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Staring into the moonlit room, Stephen lies on the couch, blinking slowly. He's torn between figuring a way out how to lure Phil out of his shell again and trying not to think at all, but in the end he finds that once more… or rather still… his mind runs like a bullet train, unstoppable. With a low groan he turns onto his side and pulls the blanket up to his ears. The groan becomes a sigh.
He has come so far, far enough to lie here on Phil's couch and now it is again a closed door that is nothing more than a symbol for what Phil does the whole time. Shutting him out.
After that moment in the bathroom, after Phil had finally talked to him… he had been sure Phil would open up. And then he had been standing in the kitchen, getting the chili done, while waiting for Phil to finally follow him to the kitchen. But instead of coming to the kitchen, Phil had fled to his bedroom, locking the door.
Eventually the chili was done. Still no Phil.
Stephen had been standing at the locked door, knocking, calling Phil's name, sat there leaning against it for what might have been an hour. The door though stayed closed.
It is still closed. Locked.
Fucking déjà vu.
Stephen sighs once more. He has sighed so often over the past days that it feels like it has become his way of breathing. He wishes, really wishes he could get a glimpse of what is hidden behind those beautiful green eyes. It must be precious, stunning… and very, very fragile, measured by the way Phil is protecting it… with all his might…
There is a soft sound in the semi-darkness, the sound of a door being unlocked and opened very carefully. Hesitant, quiet steps. Stephen blinks once more, before he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. Whether the steps are coming closer or not, he can't make it out for a few very long seconds, until he realizes that yes, Phil approaches him.
Stephen fights hard to keep his breathing even and shallow as his heart begins to pound a little. The steps stop right in front of him, followed by a soft rustling. Phil is kneeling there now he guesses and wonders what has caused him to come here and… what, gaze at him? The other man is probably as confused as he is himself and maybe he tries to find answers, too.
It would be so much easier to find them together... Those words dance on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down. And waits.
The feather light touch on his temple though surprises him, causes his heart to pound even more, maybe even hard enough that Phil might feel it, hear it. The touch becomes a bit bolder after a second or two, though infinitely gently as fingertips move, trailing along the side of his face and Stephen has no idea how he manages to keep his breathing calm, but it works. Somehow. Despite the tingling that suddenly runs down his spine. The touch moves further down, pushing the blanket back a little, wandering along his jaw and… over his lips. Halting for a moment. Fading then.
It costs him all his will not to just open his eyes now, because it feels like Phil… leaves…?
And then the touch is back, fingers sliding into his hair and it sends goosebumps all over his body. He hears a helpless little sigh. Again the touch fades.
And isn't it ridiculous how much he already misses it…?
Those gentle fingertips, touching the back of his hand then… causing even more goosebumps to flare… smoothing over it towards his slightly splayed fingers… slide between them…
There is a startled gasp as Stephen closes his fingers around Phil's in a tight hold, yet mindful of the sore thumb. For a moment the world seems to stand still, a long moment in which there is only utter silence, not even the faintest sound of breathing and maybe Phil really doesn't breathe… Stephen for sure isn't, waiting for the other man to… react.
Phil does react eventually, tries to pull his hand out of the unwanted hold, but Stephen doesn't let him, tightening his hold instead and stops him as he stands up to get away. Looking up, he stubbornly refuses to let go of Phil, seeks a gaze that is carefully avoided while the struggle goes on for seconds.
And then suddenly the struggle stops. Still avoiding eye contact, Phil kneels down again. His hand is tense in Stephen's, becomes even more tense as Stephen brushes his thumb over its back in a way that is supposed to be calming, soothing, but seems to make everything even worse instead. And so he stops.
"Why?" he asks quietly.
Still nothing but silence.
"I'm just trying to understand it."
Taking in the strained expression on the pale face, he waits for a response.
"Phil… talk to me. Please."
Nothing.
No, not nothing. The tiniest of twitches around those lips.
