Chapter Text
Phil Lester comes out of his doctor's appointment carrying no new information, but a new heavy baggage of shame.
“It all seems fine”, she says casually, so casually, like his body isn’t a hollow-aching-useless thing he only drags along because he has no alternative. Like he doesn’t sit on the edge of bathtubs crying from pain and exhaustion. Like he isn’t hurting and dizzy, right there in his chair in front of her, like her own office isn’t blurry, twirling, greying at the edges.
She sees nothing wrong with his body. “Environmental” is a word that is said.
A lot of other words are said.
He nods and smiles and probably makes a joke. She smiles at him warmly as he leaves; he’s done his job of being likeable, even when he is judged. That is important to him.
✶✶✶
“How did it go?”
Dan didn't come with, because he had a meeting and Phil insisted he would be fine. He didn’t think about the fact it meant having to tell him about it later, even if it went poorly.
“It's nothing worrying. She said it could be due to stress and things.”
“Oh.”
Phil can't tell if that’s a relieved or a doubtful “oh”. Dan’s face is carefully neutral.
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel?”
And if that’s not a question and a half. Phil elects to avoid it altogether, and instead takes Dan’s face in his hands and his lip in his teeth. Dan lets him, meets him with a hand in his hair and another around his waist. Phil knows Dan isn’t so easily fooled, but for now he lets him get away with it, holds him, and that's enough.
✶✶✶
“I should make dinner”, he says, opening the fridge for the third time as if vegetables might have magically sprouted there in the meantime. Disappointingly, it’s still just expired yoghurts, every single dip and sauce in existence, and days-old takeout leftovers. Dan looks at him dubiously.
“You’ve never made dinner in your life.”
“Hey, that’s not true! There was the pad thai and- didn’t I make some spaghetti that one time?”
“Okay, sure, you’ve made dinner twice. Let’s just order something and play MarioKart, yeah?”
But Phil is still looking into the fridge fixedly. Feet stuck to the ground. Why has he never gotten into the habit of cooking, like a normal adult? His parents did it. His brother does it. Every single person past the age of twenty does it, probably, but here he is: thirty-two and living the life of a college student. When was the last time they went grocery shopping? He can’t even remember. They get deliveries for everything. It has always felt more convenient that way, but now it just seems lazy. It’s not like he doesn’t have the time for it, they make their own schedules. And the money is not an issue- anyways it would probably be cheaper to grocery shop, right? The fact that he doesn’t know for sure sends another wave of self-hatred through his brain.
“Phil? What’re you doing there, buddy?”
Staring into the fridge and having an existential crisis is what he’s doing, clearly. He forces himself to close the door and look at Dan, smile, be normal. Dan has his own issues, he doesn’t need Phil’s surface-level grocery shopping spirals on top of them.
“Fine. What do you want to eat?”
They end up ordering a bunch of Lebanese food, which appeases Phil’s inner critic a little bit. Even though it’s not home-cooked, he’s going to get some vegetables and fibres and good things into his body tonight. That has to count for something, right?
He ignores the way Dan keeps staring at him over the mezze platter.
He redirects him by telling him a clearly made up story, which sends his predictable boyfriend into the usual hysterics and debate mode, and he forces himself to breathe in between two rage-baiting counter-arguments.
Even though some things are wrong about Phil, this life they’ve built is so good. He knows he can cling to that, and be at least somewhat okay.
✶✶✶
The next day, Phil opens bleary eyes to the alarm he set at the ungodly hour of seven thirty. He is so tempted to ignore it and burrow back into the blankets, especially when Dan whines and puts an arm around his torso to keep him close, but the doctor’s face keeps swimming into his field of vision, like the shittiest of hauntings. A ghost that nags you about your personal failings instead of trying to smother you in your sleep- hey, someone should make a movie about that! So he replaces his body with his pillow under Dan’s arms, who grumbles but falls right back asleep, and gets up.
His very first step sends a jab of pain to his temple, and- great. That’s just great.
He stares at the fridge some more, grinding his teeth against the incoming headache. Makes a coffee, leaving enough for Dan when he wakes up. Stares out the window like a woman waiting for her long-dead husband to come back from the war.
“Oh, fuck it”, he whispers out loud, and goes to the entryway to put on his shoes and jacket. He spends an extra fifteen minutes looking for his wallet, making a mess in his wake, and takes off towards the local shop that hasn’t seen his face for literal months. If not years, he thinks, and winces.
When he gets there, he is first assaulted by how offensively bright the lights are. It makes the headache throb and spread, but Phil is undeterred. He can do this. He can be a responsible, healthy adult. He goes to grab a shopping cart, but realizes he has no pennies to put into it. And then realizes he left without a shopping bag, too.
