#which phil is doing a valiant attempt at

[stereotypical-jew]

i sometimes forget about this but i feel it's relevant again

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Somehow Technoblade had managed the spectacular achievement of becoming the odd one out in an entire community made up of rare and strange beings.

The fact that all the other residents were non-humans happened to be what made him different though. Wilbur had told him the history of the commune, how their town was founded with the direct purpose of being a safe place for mobs and hybrids to live in peace, secluded from the humans who hunted them, enslaved them, or would otherwise harm them. Their location was kept secret, hidden from most by enchantments, and they were almost completely self-sufficient in the way they were run in terms of food and stuff.

Only occasionally would somebody wander out to another village, to trade or just to seek a little adventure for themselves. Phil especially was prone to do this – a traveler at heart, his Elytrian nature – and he was the one who had found Technoblade in a rather... compromising position.

If by compromising you could mean having an arrow sticking out your back.

People didn't like Technoblade. And Technoblade generally didn't like people, but he liked it even less when they chased him out of their villages with their bows drawn. Phil had been kind enough to remove the projectile. Technoblade had bravely said it didn't hurt but then secretly dug his blunt nails into the palms of his hands hard enough to leave white indents. Then Phil had insisted on taking him home to get a proper look at the wound and clean it up.

Not all of the other residents were thrilled with Technoblade's presence at first, scared it could compromise their location. A lot of their tunes had changed when they found out other humans were the cause of his injury, even more so when Techno revealed this was hardly an isolated incident. People didn't like Technoblade at all.

(Most humans had little tolerance for that which they did not understand. And according to them, Technoblade was weird and very hard to understand. Techno understood himself perfectly fine, he always thought they were the weird ones.)

So he stayed and overall things worked out great. There were only minor issues caused by the 'only human around' thing. Their pub was a good example. A few of the others in the commune could simply fly or teleport, and those that couldn't had no problems either since they could rely on inhuman stamina to make the climb tolerable. Techno had a hundred rungs of a ladder he needed to brave with his pitiful human physique if he wanted to get up there. Same thing for Phil's ridiculously high-up birdhouse.

And then one day he got sick.

It was probably his own fault. Last night when it was storming he'd been coming home from mining and gotten completely soaked out in the rain. A small voice in the back of his mind told him he should probably take his drenched clothes off and get warm and comfortable as soon as he got home – the voice sounded suspiciously like Phil when he lectured Techno about fixing his terrible sleeping schedule and eating more regularly. But he had gotten distracted by putting away the materials he'd mined into his chests and starting to smelt the ore and by the time he noticed he was shivering at how cold it was, his clothes were damp more than wet. He lighted the fire and felt too exhausted to bother getting changed, crawling under the covers as he was - though it didn't completely ward away further trembling.

When he woke up his head hurt and there was this annoying tickle in his chest, feather-light touches against his lungs. The clothes had become sticky and uncomfortable, peeling off his skin. Techno coughed into a fist and set out as normal, intent on resuming his tasks where he left off yesterday.

It would probably go away on its own.

Except the coughing didn't stop. Small bursts of it kept coming up when he needed them least. He was in the middle of one when a voice rang out behind him.

"Techno, are you okay dude?" He must have jumped a solid three feet into the air and for a moment Wilbur only chuckled at his reaction.

"I told you to stop doing that," Techno grumbled, a little too sharply. Just because Wilbur could literally appear out of nowhere didn't mean he had to use that ability to sneak up on him for no reason. Techno coughed again, hiding it in his elbow.

"You did," Wilbur acknowledged with a smirk, but didn't apologize. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look I'm doing, I'm headed to the mines." Techno swung his pickaxe up on his shoulder, kind of almost nearly dropping it in the process with how clumsy his hands were being. Stupid.

"It looks like you were hacking up a lung, really." Wilbur's features softened. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," Techno responded. He started walking again, knowing Wilbur would have a hard time following him while in corporeal form. Especially in the daytime.

"Are you coming to the pub later? I've got some new plans to unveil, think they'll be sick." Wilbur did make a valiant attempt at following him, though he quickly started falling behind, floating inches above the ground and unable to keep up with Techno's human strides.

"Uh, I'll think about it?" Techno answered evasively. He wasn't looking forward to braving that ladder in his current state. His arms hurt just thinking about it.

Wilbur stopped to call after him. "What do you mean you'll think about it?"

But Techno was far enough gone to be able to pretend not to hear him as he descended down his mineshaft.

Techno liked Niki's hair a lot. He'd even told her so not long after meeting her.

