Title: Comptine d'un autre été, l'après midi (Rhyme of another summer afternoon)
Summary: In which Phil is witnessing the different stages of Dan's existential crises, through what's being played on his piano (or: in which Dan has an existential crisis and that was the crappiest summary ever)
Warnings/disclaimer: Slight warning for depression. This is entirely fictional. Title is from a piece from Yann Tiersen, and it's also the song that inspired the whole fic and it makes an unnamed appearance at the end.
There's tension hanging in their apartment on this Thursday afternoon, like tiny speckles of dust whirling in the air. They keep moving in and out of focus, seemingly almost disappearing for a while until the wind clears up another cloud and once again lets in rays of sunlight that highlights that they're still present. Perhaps they're more like soap bubbles in the way they're transparent and almost blend in with their everyday settings. And much like soup bubbles they'll dissolve if Phil tries to enclose them in his hand like he more than anything would want to. But unlike soup bubbles, there's nothing pretty about this familiar tension.
Though the tension doesn't lie in between him and Dan, who's sitting at the other end of the sofa; their fights are rare and forceful and they blow over as quickly as they blaze up. This isn't some aftermath where they're both too proud to hang their heads and admit their faults. Things were fine when Dan crawled into bed with Phil last night, a few hours later than Phil like most days when Phil won't resort to coaxing Dan into breaking his nocturnal ways for him. He says it was fine, because there weren't any clear signs, but while they're eating their belated breakfasts in silence Phil makes a mental list of hints that he should've picked up on. Like the way Dan clung to him like he was a lifeboat in a stormy sea last night, or the way he as soon as he woke up made a complete turn and signalled that it was space he wished for now. Dan's signs aren't made out in neon letters written across Phil's bedroom walls at three in the morning, but rather scribbled down in faint ink on a piece of paper he keeps in his back pocket and won't take out and unfold in a hurry. He also knows this is something that Dan needs to fight his way through by himself, at least that's what he's convinced of, and all Phil can do is making sure to be there when he comes out on the other side. Still that notion does nothing to soothe his guilty conscience of letting the signs pass by unnoticed.
Eventually Dan gets up from the couch, seemingly debating whether or not to do something about the mess of dishes piled on the table and the remnants of yesterday's video filming that's still littering the floor. He apparently decides against it, as he announces that he's going back to bed again without looking at Phil.
"You want company?"
Phil catches Dan's wrist, hailing him in and trying to keep his tone light and free from the worry that's tugging at his attention.
"No, it's fine."
Dan crouches down to place a brief kiss on Phil's lips, and before Phil has much time to do anything he's freed himself of his grip and is out the room. The slam of his bedroom door reverberates through Phil's head and the flat.
It's late afternoon before Phil hears the familiar sound of keys being pressed on the old and slightly out of tune piano. It's a sound he loves, normally, a sound that he doesn't mind being woken up by at four in the morning when Dan's playing something upbeat because he's had some kind of breakthrough in what he's doing, and his way of dealing with any kind of emotion has always been through music. It's a sound he would forever miss not getting to hear when he leaves the apartment and then, hours later, being greeted by upon his return, if that was to be taken away from him. But even so, he hates the sound of it in this setting.
It starts with keys being pressed hesitantly, like Dan's fumbling in the dark to try to find his way by mapping out the outline of something – of a song, of a melody, of a dark space. He's blindly gripping after something that'll give him a clue of what he's up against. Soon enough the hesitation is leaving place for a swirl of other emotions; Phil thinks there's anger, and there's definitely frustration, and then in between confusion seems to find its way into the slower parts of the melodies. Phil's not sure if it's impromptu he's listening to, sometimes he thinks he recognizes bits but they're gone, replaced with something else before he has time to place them. He thinks maybe it's a mash of classical pieces, the kind he'll willingly admit he doesn't understand. Not the way Dan seemingly does, at least. He doesn't understand what it is that makes those wordless melodies get under Dan's skin, occasionally reducing him to tears. When it happens he smiles fondly at the sight, and Dan will either advert his gaze in silence or forcefully tell Phil to shut the fuck up before he's even opened his mouth. Either way, Phil ends up kissing Dan and he tastes like salt but it's okay, because it's another kind of tears than the kind that Dan will do everything to hide from him.
