#ks writes

He has other friends, acquaintances, and they make jokes about how he hasn’t changed in over a decade. Okay, fine, his hair has gotten the tiniest bit shorter but it’s still the same style. A graphic tee and skinny jeans? Groundbreaking. He swapped his old shoes for converses that have rainbows on the soles, but he makes sure to keep his feet on the ground, always. It normally doesn’t bother him. Sure, there’s been an itch under his skin for several years now, a prickling sensation when yet another person claims to know him. That doesn’t mean that he isn’t fine. He is fine. He’s great. The itch comes and he ignores it and things continue on.

But that night. That night he let himself scratch it, nails digging into soil beneath his skin, down and down and down until he unearthed a version of himself that he’d long since buried. A version that was open, outspoken, unapologetic. A version that saw opportunities and seized them. A version that never asked can I but only how will I. 

He thought that by Friday morning the itch would be gone, the desire mentally explored enough that he could move on. It wasn’t, of course. In fact, it was so much worse than it had ever been. All of his rumination had made it seem possible. He could make changes. He had the power to call a salon and make an appointment for an hour out. He could so easily get on the train afterward and find a store full of the clothing he’s fantasized about for years. Then a bar, have some drinks, maybe even meet someone. Truly embody the kind of confidence he’s only ever dreamed about. He had the power to do anything he wanted.

There’s a boy in Phil’s bed and yes, technically speaking he knows exactly how they got there. A mental spiral and a few too many drinks can take a guy anywhere, but the details are fuzzy. He can’t remember whose idea it was first, which of them plucked up the courage to suggest spending the night together, who insisted on it being Phil’s flat that they stumbled back to. All he knows is a dimple, warm brown eyes and knees pressing into his own. Glances from strangers gave him goosebumps, but a hand on a wrist and a soft laugh in his ear drowned out everything else. A night unlike any other that Phil has experienced.

But it’s morning now, and the person beside him is a stranger. He doesn’t know what the protocol is here. His first instinct is escape, slinking off to his kitchen to make coffee and pretend like he does this all the time. Maybe the guy would get the hint and they’d avoid interaction all together. Or should he say something, wake him and tell him to get lost? That seems harsh, and besides, he’s not entirely sure he wants to say goodbye just yet. There was so much laughter last night. So much light. And maybe some of it was nerves but not all. Part of him wants to see if there could be something here, something more than one night and an awkward morning.

Phil takes a breath, leaning heavily toward running away, but then the stranger stirs, blinking and looking at Phil through his eyelashes. Christ, who gave this guy warm brown eyes like that, a vat of chocolate he could fucking drown in and say thank you for the opportunity. Add it to the list of reasons they ended up here. In Phil’s bed. In the morning.

He has to get out of here.

“Morning,” the stranger says just as Phil manages to stammer out “Coffee!”.

There’s a beat of silence between them as they stare at one another, neither of them quite sure what to say. It becomes one of those moments when someone’s brain is screaming at them to say something, anything, but there are no words available. The silence stretches, and with every passing second it just gets more awkward. This right here might actually be the longest two people in this situation have ever gone without speaking. It must be. It’s fucking excruciating, and-

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

But Phil doesn’t hear what it is the stranger didn’t mean to do, because the broken silence has propelled him from the bed, and the room, and before he even realizes he’s moving he’s in his kitchen.  Thank whatever gods above that he’d at least worn boxers to bed. God, why didn’t he think this through? How had he failed so spectacularly in his stupid personal transformation? How the fuck did he think changing his clothes and acting out of character would actually change his personality? He’s anxious by nature and he hates unfamiliar situations. Of course, bring a stranger home. That should go well.

“Good job, Phil,” he mumbles to himself, shaking ground coffee into the filter a little more enthusiastically than is strictly necessary. He ends up with dried coffee all over his counter, which is pretty par for the course this morning. “This just gets better and better.”

From behind him comes the sound of a throat clearing, and when he spins around he finds the stranger, dressed, and with a small smile on his lips. “Everything alright?”

“Oh yeah,” Phil lies, figuring it’s better than the slight breakdown truth. “Made a mess, um- do you want coffee?” He hooks a thumb toward the aforementioned mess, desperate for something to do with his hands. He’s acutely aware that he’s in boxers and nothing else. Meanwhile the guy is in dark jeans and some kind of black and white lace print button down. There’s an image in there he can’t quite make out. A skull maybe? He’s hot, is the point, and Phil is wildly undressed for the occasion. “It- It’ll be a few minutes, but you’re welcome to stay and wait.” This is another lie, Phil would very much like to have his freak out alone, thank you, but he’s not really in charge of his own words at the moment. “Not stay, I just mean- you know, wait for coffee-”

“It’s okay,” the stranger cuts him off. “I have shit to take care of this morning, but thanks.”

“Right, of course.” Of course the guy doesn’t want to stay. Why would he? “Then I guess I’ll see you later…uh-” He’d been so ready to use the guys name, used the obvious intonation. Except he can't remember the guy’s name and he just feels like an idiot.

But his ineptitude only gets him a smile. “I’m Dan.”

“Dan,” he repeats like an automatic reflex. “I knew that, too, I just-”

“Sure you did.”

“I did, it was on the tip of my tongue!”

“Believe me, I know where it was, Phil.”

There’s a beat of silence before they both dissolve into giggles, and something like relief floods through Phil. He’s okay. They’re laughing, and it suddenly feels so easy. He can relax with this guy. With Dan.

Still, he has to explain himself a little.

“I- christ, I’m sorry,” he manages . “I don’t really do this.”

