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The tiles of their bathroom wall can be made into blurry, rounded things when his eyes are squinted. They go grey and fuzzy, the lines fading out until he blinks his eyes open again.
He wants to focus on them, give them the appreciation that their steadiness deserves. Unchanging, rows upon rows of little squares that are cold to the touch.
His water has also gone a bit cold. If he had the energy to focus on the physical sensations of this bath, he would be aware of the goosebumps on his thighs or the way his muscles have gone taut, shoulders hunched and drawn. The physical things don’t matter, though. One sense at a time – now is for sight. Now is for the lines in between the dark tiles, white and clean and symmetrical. He traces his fingertip along one of them and barely feels the texture of the grout. He does, however, see the wrinkles that make up his skin.
Time doesn’t count when you’re in the bath.
Phil hasn’t come for him yet so there’s really no worry, even if he is all pruned up later.
The first half of it had been perfunctory, unthinking; his hair is clean, his bits are washed. That same unthinking presence would be appreciated now but when you’re alone and unoccupied it’s easier said than done.
The whole day has passed like this. Woke up in a mood that left him little more than mute, and the words that he has uttered have been cold and dry all at once. Everything has left a stale taste in his mouth, whether it be the instant coffee or the nagging about socks or the plate he smashed on the kitchen floor earlier. It was honestly an accident, a slip of his hand when he was putting it away, but in combination with everything else that had gone astray it sure didn’t look like one to an outsider. To Phil, who normally isn’t an outsider - who fell silent following the crash and the splintering of ceramic – who didn’t even flinch, almost as if he expected it.
He only guided Dan by the shoulders to step around the pieces and told him with a soft voice to go have a bath. Dan lingered, though, guilt swimming in his stomach as a broom was dragged over the tiles. Square, steady tiles.
He wants to hold half the shape that they have, half the stability and willpower to remain in place and never fall out of it. Part of him knows, though, that even on a good day he isn’t anything like a tile. He’s free-flowing, ever-changing, undoubting of the form he takes or the doesn’t take. On a good day he’s more like the water.
It glides across his skin now as he sinks down, knees folding up as his chest is submerged into it.
This time he does register the cold. It envelops him in a way that makes him shudder, eyes falling shut against the feeling. Something in his brain shuts off too because all that he registers afterwards is that he could get used to the cold. He could get used to this clean, cold bathroom and maybe even die here, just like this. That word doesn’t mean what it should. It’s not a literal death, just how he’s not literally the water or the tiles or the fucking whirlwind that breaks plates and hurts those closest to him. He’s only Dan, and he only wants to die here in the sense that he wants this day to die here. It’s barely afternoon.
His eyes open and become fixed on the lighting overhead that beams down at him all yellow and artificial. Everything seems so dull but at the same time dramatized, like if he were to slide on down into the bath with his eyes open underwater, he could fulfill that strange movie trope. It was never poetic to him, though, seeing the character eyes-wide in their lived-in tub water, a perfect picture of reflection or regret. It would only leave him with redness and irritation from the remnants of soap still bubbling around. So, he only goes far enough that it comes up above his mouth (which he keeps firmly closed, thank you). Something about being restricted to only breathing through his nose feels like adequate punishment.
It goes like this for a while, and between the silence and the heavier breaths, he must doze off. It takes him by surprise when he’s suddenly gasping and spitting out sudsy water that dribbles down his chin and from his nostrils. A few good coughs rattling against his chest makes the scary feeling go away, and once he knows he’s no longer at risk of drowning in his one-man lifeboat he sits up fully.
The water is freezing. Even his smallest of toes are pale and wrinkled.
He makes to stand up but just as he does so, the bathroom door swings open. Air from the hall sweeps across his spine and if he were being a touch more dramatic, he would allow his teeth to chatter.
Phil doesn’t need the theatrics now. Phil needs him to stand up and accept the fluffy towel being wrapped around his waist like a hug. It’s fresh from the dryer and smells like their detergent, floral and sickly sweet.
“You’re going to be sick,” Phil says, rubbing up and down Dan’s arms like he’s trying to start a fire with the friction.
It seems to shake some life back into him.
“I’m alright. Thanks.”
“The landlord says no more baths for now. Apparently, you could have collapsed through the floor.”
Dan isn’t sure if he knows what the hell Phil is on about, but he can figure it all out later. For now, he exhales a huff of laughter and allows his heavy head to fall on the sturdy shoulder next to him. Water droplets are rolling down his legs and leaving little puddles by his feet. He imagines the tiles of the floor, the water seeping below them and rotting whatever’s underneath.
If the ground swallowed him up right now, he would at least be warm and loved and smelling nice.
“We have to get out of here. Baths are essential.”
“Not too much longer.”
Phil kisses his wet hair and drags the towel over his arms and chest, almost babying him with how gentle he is. Maybe Dan’s bad day energy did translate, and he doesn’t seem like the world’s most shit person. He feels a bit wobbly when he looks up into Phil’s eyes, searching for some form of resentment or residual anger. There isn’t any.
“I’m sorry about the plate.”
“It was old, anyways. We’ll get a new set when we move.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. You can pick them out.”
That’s the breaking point for the tears he didn’t even know he was holding back. Thankfully, Phil doesn’t make much comment on them besides patting his cheeks with the corner of the towel and smiling with that stupidly hopeful grin of his, like he knows that they’re a good, cathartic kind of tears.
“Let’s go nap now, and we can get online later and look at boring, monochrome matte black dishes.”
“Shut up,” Dan laughs, but leans forward to kiss Phil anyways.
They do end up in bed, but neither of them naps because they can’t stop making each other laugh with dumb jokes or sometimes, in Phil’s case, weird animal noises. Dan knows that the existential dread of the morning is going to cling and stick to him for the rest of the day, but for now he can be content. He can be made of unsteady lines and warm blood and free-flowing water. He’ll leave the rest to the tiles.