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The dizzy spells have been getting worse. Almost weekly, a morning starts with a migraine and a restlessness that Phil is in no condition to work through.
Phil doesn’t like mentioning it, hates how helpless he is against these days, how weak he gets. It’s not like Dan needs Phil to tell him when it’s one of those days, anyway. It’s obvious as soon as he wakes up. Phil is usually the one to rise first, but on these days Dan wakes up to a pillow obscuring the elder’s face, a just-barely successful barrier to keep the already weak light shining through their heavy curtains away from him.
Dan sneaks out of bed, as quiet as he can get. He draws the curtains tighter, gives Phil the lightest brush of lips across his too-warm forehead. He doesn’t use the en-suite bathroom on days like these, doesn’t want to make Phil’s discomfort any worse. Instead, he silently shuffles out of the room, pulling the door shut softly behind him.
It hasn’t always been this easy. Dan still beats himself up over how he’d behaved in the beginning, before either of them knew what had been going on. He knows it wasn’t on purpose, Phil knows too. Still, Dan can’t help but wince at how he used to snap in the mornings, when Phil didn’t reply properly because of, Dan knows now, his splitting migraines. Yeah. The first couple weeks had been difficult.
They made it work, though. Of course they did. Eventually, they learned how to give each other what they needed, Phil communicating when he was having one of those days, and Dan not being so immediate and just pausing for a second. That brought them to this, Dan being able to see the signs immediately and knowing that today is a day he should do a french press instead of using the coffee machine.
Phil emerges about an hour later, sees Dan curled up on the armchair with coffee and his phone and makes a beeline towards him. Dan looks up when he hears a lump of messy hair and sweaty forehead stumbling towards him. He sets his mug down and opens his arms wide to let the blob all but fall into him.
“Should’ve stayed in the room and called me there, bub,” Dan says, carding a hand through the matted locks of Phil’s hair.
Phil makes a noise, somewhere between agony and frustration, and shifts away from him. “‘M not helpless, Dan.”
Dan almost recoils. That tone is one he’s heard before, a few times, and wants that number to stay as low as possible. It hurts when Phil, his lovely, bubbly Phil, speaks in that low, almost venomous voice. He knows Phil isn’t mad at him, just the day, but his breath still hitches.
Phil must have seen the hurt that briefly flashes across Dan’s face, because he lowers his eyes and drops his face into Dan’s shoulder, a sincere “sorry” coming out of his mouth.
“It’s okay, love. Here, take my coffee, I’ll bring you your meds.”
Phil nods mutely. Dan drops another kiss on the top of his head before leaving the room. Today’s a particularly bad one. That tone only comes out on the absolute worst of days, when it seems like every word said is forced out of his mouth because it hurts too much.
Dan returns to find Phil in a fitful, clammy sleep. He sighs. He hates seeing Phil in such pain, and the fact that they’ve been getting more frequent only makes him more worried. He makes a mental note to book an appointment with the doctor for tomorrow. For now, though, he needs to get Phil to take his pills.
“Phil, it’s time to take your meds,” he whispers.
“Bed.”
“Come on, baby. Have your pills and then we can go up, yeah?”
He shuffles closer, shaking out two tablets onto Phil’s palm. He hands the elder his coffee, lets him lean against Dan’s stomach while he struggles but manages to take them.
“There you go, you did so good. Bed now?”
Phil nods, making to stand up. He’s all bambi legs and shaky steps, and Dan knows that he isn’t going to be able to move a foot this way, let alone climb up stairs.
Dan wraps one arm around Phil’s back and the other along the backs of his knees and picks him up, bridal style. It takes a minute to get comfortable, what with Phil’s long limbs, but Dan’s just a little taller (something that Phil whines about to this day) and has had enough practice carrying him over these last few months (something that worries Dan to no end). Phil turns his head into Dan’s chest, finally letting Dan take the wheel completely.
Dan wakes up hours later to the feeling of Phil turning away from him. The elder has shrugged all the covers off and has drawn his legs up into his chest.
“Phil? How’re you feeling now?”
The man’s forehead creases, and Dan wants to do nothing more than run his fingers across to soothe him, but everything about Phil is screaming “don’t touch me”.
“Migraine’s gone down. Just, space.”
And this, this Dan understands. They’re each other’s favourite people, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need time apart. The fact that both of them understand now, that it’s nothing against the other, has made their relationship that much stronger. So he exits the room but leaves the door open behind him. He knows how he can help right now.
He goes downstairs and sits at the baby grand. His fingers skim over the keys, trying to think of what to play, before settling on his mental catalogue of final fantasy soundtracks.
It’s the right thing to play, because about four songs later, Dan hears the stairs creak. He doesn’t expect Phil to come into this room, what with the loudness of the piano and Dan’s own humming, so he’s not surprised when he sees a Phil sized blur move past the doorway and into the adjacent room. Close enough to be able to properly hear what Dan’s playing but not for it to be overwhelmingly loud.
Dan smiles to himself. He’s glad Phil’s feeling good enough to make his way down and actively listen to Dan’s playing. His fingers keep dancing along the keys and he lets himself truly settle into playing.
Somewhere between five and seven songs later, Dan senses a presence at the door. He looks up and finds Phil already gazing at him, not a sheepish expression in sight even after having been caught staring. This is what over twelve years of knowing each other has done, and it makes Dan want to break into song.
He stops playing to pat the bench and scoot to one side. “C’mere,” he beckons.
Phil obliges, lodging his head into the crook of Dan’s neck. “Play,” he whines against Dan’s skin, sending a gust of air onto the area. The brunet shivers. Some things don’t change, even after twelve years.
“Better?”
“Better.”
Dan still looks him over once. Satisfied, he resumes his rendition of To Zanarkand. Phil ghosts his fingers over the piano, eyes trained on Dan and chin digging into Dan’s shoulder. Dan turns to look at him, and what a sight for sore eyes. Phil looks so soft, so calm; with one Dan’s jumpers, a floppy quiff and his glasses perched unevenly on his nose.
All the fight has drained out of Phil, Dan can tell. That restlessness he always wakes up with on days like these has settled, and finally both of them can truly relax. The migraine has almost disappeared entirely, Phil’s forehead is devoid of even the smallest of creases. Dan leans forward, gently kissing the smooth expanse. Before he can pull away entirely, Phil brushes his lips against Dan’s. Their first proper kiss of the day. Dan sighs happily, lets their foreheads bump together while his hands still move across the keys. Phil wraps his feet around one of Dan’s, and Dan can’t help but squeal in surprise. He loves this, loves them . He’s worried about Phil, of course he is. But they always push through these days, paddle with all their might to make it out of the choppy waters and into safe lagoons. And they’ve always made it.