“Do what?” The corner of Dan’s mouth pulls up in a crooked smile. “Bring home random guys you meet in clubs? Or have conversations with them the next morning?”

“Neither,” he admits. “I was having a weird day yesterday-”

Dan nods, and for a brief second the tiny spark of hope he’d felt flares up in his chest. “Understood. I’ll go and we can forget this ever happened.” Just like that the flame is gone, snuffed out with just a few words. What was he thinking? How did he think he could be this person? The drinks and the clothes and the-

“Oh god.” He’d forgotten. Somehow, in all of the excitement of the new confident self he’d decided on, he’d forgotten about his hair. “I’m blonde, aren’t I?”

He’s met with a raised eyebrow from the boy who said he was leaving, but hasn’t. “You are. Is this news for you?” He gestures over his shoulder. “Should I call someone? Are you having a breakdown?”

“No, I-” God, how the fuck did he get here? A crisis of self, yeah, but how did that spiral become explaining his fucking crisis to a stranger in his home? A stranger who slept in his bed and kissed him breathless and touched him so gently he thought he might melt. He owes this man some sort of an explanation, but he cant bring himself to start at the beginning. “It’s new,” he says finally, like that explains anything at all. “I just had it done yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Dan echoes, his eyebrows very nearly hitting his hairline. “You dyed your hair blonde then picked me up in a club?” Of course, Phil has to nod because that is the exact sequence of events, minus the crop top and leather jacket purchase. Dan just shakes his head. “Is this a crisis twink thing?”

“No,” Phil says quickly. Because it’s not. At least, he doesn’t think it is. His breakdown has very little to do with his sexuality he’s pretty sure. Okay, there is the undeniable fact that his breakdown directly lead to the stranger in front of him. But it’s not like he was having the breakdown about his sexuality, it was his entire existence that caused the problem, and part of the solution happened to be casual sex with a beautiful stranger. Dan is simply a side effect. Correlation, not causation. Something like that. “No, this isn’t a crisis twink thing.”

“Right…” It comes out slow, and he knows that Dan does not believe him. “Well we can unpack that later, right now I’m actually late and there are people who will kill me for such an infraction.”

Phil finds himself nodding. “Okay, yeah, don’t want to be responsible for your murder.”

It isn’t until after the door is closed and he’s all alone does he wonder what Dan meant by later. They have no way of contacting one another since they never exchanged numbers, and he can’t imagine Dan intends on randomly showing up at his door. What if Phil had some prior commitment and he won’t be home? He will be, of course, because he’s almost always home, but that’s beside the point.

It occurs to him that Dan might have said it out of habit, that he didn’t mean it literally. Yes, that has to be it. They had one night together and that was it. Odds are, he will never see Dan again.

***

A few hours later Phil’s phone buzzes in the middle of an episode of The Office. Initially he assumes it’s a family member checking on him, maybe a friend he hasn’t gotten back to recently. Basically, the usual. Instead it’s a number he doesn’t recognize but a name he does.

is dan

want to resume our earlier conversation? free therapy that’s worth what you’re paying?

??

howd you get my number?

can’t reveal my secrets unless i know you’re really cool

im very cool. remember my hair and my jacket?

i called myself from your phone after you fell asleep

why??

bc i knew we’d have that deep conversation this morning

really?

no you walnut i wanted to hook up again. then the conversation happened and now i want to see you for multiple reasons.

okay

do you want to meet somewhere?

i literally woke up next to you i already know where you live.

im at lunch now but i’ll text you when im on my way later

He sends a thumbs up then tosses his phone to the other end of the couch, hands shaking. There’s no reason for him to be so stressed out at the prospect of seeing Dan again, and yet. It dominates his thoughts all day, an ever changing monologue of what he’s going to say in regards to his mild breakdown this morning. The easy thing to do would be start at… not the beginning, exactly, but close enough. The instagram post and all the thoughts it dredged up. He won’t go into detail about every issue, or how long they’ve been going on, but he’ll give the general idea. Nonchalantly, he suddenly realized he wanted a change and he went after it. No big deal.

The important thing is that he’s prepared.

***

Some time after nine pm there’s a knock on his door, followed immediately by a text.

open up

Phil takes a deep breath, steeling himself for this. He can be cool. He can get his shit together and be a normal, regular person. He definitely knows how to do that. He starts pacing. There’s definitely not a pit of anxiety in his stomach, begging him to block Dan and pretend that he’s not home. Maybe he could move. The odds of his landlord noticing him leaving are slim, it would only become a problem when the guy doesn’t get his rent check. Could he manage pay another month and secure a new place to live? It’s possible. He could call his parents and have an extended visit, he’d figure it out-

His thought spiral is interrupted by his name being called through the door. “Phil? You know I can hear you moving around in there, right?”

Shit. Even with an entire day to have it together, he hasn’t thought it through enough. He should have said no earlier, he should have never gone out last night, he should never have let Dan think he’s someone worth getting to know. He’s too awkward and too anxious and-

Again, his name through the door. “Phil? Will you please let me in before your neighbors call the police?”

With no other choice, he opens the door to find Dan, but he’s different than he was earlier. Gone is the hot, put together guy from this morning, and in his place is a pair of black sweatpants and a black t-shirt that reads I think he’s gay with an arrow pointing up. Somehow this is even hotter than the lace print version of Dan, and Phil kind of has zero interest in exploring the state of his mental health right now. He has far more important matters on his mind.

“Hi.”

"Hi."

He doesn't know who reaches for who first, or how after one night together they've managed to get on the same wavelength where they don't even need to say words out loud to one another. But they are, and before he knows it they're horizontal on the couch, all kiss swollen mouths and wandering hands. With Dan on top of him, it's like nothing else matters, it all melts away into nothingness.

