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People often tell Phil that he's "a lot". Phil is very much used to this. He's a chronic nervous yapper, and that only gets worse when the other person is silent, leaving Phil to slot sentences into all the empty spaces in the conversation like he's a walking thesaurus whose only job is to shove words into being. Honestly, there's no point in finding it embarrassing - maybe it would be if Phil could do anything about it, but he's pretty sure the endless talking is as much a part of him as his pale skin or all his internal organs.
Dan's never told Phil that he's "a lot", not even when Phil definitely deserves it, but there's times when Phil wishes he was less, less clumsy, less chaotic, less noisy in the early hours of the morning when he can't sleep and Dan's still trying to. Like now, as Dan stirs from his place inside the tunnel of blankets on their couch, definitely roused by Phil's hip clipping a chair five seconds earlier. Oops. Phil pushes the chair back into place, wincing as it scrapes against the floor, and whispers, "You can go back to sleep, it's early."
"You're awake," comes from inside the blankets.
Phil gives up on the whisper and says, "Couldn't sleep," which isn't a lie. Whenever Dan goes to the couch at night it comes with worry, deep and crawling around Phil's ribs, assuaged only when he leaves his bedroom door ajar so he can look out at Dan's motionless body lit gently by the kitchen light as he sleeps. "You can, though, I'll go back to my room and stop crashing into things."
"Awake now," Dan mumbles, like Phil can't hear the sleep clinging on to his words. "Might as well be awake."
"You want tea?"
"Yeah."
Phil pours it for him, from their cracked pot Dan brought home from Salvation Army and nearly electrocuted himself trying to plug in for the first time. He spills a little bit over the side as he does (fucking clumsy) and licks the tea off his fingers absentmindedly, willing his hands to please, please stop shaking before Dan notices. He's not sure which would be worse: if Dan noticed, or if he was so out of it that he didn't see the nerves showing through in Phil's entire body. "Sugar?"
One of Dan's hands emerges from the comforter and makes a little bring-it-here motion. Phil averts his eyes before he can look closer, out of morbid, hopeless curiosity if not worry. "I've made it too hot, careful you don't burn yourself," he warns Dan, filling the space hanging heavy in their kitchen. "Here, poke your head out and I'll pour it right into your mouth, that'll work. Like a baby bird."
Dan doesn't laugh, which - Phil didn't really expect him to, but the silence from his partner still puts him even more on edge, worry smothering from his ribs up to his throat. He's fine. Dan is fine, this has happened before and Phil's dealt with it, slowly, one step at a time. "Can I sit?" he asks, patting the edge of the striped blanket beside the lump of Dan's feet.
"I'm fine, Phil."
Phil sits down anyway without waiting for permission. He doesn't like Dan to lie to him. He doesn't know how to push his way into the cracks in Dan's outer layer until he can reach through and touch the part of Dan that will listen to him. He says, putting the mug on the floor beside their couch, "I'm here now, Dan."
"You didn't do anything wrong," Dan says muffled, like they're having another conversation entirely. "I just wanted ... space. It's not you."
"I know," Phil says, and he does know, just doesn't understand. Why Dan has to isolate himself. Why he forces himself to suffer alone on bad nights like Phil would ever shy away from that side of him. Was last night a bad night? He's afraid to find out. "Do you want space now?"
There's a movement from under the blankets that might be Dan shaking his head. Phil takes it as such.
Finally, Dan says, "It hurts a lot."
Panic lodges in Phil's throat, threatening to choke him. He forces his next breath to be even, not to clue Dan in on the overwhelming worry that tightens like a hand over his ribs, digging fingernails into his lungs. He's not sure how convincing it is. "Can I - no, sorry. Have you - cleaned them out or anything?"
"No. Fell asleep."
"Come out here, I'm not going to bite you."
There's a pause during which Dan hardly seems to even be breathing, and then the blankets part and Phil sees his messy hair first, then the rest of his face. He doesn't look like he slept at all. The circles under his eyes are dark enough that for a second, Phil thinks he's wearing eyeshadow, but - no, it's only the remnants of the restless night clinging to his face. Phil can't help but let out a breath at the sight of him. "Don't look at me like that," Dan groans, scrubbing the back of his fist against his eyes. "You're looking at me like I'm an ASPCA commercial."
He kind of does look like one, Phil thinks, those ones with the dogs that get so hungry they start eating trash. "I'd adopt you any time. Dan. Can I - can I help?"
Dan is already receding back into the blankets - Phil catches the edge before he can withdraw. "You should get cleaned up," he says, softly. "I don't want - it'll hurt more if you don't get them clean."
"You don't have to take care of me all the time, Phil."
