw," Dan cooed, nesting his head over Phil's shoulder. "Did I make poor Phinny-whinny upset?"
Phil froze a bit from the close contact, unsettled by how he could feel Dan's jaw move as he spoke. "Phinny-whinny?" he asked, cringing as his voice squeaked.
"A Twitter follower suggested it," Dan explained. "I thought it fit."
Phil grunted and jiggled his shoulder a bit to throw Dan off before reaching for a cereal dish and the box of Shreddies.
"Your roots are showing," Dan observed, still standing abnormally close, reaching for a lock of Phil's fresh-from-the-shower hair. "Need to touch that up."
Phil cringed away from Dan, a big more aggressively than he normally would, and just caught a glimpse of the younger boy's confused face for a moment before turning his back again. He peeked in the refrigerator for the milk and instead found an empty carton.
"Gah!" he said. "No painkillers, no milk…"
"Why do you need painkillers?" Dan was by his side again, behaving in an unusually clingy way. Unfortunately, the side of Dan's leg bumped Phil's newly forming bruise and Phil let out a very unmanly squeak, batting Dan away again.
"God, God, sorry!" Dan said, eyes wide. Phil frowned at the taller man; Dan rarely sounded so frantic around him.
"Look, Dan," Phil started, feeling like a prick as he looked into Dan's lovely, painfully earnest eyes. "I just need some me-time today…"
"Of course!" Dan stuttered, reaching for his wallet on the counter. "I was just going out to the shops! My brother's birthday is coming up and I wanted to buy something—" he continued to yammer as he hopped around the flat shoving his shoes on. Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers; the headache wasn't going anywhere.
He didn't feel much happier when he was alone in the flat, sunk deep into the red beanbag chair. He couldn't play video games as the screen would hurt his already straining eyes, which also ruled out the computer; without that it didn't leave much for him to do. He glanced down at his iPhone and poked a few keys.
"Hello, mum," he said into the speaker once the other line picked up. He chatted with her for a moment (yes, he was eating properly; no, he still didn't have what she'd consider a proper job) before hanging up. He tried to call Charlie, but nobody picked up so he dialed for PJ.
"Phil, hi," the other man said. Phil sighed and sank deeper into the beanbag, his backside being pulled down so low that his feet stuck almost straight up. PJ had such a soothing voice…
"Hi, PJ," Phil greeted. "What are you doing today?"
PJ dove into a tirade about his newest video, something about building some furniture out of cardboard while using crayons as screws. "I just know if I get the angle right it'd be sturdy enough to hold up my little television," he said. "If I can just carve the notches right…"
"That sounds really creative," Phil said absently, feeling a pang of guilt when he thought about the time and effort PJ must spend in his quest for all things Art. PJ knew what he wanted; Phil didn't think he wanted anything; just to make goofy videos with Dan…
… Dan.
Phil was suddenly surprised by a little pang of loneliness.
"Do you think you could come over?" he asked impulsively.
PJ paused in surprise. "Phil, it takes two separate train rides for me to get to your flat…"
"Please?" Phil wheedled. "I'll help you carve your crayon notches, or whatever it is you're doing."
PJ hemmed and hawed, but eventually gave in, as Phil knew he would, because PJ was, at heart, a Nice Guy. Feeling slightly more purposeful, Phil forced himself to his feet and hunted through his cabinets trying to find something PJ might like to eat. There wasn't much; it wasn't Tesco week, so the selection was slim. Still, he managed to extract a bag of M+M's he'd received from an American fan that Dan had yet to notice (and therefore consume), as well as a slightly stale bag of crisps. He absently spread some newspapers out on his kitchen tile, having firsthand experience on the mess some of PJ's projects made.
It was several hours (and several bowls of dry Shreddies) later before there was a knock on his door, and a smiling PJ stepped into his flat. Phil felt a bit calmer the moment he saw the ethereal sea-green eyes; PJ just had that aura about him. Sometimes Phil felt that their group of friends was selfish for keeping PJ all to themselves instead of forcing him on heart patients and such to lower their blood pressure.
Still, selfish was something he did well. "Oh, PJ," he sighed, breathing out every emotion in a loud puff upon his friend's arrival, collapsing slightly against him. And PJ, bless him, didn't question it. Instead he staggered, half-dragging Phil to the sofa, before setting down his bag and clasping his hands together. "So!" he said cheerfully, "tea, then?"
…
Perhaps it was rude to force your guest to make you a cup of tea. His mum certainly wouldn't have liked it. Still, Phil hadn't exactly asked for it. It did feel nice though, warm and comforting, trickling down to seep into the worry crackling up Phil's mind. PJ sat, content and Indian-style, on Phil's rug, carving wax crayons with a paring knife and catching the shavings in a paper towel. He didn't press, but a question did hang in the air just the same.