By eleven there’s a boy in Phil’s bed again.

“So,” Dan says, his head on Phil’s chest and his fingertips drawing idle patterns around Phil’s collarbone. “Are you gonna tell me about the blonde now?”

Right, the actual talking portion of this get together. He’d kind of forgotten about that part of the agreement, more interested in losing himself in sensation and fully ignoring any lurking anxieties. “It’s not as big a deal as I made it out to be. It’s just a change.” So much for his carefully prepared monologue.

“A change,” Dan echoes. “You dyed your hair blonde then took a strange man home, both things that are admittedly out of the ordinary for you. It sounds like more than just a change.”

Phil wants to ask if this is how casual hookups usually go. It had been awhile before Dan, and he’s never been great at the casual part of it all. He has a tendency to grow attached rather quickly, sometimes blowing things up bigger than they are. Making them more important than they are.

But this, the way Dan is curled into him, the way every touch is incredibly gentle and full of something akin to adoration- he can't be alone in how he's feeling. Can he? After all, Dan was the one to put the pieces together on Phil's crisis. He thinks of the text now i want to see you for multiple reasons. In twenty four hours they've made something here, and nothing good starts without the truth.

So he explains it all. The rotted ties and the instagram spiral and the itch deep under his skin. He tells Dan how he’d always wanted to go blonde, had even tried once but royally fucked it up. It happened when he was still figuring out his emo aesthetic, and it was such a brief period everyone forgets it ever happened. He feels ridiculous, pouring out all of his insecurities to this person he’s only just met, but there’s also a strange sense of peace. Dan has no preconceived ideas of him, so he can be really, genuinely honest and he doesn’t have to worry about the repercussions.

“Let me ask you this,” Dan says when he’s finished, and there’s so little judgment in his tone it’s almost jarring. He simply sounds curious. “The black emo fringe, graphic tee and skinny jeans thing- why’d you start doing it?”

Phil considers it, but the question doesn't make any sense to him. “What do you mean why?”

“Well, you started dressing a certain way when you were a teenager. Why that way? Why not a different aesthetic completely, or something like what you’re trying to achieve now?”

It still seems like a weird question, but he gives it his best shot. “Because I wanted to, I guess? I liked the look, I thought it was really cool.”

“And now you don’t.”

“No, it's still cool, it’s just-”

“Not who you are anymore.”

A beat of quiet. “Not who I want to be, I think.”

“Good news, Phil, you can be literally whoever you want. People change. You wanted to do the emo thing for a while, so you did. And now you want to do the blonde crisis twink thing, so you are. It’s fine.”

“It’s not a crisis twink thing!” he insists, but he can’t help the laugh that accompanies the protest. It dies down quickly though, thoughts of his family and friends’ reactions creeping into his head. “Is it weird that I’m worried about telling people? Like, it’s a joke that I haven’t changed, but also it’s not? I kind of feel like I should have just stuck it out, made more gradual changes.”

“It’s your life, Phil. You should be doing what you want.”

“See logically I know that, but in practice…” he lets the sentence trail off, skimming his fingertips up Dan’s arm. In practice he’s done it before, hasn’t he? He’d wanted to go blonde, so he did. He wanted new clothes, so he bought some. He wanted Dan, and now here’s Dan in his bed, encouraging him to continue being selfish. "I'm thinking about how they'll react."

"Does it matter? It's your hair." He reaches up to tousle it, knuckles dragging gently across Phil's cheekbone before his hand settles back to where it was. "You were who they wanted for long enough."

"I was who I wanted to be too, it wasn't just about them."

“At one point it was about you, and then it became about your brand-”

“No,” Phil protests . “I'm just a normal guy, I don't have a brand. ”

“Everyone has a brand, Phil. It's the way people perceive you.” Dan props himself up some, hand sliding from Phil's collarbone to his sternum, right in the middle of his chest. “Here's the thing, right, no one actually knows another person, they only know their idea of them. We get the bones of someone, standard facts and childhood stories or whatever, and then we fill in all the gaps. But we're just making shit up. We might get it close but it's never a true representation of who that person is.”

The way Dan presents it, he finds it hard to disagree. But. “What's that got to do with me treating myself like a brand?”

“You figured out how people fill you in, and now you're scared to tell them they're wrong. It sounds like you're doing the opposite, like you're leaning into the idea they have of you even though it's not who you really are.”

Phil cannot speak. The weight of Dan's hand feels enormous, pressing down into his heart.  How is it that Dan, a virtual stranger, has cut so succinctly into him when friends he's had for years can't see it? Maybe it’s simply a matter of Dan’s outside perspective, maybe it would be just as obvious to anyone else hearing Phil’s story. Maybe his friends are too close to see him objectively. Maybe Dan is extremely observant and it’s a total coincidence that they’ve stumbled upon each other.

Maybe it’s more than that.

“To be honest,” he manages to say “I’m not sure I actually know who I am.”

Dan does not miss a beat. “You’re the person who picks up random guys in clubs then pours your heart out to them the next night,” he says, grinning. “And you’re blonde while you do it.

It cuts the tension in him like a hot knife through butter.“I am not the pick up random guys guy, I promise you,” he says, the words coming out around a scoff.

“Oh no?” Dan dips his head, ghosting his lips along Phil's jaw. “What makes me special then?

Truthfully, Phil doesn’t know the answer. But it is an accurate statement. Dan is special, somehow sees past the brand as it were and into Phil’s heart, right under where he has his hand. “I don’t know,” he says. “Glad it happened though.”

“Where else are you gonna get a free private therapist who will also have sex with you?”

“I could probably call around.”