And then finally Phil speaks, his voice low, sounding somewhat worn out as he says: "What do you want me to say?"
Stephen wants to take that exhausted note out of the other man's voice, but he knows that Phil won't let him.
"How about what goes on in yer head? Give me a chance to understand yer."
Once again Phil does not answer and it's getting annoying, not only because Phil refuses to talk to him, no, mostly because there is this utterly stubborn and totally naïve part in Stephen that just can't stop hoping. A swift emotion crosses Phil's face and it's the hint Stephen has been waiting for.
"It's too late, isn't it?" he asks softly. "Yer do like me and tha's the problem, huh?"
Brows furrow over closing eyes, almost as if Phil is in pain and maybe he does hurt. And Stephen realizes that… he's right. His heart trips.
"It doesn't matter," Phil replies eventually, hollow.
"It does, Phil," Stephen says as softly as before. "To me it does, because I do like yer."
He sees the other man flinch as if he has been struck by those words, as if they hurt him and because he doesn't want to give up, he adds: "I liked yer hands on me. Everywhere. And I liked yer kiss and I liked the feeling of holding yer in me arms. I don't care how cheesy this sounds or if I embarrass meself. It's what I feel. And I want more."
Guarded green eyes snap open at that, meeting open blue ones with a deeply wary expression.
"Don't tell me you want a dick shoved up your ass," Phil says, somewhere between scoffing and snapping.
Stephen gazes at in silence, receiving a bitter smirk in response.
"Why am I not surprised?"
Again, bitter. A huff follows.
"Phil," Stephen sighs. "There are more ways than tha to be together."
Laughter. Barked, mirthless.
"Are you too dump to understand it? There is no being together," Phil hisses as he again tries to stand up and get away from him.
There isn't enough time to lose a single thought about what he's just doing as Stephen gives the hand he still holds a sharp tug and sits up in one fluid motion, catching Phil who, surprised by the forceful being pulled down, loses his balance and comes to half sit, half lie on the couch… and in Stephen's arm. Stephen, who grabs a fistful of unruly raven hair.
And kisses him.
It can't actually be called a real kiss. It is more an innocent lip on lip thing, but even more than the being pulled down, it is this tiny gesture which really makes Phil lose his balance. Completely.
Although it is not much, this barely-kiss, it's enough to make the hair on the back of Stephen's neck raise and leave a need for more.
Phil's free hand shoots up to Stephen's shoulder, clawing at it in an attempt to find a hold on it, digging into the thick muscles there… pushing him away... pulling him close… closer… pushing him away… and then Stephen feels the soft hair slip through his fingers and the hand out of his hold as the other man managed to free himself. He doesn't even try to stop Phil from retreating.
Two unsteady steps backwards. Three. Green eyes always fixed on him, wide eyes, shocked eyes. The heavily inked chest rises and falls quickly. Four steps. Phil brings a hand up to cover his mouth… but that hand doesn't wipe the kiss off. But in the pale light it looks like it's trembling a little. There is some unknown emotion flashing in those wide eyes, before it drowns in their depths.
For a moment they only gaze at each other in the half-light, Stephen looking up calm, while Phil stares down at him shocked and frankly pissed. And underneath…if he looks closely enough… he could swear a shadow of that something is still there…
Slowly Stephen stands up, watches as Phil backs off and so he lifts his hands a little, palms turned upwards in a silent peace-offering as he states: "I know yer don't want me to go."
And he knows that there's a begging note lying in it, begging that stubborn mule of a man not to lock that door between them again, but he doesn't care.
"You know nothing, Farrelly," Phil hisses, his hand dropping to his side and suddenly the anger fades, gives way to indifference. "Make sure you're out here before I wake up."
With that Phil turns around and goes back to his room, followed by Stephen who has a hard time not to start running and be the first one to reach the door to make sure it would stay unlocked. But he doesn't, only follows close behind.
