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doing nothing with you

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Phil spends half the morning in the bathroom, because he overindulged in a triple scoop ice cream sundae with all sorts of fancy toppings he couldn't choose between. Caramel popcorn and dried apples and toasted almonds and a few more, because Phil Lester is nothing if not a glutton with his sweets.

So he pays for it in a digestive sense and whines at Dan with a series of texts that Dan halfway ignores in favor of the political commentary news stream he's watching on his phone and... that's how their day begins.


Dan doesn't put real clothes on until midway through the afternoon.

"Aren't all clothes real clothes?" Phil asks, when Dan comes upstairs in jeans and one of his striped shirts. Phil can't really tell them apart, except for how they feel when he rests his head on Dan's shoulder. Some are scratchy and some are warm and some are so thin he feels like they don't exist at all. (Those are his favorites.)

"Deep," Dan says, but he doesn't disagree. He just sits on the sofa beside Phil and stretches his long legs out to rest his feet on the coffee table and reaches for his laptop again.


"I want coffee," Phil says.

He's stretched out on the sofa with his knees hooked over the arm, one throw pillow wedged under his head and his laptop on his stomach.

It's a Dan position but their whole life is just trading quirks back and forth until some behaviors stop being belonging entirely to one or the other unless a camera is on them.

Maybe not even then.

"So go get coffee," Dan says.

Phil whines.

"No. I'm not going to get coffee for you." Dan's in the chair, comfortably slumped.

In theory they're both responding to emails. In reality Phil hasn't heard Dan type a single thing in over five minutes. He's either watching a youtube video with the subtitles on, or he's reading something.

That's why Phil doesn't feel bad.

"Walks are good for your mental health." Phil's voice has a twist of hope.

"Manipulation isn't cute on you."

"Your mum isn't cute on me."

"No." Dan gives him an exasperated look. "She isn't. And that was a self burn."

"Your mum is a self burn."

"Jesus." Dan shuts his laptop forcefully. "If I go get you coffee will you be fifty percent less annoying when I come back?"

"No," Phil says. "Thirty five percent. Hard deal. Unless you throw in a pumpkin scone, then we can talk."

Dan's already up. He walks over to Phil and leans down, dropping an upside down kiss on Phil's head and mumbling, "I hate you,” before he goes downstairs.


The Starbucks latte and the scone are hours-gone and Phil's inbox is as close to empty as it's going to get with a day's work.

At least, with a Saturday's work. He's only got one thing left to tick off his to-do list.

But first, more coffee. Just a normal brew this time, grains of instant turning the hot water cloudy and dark. He breathes it in deep, one of the most comforting scents in the world.

He likes it when home smells like coffee. He looks over at Dan, the other permanent inhabitant of this space, and smiles. There's an indulgent feeling in it; not the clarity of a formed thought, not something Dan has done or said to evoke it, but just a vague satisfaction at looking, seeing, confirming.

He just likes when Dan's around. That's all.

Dan catches him looking. "Is there something on my face."

"No," Phil says. "It's just a nice face."

Dan looks like he doesn't trust it. "What are you about to ask me for?"

"Nothing," Phil says. Then: "I'm filming today."

"Was I supposed to know that?" Dan asks.

"Yes," Phil says, then helpfully supplies, "You're helping me."

"I really, really hate you," Dan says, sighing a long-suffering sigh.


"What are we doing for dinner?" Phil asks. "Takeaway?"

Dan reaches around behind him to scratch the top of his ass. A small glitter star is stuck to the side of his hand when he pulls it back around. "Glitter. Apparently."

"I'd rather have a takeaway." Phil slumps down onto the sofa by Dan.

Dan leans comfortably into him. "Indian?"

"Burgers," Phil counters.

"Pizza?" Dan says, then looks down at his laptop. "It's a pizza day."

Pizza's are for hard days, or celebrations. Phil smiles and elbows Dan. "Is it, now?"

Dan glances over. "Ten years with you? Yeah, I'd say it warrants pizza."

There is no bite to his words. He's smiling, just a little. Phil doesn't know why after all these years Dan still tries to hide it sometimes, but Phil doesn't mind. Dan knows exactly how to say the words that cut straight to the heart of them when he wants to, and the rest of the time Phil has fun poking and prodding and prying them out of him.

So Phil just laughs and says, "I'll get our usual."