Dan presses his face into Phil’s neck, his laugh warm and wet in the skin there. “Right,” he says, turning his head, gentle breath skimming over Phil’s throat. “Well if anyone answers let me know. Until then if you need help figuring shit out, I’m happy to be a sounding board."

It is quite possibly the greatest offer Phil has ever heard. “Might take you up on that.”

“Good. You’d better.”

Of course Phil says nothing, because the man could sleep through an actual freight train running through his flat and he probably wouldn’t even notice the mess it left behind. “Phil,” he tries again, and although the hitch in Phil’s breathing feels promising, it quickly evens back out and Dan knows he is alone in this fight. 

He groans, rolling back the other way to force himself out of bed. He adores Phil, really, but he fucking hates sleeping here. The flat is tiny and there’s no bedside table and there’s an atrocious amount of direct sunlight in the morning, which is his exact grievance today. He rifles blindly through one of Phil’s dresser drawers in search of a pair of sweatpants. Phil won’t actually mind, but they’ll have a playful little argument about it that will end in Dan suggesting that if Phil has such a problem with Dan in his sweats, maybe he should fucking do something about it. He doesn’t bother with a t-shirt. His happened to be in an inopportune spot last night and is no longer in a wearable condition, and Phil’s wardrobe is full of too much color for Dan’s liking.  

For himself, at least. Big fan of it on Phil, though to be fair he’s a pretty big fan of anything on Phil. Also nothing at all. And half dressed, boxers and socks and a bare chest. Phil is hot, is the bottom line here. As he makes his way to the kitchen he thinks, not for the first time, how fucking lucky he is to have Phil in his life. Does the man have flaws? Sure. He gets hyperactive and a little overly enthusiastic, he can be pretty messy and leaves nearly every cabinet door open behind him, and he rarely takes I’m just tired as an excuse for Dan’s frequent gray moods. He always wants Dan to open up, to be honest, to share the dark parts of himself that Dan is so sure are going to scare him off. And then he holds Dan, kisses his tears away and promises not to go anywhere. 

It’s fucking bewildering, honestly. 

But for reasons Dan cannot begin to fathom, Phil means every word. So Dan is going to hold on for as long as he can, cleaning up little messes and closing cabinet doors and making shitty instant coffee in the mornings. 

If, that is, Phil had actually bought coffee. There had been a whole conversation about it last night before they convened here, Dan on the phone reminding him that he said he’d run out the previous morning, and since Phil was literally in the supermarket and Dan was picking up takeout, it was a chore that fell to Phil. Apparently, though, Phil had been too focused on bringing up the when are you actually going to move in argument, refusing to accept that Dan was locked into a lease, and it would be six months before he could get out of it. Besides, he hated Phil’s flat, the only thing even remotely appealing about it was Phil himself. It should have been a conversation for months down the road, when they could easily agree to look for a new apartment together, and save themselves a lot of mild irritation. 

Including this right now, the dawning realization that he has to leave the apartment to go get coffee. If it were just Dan, he’d figure out how to live without it, cup of tea or a red bull or something, but not Phil. He might say it’s fine, but Dan knows he’ll be disappointed, and he can’t live with himself if he doesn’t do everything in his power to prevent that. 

He allows himself one moment of true annoyance about the situation, then takes a deep breath and heads back into the bedroom, once again rifling through Phil’s drawers for something to wear. He doesn’t have it in him to change into jeans, deciding the black sweatpants will have to be good enough. He ends up in a white graphic tee and Phil’s ugly blue and purple jacket, refusing to remember what the hell he did with his own. It’s one of the many items that Phil owns that somehow look incredible on him even though nothing about it is actual appeals to Dan whatsoever, and he’d almost rather freeze than have to wear it himself. 

Almost being the operative word. 

He doesn’t bother even trying to wake Phil, knowing it’s a lost cause. Even if he did manage to get him up, Phil would insist that he stay in, that they try to figure something else out. He’s not about to let Phil make any concessions this morning. Instead he swipes a pair of mismatched novelty socks (cereal brands, for some fucking reason) and shoves his feet into a pair of Vans that Phil dyed green when Dan went to visit his family. He’s not a fan of these either, but they’re by the front door and they’re more convenient than lacing up his own boots. 

Twenty minutes later he’s browsing the aisles of a corner shop, container of instant coffee already in hand. If he’d been thinking more clearly he would have checked for anything else they might need, but thanks to the mild hangover and the overall annoyance of the situation, it hadn’t occurred to him. On a whim he grabs a bag of Maltesers and some crisps, figuring that even if Phil did buy some they can always use more. 

The girl at the counter seems to survey him, and he assumes it’s because he looks like exactly what he is: a hungover homosexual who had to borrow his boyfriend’s clothes in order to pop down to the shop. Whatever. He’s done with feeling embarrassed about the decisions he makes, especially when those decisions involve Phil. He gives her a bright, too cheery smile, and she only pops her gum in response. 

Phil has only just gotten up when he gets back, and is searching, Dan assumes, through his cabinets for the very thing Dan has in a paper bag. 

“You were out,” Dan says flatly, dropping the shopping bag onto the counter. “You’re welcome.” 

Phil begins to turn around. “I could have sworn I bought-” He stops short, eyes widening as they land on Dan. “What are you wearing?” 

“My clothes were gross.” 

“Are those my socks?” 

“They were clean, okay, what else did you want me to do?” In retrospect the socks may have been a mistake. He could have just as easily scrounged down to the bottom of the drawer and found two plain black ones that Phil would have forgotten about. Instead he went with the most blatantly Phil pair possible, for reasons he doesn't feel like unpacking right now. 

