Work Text:
Home was a lot of things lately. Home was hotel beds and breakfasts at 7 a.m in the morning looking at a sleepy lover who can only seem to scroll on their phone but not really capable of talking. Home was backstages on a comfortable couch begging for a foot rub despite the fact that they definitely reused their socks from the night before. Home was in the back of a van with your head resting against the other’s shoulders trying to listen to their music to determine the kind of mood they’re in (and then stealing an earbud anyway because you want to listen too).
Sometimes home was moody, tired, cranky and upset about (one, or several) thing that went wrong in a show. Sometimes home needed space from each other but that space meant sitting one chair over while they paid attention to something else. Sometimes home was apologies with requested sweets and a cup of coffee with extra sugar and and shot of espresso. Sometimes home was silent sorries and forgiving, gentle eyes.
Home was laughter in a poundland parking lot with snacks sitting in a bag by their feet, it’s late but they don’t care, these kind of moments happen only once in a lifetime. Home was encouragement, that regardless of feeling like a bad hair day, it was still a good day. Home was a hand to a shoulder, while the other bent over a keyboard swearing they’ve forgotten everything they learned, but trusting that it’d come back in a little while; memory was a tricky little thing.
Home was trains and watching a beautiful countryside with music playing and a pen and paper in hand jotting down thoughts of now and the future (and then aggressively pointing when you see sheep). Home was sometimes switching and sitting backwards on a train because the other can’t help but feel a little sick. Home was train station stops, watching bags and seats while the other attempted to get drinks. Home was smiling at certain train stations because it resides in a town, a city, a place that means something.
Home was home; in London with a storm loud enough to shake the house, and the heater turned up, and the sound of their late night laundry in the dryer. Home smelled the same, felt the same, but they were different, just a little, from experience.
It’s past midnight and two cups of tea later when they make it to bed, still listening to the sound of thunder rolling, when Phil turns on his side to look at Dan.
He wants to tell him a story about childhood.
He wants to tell him that he used to be afraid of thunderstorms.
He wants to tell him that the house they used to live in would shake and the power would go out during a particularly bad thunderstorm.
Instead he reaches out, pulling himself to closer to Dan, because out of all the places they’ve called home in the past month nothing would ever compare to this one.