Behind the small smile he's trying to put up, his voice is exhausted. Phil hands him the mug, reflexively, and says as Dan takes a sip, "Not all the time, then. Just this morning."
Maybe Dan can hear, somehow, that Phil needs this. That Phil can't stand to look at him like this and not help, not reach out and touch, not find some way to hollow out his own insides so Dan can crawl in the empty space and find the safe space he's always looking for. A way for them both to be complete. Or maybe Dan's too tired to argue. Either way, he says, voice thin, "Alright. Alright, fine."
Phil exhales. One step closer. "I have an idea."
*
"Dude, I still don't think we should get into that fucking tub," Dan says, looming over as Phil plunges his hand into the shallow bathwater to judge the temperature. "It's going to fall through the floor and I'll end up in some stranger's lap covered in soap."
"It's no different than using the shower," Phil insists, though when he looks down at their dingy bathtub-shower hybrid, he has to admit Dan might have a point. They tried, when they first moved in, to spruce the whole arrangement up with a floral shower curtain and a little rug on the floor, but the yellowed tub still gives the impression that it wants to go crashing down through the ceiling of the room below whenever a slight bit of weight is placed upon it. "In you go, then."
"Uh." Dan turns to him, chewing the inside of his cheek, and just like that whatever facade of joking about the tub they'd been putting on disappears, and Dan is curling back into his shell. "Are you going to -?"
"Oh," Phil says, stupid, he's really stupid, of course that would be Dan's natural assumption. "I thought - you could go in your clothes?"
"In my clothes."
"Yeah. I just -" He doesn't know what honesty will draw Dan out, and what will make him shrink back. "I really don't want to leave you."
The bathroom lighting is awful, a dim glow from the one bulb above the sink that struggles to light the whole room, but Phil still thinks he sees Dan's cheeks color a little. "If you want."
"Yeah," Phil tells him. "I do."
It feels intimate, watching Dan pull off his socks and shrug off his hoodie, until he's standing in front of Phil in a faded t-shirt and shorts, more intimate than if Phil saw him without any clothes at all. Dan immediately folds his arms, his tall body hiding within itself like Dan's wishing he could be smaller than he is. There's so much space between them. Why is Phil always wishing Dan was closer to him? Is it natural to want to live his life melting slowly into another person until they're one? "Water's ready," Phil says.
The bath creaks as Dan steps into it, water parting around his ankles and hugging above his knees when he stands for a moment as if unsure, looking at Phil. The moisture of the steam is starting to ruin his careful flatiron job; the ends of his hair are curling up slightly. "I don't think there's room for both of us in here," he says hesitantly, like he thinks Phil is about to start stripping down any second now.
"No, probably not," Phil agrees with him, and kneels a little awkwardly by the side of the tub, the torn knees of his skinny jeans dampening with the water on the tiles. "I'll just stay out here, then?"
Dan shrugs a little, and sinks down into the water. With his clothes still on, the whole thing looks kind of ridiculous, but Phil can't find any humor in it when this is the first time he's seen Dan relax since - he can't even remember. Dan leans his head back against the edge of the tub, shoulders loosening, the steam all around his head like some kind of warped halo. Phil blinks, looking away. "I don't know - if we should use soap on the cuts or not. I don't want them to get irritated. I think you're supposed to use baby soap on ... a cut? But we don't have any babies around. Or their soap."
"You're the one who goes to hospital every weekend, I'm not taking any of your medical advice," Dan murmurs, eyes closed. "Might be antibiotic cream in the cabinet."
Phil checks, rummaging through their meager supply of crumpled plasters and empty plastic bottles until he comes up with a half-squeezed tube. It makes his fingers sticky when he pulls it out, but it looks promising enough. "Found one," he says triumphantly, going back to Dan and crouching back down.
Dan looks up at him. His arms are crossed protectively over his stomach, the battered t-shirt clinging to him; his hair really is curling now, soft in a way that makes Phil's fingers itch. "Give it here, I'll put it on."
Phil hesitates. More than anything, he wants Dan to trust him, this stranger who met Dan on the internet and somehow worked his way into his heart, one awkward enthusiastic sentence at a time. He would do anything to cling to every little shred of trust he's worked so hard to earn from Dan, because Dan doesn't give that trust out easily. More than anything, Phil doesn't want to see Dan withdraw again into his head and leave Phil standing outside, to know that he's too much for Dan. He thinks it would break his heart.
He says it anyway. "Dan. I don't mind doing it."
For a moment, there's nothing on Dan's face to signify whether he's going to push Phil away, or accept what Phil's offering. It seems to stretch an unbearable time before Dan looks away, eyes unreadable, but biting the inside of his lip in a way that suggests more emotion than such a tiny movement should. "Be gentle."