Phil takes a half step toward him then stops, hands flat on the counter. “I- you- Goddammit Dan, why’d you have to- fuck.”  

Of all the responses he thought he might get wearing Phil’s clothes, this was not one of them. “Oh, sorry for going to the shop for your coffee, next time I won’t borrow anything and just let you suffer without caffeine. Or maybe I’ll just go naked.” 

“It’s not the borrowing, it’s-” Phil’s eyes rake over him for a beat, settling at the place the light blue collar meets his neck. “I’m not used to you in color. It suits you.” 

Dan does not understand the conversation they’re having. “So the problem is I’m hot?” 

“In part.” 

Now Dan steps forward, moving around the counter to reach out for Phil. “You sure knew what to do about that last night.” 

But Phil steps out of his grasp, leaning back against the stove they never use. “Yeah, but last night you didn’t give me the perfect argument for you moving in.” 

He groans. “No, don’t start this.” 

“I’m just saying, you wouldn’t have to borrow my clothes- clothes you look really good in by the way- if you just had all of your stuff here.” He hikes an eyebrow, but Dan can tell he’s fighting a losing battle with a smile. 

“I can’t break my lease, and I’m not paying rent for a place I don’t live.” 

“You went to law school for five minutes, surely-” 

“Oh fuck off!” But they’re both giggling, and this time when Dan reaches out Phil let’s himself be pulled, letting out a little contented sigh as Dan’s fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. “Tell you what,” Dan says against his mouth, forcing himself to say the words that have been rattling around in his head for the last couple of months. “When both of our leases are up, we’ll find a place together.” 

Phil pulls back. “Wait really? You’ll actually live with me?” 

“Well obviously.” Dan rolls his eyes, smiling. “On the condition that we get black out curtains.” 

“And you wear more color.” 

“You wear more black.” The counter is immediate, hardly a thought before it’s out if his mouth, but he finds that it’s an excellent demand. Like most things, Phil looks incredible in black. It's a conclusion he's only recently come to, thanks to some black graphic tees that have made the rotation. But he wants Phil in proper black, styled specifically to contrast to his pale skin and hair. 

Phil blinks at him in surprise. “Really? You think I suit black?” 

“Are you kidding? You’re hot as is, but in black?” He shakes his head, reconsidering. “On second thought, I’m not sure I could handle it.” It’s bait, a little bit, and they both know it. 

“What if we stay at yours tonight, and I try on all your clothes and you tell me how good I look?” Phil asks with a grin. 

Phil presses against him, chest to chest, and the door is still wide open behind him. It all feels so fucking dangerous, even more when Phil opens his mouth. “S’your job, innit?” There’s alcohol on his breath, sharp and stinging. He knows Phil is not a big drinker, and yet. Because. 

“Shut up,” he says, breaking free of Phil’s grip and instead reaching for his sides, fingers twisting into the fabric of Phil’s t-shirt. He pulls harder this time, turning to move Phil out of the doorway. He kicks it closed behind them, unwilling, despite it all, to let Phil go as they stumble toward the bed. For everything that they are-but-aren't, this part has always been easy, instinctual. Behind closed doors there’s hardly ever been a moment that Dan has hesitated. There’s never been a need. He knows, always, that Phil will take his hand if he reaches. As sure as he is that the sun will rise in the morning, he is sure of them. 

“Why are you drunk?” he asks, hands wandering down to slip under the hem of Phil’s t-shirt. He’s spent the better part of two days trying not to stare, forcing himself to focus on palm trees and sand and anything but Phil’s exposed skin. Now, in the safety of his hotel room, he feels as if he’s been given a key to the whole world, and here it is beneath him. 

“M’not drunk,” Phil says. It comes out slurred and with the tiniest hint of laughter, like he thinks he’s getting away with something. 

“Yes you are.” He dips his head to kiss Phil, soft and sweet and above all, intimate. It’s a kiss that feels like exactly what it is- an ongoing declaration of love. “I can taste it.” Coconut rum and memories. 

“M’not!” Phil insists. “I just- it was a couple of drinks.” 

“For the world’s lightest lightweight.” 

“I was anxious.” The admission is the clearest thing he’s said, and a pit forms in Dan’s stomach. “About you. Don’t want you to be scared.” 

And he is so scared, so fucking terrified of where this all goes. This thing with Phil- this entire fucking life that he’s building in his mind- he's almost positive it’s going to give him an ulcer. But the fear has nothing to do with Phil himself, and everything to do with the outside world. Friends and family and what it would mean to them. What it would mean about Dan. It scares the shit out of him. 

Somehow, though, Phil makes him believe that one day, it will all be okay. “I’m not,” he finds himself saying. “I’m not scared at all.” It isn’t a lie. 

They fall asleep clutching each other, the feeling of falling in love curled around them like a shield. 

In the morning, they lie and say they were up late talking about video games, and Dan stole Phil’s room because Phil refused to get up, and everyone laughs at how ridiculous they are. It’s okay. They’ll be alone together soon enough, and the fear will dissipate. It always does. 

Turkey, 2024 

“Do we have to go out to dinner tonight?” Phil calls from the edge of the pool, his arms folded on the concrete and his chin resting sleepily on top of them. “Can’t we just order room service or something?” 

Dan sighs, looking up from his book. “We have a reservation. We’re not gonna get to go at all if we don’t go tonight,” he says, though he’s a little bit inclined to give Phil anything he wants, since- 

“The doctor told me to rest.” 

“You can’t rest at dinner?” 

Phil giggles, revealing his less than serious stance on the matter. “Not if I have to get dressed, no.” 