It was long and wavy and a nice shade of pastel pink that reminded him of the sunset. Technoblade would consider growing out his own hair that long if he didn't know it was way too unruly to keep in shape and stay untangled. And if dyeing it wasn't such a chore – one he knew he'd be too lazy to undertake as regularly as he should – he might have dyed it from its boring brown shade into something more interesting.

Niki was glad he was keeping her company while she tended to it, combing through it with what he presumed was a comb made of a seashell. Techno didn't tell her he had only really left the mines early because his lungs were starting to strain from the dust down there, the coughing fits getting closer together with less time in between to let him breathe. He sat on the sandy shore and traced patterns into the sand with one finger while they talked.

Niki was telling him about her builds, and expressing her disappointment over how she couldn't easily show them to her friends. None of them could breathe underwater or deal with the pressure common at the depths Niki lived. But she loved describing them in detail.

She was just explaining the sea glass she was intending to use when Technoblade started coughing again. His lungs expressed their displeasure through a series of sharp pangs that shot up into his neck. The sound he made was wet and disgusting, like there was something liquid rattling around inside his chest. Niki stopped talking to look at him worriedly.

"Are you alright? Techno, what happened?"

He tried to wave her away but it was kind of hard with his body still intent on making it impossible for him to get oxygen. Techno closed his eyes against the blurriness of his vision to concentrate on inhaling slower instead. "M'fine." He could feel the phlegm in his throat.

Niki was pulling herself onto the beach a little, trying to get a closer look at him. "Are you sick?"

"No." Getting up so fast was a bad idea. His head spun and he felt incredibly shaky. Techno ignored it. "No, I'm not. It's fine. I think I'll just head home now."

He started walking away quickly. The afternoon sun felt unbearable suddenly, scorching. Or maybe that was the beginning of a fever.

Niki called after him to wait but confined to the water as she was, it wasn't like she could do anything to stop him. Technoblade walked until he crested the hill, already seeing the shape of the other buildings in the distance. He made it halfway through the grass field and then he felt too drained to continue. Deciding to sit down for a bit, he lay back and closed his eyes.

"Do you think he's dead?"

"I dunno, we should poke him with a stick to find out."

Techno groaned at the sound of loud voices, ringing painfully around his aching head. He cracked his eyes open – not sure when he had even fallen asleep - and tried to blink the three faces hovering above him into focus.

"Oh, I think he's alive. Kind of." That was Ranboo.

"We could still poke him, just to make sure." Tommy.

Which meant the third person had to be Tubbo.

Techno pushed up on his elbows to get into a seated position, hating how difficult it was. His limbs were weak, as if they were made of jelly or some shit. The light fever had escalated into him feeling like his entire body was on fire.

This was not good.

"-chno? Hey, anybody home?" Tubbo was talking to him, waving one hand in front of his face. If his frown was any indication, Techno had been spacing out for a while.

"Hm?" he asked.

"I think there's something wrong with him," Tubbo said to the others.

"I'm fine." Techno tried standing up but fell back onto his ass a moment later when dizziness plowed into him with the force of a boulder. Tommy snorted.

"Yeah, we can tell." He reached out but pulled his hand back as soon as it came into contact with Techno's skin. "Fuck you're almost the same temperature as Jack Manifold. Pretty sure humans aren't supposed to run that hot."

"I'll get Phil," Ranboo offered, teleporting before Techno had a chance to object.

He covered his face with his hands and sighed. This was going to be a thing now and that happened to be the exact opposite of what Technoblade wanted it to be. He just wanted to go home and sleep this off.

"You're not..." Tubbo broke through his thoughts. The boy hesitated, wings vibrating a bit with nervous energy. "You're not like... actually dying are you?"

Techno tried to answer but was interrupted by another coughing fit first. When he was done Tubbo looked even more anxious than before. "Probably not. It's just a cold."

It was definitely not a simple cold. Pneumonia, more likely.

"Oh good."

Techno agreed. Not dying would probably be good, even if he currently felt like death warmed over.

Philza took him to the pub, much to Technoblade's horror.

All his protests and insistence he'd be fine if he was just taken to his house were brushed off easily, especially when Phil took flight with Techno barely able to keep from falling off his back when dark spots took over his vision. If it weren't for Phil's supporting hands keeping him steady he's probably have fallen off.

Normally Techno didn't dislike flying with Phil – despite the other always making some quip about how little Techno weighed for his height. But this time the vertigo was horrible and made him want to puke. Maybe it was fortunate he had skipped breakfast this morning.

They landed on the wooden porch softly, Phil keeping Techno's arm around his shoulder as he put him down to make sure he wouldn't collapse. Techno wasn't about to admit he probably needed that, though he muttered a quick thanks under his breath, which was starting to get more wheezing by the minute. There wasn't an inch of his body that didn't ache.

