Archive of Our Own ^beta

Acid burns his throat as he heaves once more, his stomach clenching from inside of him as it empties itself into the toilet bowl he has his face ducked down into.

He spits, before letting out a little cough as he feels the burn against the inside of his mouth, when there’s a heavy hand on his back, moving in slow circles.

“You think you’re done for now?” Phil asks gently, hand still rubbing his back through his sweat soaked shirt, feeling where the wet fabric clings stickily to his skin.

Dan nods, licking his lips that taste like salt and bile, pulling himself up. He should be done for now; a total of five minutes sat heaving into the toilet hadn’t made him feel particularly better, but the horrible emptiness of his stomach tells him he won’t be throwing up any time soon. Not until Phil has him tucked into bed trying to spoon feed him the littlest mouthfuls of soup.

But as Phil pulls Dan up from where he’s bent down on his knees on the cold bathroom floor, does he know that no amount of soup will make him feel any better.

The only thing that will help him will be the little yellow box that has a good couple months’ worth of tiny white pills, compact with the right chemicals and assortments to restore his brain to the normal influx of medication he’d become reliant on recently.

Phil brings him to his shaky legs and guides him back to the sofa. It’s a big of a struggle, and Dan smacks his hand against the wall in fear of falling over again and pushes his weight against Phil who somehow manages to hold it.

When they make it to the warmth of their living room, Dan lets his weak and tired body flop back onto the sofa, letting himself sink into the comfort of the familiar cushions that suck his body in. He closes his eyes and feels the sweat that’s formed at this hair line drip down his skin, despite the shiver he feels in his bones.

“I’m gonna fetch some water, stay there, okay?” he hears Phil tell him softly, listening out for the soft socked footprints as he disappears into another part of the apartment to get Dan a drink.

It feels like hours when Phil comes back, his judgement is blurry and skewered, but he registers a hand in front of him, and he peels his eyes open to see Phil stood above him with a nice tall glass of water in his hand.

“Drink,” is all he says, and Dan takes the glass from his hand with trembling fingers.

He begins to gulp it down, relieving the burn that still sits in the back of his mouth, along with the stale taste of vomit that lingers of his tongue, but he feels the glass being pulled back hastily as water begins to drip from the corners of his mouth,

“Jesus, Dan. Sip it. You’ll be sick again if you do that,” he tells him with a frown. It lacks any real anger, merely concern, but Dan just sips at his drink sheepishly.

Then, he cries.

He begins to cry, and sob and he can feel snot begin to drip from his nose, until it reaches his lips and he can taste it, and it’s so disgusting, but Phil is taking the water from his hands and settling beside him to pull him into his warm arms.

He cries a little more as Phil holds him, running careful fingers through thick curled hair, soothing him as he continues to hiccup little sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Dan tells him between cries. He runs the back of his hand under his nose, grimacing with the mess of his face.

But Phil just pulls him against his chest, uncaring about the state his shirt will be in afterwards, but holds him close.

“It’s okay,” he whispers to him. “You’ll be okay.”

*

It’s not okay, Dan thinks one night. He’s been jolted awake, his skin burns like it’s on fire, sweat rolls off of him like he’s been standing under hot rain, despite the early March chill that still hangs in the London air. His body shakes and shivers, and he doesn’t know whether to kick the duvet the wraps around his body off his legs or perhaps snuggle in deeper.

His head is pounding and his eyes hurt inside his skull.

Phil sleeps beside him, blissfully unaware as Dan lays there, brain too loud for sleep.

He can feel himself begin to cry again, it’s not the first of the many tears he’s shed this week, but he still feels angry about it. He looks to his side to look at the bedside table. There’s an empty space where his pills would usually sit; a constant reminder each morning to swallow one down and let it work its magic on his clouded brain.

But instead he lays here in the darkness of the night and swallows thickly as his head continues to pulse with hurt.

Tears trickle down his skin, rolling down slowly until they hit the pillow and leave little dark patches against the fabric. He cries some more, muffling his sobs with the palm of his hand. His body shakes and quivers, and he looks back at Phil again.

He can’t bear to wake him, to cry to him about nothing again, so instead he pulls his body from the bed and slips out of bed.

He makes his way to the living room, wobbly legs take him, until they seem to buckle just as he reaches the door. His arms fly out until their smacking against smooth wall, but it’s not enough to heave his body up as he crashes to the floor. His knees smack against the wooden floor and he’s doubling over, curled up in a tight ball on the floor in the dark.

He can’t even cry or scream with the pain that shoots up his legs. He feels too empty, like he’s been squeezed out, to even emit anything.

Suddenly a light is being flickered on, and he hears a voice from behind him.

“Dan?”

There are arms around him, such warm and familiar arms pulling him up off the floor, hands on his shoulders so heavy.

“Dan, shit, are you okay?” Phil asks him. His glasses are pushed up on his nose, his hair sits fluffed up on top of his head, clearly having just been ripped from a probably peaceful sleep.

Dan can’t even cry.

“No,” he croaks, “I’m not okay. I’m really not okay, Phil,” his voice cracks and breaks at the last word and he pushes himself into Phil. Phil just holds him again, takes his shivering body and holds him as they both sit on their knees in the hallways of their apartment while the rest of the city sleeps.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Phil murmurs against his hair, pressing his lips against him for a second.

Dan nods, and it takes him at least three attempts to get off the floor. His body feels heavy and too big and he feels hurt in his chest when he sees Phil struggle a little.

But Phil manages it, as he always does, and he’s taking Dan back to bed. He tucks him up in the warmth of their covers and crawls in next to him.

“You’ll have them back in three days,” Phil reminds him as he settles in with a small sigh.

Dan hums, “Yeah.”

“You’ll have them back and then you’ll feel okay again,” Phil mumbles quietly. He’s so close that Dan can feel the tickle of his breath against his lips.

“You’ll have them back and then soon this’ll just be a reminder, a memory, of how strong you are.”

He sounds tired now, proper tired, his eyes have slipped shut and his voice is low and rumbly; just how Dan likes it before they go to sleep each night, and how he wakes up each morning.

He can feel the slightest tug of a smile in the corners of his lips.

“Love you, Dan,” Phil whispers and Dan feels a tear slip from his eye.

Dan can’t find the words, dried up in his throat or sat heavy in his chest, but instead presses himself as close as he can to Phil, and as if it’s second nature, Phil is opening his arms and welcoming him in.

With his head pressed against his chest, listening to the steady lub of his heart as he begins to drift off to sleep, Dan feels a few more stray tears make their way down his cheeks. But it’s not the soul crushing, gut wrenching feeling he felt earlier. Instead they’re confused tears that escape him, and he supposes they’re probably, most likely, happy tears.

Happy tears, because there’s nothing better than in the arms of the man he loves, cuddled up warmly, feeling as safe as possible.

And for the first night in a week, Dan finally falls asleep.