Well. He does have big arms, he can hold some food for a few minutes.
In the isles, everything exists in ten different versions, with prices, packaging, and organic-to-chemical status ranging wildly. He stares at eggs for entirely too long, chooses the expensive free-ranging ones, then grabs non-vegan, cheap candy and wonders if this makes him an animal-killing hypocrite. Then stares at the neon packaging and wonders what the kind doctor would say at the sight.
In the end he puts the candy back, and then the eggs too, and wanders in and out of isles choosing and unchoosing things endlessly, remembering suddenly why he jumped at the occasion to stop doing this.
By the time he’s finally at the register with a broccoli, some rice, tomato paste he’s pretty sure they already have two tubes of, a huge sack of potatoes and a small seal plushie that made him think of Dan, he’s exhausted. He looks at his meagre pickings rolling towards the cashier like one would watch their rumpled, sleep-grumpy, unwashed child go to school for the first time, shame seizing his heart. There’s not even a meal there, and the broccoli is non-organic.
“Good afternoon”, he tells the cashier at the same time as they tell him, “good morning”, and he laughs awkwardly and tries not to blush. He swipes his card before remembering to ask for a bag, and so he just gathers, embarrassed, all his food - and plushie - back in his arms.
He steps into a puddle on the way back home, soaking his sock and making everything feel horrible and gross, and he’s about ready to go back to bed once he’s finally at their door.
As soon as his key enters the lock, the door swings open, and Phil startles.
“Where were you?”
Dan is still in his pajamas, but he looks very awake as he stares at Phil with anxiety in his eyes, then looks down at his clutched groceries.
“What is that? You plan on making some mash potato sculpture or something?”
Any other time Phil would have laughed and kicked Dan, would have said something stupid and nonsensical back like “I’ll mash your face”, but now, now… Well, now Phil’s sock is wet and his head hurts and he is an irresponsible, useless member of society. And so now, Phil’s only response is to burst into tears right here on their doorstep.
After a few seconds of shock, Dan ushers him inside and closes the door behind them, and then he tries to hug him, but the groceries are in the way. So Phil just throws them to the floor and throws himself into Dan’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably, wishing he could be stronger than this and not put this onto Dan, but physically unable to do anything to stop the flood.
“Sorry, sorry-”
“What are you sorry for?”
Phil can’t breathe for long enough to say, for being lazy and unhealthy, for never cooking you dinner, for being sick and scaring you, for worrying you right now instead of dealing with it myself.
“Just- Breathe, Phil, come on-”
That is rich coming from Dan of all people, who he’s had to assist through many a panic attack, and so he giggles just a little bit in between two sobs.
“What’s so funny about breathing? Doesn’t matter, I’ll do you one better, we can both take some deep breaths, wouldn’t that be hilarious?”
Dan begins to breathe outrageously loudly then, and Phil giggles some more, and mimics him until he’s not losing his mind anymore. They stand in the middle of his failed life reset for a few more minutes until the tears have stopped, and then Dan gently grabs his elbows to put some distance between them and look at his face.
“What happened?”
Phil gestures at the mess at their feet, not knowing where to start. “I just wanted to have something in the fridge other than sauce. And make something home-made. But I’m useless at shopping and then I walked in a puddle-”
“Okay, why don’t we go to the couch? I’ll bring you a snack.”
For once Phil is truly grateful for Dan’s interruption, because he was working himself back up. He follows obediently to the couch, takes off his shoes and socks, and wants to cry again when Dan disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a huge chocolate tablet and a glass of water.
When’s the last time he drank water? He can feel the doctor shaking her head in his mind, typing something in her computer- Chronically dehydrated. Unhealthy lifestyle.
He will not start crying again.
“Thanks”, he mumbles, and downs the glass in one.
Dan snakes an arm around his shoulders as Phil cracks the chocolate and eats one, two, three pieces, sniffling.
“So you wanted to cook?”
Dan’s voice, although confused, is non-judgmental. Curious. Sometimes Phil feels like it doesn’t ought to be normal to love someone so much it starts to hurt.
“Yeah. I wanted to start a new life as someone who wakes up at the crack of dawn and eats healthy.”
There’s a small laugh, and then the million-dollar question: “Why?”
He doesn’t want to worry Dan. He doesn’t want to admit it didn’t feel relieving to hear that nothing is wrong with his body, doesn't want to admit he took to heart something he probably should have been able to shrug off. He doesn't want to admit he still feels like something is wrong, doesn't want Dan to worry or, worse, agree with the doctor and convince him otherwise.
