Relapse (Phan)

TWENTY THREE

The Christmas holidays and the cheer that had come with them ended almost as abruptly as they began. It seemed like only hours after I had arrived and hugged Mum's neck that I was helping Dan pack all of his belongings into cardboard boxes and packing them into the car for York. We had agreed that he would stay with me in my cramped studio apartment until he—we—could find somewhere else.

"Well, er, this is it," I said in a somewhat apologetic tone as I swung open the door to my apartment.

"It's not that bad!" Dan exclaimed, placing the large box he had been carrying on the table, taking in the space.

"It's small," I pointed out.

"It's cute," he corrected me with a wink that made me blush.

It took several trips up and down the four flights of stairs to my apartment in order to get all of Dan's things moved in, after which we were a wheezing mess.

"God, I'm out of shape," Dan breathed, falling into a kitchen chair upon dropping the last box on the floor with a concerningly loud thud.

"Me too," I giggled, breathing heavily into my hands which were red from the freezing December air, "I'm sweating and freezing at the same time: I didn't know that was even possible!"

"I'll put a kettle on," he said, standing.

"Oh no," I shook my head, "That's okay I can—"

"No," he caught my hand, "I want to."

"Okay," I agreed, not wanting to argue. I sat down at the table as he prepared the water.

"What's wrong?" he asked, glancing at me from across the room.

"Huh? Oh nothing," I said, shaking the grimace off my face, "Just tired. From the travel, y'know?"

"I understand that feeling," he said with a small smile, "but I know it's bullshit."

"Really," I promised, "I'm exhausted."

"You don't fool me, Phil Lester," he said, shaking his head. He leaned back on the counter next to the kettle, which was starting to boil and stared at me, though I avoided his eyes. "What's going on in that crazy head of yours?"

I laughed. "Nothing. Honest."

"It's him isn't it?" I didn't need to look at him to know he was looking at me sympathetically.

I let out a long sigh, running my fingers through my hair. "It's worse than I thought," I admitted, "being back here."

"I'm sorry," he said after a minute.

"Thanks," I mumbled, staring at my hands. He stood, silent for a few minutes. I heard the kettle ding and a minute later a steaming mug of coffee was in front of me.

"Two sugars right?" he asked with a mischievous grin. "I can't believe you still drink instant."

"It's good," I said, glad for a change of topic.

"It's rubbish," he laughed, but left it at that.

"I have hot chocolate in the cabinet," I offered.

"Just tea I think."

"I have marshmallows."

"On second thought," I looked up at him finally, and he shot me a wink, "hot chocolate sounds pretty good." I chuckled, watching him pour over his drink, plunking marshmallows on top one at a time with the satisfaction of a six-year-old. What an innocent thing: hot chocolate on a cold, December night. Somehow, despite everything bad that was happening and that would certainly happen very soon, Dan Howell, that wonderful mess of a boy who I'd almost let slip through my fingers, was standing in my kitchen making hot chocolate.