"Of course I will," Phil says, and doesn't trust himself to say more without his voice breaking and embarrassing Dan. He holds out a hand instead in the space between them, waiting, letting Dan come to him. Another moment passes before Dan meets him halfway, laying his wrist across Phil's palm with as much caution as if he was tearing his heart from his chest and letting Phil have that instead.
It's bad. Phil, carefully, makes certain that his face shows nothing as he tightens his fingers gently, not letting Dan pull away from him. Dan's damp skin is pale, a clear indicator of exactly how little sun he gets, but it's crossed with vicious scarlet lines, crusted over with dried blood turning slowly rust-colored and raised slightly. Phil can't count how many marks. Guilt floods his body, thick and nauseating up the back of his throat until he almost gags from it - when did Dan do this? When Phil had his headphones on, trying to give Dan the space he seemed to need? When Phil finally drifted off into worried sleep, telling himself everything would be okay by morning? He knows Dan has problems and still, he left Dan alone. He's the only person who could have been there and still Dan was alone when he needed help.
As expressionless as he's trying to be, something must still show through in his eyes, because next thing he knows Dan is starting to pull back. Phil catches his hand, wincing as he does it and hoping it doesn't hurt him. "I told you I can do it myself," Dan mutters. "I don't want you - seeing that."
"Dan, please," Phil begs him. "Let me help. Let me."
He knows if Dan tries to pull away again, Phil has to let him. It won't help anything to force Dan to rely on him, that will only damage what little ground Phil's gained with Dan letting him see the cuts at all. "I don't like seeing you - hurt," Phil says quietly. "But I hate seeing you by yourself even more. I don't wanna ever see you in pain and know that I wasn't there. Please let me, Dan."
Dan's eyes flick away. He's so beautiful, Phil thinks, almost like a habit. He doesn't know if everyone who sees Dan loves him so easily, or if Phil specifically designed to find Dan so, so beautiful. All he knows is that he loves him, stupidly, hopelessly, with everything he has and everything he is.
Wordlessly, Dan lets his arm go slack in Phil's hand. Giving himself over. Phil is grateful for the excuse to look away to struggle with the medicine tube; he doesn't want Dan to see the heat prickling up behind his eyes. "I just don't want to drive you to the doctor's if...it gets infected," he says lightly, finally getting the tube undone with his teeth and spitting the cap onto the tiles. "I don't think you'd want to be in a car with me."
"You don't even have a license."
"Yes I do!" Phil argues instinctively with him. "Thank you very much. And I take it back, you should be grateful to drive with me, Daniel Howell. I don't want to hear any complaints."
"Yeah, you won't be hearing any, because I'll be too busy being unconscious after you crash into a tr - ah." His breath hitches as Phil presses the cream to his wrist, his mouth twisting into a grimace. "That stings."
Phil says, "It'll help," apologetically, running his fingers as lightly as he can over Dan's skin, and focusing on Dan's tensed face instead of the marks. He can't look at them. To think of Dan doing this to himself - using so much violence against himself, when Phil can't stand to touch him with anything but tenderness - it sends a sick chill all throughout Phil. Dan, who laughs until he's shaking at the absolute worst of Phil's jokes, who closes his eyes without realizing when sunlight touches his face, who can't cook and stares at department-store dresses with tangible longing and sings all the high notes of Muse in the shower - to think of that Dan looking at himself and feeling hatred, wanting to hurt, wanting to disappear -
Phil swallows away I love you, and empties out the last of the cream. He's used utterly too much, but the repetitive motions of smoothing it over Dan's arm have helped the panic at how helpless he felt seeing Dan injured. I love you. He stands up again for the plasters, tears one open with unsteady hands and presses it onto the worst of the cuts. It goes on unevenly, a little wrinkled. I love you. He drops the paper wrapping to the floor, crumpled and worried between his fingertips. Please let me even when you can't.
On a whim, he presses his lips to the bandage. He can feel Dan's arm twitch, almost away from him, but Phil doesn't move, closing his eyes and lingering in the warmth of Dan's skin under the plaster and on either side. He speaks against Dan's pulse. "Thank you for letting me stay."
"Phil," Dan says. That's all. Phil understands nothing just from that word, but somehow, he understands everything. At the least, when he looks up at Dan's face and starts to ask permission, he understands that it's already been given to him.