"PJ, am I… good-looking?" Phil asked after a few long moments of silence. PJ cocked his head at the question, his crooked smile making an appearance. "I… suppose so," he said after a moment. Phil's heart sank. "Not like Dan, though," he frowned.
"Are your fans making comments?" PJ asked, concerned. "No, they love you!"
"It's not the fans," Phil confirmed. "They're great, really. Some of them are creepy as hell, writing erotic fanfiction about me and all, but for the most part it's fine."
"Then if I'm to be honest," PJ said, setting down his violet crayon he'd been working on to turn and face Phil. "You're not really my cup of tea…"
"Oh, never mind," Phil said, trying to play it off with a laugh. He must have been a bit unconvincing, as PJ's smile was already fading.
"Is something the matter, mate?" he asked, leaning back so that his back was supported by Phil's knees. He brushed some crayon shavings off of his lap and onto the plate; they mingled with the others; a nonsensical rainbow of wax.
"No, no," Phil said. Even without seeing PJ's face he knew that the man had an eyebrow raised. He tried to change the subject.
"D'you know you're going a bit gray on top?" he asked, combing PJ's curls through his fingers. He couldn't help but give a little laugh. "God, PJ, you're only twenty-s—"
The door to the flat opened and Dan stepped inside, raincoat dripping and a soggy shopping bag clenched in his fingers. He blinked rainwater from his eyes as he took in the sight of his entryway.
"Oh, h—hello, PJ," he greeted, a funny expression on his face.
Phil scrambled to his feet, and without the support of his legs PJ tumbled backwards, slicing his own palm with the paring knife. Although Phil wasn't usually the type to swear…
"Shit."
… it seemed that the moment called for it.
…
One bandage, four bath towels, and an incredibly quiet dinner of stir-fry later and PJ was on his way to the train station again, crayons properly carved and a plastic grocery sack protecting the cardboard from the downpour. Phil walked him to the lift, still feeling guilty.
"Are you sure it's alright?" he asked for the billionth time. "You're not going to get wax poisoning?" he took PJ's wrist and tried to peek under the bandage, but the thin man gently pushed him back.
"Phil…" he muttered, green eyes considering. "Please forgive me…"
He leaned in close, rested his chin on the blue-eyed man's shoulder, and wrapped his arms around Phil's waist.
"PJ, what…" Phil started to speak, but was quieted with the brush of lips against his shoulder.
"I'm either helping you out or really screwing your life up, is what," PJ murmured before letting go and stepping back in the lift. "Dan is watching," was all he said before the metal doors slid shut.
Whirling around, Phil saw the familiar brown eyes witnessing the bizarre exchange through their flat's window. Feeling unaccountably nervous, he let himself back in.
"Nice guy, PJ," Phil said, trying to laugh as he began clearing away their dinner dishes.
"How nice?" Dan asked, still giving Phil a bit of an intense look.
"What?" Phil laughed, still feeling the ghost of unexpected dry lips against his shoulder, incriminating as they were.
"You two were being pretty chummy, is all." Dan's voice was trying to sound even, but it came across as horribly fake, and Phil cocked his head. Dan seemed to realize that his tone was strange and he seemed to shake himself out of it.
"So! Want to see what I bought today?" he asked.
"Yeah!" Phil attempted a smile. "Did you buy me a lion?"
"You wish," Dan scoffed. "Catch!"
A small rattling bottle came hurling at him and Phil fumbled at it before it inevitably clacked loudly against the linoleum of their kitchen. "Nice," Dan snickered.
Rescuing it from underneath the table, Phil turned the bottle over in his hands. Painkillers.
"Are these for me?" Phil asked, his voice catching on the last word, and he flushed, feeling like he was fourteen again; awkward, uncertain, and hormonal as hell.
Dan shrugged, busying himself by returning to the shopping bag. "Well, yeah; you said you needed them… Oh, and look, for my brother I got a white chocolate statue of Zelda…"
"You bought me painkillers." Something in Phil's brain seemed to have shorted out for real now. Dan looked up.
"Yes, we've established that…"
Phil reached for the chocolate box and took it from Dan's hands, setting it on the counter.
"Phil?" Dan questioned, taking a step back.
Here goes nothing, a voice that sounded disturbingly like Lion said inside Phil's brain as he took Dan's chin in his hand, angling it down slightly as he pulled himself up onto his toes.
"Ph—" Dan started to say, but the older man kissed him, soft and questioning. Dan's eyes were wide as Phil pulled back a second later to stare at his toes, folding his arms over his chest.
"Oh," Dan replied, looking as if he'd just had a football smash him between the eyes. "Oh." His lips were twitching, as if uncertain whether to smile. "But PJ…"
"No." Phil said. "Not PJ."
This time it was Dan who bent his head down to Phil's.
…