Saying Yes Has Always Been Easy // Phan

Part 1

A/N: Okay so brief note, there's smut in this chapter and it IS CONSENSUAL. (More explanation in the end of chapter a/n)

If Dan was certain of one thing, it was that Phil was the words that poetry was made of. He was skin carved out of marble and eyes so blue that you felt as though you were drowning. You felt as though you couldn't breathe if you were ever lucky enough to be the person he chose to look at with those big blue eyes that were really shades of green and yellow mixed along with the blue that so many people often simplified the description to. But Dan was never the type of person to simplify beauty.

Phil was a painter. Or more importantly Dan's best friend, but when it was time for introductions, the painter part tended to come first. Phil painted large canvases with swirling colours as vibrant as his eyes or soft clouds of cotton candy that you wanted to reach out and touch they felt so close. It was that same paint that always ended up splattered across both of Phil's arms and speckled on his face. Colourful freckles that seemed as permanent as his normal ones, only these were always changing spots.

That wasn't to say that everything Phil did was brightly coloured; and Dan would be the one to know. Because at night, when they were in their shared flat with the lights soft, Phil was a certain darker type of beauty. One that would convince Dan to sleep with him, and that it would be the last time. No strings attached, just one last time. They would both be dating someone else soon, Phil would say, this was just to get each other off. Friends helping each other out.

When Dan wrote about those nights, the frustrated words were most often torn out of his notebook and thrown away before anyone could see them. But he would always have to write them because Dan was a writer just as much as Phil was a painter, and he had gotten into the habit of having to write down emotions. Otherwise, they would begin to eat him alive. Especially when they were emotions as dark as those of the softly lit nights.

it seems wrong

that dim lights

and soft touches

could be things of anger

It was part of the routine, actually. On the nights when they were much closer than friends should be, neither went to bed right afterwards. Dan always had the words that ran off of his hands onto the paper, and Phil always had paint that dripped from his paintbrush onto canvases. They were artists who normally took inspiration in their feelings, but these feelings were much too confusing to actually make any art out of.

it won't bite

hurt

the same in the morning.

-

in the sunlight

the pain seems less

real.

-

when you forget how bad

it hurts

that's when

it can happen so easily

again

That was why the next morning, when the softly lit nighttime had been replaced with glowing morning sunlight, the art was hidden. Or at least Dan assumed Phil was hiding the countless canvases that he knew had been painted during such nights. Dan knew that he at least had a habit of throwing out the words at first. But then this begun to happen often and throwing out everything, not matter how dark the words, seemed like a waste. So Dan began a new notebook for the nights that felt almost poisonous and tried not to think too hard about how if they continued like this, Dan didn't know how much longer he could last.