Phil kisses him, one soft press of their lips together with his body pressed up across the edge of the bathtub. He feels Dan exhale, maybe a sigh, maybe just a quiet bit of surprise, and takes that as assent enough to stay, to kiss Dan more, the curve of his top lip and the round sweetness of the bottom. It isn't the first time. He knows they probably won't talk about it after this time, just as they haven't after the last ones, but it's more than enough enough to feel Dan relax into him in the moment. They don't have to give it a name. Not when Dan's hand comes to rest at Phil's back, totally soaked from the bathwater, but still so warm and sweet that Phil sighs back against him.
He slips a hand along Dan's cheek when they come apart, refusing to allow any space to come between them. Dan leans into it, eyes closed, so lovely. His face is warm. "I've already spent so much of my life without you in it," Phil tells him. "Dan, please don't make me live any more of it without you there, I couldn't bear it."
He presses his thumb against the crease between Dan's eyebrows while Dan speaks, to try and smooth the permanent trace of worry away, as if by doing so he could wipe it straight from Dan's mind. "No. No. I mean - Phil. I don't - I'm not going anywhere, it's complicated, I-"
"It's okay," Phil hurries, flushing a little. Shit, the last thing he needs to be doing is making Dan panic, right when he felt like he was making some leeway and Dan was really, truly being vulnerable with him. "I know you're not, I just - I care a lot." I love you. "And I can't afford rent by myself, you know," he adds, anything so Dan will stop looking at him with those enormous, sad eyes and making Phil picture a life without him.
The faint frown lines around Dan's mouth deepen as he says, "I don't do it to worry you. Or so you'll pay attention to me. I - It's hard to explain, it's like it calms me. Like it's the only way to take everything in my head and get it to the outside."
"Oh." Phil frowns, digesting this. "So it's like - anger management?"
Dan shrugs uncomfortably.
Phil takes his hand back, not bothering to wipe the water away in case it scrubs the warm feeling of Dan's skin from his hand. "Maybe you could punch me really hard or something whenever you want to ... do that. Do you think that would work?"
That makes Dan laugh, a pained sound. "God, Phil, you're ridiculous," he says, and his shoulders collapse inwards and he reaches out for Phil again, with both hands, both of them trembling. Phil holds him, Dan's hair dripping water down his back and his arms so tight around Phil's ribs, and breathes every breath in time with him, savoring every one they get to share even if they're unsteady.
*
When the water grows cold, Dan sits on the ground between Phil's knees and Phil dries off his hair while the tub rattles and drains beside them. They talk about nothing in particular, games and boba tea and whether they would run the other person over with a trolley for a billion dollars (obviously you wouldn't, you'd miss me too much) and when they're done, Phil wraps the towel around his head and ties it. It looks silly, especially with Dan's big eyes peeking out from underneath it. Phil adores him more every time he looks at him.
Somewhere in the middle of a conversation about what household appliances they could take in a fight, Dan says, almost like an afterthought, "I don't want you to leave," and Phil responds,
"Don't be stupid."
*
Dan sleeps on the couch again that night, so Phil piles his own blankets on the floor beside him and curls up close enough that he can sleep with a handful of the leg of Dan's Minecraft pajama pants clenched tightly in one palm. He doesn't know what it'll do, only that if Dan's awake, he wants to be awake too.
"There's no way that's comfortable," Dan says. His hair is still bundled up in the towel Phil used to dry it. "Your shoulder's all smushed."
"I don't care," Phil says, because he doesn't. Dan has never once made him feel bad for being clingy; in fact, Phil thinks Dan is secretly grateful that Phil is always the one to latch on first, so Dan doesn't have to ask. They were made for each other, Phil thinks suddenly, reflexively tightening his hold on Dan even as the thought comes to him. Maybe the reason other people are always telling Phil he's too much is because he wasn't truly made to ever fit with anyone besides Dan.
The quiet that follows isn't uncomfortable like quiet usually feels to Phil. With Dan, the silence surrounding them is comfortable, well lived-in.
Uncharacteristically, it's Dan who breaks it first. "I don't know where I'd be without you, Phil."
His hand settles over Phil's, solid and gentle until Phil breaks away from his hold in the fuzzy green fabric and flips his palm upward. Their fingers lace together slowly; Dan's hands are cool to the touch. "You're supposed to be with me, Dan."
"Yeah," Dan agrees quietly, voice threaded through with sleep. "Yeah."
Phil brushes his thumb against the thin, fragile skin of Dan's wrist, grounding him with the repetitive circular movement. Over and over, he traces I love you into Dan's body, and in the dark, he doesn't need to say it aloud. Dan, his lovely Dan - he knows.
Maybe Phil can't keep him safe from everything, much as he wants to. Maybe he can't guarantee that morning will ever come. But now - right now - he can hold Dan through the night.