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The night had started with such promise.
Candles. Linen napkins folded into something that tried very hard to be a swan. A restaurant that thought mains under forty pounds was a reasonable sentence. Dan had worn the jacket he only brought out for Important Occasions, and Phil had worn a deep blue blazer and underneath a shirt so white and optimistic it felt like tempting fate.
Fate, it turned out, was pasta.
The waiter barely had time to apologize after half the plate slid, slow-motion tragic, directly onto Phil’s chest. White sauce everywhere. Creamy, unforgiving, unmistakable.
They stared at it together for a long, stunned second.
“Well,” Phil said faintly. “That’s… that’s bad.”
Dan laughed, (he could laugh or scream, he chose the first) so hard he had to put his head in his hands. “You look like you lost a fight with a very elegant ghost.”
Dinner was free after that, at least.
Phil disappeared into the bathroom with the determination of a man who believed stains were merely a suggestion. Dan waited. And waited. And waited.
After twenty minutes, Dan was convinced several possibilities had occurred, none of them good. He knocked, gently at first, then louder.
“Phil? If you’ve fallen into the toilet, blink twice.”
The door opened to reveal Phil, damp sleeves, hair slightly frazzled, shirt… exactly as ruined as before.
They took one look at each other and burst out laughing. Proper, helpless laughter. The kind that made Dan’s eyes water and Phil have to brace himself against the sink.
“Right,” Phil said, wiping his eyes. “Taxi. Now. If we sprint, I change, and then teleport— ”
“Teleportation is famously unreliable,” Dan said, already pulling out his phone.
The taxi ride back to their place was mercifully short.
Phil peeled off the ruined shirt the second the door shut behind them, abandoning it on the back of a chair like a casualty of war. He reemerged minutes later in something far less ambitious: a soft jumper, worn black trousers, trainers he trusted. Not fancy. Not curated. Definitely not saved for a special moment.
Dan glanced up from his phone and smiled anyway.
“You know,” he said, “this outfit still feels extremely you.”
Phil spun once, mock serious. “Thank you. I call this look man who has been defeated by pasta but refuses to let it win entirely.”
Dan snorted. The sound followed them out the door as they flagged down another taxi, slipping into the backseat with fingers still lightly hooked together, as if letting go might tempt the night to take something else from them.
The taxi ride, unfortunately, was not kind to optimism.
New Year’s Eve traffic was its own sentient beast— snarling, stubborn, and utterly uninterested in their plans. Red lights stretched ahead like an accusation, each one lingering just long enough to feel personal. The car crawled, stopped, crawled again. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks cracked early, mocking.
Phil checked his phone. Then checked it again, like the time might behave differently if pressured.
It didn’t.
The numbers crept forward with malicious glee, seconds slipping through their fingers no matter how tightly Dan curled them. Every inch the taxi gained felt immediately revoked, as if the city itself had decided they weren’t allowed to arrive on time. Horns blared. Someone laughed too loudly outside. The night pressed in, heavy and expectant.
Phil leaned closer, shoulder brushing Dan’s.
“We’re still going to make it,” he said, not entirely convinced.
Dan hummed, eyes on the glowing screen. “Define make it.”
They shared a look, equal parts hope and resignation— and settled back into the seat, bracing themselves as the countdown loomed ever closer, the city inching forward while time absolutely refused to wait.
The driver glanced at them in the mirror. Then again. And then again, holding Dan’s eye contact a fraction too long, with an expression that felt… pointed. Like the homophobic dog meme had learned how to drive.
I know what you are.
Dan shifted, uncomfortable. Phil noticed, leaned closer, discreet.
Phil pulled out his phone and typed:
I’m sorry ☹️
Dan glanced over, then gave him a soft, resigned smile. The kind that said it’s okay, don’t worry even if it made him a little sad.
it’s ok
Dan texted.
we can still watch the fireworks
u want to do it on my phone?? 🤔
Phil smiled and typed fast
plzzzz 💋🌠🎆
The countdown began, tinny and small through phone speakers.
10, 9, 8,
Dan took a breath. Then another. His heart did that annoying thing it always did, like it was eighteen again instead of a full adult human being who had survived public scrutiny and worse haircuts.
He reached out and took Phil’s hand.
For a second, he wondered, absurdly, when the first time they’d ever done this had been. Not held hands, exactly. (but he did remember that one), But this. Choosing each other, openly, without the scaffolding of jokes or plausible deniability.
7, 6, 5,
Phil looked at him, really looked, and the phone screen dissolved into background noise, light and sound blurring into something distant and unimportant. Fireworks weren’t the first thing he wanted to see in 2026. They hadn’t been for so many years now, not when being this close to Dan felt like standing at the edge of something far more dangerous and dazzling.
4, 3,
Dan lifted his eyes to meet that clear blue gaze he’d been orbiting for almost as many years as he’d been alive. Nearly seventeen years of jokes and glances and almosts, lodged like a splinter he kept worrying at, hoping the tender sting would finally leave his heart. Words swallowed. Hands pulled back. Moments carefully folded away and saved, as if they might bruise if handled too openly.
The familiar ache curled low in both their stomachs— sharp, insistent, screaming fuck, fuck in perfect, breathless unison.
Why wasn’t it as easy for them as it was for the straight couples spilling out of the bar they passed? Kissing without thought or fear, mouths open and unapologetic, tongues visible through the taxi window in a way that felt almost aggressive in its ease. No hesitation. No calculation. No quiet inventory of who might be watching.
Dan swallowed.
He thought, not for the first time— that if a meteorite decided to end it all tomorrow, he wouldn’t mind so much, as long as it landed right there, with Phil beside him. As long as the last thing he saw was that familiar smile, that soft crinkle at the edges of Phil’s eyes, the proof that he hadn’t imagined any of it.
The thought startled him with its sincerity.
He told himself he was being silly. That this was just the night, the countdown, the closeness, the way Phil’s hand was warm only when it was on his. That it didn’t mean anything more than it already had for years.
But even as he tried to dismiss it, Dan didn’t look away.
2, 1!
“Happy 2026,” Dan said, low and soft, like a secret he was trusting Phil to keep.
Phil squeezed his fingers, mouthed I love you, and smiled— small, bright, devastating.
“Ya lads out to get some birds, eh?” the driver said cheerfully as they pulled up.
Phil physically recoiled and Dan’s soul briefly left his body.
“Yup,” Dan said, on pure instinct. “Gettin’ ourselves those birds, haha.”
It was awful. Truly. Dan shot Phil an apologetic look that screamed I hated that as much as you did.
They got out into the cold, breath fogging immediately, laughter and distant fireworks echoing somewhere they were definitely late to.
Dan started walking, eager to escape the moment entirely— but Phil caught him by the coat.
“Kiss me, you silly birdy.”
Dan didn’t even hesitate.
It was soft and quick and perfect. Phil’s hands were cold even through those ridiculous blue sparkly gloves Dan pretended to despise and secretly adored because they were Oh, so Phil, it hurt. Their noses brushed. Their lips met again, just briefly, like punctuation.
They pulled apart, cheeks pink, breath visible between them.
“Merry 2026, little bird,” Dan said.
They shared one more peck, just in case, and then ran, hand in hand, still late, still laughing, still very much together.