Dan falls asleep at a time that by his definition is early, almost as early as Phil, and he's in Phil's bed but he's also two hundred miles away. Phil thinks he looks exhausted when he stumbles into the kitchen to pour himself the first cup of coffee of the morning before returning to his room, but he might be looking too intently and letting his worry mislead his visual senses. Friday comes and goes, and the only time Dan isn't in his room, playing piano or doing god knows what it is he does during the silent hours in between, is when they sit down to plan Sunday's radio show. Dan is drained of any enthusiasm and opinions, and he nods his head at most things Phil suggests. He plays with the thought of throwing some insane idea out there, just to get another reaction than the negligent "yeah, sounds great" out of Dan. He decides against it. The promised video deadline approaches and passes, and Phil wonders if Dan's even started edited it, if that's what he's been doing when the slamming of keys hasn't been heard. Dan doesn't give any explanations or even excuses via twitter, in the same manner that he doesn't give any explanations to his boyfriend in the next room.
Saturday night, and Phil's worried about the radio show. In no way as much as he is about Dan, but still enough to make him think about possible excuses to feed the producers and higher ups if tomorrow's radio show falls apart despite his efforts to keep it together for two. It turns out he doesn't have to be, because Dan's dancing and talking and laughing and interacts with the callers like Phil hadn't found him on his piano stool, staring at the keys absentmindedly with unwashed hair and the same clothes as he's had on for the past three days just hours prior. It's scary, because it's like someone's taken that person and winded him up and no one seems to notice that it's mainly just mechanism keeping him going.
The moment they're off the air Dan's smile falters, and for the first time since the announcement that they won't be able to meet fans after the show Phil feels only a great relief instead of mainly feeling guilty. They take a taxi home, because there's no way he's going to let Dan take the tube like this. There are no protests at Dan's end, and his head hits Phil's shoulder within seconds of them getting into the car. Next to the worry in Phil there's now hope that Dan's inclining towards letting him in finally, so he spends the ride home letting his fingers travel up and down Dan's arm in an attempt to a soothing gesture and mumbling stupid nonsense into his hair.
"We'll be home soon, and I can cook us something and we'll just talk, or we'll watch a movie and bring our blankets and just spend the night curled up on the couch. Okay? I think we have a bottle of wine, if you'd like that, and we'll stay up all night if you want or we can go to bed early, whatever you like."
When Dan opens his mouth, quite clearly to protest something, Phil precedes him.
"Fuck that video. You're off the clock tonight. We'll deal with that later, work's over for this week."
Rather than protesting, Dan places a few kisses on Phil's jaw and Phil doesn't even care about the disapproving looks being thrown their way via the rear-view mirror.
Phil's almost finished with dinner when he hears the piano again, and it's like a punch in the stomach because he imagined that Dan would come straight to him. He was so sure, he didn't even bother asking why Dan needed another shower just mere hours after the last one, because he was so sure he needed a moment to himself, and then he was going to be right by Phil's side the moment he stepped out of the shower. He naively let himself imagine Dan's arms snaking around his waist, mumbles about how hungry he was delivered between kisses placed on the back of Phil's neck. Instead there's piano again, and Phil curses his own stupidity because this isn't something that's fixed over a bowl of pasta and he should have known better – he does know better. But then he starts to listen to the sound, he make sense of the notes and this time he has time to piece them together with something from his memory because it's not an ever-changing slamming of keys anymore. It's slow, it's calm, and it's sad, really, but he recognizes this. He recognizes the piece not as what's on the end of the tunnel, but maybe what's on a significant turn. It's the song that comes after the frustration and the closed doors. It's like a rippling stream at times, and then it's falling into still water, before picking up in pace again. There's something hopeful within the melancholic sense. The notes are flowing through the walls, losing some of their richness for every obstacle they conquer, and when they reach Phil they're thin and fragile. But they're still distinct, almost like Phil could reach out and pick each one of them and place them down on the counter in the right order to preserve them in a more physical form. They're no soup bubbles; they won't break if he acknowledges them. When the last notes dissolves and leaves the flat in silence bar the ever-present reminder of the busy outside world, Phil pushes himself off of the counter and heads in the direction of Dan's room. He sinks down next to Dan, whose hands still lingers on the keys like he's not sure what to do with them when they've finally stopped their movements. Then they're on Phil's shirt, grasping for something real to hold on to after having spent days with nothing to ground him. There's muffled sounds coming from him, and his head is now resting where Phil's shoulder meets his neck. It's in between a sob and a frustrated groan, and while it's a strangled sound that pains Phil to hear, it's a turn in the right direction. Silently, careful not to mess anything up because he wants it to be as beautiful as it is coming from Dan's fingers on the keys, he picks up the notes in the same order he placed them down earlier in the kitchen, quietly humming the melody back at Dan. He hopes that Dan's made the turn now, and sees the afternoon sun illuminate the end of the tunnel. And Kafka was wrong, because it's definitely not an oncoming train. It's afternoon sun and he will make Dan see that, too.