After marking his place with a bookmark and shoving the novel into their shared bag, Dan stands and makes his way over to the edge of the pool. “If we don’t go, you’re going to be mad that we missed it and I’m going to have to listen to you complain,” he says, crossing his arms. 

“I won’t,” Phil promises, voice bordering on a whine. “I’ll be perfectly happy without it.” 

“No, I know you, Lester, you say it won’t be a problem, but tomorrow when you suddenly decide you do want to go and we can’t, you’re going to pout.” 

“What if we call and postpone it?” Phil looks up at him with these big hopeful eyes, and it’s impossible to say no. 

“Who is we?” he asks, but he’s already pulling his phone from the pocket of his shorts. “If you want to call and speak to them, that’s your business.” 

“Fine.” Phil holds out his hand, as if there’s any universe where he’d actually volunteer to call a restaurant. “Give me your phone.” 

“Why, so you can drown it in the pool?” Dan raises it high above his head, wildly out of reach. “No, I guess if I absolutely have to, I will try. You’re lucky I love you.” He brings the phone back down, scrolling through for a moment to find the number for the restaurant. The more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea of lying in bed eating something that’s been delivered to them. 

“See if we can get an hour earlier, too,” Phil says as the dial tone rings in his ear. 

“Shh,” he admonishes, just as the woman on the other end says hello thank you for calling. “Yes, hi-” Christ, somehow he was unprepared for this. “Uh, my boyfriend and I had a reservation for tonight- it's under the name Howell? We were wondering if we could possibly move it to tomorrow night?” He feels droplets of water hit his exposed ankles. “Er- and also make it 7 instead of 8? I’m so sorry if-” he stops, listening to the hostess assure him that of course they can do that, it’s no trouble at all, is there anything else she can do for him? “Oh, okay, thank you so much.” 

When he looks back, Phil is positively beaming at him. “I told you-” 

“Yes yes, you’re always right, I don’t want to hear it.” But as Phil’s eyes close in laughter, a surge of affection rushes through him, gratitude that their life together gets to continue. He moves without thinking, navigating to his camera to snap a picture of Phil there at the edge of the pool. Dan never wants to let go, never wants to forget. Never in his life has he felt the fear he has in the last two weeks, and he cannot take this moment for granted. He clears his throat. “So, are you going to get out now so we can figure out what to order, or am I supposed to bring the menu to you as well?” 

Phil opens his eyes. “Get in.” 

“Really?” 

“Please?” Phil bats his pretty eyelashes, and Dan is putty in his hands. 

He rolls his eyes but tosses his phone onto the lounge chair, knowing he should be more careful but unable to walk away from Phil. He peels his t-shirt off and sinks into the water beside Phil, laughing when he only gets to enjoy it for a second before Phil’s arms are around his neck, their bare chests pressed together. Phil makes a big show of kissing him on the cheek, sloppy and not-quite-annoying. 

“Thank you,” he says in a sing-song voice. So fucking insufferable, but Dan loves him more than anything in the world. He holds Phil close in the water, always relishing in the feel of Phil’s skin against his own.  A tiny, distant voice in his head tries to tell him that this is dangerous, that being outside like they are means anyone could potentially see them regardless of how private this pool area feels, that he should be scared of what could happen if they were spotted. 

Things have been good lately, really good. When they were younger, when nearly every aspect of their relationship was a total secret, they had moments. Behind closed doors, under covers, in middle-of-the-night inky darkness, they found moments of complete bliss. All pretense fell away, every bit of armor they wore for the outside world gone. Stripped bare, both literally and figuratively. In these moments it felt less like two people sharing a space and more like one person split only a little. Separate organs in one body. Liver and pancreas, Dan and Phil.

And then doors would open, duvets would be drawn back, the sun would rise. The moment would end and they’d return to their regular life. Still happy enough, still content, but it wouldn’t be the same.

Slowly over the last five years the golden moments have not only grown in frequency, but they’ve gotten lighter too. Cracked doors, giggles in between sheet changes, love at dawn and dusk. The scales have tipped the other way, anxiety over being caught feeling more foreign with each passing day, while joy has become a given.

So Dan’s question is out of the goddamn blue.

It doesn’t shake him the way it used to, though. In the past there would be fear, a near certainty that a question like this meant Dan was pulling away, folding in on himself and disappearing to places Phil couldn’t reach. All he could do was peer into the darkness and wait for Dan’s return, hands wringing the entire time. This doesn’t feel quite like that. Today, he is confident in his ability to hold onto Dan through it all. It helps that Dan has asked with his head in Phil’s lap, that his eyes are half-lidded and sleepy, with none of the frantic intensity that used to accompany questions like this.

He rakes his fingers through Dan’s hair, careful not to catch his ring on any strands. It’s a plain silver thing, so there shouldn’t be much danger, but he’s still not used to wearing it. “Define without you, ” he says, thinking very specifically about the rings on their fingers. “Are you planning to divorce me?”

Dan turns his head enough so their eyes meet, and his gaze is so warm, so full of love it makes Phil’s breath catch a little. Despite it all, this still feels like a miracle. “I mean if we’d never met. Do you ever wonder if you’d be the same Phil even if you’d never met me?”

He considers it. There’s two questions there, all wrapped up in Dan’s casual sleepy tone. One, does Phil wonder? It’s easy enough to say no, he does not wonder about any version of his life that doesn’t include Dan. The concept itself seems impossible. Why would he ever sit around pondering the impossible?

But that doesn’t matter, really, because it’s not the question Dan actually wants an answer to. Would he be the same Phil without Dan?

