Dan's POV
Phil pesters me all the way home. Rambling about random things ranging from Buffy to encounters with crazy strangers to video games, I tune him out to the best of my abilities. How he manages to cram all that in one fifteen minute walk, I will never know.
But as he talks, I'm starting to realize he's completely different than I previously assumed. No longer was he a chivalrous actor with mating tendencies adjacent to those of rabbits, but a dorky, optimistic nerd. Perhaps my previous malice has been unjustified?
When he talks about something he loves, like an anime or pancakes, he emits a brightness, a fluorescence, a happiness so true and pure it's a rarity in this dark, dismal world. Sparks dance off the shimmer of his fair skin, the glow of his joy undeniable. He might as well be sun, the goddamn star at the center of the solar system. He could bring life to Planet Earth with just his smile alone. And his eyes; Jesus Christ.
His eyes take on a whole new shimmer when he begins to speak about something he has a love and passion for. An ever changing swirl of blue with green and gold is combined with a brilliant shine, and something magical is revealed. You could go swimming in those eyes. Truly, in just those alone, I could fall into the undeniable void of love.
Wait. What?
Phil talks for the entirety of the walk back to my flat, keeping pace with me for the whole time as he casually strolls buoyantly. I silently wonder, in honest curiosity not marred by scorn or ill will, how he can be so full of life when he's well aware of the soul-sucking media and paparazzi could be at every turn. And they truly are, but not just at the corners. On the straight streets and behind newspapers in outdoor cafes, in phone booths and behind windows. Dressed in dark coats and sunglasses to match or stereotypical tourist costumes with shirts blaring thick slogans of "I heart London" and "I went to London and all I got was this lousy tee shirt." I didn't even know they still had shirts like that. Ridiculous, really, the lengths they go. Some of them, however, are not so demure in their charade. They bear no disguises at all, and instead grin sharp-toothed smiles and wave about flashing cameras.
Phil takes no notice of them. Or, if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it. He's dressed casually, and anyone on the street could recognize him as the attractive bit actor that seems to be in every other blockbuster these days. He's talking so vibrantly, and is so unaware of everyone else, that no one stopped him for a picture or autograph. No one has stopped me either, though I am a tad cleverer about my ensemble than him. But I know the paparazzi will easily figure it out. There's not many other six-foot-tall men with curly brown hair that the great and famous Phil Lester would associate with.
We finally make it to my flat, just as Phil is wrapping up a rant about Starbucks, for some unknown reason. I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. I stop, and begin to dig in my jacket pocket for my phone and my keys, hoping he gets the hint. He doesn't.
Phil is still standing there when I pull my house key out and insert it into the lock. I turn slowly and stare at him. He's grinning faintly, almost coyly. I narrow my eyes at him.
"Erm, this is my house," I say, slightly cringing as I hear my tone. I sound like a mother reprimanding her child. I attempt to screw my face up into a more irritated expression and say, impertinently, "Jesus. I would prefer to step inside my flat without you on my arm, Phil."
His face falls a little. Did he expect me to invite him in? His smile, however, immediately reappears for some unknown reason, and I want to slap myself. How am I am not being clear to him?
"Okay! I'll see you at Leon's party, yeah?" He asks cheerfully. I groan again, not even caring he can hear and see me. Leon Tucker, one of our mutual acquaintances. He makes his own indie movies every year that art festivals adore and somehow knows Joss Whedon. He requests songs for whatever movie he's working on at the moment whenever he sees me, and has been known to attempt to cast Phil more than a few times. I avoid the majority of Leon's parties, which he throws at least twice a month with A-listers to D-listers as guests, and anyone in between. However, I'm a mandatory invite and I haven't been to the past three, so I suppose it would be best if I did actually go. But Phil, of course, would be going to.
"Jesus, that's tonight?" I ask, already knowing the answer. He nods, eyes big.
"Yeah, yeah, you'll see me. Probably standing in the corner by the punch, but you'll see me." I respond tiredly, somehow drained of all energy despite the coffee I just finished.
"Great!" He replies with a smile, yet again bursting with unexplainable happiness. "Do you reckon they got any good pictures?" By 'they', I assume he means the paparazzi.
I roll my eyes. "I doubt any were good, but I know they got some. Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to do. Goodbye, Phil." I say coldly. He doesn't pick up on it.
"Alright, see you!" He says, already turning and walking jovially back in the direction we came from. I watch his quirky smile transform back into the flirtatious smirk I'm so used to seeing on the covers of trashy magazines when I go on my midnight grocery trips. He turns and waves, and a shard of that previous friendliness slips back into his smile, but his supposedly permanent grin reappears as he turns away to face the world. I feel like I'm filled with bubbles about to burst.
"Yeah, see you." I mumble, ducking my head as I unlock my door and step inside. A strange feeling is building up in my gut that I really don't want to think about. I'm confused, too. Never had I heard of Phil being such a dorky nerd. He had always been described as a dashing lady's man, or a seductive actor, or a player with a warm heart, or something that was not a huge fucking dork.
I trudge into my flat, already dreading the party despite the fact that it's still in a few hours yet. I think back to the conversation Phil and I had about the paparazzi and pull out my phone. I scroll through a few different news sites guaranteed to have celebrity drama. Sure enough, there's already two articles about Phil and I, as it appears they somehow managed to get shots of my face. I sigh. I also have three missed calls from my publicist and several messages from a few different friends asking about Phil and I.
Shoving my phone into my jeans pocket, I shrug off my coat and kick off the boots. I finally get to yank off the hat, and I pull the now-bent glasses from the pocket of the coat before tossing it over the back of a kitchen chair. I can deal with it later.
