my happy little pill | phan

5: No Homo Howell

Dan's POV

"American Horror Story or Homeland?" I ask Phil as I scroll through Netflix. He glances up from his MacBook tiredly. His glasses are crooked on his nose and I resist the urge to reach over and fix them.

"I'm so tired," Phil yawns. "If I don't get to bed right this instant, you're going to have to carry me from the living room to my own bedroom because I'll fall asleep here."

I laugh. "There is no way in hell that I'm carrying you down the hall to bed."

Phil closes his MacBook lid and sets it aside. "Turn off the television. Come over here."

I look at him uncertainly and plug out the telly with a sigh. I was kind of looking forward to watching the next episode of American Horror Story, if I'm honest.

I creep across the living room and sit on the arm of the sofa lazily, draping my legs across the cushions and onto Phil's thighs. He comically stokes my ankles, and I playfully kick at him.

"I'm not even going to ask you what the fuck you're doing to my poor feet," I say. "Oh, God."

"Then don't," Phil smirks. My heart melts a tiny bit. "Hey, show me your pretty piano fingers, Dan."

I flay my fingers and present them to Phil. He runs his fingertips along the sharp edges of my fingers, focused entirely on my hands. Suddenly, but smoothly, he pulls my arms and legs and I find myself sitting next to him with my legs like a bridge over his long legs and my fingers laced through his. I laugh loudly.

"Do you know what I found on your phone?" Phil says, not looking at me. His eyes are fixated on the blank television screen.

I quirk up one eyebrow. "Why were you using my phone?" I pause. "And how did you guess my password?"

A small smile tugs at his lips. "My battery was dead and I wanted to check my Tumblr. And your password is the date we met for the first time at the train station."

I blush a horrible, dark red colour and my cheeks heat up. I find myself staring at the backs of my hands. "It's funny that you knew the date too," I say finally. "You remembered it."

Phil finally meets my eye and smiles. "How could I forget?"

"Wait, what did you find on my phone?" I ask quickly. Phil shakes his head.

"Just some old text messages you screenshotted from 2009 in your camera roll," he whispers. My mouth falls open.

"Why were you looking through my cam -"

He leans in and gently kisses me, so gentle like I'm a fragile porcelain doll or something. His fingers twine around my waist and his fingers claw at the edge of my shirt. I gasp into his mouth when his cold hands touch my stomach, and I kiss him back a little harder and I rake my fingers through his black hair. Phil traces butterfly kisses on my cheekbones, the edge of my jaw, down my neck, everywhere. He's so perfect, and I don't deserve him. I don't deserve any of this. I don't —

I push back from him on the sofa and shove him a little harder than I had intended. I draw my legs in close to my body so that there is some distance between us. We can't do this. I take a shaky breath and pull my shirt down.

When I see Phil's expression, my heart shatters. I don't just see confusion; I see hurt. Real hurt. He looks at me like I've seethed his soul in hellfire. He shuffles to stand up and leave, but I grab his wrist. I can't let him go without an explanation.

"Phil, wait," I say, dreading every word that comes out of my mouth. "It's...it's not you, I swear. I fucking love you. But we can't do this. I can't do this. Do you remember the Valentine's Day Video —"

Phil flashes his eyes at me. "You said you were over that."

"I am," I respond sharply. "I am, Phil. But we can't be together. Do you remember what that video did to us before? It tore us apart. It was lovely and I really appreciated it, but when the fans saw it they took it way too far. We didn't speak properly for months. What if they find out about this? Will we be the same?"

"I don't want to lose you," Phil whispers.

"And I don't want to lose you either. Which is why I can't do this. It'll tear us apart."

Phil's head sinks a little lower. For a long while, we sit in silence with my hand wrapped loosely around his wrist and my legs tucked into my chest. Then, he whispers, "I'm sorry, Dan. I love you so much, you know? But maybe coming clean to the fans would be easier than hiding it and keeping it a secret."

"No way," I protest. "You know what happened —"

"I'm tired of you denying us a chance," Phil says, standing up. "Goodnight. I'm going to bed."

I let him go and he walks away.