"I want to stay with yer, Phil…"
Phil stops at the door, fingers tightly closed around the door knob. He stands there with his back to Stephen, sighs as he dips his head back and as Stephen reaches out to his shoulder without really touching it, there is the tiniest of twitches, as if he can feel the touch that isn't there.
"I don't give a shit about what you want, Farrelly," the raven haired mutters.
The door closes behind him, for the third time today leaving Stephen standing alone with his sorrow, wishes, hopes and desperation in front of a closed door. The sound of a key being turned in the lock seals it.
"Phil?" Stephen calls, waits. "Phil!" Again he waits, puts a hand on the wood of the door. "I'm sorry tha I kissed yer." No, no wait, that has come out wrong. "Uhm… no, actually I'm not sorry tha I kissed yer. But I shouldn't have forced meself on yer. I'm sorry, okay?" Silence. "Phil? Please open the door." Nothing. "Give me a chance. Please."
All he can hear through the door is the barely audible rustling of bedclothes and a quiet groan and then, nothing.
"Phil…"
One minute. Two. Still nothing.
With a sigh he leans his forehead against the door, willing the damn thing to jump open, but this is not a dream and thus no wonder happens, the door does not open. Pushing away from the door eventually he goes back to the couch, grabs the blanket and returns to the door where he sits down, leaning against the wall there, wrapped up in the blanket. After a moment of staring into nothing, he curls up in the corner between frame and wall and closes his eyes, although he isn't expecting to have much sleep tonight. If any at all.
But he can't keep his eyes closed for long and after a short while they open again, no matter how much he wants them to stay closed. And he stares. And stares. Stares. Into nothing. Again. Thinks. Tries not to though, but… he can't stop. What he has is a handful of jigsaw pieces which Phil has given him, by doing or not doing things, saying and not saying things. Gazes. Gestures. But no matter how he places those pieces, they just won't fit. Even when he just thinks that, yes, finally there are two pieces which match, he realizes that he's wrong. And there are still so many pieces missing…
No matter how hard he thinks, it all doesn't make sense. Not a bit. That kiss just a few minutes ago, it has been the perfect sum of what is going on between them. Being pushed away, being pulled closer… being pushed away. And in between all those confusing good feelings. But, fuck, he shouldn't have kissed him. A fucking knee-jerk reaction. How about think before you act, huh?
Well done, Farrelly, well done, he thinks and rolls his head against the wall.
But again… although Phil has pushed him away in the end, during that wannabe-kiss he has pulled him closer, at least for a moment and he hasn't wiped his lips. Hasn't kicked him out immediately.
It is like having those few jigsaw pieces lying on a table and having this new one, trying to put it here, there… only to place it somwhere in between, because once again it doesn't fit in anywhere.
He wonders if something has happened to Phil that he reacts like this. If he's been hurt badly by someone…
"I don't want to go," he says quietly, but maybe it is loud enough in the quietness of the apartment that Phil hears it in there.
Stephen hopes it. Just like he hopes that it will make Phil think about it… them, whatever this is that makes it a them… again. There is a them. Somehow.
He doesn't even know why he's putting so much effort into this, it's not like he's head over heels in love with this man. He has come here for answers and now? Now he doesn't want to leave again, and it's not only because he hasn't gotten the wanted answers but…
Although it seems Phil wants him out of his life, it feels like there is more, something that can be special if it gets a chance to breathe and it's worth fighting for.
"Phil?" he says, closing his eyes again as he does. "I meant it, yer know? I like yer."
If the apartment has been quiet before, is seems to fall utterly silent now and for the rest of the night Stephen just sits there, tries to find sleep but fails to for hours, drowning in his own thoughts and it is early morning when he finally drifts off into a fitful slumber…
x
It is the sound of the door being unlocked that shakes him out of his slumber and he has barely enough time to clear his muddled mind before the door opens and Phil almost trips over his outstretched legs. Gazing up to the other man, his first impulse is to apologize for blocking the way, but he forgets about it as he notices how pale Phil is. And that the he practically clings to the door and the frame, swaying slightly. He meets slightly reddened, glassy eyes. Angry eyes. Tired eyes.