Again, the easy answer is no. They’ve grown so much together. They’ve molded one another. Their lives are so enmeshed they’d have to involve the government in order to pull them apart.. So many of Phil’s experiences only exist with Dan at his side. To tell a history of Phil is impossible without sharing Dan’s too.

Nevertheless, he tries to picture it.

Continuing YouTube, gaining fame but less speculation. Still closeting himself, but with a  little less vigilance. He might have still ended up on the radio, might have even lasted longer, but with far less enthusiasm. Growing restless and bored as just another voice. Forcing himself to go out, meet people, chase that elusive thing called love that everyone is so desperate for. Failed dates reminiscent of the ones he went on at university. Maybe he would have met someone else, maybe there would be light and maybe he would almost relax and maybe there’d still be a ring on his finger. Maybe there’d be a house. He’s certain there would have been no debates about carpet, though. And it wouldn’t be this house, because even if his input was exactly the same, he wouldn’t have his other half to complete it. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, because maybe he wouldn’t know what he was missing.

Maybe maybe maybe, but maybe’s are bullshit. They don’t count for anything. And even if they did, none of them stack up to his reality. The man with his head in Phil’s lap, eyelids fluttering despite the weight of the conversation. His roommate. The love of his life. His partner. The person he spends the majority of his time with. His husband. If souls are real, theirs are not made of the same element, but they are hydrogen and oxygen. So intertwined they’ve created something new entirely, something vital for survival. Separated with great difficulty, but impossible to rid the world of completely.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, which is not at all an answer to the question posed. “I don’t like to think about not having you in my life.” That’s the truth. He might be able to picture an alternate life, but it lacks the sunshine of his life with Dan. Beige versus brilliant gold.

“So don’t,” Dan says, the words barely coming out from around a yawn.

“You asked the question.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to take it seriously.” Dan’s smile is soft but full of amusement. “I thought you’d say it would be an opportunity to become Striker or something.”

“I didn’t even think about that.” He can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. “That’s what I should have said.”

“Too late, Phil, you’ve shown genuine emotions. Can’t take it back now.”

“Maybe I’ll divorce you.”

“Good luck. I’m not signing shit.” He grins up at Phil. “You are stuck with me for forever.”

It might be well after two am, and the only lightsource in the room might be from the tv, and they might physically be in the darkest part of the house, but this moment feels like the sun, bright and fiery. Thinking of forever with Dan outshines every other golden moment. They are in love, and they are happy, and their life together is the most fun he can imagine. 

Jeremy sounds more annoyed and less scared than one would think, considering they've run into an alley only to find two men with guns. Two men who quickly turn those guns on them.

'who the fuck are you?'

The question surprises them all, including Matt, even though he's the one who asked. As it turns out, people have a tendency to say the first thing that comes to mind when in a stressful situation. Such as, having robbed a convenience store for the very first time and immediately finding himself face to face with other apparent robbers. It would get to anyone, probably.

'i don't want any trouble, but i've already robbed someone tonight and i don't give a shit about felony murder!'

Two lies and a truth, is what Trevor has chosen to play, for some reason. In reality, one does not rob a convenience store at gun point if one is intent on staying out of trouble. And he does, in fact, care very deeply about felony murder. Felony murder is the precise reason he'd shot a bag of Doritos and not a clerk. In his defense, the clerk had initially rolled her eyes at him, asked what exactly he thought he'd get out of this. He'd found this question rude.

The truth, of course, is that he did rob a convenience store. That did happen. No take backs.

'so did i!'

Matt and Jeremy speak so in unison it's almost scary. If they didn't know any better, they'd think the two of them had always known each other.

Trevor's gun wavers between them, unsure which is the bigger threat. The guy who clearly has zero experience with guns, or the weirdo who seems to have far too much? It's a toss up, really. So his aim pinballs back and forth, but his finger does not curl around the trigger. He's serious about that felony murder thing.

The air seems to shift, suddenly, and the sound of sirens is now growing closer. This evidently also annoys Jeremy, and they throw a glance over their shoulder to the direction they'd come from. Red and blue lights flicker past.

'shit. ok. we're all robbers, i guess, and we're all fucked if we keep standing here. who's got a plan?'

Jeremy's eyes are staring impatiently at Trevor. Eyes being the only part of their face Trevor can see. And their hands, a plastic bag in one and a gun in the other.

Trigger finger is an apt name.

He glances at Matt, still wild eyed and glancing back and forth. No, Matt probably does not have a plan. He sort of gives the impression that he's never had a plan ever, actually. That perhaps he'd simply woken up here and decided to wing it. So Trevor makes an offer.

'fire escape?'

There's another moment of tense silence. Well, minus the sirens. And oh, helicopters. Even better. Jeremy shrugs.

'good a plan as any.'

And then they're off, brushing past Trevor and hoisting themself up onto the dumpster. He knew it could work. Trevor blinks and Jeremy has caught the ladder, is quickly working their way up. Shit, how does five foot something manage to get that high on a good day, much less in this situation and with a bag and gun in hand?

Matt's gun clatters to the ground, and honestly, that's probably for the best. He's climbing onto the dumpster now, and he mutters something about not signing up for this shit. Trevor reminds him that he apparently robbed someone, so yeah, he kind of did.

Before Trevor climbs up, he shoves his gun into his jacket pocket. Smart? Probably not. Convenient? More so than climbing with a gun in his hand. He follows Matt up the ladder, wondering what happened to his plan. Yeah, the ladder had been involved. Two other people, however, were not.

Above them, glass shatters.

'warning, maybe!?'

'oops. careful, there's glass.'

Jeremy's voice is no longer directly above them. Instead, it comes from one story up and a little to the left. So they've broken into an apartment. Sure, add breaking and entering to the list of charges, that sounds great. But Matt and Trevor follow, because there's not really another option.