I glance around the apartment. There's a shiny white kitchen with big silver appliances at the front of the flat, and a big island with three chairs too many take up the majority of the floor space. The kitchen opens up to a lounge with huge windows and a few simple leather sofas with a glass coffee table and a white shag rug. A wide television stretches across the opposite wall. Why I need multiple, I shall never know. Peggy picked them out, not me. Down the hall are is the master bedroom, equipped with a piano and a bathroom, and a bathroom along with guest bedroom. Everything is white and black and grey and barren and horrible, and I hate every part of it. Peggy, my publicist, personal manager, and everything in between, convinced me to buy it.
It's too big for just me, and despite Peggy claiming it's perfect for parties of all sizes, I don't actually have parties, so it's pointless.
Think of the devil. My phone starts vibrating again, and, of course, it's fucking Peggy. I wander into the lounge and flop down on one of the sofas, and finally answer.
"Fucking finally! Daniel James Howell!" Peggy screeches. I pull the mobile away from my ear. The distance between the calls crackles, but the air has become thick with her anger. I put her on speaker and set the phone on the table in front of me, and sit up and lean forward. I consider turning the telly on, just to annoy Peggy, but decide against it at the last minute.
"Why the hell were you with Phil Lester?" Peggy hisses angrily through the phone. I roll my eyes before closing them, almost in defeat, and lean my head back of the sofa.
"I don't know, Pegs, he just started talking to me and he wouldn't go away."
"This isn't grade school, Howell! Your reputation is on the line."
If my eyes were open, I would roll them. "My reputation? How does talking to an actor affect my reputation?" I actually know the answer, it doesn't have to do with talking to actors in general but rather talking to that specific actor, but I honestly don't even care anymore. I love Peggy, honestly, she was a family friend growing up and has always been there, but I cannot deal with the business side of her sometimes. She's rather vexing.
"Talking to someone like Phil Lester jeopardizes this whole, 'pained, lonely, piano player who doesn't date yet writes the saddest songs about heartbreak' thing you've got going on!"
"But I am a pained, lonely, piano player who doesn't date yet writes the saddest songs about heartbreak." I say indignantly.
"That's not what I meant-Daniel, I swear to God, if you don't stop being so difficult-I mean Phil is not the person we want for your image now. The whole 'dejected pianist' is really selling!"
I open my eyes and sit forward again. "Why not?" I ask for some reason unknown to even me.
"Dan!" She sighs in annoyance. Her resolve is crumbling. "Because you are one of the few celebrities he hasn't been with, and I intended keep it that way!"
I pick up the phone. "You know, Pegs, I love you and all, but you don't control my life as much as you think you do. I'll tell you if anything happens at Leon's party tonight." I hang up and toss the phone to the side. After a moment of consideration, however, I pick the phone back up and open up a search browser. I type in, Dan Howell and Phil Lester. I am immediately bombarded with article after article, and plenty of pictures. One of the photos in particular catches my eye.
It's taken from an angle, but somehow both Phil and I are in the shot. We're walking, my hands tucked into my pockets and hat pulled down low. Phil is smiling at me, in the middle of saying something to me, his eyes bright as he looks up. I blink. He looks so, I don't know, happy. And I appear to be smiling too, a faint grin playing at the corners of my mouth. Our steps look to be in sync, and, I admit, we do look rather couple-y. I click on the link, and I'm brought to a blog; AllThingsLester. Of course blogs like that existed. The article seemed to be written fairly recently, and the title of the article is big and loud and bold.
Is Dan Howell, pianist, Phil Lester's newest love interest?
I stare in surprise, and actually keep reading.
Dan Howell, son of the scientific celeb Howell duo, has risen to fame in recent years for his unique piano music that has topped the charts for quite some time. However, he has yet to come forward about any relationships. Not going to lie, he hasn't come forward about much of anything! He's a very private star.
I pause. So far it's been true, though it hasn't mentioned Phil yet.
Phil Lester, on the other hand, is bold and open about his relationships, as he seems to be in a new one every week! But despite all his fellow stars he's dated, Phil has yet to woo Dan.
I smirk. Definitely true.
The young men have previously been thought to have no connection, despite Lester going on the record back in May claiming he loves Howell's music and would be overjoyed to meet him [source], but were spotting walking this October afternoon in the midst of London crowds.
I pause again. When did Phil say he wanted to meet me? I make note of checking that source later on, and continue to read. It's a decently written article, I rationalize, so I'm not betraying my promise to avoid the media. Besides, I'm fairly curious to see what's said about me and Phil.
A variety of photos have surfaced of the two of them, though neither Howell nor Lester have said anything. Many are saying the two are just friends, though we here at AllThingsLester say otherwise. Anyone can see it, in the way Lester looks at Howell, that he is smitten. Howell seems a bit more laid back, but appears to be amused with Lester's antics. It looks like a comfortable, casual relationship. Not to mention, the pair looks perfect together! Phil isn't exactly one for steady relationships, but could this handsome singer/pianist change that? Is this the start of a beautiful relationship? Or has this been going on for a while? Either way, it's looking like a ship has begun to sail!
"Oh, bloody hell." I mutter. Of course this had to happen. Of fucking course. And I'll have to avoid him at the party, too. I groan loudly, the noise bouncing off the walls of the empty flat. I hate that boy so much.
A/N: Hey guys! Hope you liked the 'latest installment' of You Don't Hate Me! I'm really enjoying writing this, so let me know what you guys think! Bye!