For Hovvels
Prompt: Dan and Phil go from friends with benefits to more.
For: hovvells
Title: Mamihlapinatapai
Mamihlapinatapai
- “a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that neither one wants to start.”
Have sex. Wake up alone. Stay lonely. Repeat.
He’s getting too used to this feeling. His fingers glide over the wrinkled outline of where Phil has slept. The sheets are cold now. There’s an ache in his lower back and an ache in his heart, and he knows the two are unrelated. The ache in his back will fade, but the ache in his heart hasn’t ebbed for months.
He squeezes his hand into a tight fist. Bones strain against skin as he clutches onto the bunched duvet and wills himself not to feel. He’s not supposed to feel. This was never part of the deal.
In the most sadistically beautiful way, he craves it all. He wants the welts on his back from flailing fingernails, he enjoys the heated, wet kisses, lips slapping sloppily together, burning skin grinding together, hearts pounding in unison, teeth against collarbones and orgasms that make his vision flash white.
It feels so good but it hurts so badly. A wry irony within one fucking messed up poem they’ve written.
The clock on the bedside table glares a neon 3:08 AM at him. He didn’t even stay for an hour.
There’s a faint sound of feet shuffling in the hallway and a scrape of metal against linoleum. He hears the unmistakable sound of pouring, slurping, and the putting down of a glass. It’s all over within a minute. Dan chews the inside of his mouth, mulling over the notion of what Phil’s up to and fervently telling himself it’s not the truth. Not at this time of night. Surely, not.
As the feet pad back down the hallway, the moonlight colouring his bedroom is obscured by the slither of a shadow appearing in his doorway. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills his thrumming heart to slow.
A sound of a sigh fizzles into the darkness and the shadow disappears, bringing with it the sound of a separate bedroom door shutting. There’s only a wall between them but Dan’s never felt further from Phil.
He closes in eyes and lulls into an uneasy sleep, arm still outstretched, palm up and fingers reaching with false hope for someone to hold.
The mornings after are always awkward and Dan doesn’t care much for them.
He stumbles his way into the kitchen, absentmindedly cradling his lower back. He pours a bowl of cereal and opens the fridge to retrieve some milk. The bottle of Shiraz he bought yesterday has halved in volume and there’s a large wine glass abandoned in the sink.
He almost snorts. He was right. This is how Phil copes with the crippling loneliness, he drinks it away with cheap red wine at three o’clock in the morning.
Dan sighs and shuts the fridge. He can hear some re-run of Friends they’ve seen about a hundred times playing on the television and the clattering of a spoon in a bowl as Phil eats his own breakfast.
It’s this time of day when Dan wishes he could read thoughts, just for a moment. He never knows how to even initiate a conversation with Phil after those particular nights – and there’s been countless.
Anxious, he walks into the lounge and plops himself onto the sofa, bringing his knees up and holding his bowl steadily. He can feel Phil’s eyes on him, so he sucks up his courage and allows him a quick smile.
“Morning,” Dan says, lack of sleeping invading his voice.
Phil looks shattered, to say the least. Behind the thick frames of his glasses are a pair of tired eyes, and Dan can’t decipher whether they’re showing physical or emotional exhaustion more. His dishevelled hair is sticking out in a myriad of curls and flicks, and when he finally replies his voice has a rasp in it.
“Hey,” Phil replies, bashful.
“Any plans for the day?”
Phil looks uncertain, as if the question was the last thing he expected Dan to ask. “Oh, um, probably just answer e-mails and stuff,” he answers with a noncommittal shrug, “I need to dye my hair, too.” He adds as an afterthought.
“Yep, I can see the grey hairs from here, old man.”
“Jackass.”
They grin sleepily at each other, and the thick fog of tension between them is finally beginning to lift. The memory of last night is still in their minds, and they both know neither of them wants to bring it up.
Phil doesn’t know what Dan thinks, and Dan doesn’t know what Phil thinks. Yet, if they dusted off their pride, knocked down a wall and asked each other, they’d discover they both share the same thoughts.
Grins fall into melancholy sighs, and eyes avert back to the TV screen. Same routine, different day.
“I think I’m going to take a shower,” Phil announces after a short while.
Dan doesn’t reply, he simply watches as Phil leaves the room. His face twists to a frown and as the shower turns on he can’t help but let out a groan of frustration into a sofa cushion. He punches the galaxy design on the fabric and flings it away from him, the anger flashing through him.
“I can’t keep doing this.” He whispers to himself, and for a split second he almost feels like he’s going to cry. He wonders if Phil does this too, has these moments where he questions why they keep doing this.
He loves him. He fucking loves the idiot. And sure, Dan’s been an idiot too, and Dan hasn’t said a single word to Phil about the way he feels. Heck, Dan’s known he’s bisexual since he was sixteen years old, so the adoration for Phil is hardly a surprise. But this is different. This is Phil. Phil Lester. Phil, who he sleeps with at least twice a week, who he gets off to almost every day, whose name he screams in pure euphoria.
Phil, who probably doesn’t even love him back.
That wasn’t the agreement. They weren’t supposed to fall in love. They aren’t allowed to feel. “Friends with benefits” was the name of the game. Except Dan had already lost after his first go and he didn’t want to let Phil win anymore.
“Have sex. Wake up alone. Stay lonely. Repeat,” Dan mutters miserably under his breath, “Pretend like it never happened.”