But he looks into Dan’s eyes, full of love and a little steel, watches as Dan firmly grabs his hand and lifts an eyebrow, waiting, and he knows he’s about to spill it all out anyways.
Thank God they share a braincell and Dan can understand him even when in chaos mode, because his explanation is not in chronological order, or any other order at all. He starts at the store again, backtracks, makes a tangent about the cute baby Pheal he still needs to show him, and then he comes back to that dreaded doctor's office. That’s when he breaks eye contact and eats another piece of chocolate to stall.
“Was she mean to you?”
Phil rolls his eyes. That is Dan’s standard question anytime Phil leaves an encounter unsettled, and is in part why Phil tends to avoid telling him about such encounters. Dan is too ready to fight for him, and his threshold for acceptable interacting-with-Phil behavior is way too high, and Phil doesn’t need the drama, thank you very much.
“No, she wasn’t mean.”
That's all he can bring himself to say, though. She wasn't nice either. Or helpful. Or reassuring.
“What then? Are you disappointed they didn’t find what’s going on?”
Even though he manages not to let them fall this time, this does it in making Phil tear up again.
Because it means Dan agrees that the visit meant that they hadn’t found what was wrong, and not that nothing was wrong.
Because it means Dan doesn't think he’s overreacting.
“Yeah” he manages, voice wrecked. “I just- She asked me all these questions, right? About my eating habits, my sleeping habits, my job, and- you know I can't lie. I told her all about how all I do is eat junk food, play video games and go to sleep at four, and I could see it in her eyes. That she’d just found the reason for all of it. Looked at me like it was obvious, and I-”
He stops himself. Breathes. Looks up at Dan to find him looking livid, fists and jaw clenched and hatred mapped all over his face and Phil thinks, here we go.
“Did she even examine you?”
Phil shakes his head. He feels like he's in trouble, even though Dan is clearly upset at the doctor and not him, feels small suddenly.
“And she didn’t prescribe you anything, right? No meds, no exams?”
Another head shake. When Dan says it like that, it does sound a bit unprofessional, to not even check, right? To create a narrative based on his life choices and run with it?
“I’m going to run a bitch over.”
Phil can't help but laugh at that, even though he can tell Dan is only about 75% joking.
“I’d prefer it if you didn't.”
“I don’t have to tell you about it.”
“And whose car are you gonna use for that? Do you even still have a licence?”
“Oh, shut up”, Dan tells him as he very tenderly folds Phil into his arms. Phil goes easily, resting his head on Dan’s chest and folding his legs to the side awkwardly.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”
The question is whispered into his hair, and Phil doesn’t know how to answer in a way that won’t make Dan angrier.
“Can we talk about something else?”
“No.”
“Come on, please, let’s just-”
“No, Phil, as your partner of ten fucking years, I think I should be told when someone mistreats you.”
“I wasn’t mistreated. You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I? You’re in pain, she didn’t help you, and in fact she sent you into some sort of grocery shopping mental breakdown. She shouldn’t be a doctor at all if that’s how she treats patients.”
“That’s- Come on, Dan, you always go too far! This is exactly why I don’t want to tell you stuff.”
He hears how bad that sounds as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but alas, Dan has great hearing and is very easy to bring into a fight, so there is no backtracking now. He can only brace himself for what’s to come.
He gets manoeuvered out of the hug, back against the couch, which makes his chest hurt for entirely unmedical reasons.
“Well that was mean for no reason.”
Phil winces at the flat tone and the storm brewing in Dan’s eyes. He looks away to try and escape it, but accidentally makes eye contact with the lamp, which makes a searing pain pierce through his head, and the throbbing get three times worse in an instant.
“Ow, fuck-” Phil closes his eyes and clutches as his head uselessly, bringing it to rest on his knees. This day can fuck right off, Phil is done, done, done-
He startles when something cold is pressed against his hand. Very slowly, he peers over his folded arms to see Dan pressing another glass of water into his hand, and handing him a pill. Phil takes both silently and swallows the pill, hoping the effect will be quick. It feels like someone is stabbing a needle directly into his brain.
“How long have you had a headache?”
And here it is again, Phil’s inability to do anything right. He knows Dan will be disappointed by the truth, but once again, can’t bring himself to lie. “Since I woke up”, he whispers, and puts his head back down to his knees.
“Since- Okay. Okay.” He swears he can hear Dan reigning himself in and convincing himself not to yell at Phil in the middle of a migraine, from those three words alone.