Inside the apartment, Jeremy's mask is gone. The suit is quickly disappearing as well, revealing a rather boring outfit of a white tank top and...sweatpants? The true mystery lies in where the cowboy hat has gone to, because that's a hard item to miss.

'do we really have time for this? don't you think someone might, oh, i don't know, wake up and call the cops?'

Trevor doesn't mean to hiss, it's just that he's sure there's more pressing matters to attend to than an outfit change. Continuing to flee, perhaps.

'nobody's gonna wake up.'

They don't even have the wherewithal to lower their voice. It registers to Trevor that Jeremy's bag and gun are missing as well. Had they dropped them on the way up? It was certainly possible. Trevor thinks he would have noticed a gun flying past his head, but there's a lot going on.

'can we maybe not kill anyone? he brought up a good point with that felony murder thing.'

It's the most words Matt has strung together since he'd shown up. It's damn near a whisper, but at least it's progress.

'i'm not- god, can you two shut up? i gotta make a phone call.'

Jeremy yanks the door open, hand carefully wrapped in the fabric of their shirt. For a moment, Trevor thinks they're leaving and steps forward to follow Jeremy. Instead, Jeremy turns and heads toward the kitchen, pulling open a drawer and digging inside it briefly. They come back with a cell phone.

Something dawns on Trevor.

'is this- do you live here? did you break your own window?'

Jeremy doesn't answer. They put the phone to their ear.

'you're gonna wanna hide whatever you've got. and try not to look like you just climbed in through a window.'

And then-

'hello? yes, hi, i'd like to report a break in, i think? i was hearing a bunch of sirens and then i don't know what happened but some guy just broke my window? he ran through and i just- my friends and i are really scared and we didn't know what to do- yes, we're ok, he's gone, but we- you'll send someone? ok, thank you. the address? oh, uh, it's the del perro heights building, apartment 7. should i shut the door? no, don't touch anything. ok- guys, don't touch anything, she said someone's on their way to check on us! thank you so much- no, i think we'll be fine. thank you.'

It's a marvelous performance. Jeremy genuinely sounds like some poor flustered victim of a crime. Trevor would applaud if he thought Jeremy would appreciate it. Almost immediately, their voice is back to normal.

'check things out my ass. they're gonna show up, ask which way he went and never call me again. feel real fuckin safe.'

Jeremy settles themself onto the couch, choosing the spot closest to the door. Matt, who has apparently gotten over his initial terror, wanders into the kitchen. Searching for something to distract himself, if Trevor had to guess. Trevor is still standing in the middle of the living room, dumbfounded. How did a simple robbery become hanging out with other robbers, waiting for cops to show up?

'i'm jeremy, by the way. they won't ask, but y'know. just in case.'

They're flipping channels on the tv, seeming to arbitrarily skip almost a dozen programs. Finally, they settle on one and stand. Trevor recognizes it as an old Disney movie, and desperately wants to ask why the fuck Jeremy has put this on.

'uh, hi. i'm trevor. why are we watching Mulan?'

'matt. oh hell yeah, i love this movie!'

He sounds remarkably cheerful, considering the circumstances. How Trevor had seemingly switched places with Anxious McGee is beyond him. He needs to get it together. He pulls his gun from his pocket and takes it to the kitchen, sticking it in the drawer Jeremy had taken the phone from. There are several other phones of varying price point. He steps back to the living room just in time.

'that's why.'

They don't elaborate. Apparently Trevor is meant to just figure this out on his own, which ordinarily he might be able to do. After the course of events of this particular evening? Not a chance.

But he can't ask, because now there's a cop in the doorway and he's staring at Trevor and that will never be a good thing. Trevor stares back. He has no clue what he's meant to say. Hello? Welcome? He went that way?

'oh thank god! we've been so terrified, we didn't know if he'd come back or what he'd do.'

Naturally, Jeremy has taken lead on this. They're a phenomenal actor, Trevor has to admit.

'did you see which direction he went?'

'toward the stairs, i think. we've all been rooted to the spot, you know, it's so scary-'

Matt freezes in the doorway of the kitchen. He's just out of the view from the front door.

'right, well. you boys did the right thing by calling. can you give me a description of the man?'

The corner of Jeremy's mouth quirks.

'gosh, it all just happened so fast. taller than me, probably, but shorter than you, wouldn't you say, trey?'

Trevor nods, because he's not quite sure what else to do.

'alright, thank you. someone will be in touch with you for an official statement. in the meantime, if you remember anything else don't hesitate to call.'

He's holding a card out to Trevor, of all people. He takes it carefully, like if he does it wrong somehow the guy will know and arrest them all. The card is simply the number for a tip line.

As suddenly as he'd arrived, the cop is gone and they're all breathing sighs of relief. Jeremy closes the door.

'you guys can stay for Mulan, if you want.'

So they do.

Trevor asks about why Mulan again, and Jeremy explains that they assume most people have seen it, could answer any questions about it if they came up. Perhaps, if LSPD officers were less incompetent, they would have. Although if that were the case, they wouldn't be LSPD officers at all.

Matt asks about the window, and Jeremy says yes, they did break their own window. Of course they'd had an actual plan when they'd entered the alley. They were always going to end up exactly here, give or take the extras. Asking for a plan was simply a test, determining the merit in bring them along. They'd passed.

Jeremy asks if they want to stay for Mulan II, which is apparently up next. They do.

Somewhere in Los Santos, in the early morning hours of a Wednesday, three convenience stores are recovering from three separate robberies. Right in the middle of them all, their respective robbers are sitting on a couch together, watching a straight to video children's film.