my freudian slip - phan

xvii.

They sneak back into Phil's room through the hydrangea bushes, leaving the window open for fear of the noise closing it, and push against each other extra tight for warmth. Dan lays with his head pressed against Phil's chest again and this time he can settle down, know it's for the night, wrap his fingers around his shirt content with the fact that this is what he wants. There's nothing expected of him. He can breathe him in all he wants and crinkle their toes together, and he almost doesn't want to sleep in case he doesn't remember every waking moment caught up in this dream.

Phil had talked him down from the bridge and they had walked back together, Phil giving him his coat to hide his exposed shoulders from the cold. They had left a note as Dan's place, and used the last of the money for a taxi over to park adjacent to Phil's, walking together to the side and helping each other in after.

Dan had shed the coat and attempted to close the window, but Phil had explained the noise situation and instead brought blankets from the cupboard to compensate.

And Dan had blushed at the topic of his clothes, embarrassed at the shirt so thin he could see himself through it.

"C-Can I help you take it off?" It was daring move of Phil after the bridge scene, but Dan only got warmer and nodded, appreciating the touch, never admitting it. Phil didn't mind. We all have demons, he thought. He replaced it with an undershirt, a t-shirt, and then an oversized sweater, helping him it on each time. Dan liked the attention, he felt like a doll.

In the bathroom adjacent, Phil washed off his makeup with a washcloth, dripping the water ever so lightly to keep the house quiet. He went one by one on his cheeks, pressing it softly to his forehead and then swiping at the mascara.

"Does it hurt? I've never taken this stuff off before," Phil whispered through the moonlight.

It did. So Phil took some toilet paper instead and padded it away, and that was supposed to be the end of it.

But Dan had taken Phil's hand and brought it to his stomach, pleasuring in the touch and lifting up the layers to point at various places of interest. Phil hadn't understood. Dan took the washcloth and started himself, showing how the concealer wore off to reveal purple.

Phil had looked on sad, taking the cloth from Dan and continuing, finishing when Dan had brought it up to his neck for its finale. 

He shivered at the pressure to his neck, biting his lip as Phil took the warm washcloth up and down, the temperatures so polar he could only curl his toes to stop from moving so much along the bathtub.

"Does this bother you?" Phil had whispered.

Dan shook his head. He brought his hand up to meet Phil's, dragging it up to tilt his own neck toward him.

Phil stiffened. "I'll only ever do what you want me to," he reminded Dan.

"Heal me," he said brokenly.

All Phil could do was touch his wounds, brush them with his lips, try in vain to kiss the scars away– but the bruises ran deeper than he could even begin to fathom.

But he fancied he could taste tears. No wonder Dan couldn't touch him.