Phil steps over his legs, walking towards the bathroom and although he keeps his hand on the wall, he sways alarmingly. Climbing to his feet, Stephen follows him.
"Phil…"
"Fuck off, Farrelly," Phil says much too weak, his voice hoarse.
And then suddenly he stops, his breathing becoming deep, but fast and unsteady as he leans against the wall, his hands trying to find a hold that isn't there. Stephen watches as Phil's knees buckle. His feet move before his brain catches up and he manages to wrap his arms around Phil just before he slumps to the floor. Heat is radiating off the body in his arms.
"Phil?" Stephen calls quietly, but the other man has passed out.
Worried he feels Phil's forehead, finding it burning with fever but at the touch he feels him stir in his arms, hears a barely audible moan.
"Phil… hey, come on, look at me…" he murmurs and smoothes gently over the raven hair.
The green eyes flutter open, gazing around for a disorientated moment, before they find Stephen's, who feels the urge to smack some sense into the other man as the tired, fever-reddened eyes shoot him something that might be supposed to be a glare.
"I… I told you to… fuck off…"
Raising an eyebrow, he snorts: "Yer are sick. Yer are running a fever and just passed out and yer are really expecting me to go? Yeah, sure, Brooks."
Phil's breathing is still heavy and unsteady he notices.
Softly he wipes a thin sheen of sweat from Phil's forehead as he asks: "When was the last time yer had something to eat and drink?"
Attempting to get out of his hold, Phil moves to crawl away from him, but he doesn't come far, slumping back into his arms with a small moan that turns to dry retching.
"Phil…"
"Fuck off," Phil croaks and goes back to retching dry.
With a sigh, Stephen brings an arm under Phil's knees and lifts him up, carrying the weakly struggling man to his bed.
"Yer got circulation disorders, Phil, yer need to at least drink something," he says softly as he places him on the bed and pulls the blanket over him, before he sits down on the edge of the mattress.
"Just… leave me alone…" Phil wants to snap, but all that comes out is a weak rasp.
"I'm not going anywhere, yer stubborn mule," Stephen replies with a slight shake of his head. "Yer are sick and I'll be damned if I leave yer alone like this. I'm gonna stay until yer are feeling better and then yer can still kick me out." If you still want to kick me out then, he adds in his mind. "Look, yer only need to talk to me if necessary, okay? I'm not gonna bother yer. All yer need to do is sleep, take yer meds and eat and drink something and get well. Deal?"
Phil looks at him warily, but as Stephen reaches out, again gently wiping sweat from his forehead, he doesn't turn his head away, closes his eyes instead and sighs and Stephen takes it as a silent okay.
"I'm gonna get yer something to drink now and the medicine," he says hushed as he gets up.
Phil blinks at him and the wariness and the supposed-to-be-glare are gone, leaving only exhaustion behind. And there is also a certain relief lying in those green orbs, Stephen thinks, but maybe he's only imagining it. Giving the other man a small smile, he leaves to get water and the meds.
Phil is almost asleep as he comes back only two minutes later and Stephen isn't sure if he's really with him as he helps him sit up a little, helps him to take the meds and drink some water and when Stephen leaves again for a minute to get a washcloth and cold water, putting the wet piece of fabric on the heat glowing forehead, Phil is fast asleep.
Retrieving a random book from a shelf, he climbs on to the bed beside the sleeping man and gazes at him for a long moment, brushes his fingertips over a hot cheek in a soft caress before he starts reading.
It is what he does for the next hours. Reading, refreshing the wet cloth. Waiting.
And even a bit… hoping…
A/N
Although I don't expect much feedback to my SheaPunk stories and decided that my At-least-6-reviews-term does not apply to them, I would be happy if you left some words to tell me if you liked it :3