“I’m sorry”, he says again, helplessly. It hurts so bad. Dan just gets up to shut off the lights and draw the blinds, and then comes back and starts rubbing Phil’s back. He doesn’t say anything, which is good since Phil has reached the point where any sound sends another needle through his skull.
The pain meddles with his sense of time, but it seems like a long time of Phil bent over in pain, trying not to cry into his jeans, and Dan just rubbing his back in silence, before he can feel it getting slightly better. The pill must be starting to work. He waits a little longer, opens one eye experimentally, and then, very slowly, sits back up.
“Sorry.”
He doesn’t know what else to say. In wanting to spare Dan of the angst, he sure did create a lot of drama, and he is not used to that. He is supposed to be the calm in the eye of the storm, the voice of reason against racing thoughts. Comedic relief when darkness threatens to take over. This? He doesn’t know how to do this.
“If you’re apologizing for being upset or in pain, don’t.”
“You do it too when you’re spiraling.”
“And how many times have you told me to stop?”
That shuts Phil up, because at this point, the number might be in the hundreds. Touché.
“I just don’t want to make you worry.”
Dan sighs. Takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. “Honey, I’m so sorry but that’s not how love works.”
“Oh fuck off.”
“You know I’m right. If your partner is sick, you’re going to worry. That’s just a fact of life.”
Phil can agree to that, but can’t help but think but not me, though. I’m easy going and chill and fun. I’m the boyfriend you don’t need to worry about.
“Why don’t we take a nap and talk more after?”
Phil can’t refuse an offer like that, not when his head is still throbbing dully and his whole body feels heavy with exhaustion. He lets Dan guide him to the bedroom with a hand on the small of his back, which is completely unnecessary but makes him feel warm and safe. He’s asleep before his head even squishes the pillow.
✶✶✶
Hidden away in the office, Dan dials the medical center and thinks, Phil is going to kill me.
In his defense, he did try to stop himself; after oh-so-carefully extracting himself from the bed, he occupied himself with putting Phil’s absurd choice of groceries away, starting to edit next week’s video, and then even tried to start on some cleaning in true desperation to make his brain shut up.
But the thought just wouldn’t leave him alone.
Phil, alone in a room with someone telling him it was his fault he was in pain.
Phil, probably being way too nice about it, smiling his thousand-watt smile, because that’s what he does. How dare anyone use that to get away with dismissing him?
Phil panicking in a grocery store, clearly becoming temporarily insane according to his choice of groceries, but still being Phil, still seeing a random stuffed animal and thinking, I will use my adult money to adopt you. Collecting tokens and shiny things and bringing them back to Dan like a little magpie.
Dan knows Phil hates it when he goes guard-dog-mode, but what else to do when your partner is golden retriever in everything but the teeth? Dan has to lend Phil his bite sometimes, so he doesn’t end up with his soft belly ripped out.
Dan wishes, often, that he wasn’t someone who witnessed kindness and saw an opening for harm; wishes he didn’t see Phil’s softness and openness as liabilities. But you can’t re-wire a brain once it’s picked up on the world’s darkness, can only try to shield the ones who haven’t yet, or who, somehow, more impressively, have glanced at that darkness, and continued on unchanged.
He doesn’t want Phil to change. He wants him to stay crazy and gentle and luminous, hidden away from the world’s claws.
And although Phil has asked him point blank to stop trying to fight his battles for him, although he is his own autonomous, (mostly) competent, resilient human being who Dan trusts with his life most days, there is a beast inside Dan that cannot be reasoned with.
A wild beast that breathes only love and seeks only blood, that hears its kind getting hurt and goes to war for it.
The beast is Dan and Dan is the beast and so he cannot bring himself to hang up.
A click.
“Hello, you have reached Norman Medical Center. How can I help you?”
“Could I please talk to Doctor Mertens?”
The secretary sounds bored. “Are you calling for an appointment or about test results?”
There are no test results to talk about, since the kind doctor decided not to do her own fucking job. Dan’s teeth grind together. Not even a fucking blood test. Didn’t even pretend to give a shit.
“Neither, I need to talk to her about something else.”
“She is on her break right now, but I can take a message and ask her to call you back in the afternoon.”
No, fuck that. Someone that makes Phil cry does not deserve a nice, relaxing break.
“Tell her I have a complaint”, he says, knowing he sounds insane, knowing he would never do something like this for himself, “Tell her I’m one minute away from writing it down as an official medical malpractice complaint instead of just talking about it. Whatever she prefers.”
There is a long, tense silence. He can literally hear the exact moment the secretary thinks fuck it, I'm not paid enough to deal with this.
“I’ll transfer you.”
Dan lets the beast spread its claws.