Actions

Work Header

in the kitchen

Work Text:

It’s a million miles an hour, or it’s suddenly slamming into a brick wall and nearly breaking your nose. Processes are long - until they’re short. Until it’s Dan opening his big mouth and creating new rules and writing down demands. Phil thinks they’ve run out of ink at least five times, scribbled through layers and layers of paper until there’s nothing but harsh white lines. He keeps trying to suggest one of those four colours in one pens—with the fun clicker—but Dan says something about - Amazon and evil. Can’t order new pens because there are pens right there. 

“We can’t bring a horse onto the stage, Dan,” Phil says, and he’s trying to wrestle the notebook away but Dan is strong and he forgets about that all the time. “This isn’t the tour of horses.”

“It doesn’t say horse!” Dan shrieks, underlining the word horse over and over again like that’s going to change it. “My writing isn’t that bad.”

“And the Eiffel Tower isn’t tall.”

"That’s not a fucking—“ Dan breathes in, deep, calming, then suddenly loud when he lets out a big exhale. “It doesn’t say horse, I don’t think the people are demanding we get fucking kicked to death on stage by a horse neither of us could control?” 

“Ok,” Phil smiles, because he’s done a bit of squinting—taken into account Dan’s weirdo left-handed thing—and has decided it doesn’t say horse. “I’ve been looking at outfits?”

Dan just groans, slumps over their kitchen side and whines when an open highlighter marks his skin with a stripe of neon yellow. Phil scrubs it clean for him, licks his own thumb and wipes and wipes until he’s back to normal. It’s - something, something he still trips over. He can do this, he can do anything. He can wipe Dan clean, he can pick bits of lint from his hair, he can bend down and tie up Dan’s shoelace before they leave the house and he chooses to do these - too often? 

They’re wrapped up in a way that allows for the small things, the things that mean too much when they shouldn’t mean anything at all. Maybe it’s the trust involved, maybe it’s the small smile Dan will give him when he pulls away with a yellow thumb.

“Wanna stop?” Phil asks, because he wants to stop. They’ve been at this for weeks and he doesn’t know what else they can possibly tack on. They’re all singing, all dancing, all acting out scenarios that just make him want to kiss Dan on the stage. 

“Time’s it?” 

“Late time,” Phil decides. “A time that is dark and night, can you hear those owls outside?”

Dan shifts, grumbles, yanks Phil forward by his shirt and it all goes wrong because he just gets winded by the side of the kitchen counter. 

“Shit, sorry,” Dan soothes, big hands running up and down Phil’s spine - turning him to mush. “Still got all your ribs?”

“How many ribs should you actually have?” Phil asks, he has no idea. Remembers staring at illustrations at school, counting them whilst his mate laughed at the drawing of a dick on the next page. “Siri, how many ribs should you have?” 

“Your phone is charging in our room.”

“Ugh,” Phil groans. “How am I supposed to live whilst not knowing how many ribs are inside me? What if there’s too many?”

“I think we’d have noticed if you had, like, twelve extra ribs.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m so tall.”

“I think,” Dan says, and his hands travel down to Phil’s legs just to prove a point. “That’s to do with these guys.” 

Phil just hums, lets Dan feel him up in the kitchen because - nice. Because Dan’s pretty and good and Phil would spend his entire life in the kitchen with him. He used to wonder what love meant, what it would feel like, and he’s decided it’s just this. 

“I would make a good ermmm—seamstress?” Dan asks. “Tailor?” 

“You’re cupping my dick.”

“Yeah,” Dan grins. “Your personal tailor, obviously. I can personally tailor to you.” 

“Maybe,” Phil says, sinking down into Dan’s lap even though the chair probably doesn’t allow for that - plastic, cheap, stupid. “Does my heart sound fine?”

“Yes?” Dan snorts. “Why wouldn’t it be… fine? Do you not feel fine?”

“Never feels fine when you’re touching me.”

“God,” Dan sighs. “God. Shut up.” 

Phil doesn’t tilt his chin up so Dan makes him, a tiny yank to the too long hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes?” 

“Shut up.” Dan’s all rosy cheeks, all irresistible and stupid and Phil would love to pretend he has even a shred of willpower when it comes to this. He doesn’t, he never has. 

Kissing in the kitchen isn’t like kissing in any other room of the house. It’s frantic, it’s heated, it’s nearly ending up the floor and being happy about it. He can remember every single house, every single kitchen, how he pressed Dan up against a counter in his parents home and made a million promises he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to keep. But he has because - Dan. 

Because Dan is a thousand difficult things, but he’s never been difficult to love. That’s always been the easiest promise Phil has ever made. He’ll make it again here, then in the kitchen of a house that doesn’t technically exist yet. 

“Woah,” Dan giggles, holding onto the back of Phil’s shirt for dear life. “Nearly went into the oven.”

“Do you think I would cook nicely?”

“Uneven,” Dan says. “I think you’d be all raw up here and cooked down there.”

“Ok, Hannibal,” Phil laughs, sliding backwards off Dan’s lap just so he can hold out a hand and invite Dan back into the land of standing. “What are we actually having for dinner?”

“Food?”

“What’s that—cock in a van?”

“Coq au vin,” Dan screams, and Phil gets a head start on being chased around the kitchen with a towel because he sees it coming.