There were a few beds in the backrooms of the pub, sometimes used for newcomers to temporarily reside. Techno found himself dumped into one, not really caring where Phil went when he left the room. Not when the sheets were so blessedly cool and comfortable. He could have probably fallen back asleep soon if Phil hadn't returned almost instantly.

"I checked with Sneeg, he said this should help a little." Phil sat down on the bed, holding up a cup with the nastiest-looking brown tea inside it Technoblade ever did see. "I'm sorry we don't have any real potions to give you, but he's closest to you in physiology, so I'm hoping this will be enough. We don't exactly have a lot of experience with human illness."

"Did you ask him if it was poisonous?" Techno asked, eyeing the steaming liquid.

"Don't be dramatic." Phil handed him the cup. Techno sighed and downed the herbal tea in one go, suppressing his gag reflex. Medicinal and earthy, it somehow tasted worse than it looked. He didn't think that was possible.

"Great, can I go home now?"

Phil shook his head as he got up again, taking the cup from him. "You're not going anywhere until your fever breaks. You think I flew you all the way up here for fun?"

"Possibly."

Rolling his eyes as he leaves the room, Phil once again came back only a moment later. This time he was holding a bowl of what Techno could only presume was water going by the cloth that was soaking in it. Phil gestured for him to lie down properly and this time Techno obeyed without complaint.

"I think it's best if you stay here for a while," he said while folding the cloth and putting it on Techno's forehead. The coldness of it did feel nice against his pounding headache. "The pub is the best place for us to take turns keeping an eye on you."

"I don't need you guys to keep an eye on me, though. I'm not a child."

"No, you're just a stubborn asshole with pneumonia." Phil drew back a bit, smile faltering. "And also the only human currently living in the commune. We don't have the needed supplies to treat you should this get worse, so I'd rather not take the risk."

And while he did a fair job hiding it, it was undeniably clear Phil was worried.

"Fine, I'll stay." Techno made an effort of showing how annoyed he was by huffing and pulling the blankets over himself. "But can you at least get me a book or something? Won't help much keeping me here if I'll be bored to death."

Phil laughed – light and teasing. Techno liked that a lot more than he did the worry.

"I'll see what I can do."

He spent a solid week in bed.

Much to Phil's relief, Techno's sickness did not get worse. But without proper medicine, it didn't improve as quickly as they would have liked either. He had to get better the old-fashioned way: waiting for his body to fight off the infection on its own.

Most of his time was spent sleeping. Whenever he woke up somebody else was at his bedside, to make sure he could eat and drink. Phil hadn't been kidding when he said they'd take turns. It was almost comforting to know there was always someone watching over him while he slept, though Techno didn't feel the need to say that out loud.

After that first week, he was recovered enough to at least limp out of his room and around the pub. He was too weak to attempt the ladder and any sudden moves were still likely to throw him into a coughing fit that could last several minutes. But he could sit at one of the tables and talk to Niki when she visited.

Or to the others, who all seemed to be coming by a lot more often than was usual.

Wilbur unveiled his plans and talked Techno's ear off about what he was working on. Fundy came all the way to the pub to try and sell him stolen trinkets. Ranboo was always coming around with some new book for him to read, asking him if he liked his previous recommendation.

(None of them visited as often as Tommy though, who always complained about having to be there while fluffing up his wings, yet always stuck around the longest even when Techno told him he'd be fine on his own.)

And with them around, Techno realized that despite being the only human, he had never felt less alone.

[teacup-crow]

Bittersweet

Here’s my entry for Zombies, Make! round 1, 08/08/20. Shout out to @crownleysand @puptart! This is based on prompt 1, a picture of pancakes, and a tiny bit on prompt 3, Bitter and the Sweetness by The Ready Set.

I couldn’t decide on a tone for this fic so it’s kind of melancholy and also fluffy at the same time??? Writing stuff in 90 minutes is HARD!

Spoilers up to S2M44, probably set some time before the start of season 3. Gentle 5am. 

Summary: Sam, Five and Paula try and celebrate Shrove Tuesday, despite the circumstances and the fact that none of them are sure how to.

You wouldn’t know it, but the kitchens at Abel supposedly had a rota. There were clearly defined roles and times for cooking and dishwashing, splitting work fairly across the township. Janine had spent an entire afternoon colour-coding it. It was even pinned to the bulletin board.

Nobody adhered to it anymore, to her eternal annoyance.

It wasn’t for lack of trying to keep things together, but having to constantly scratch names off the list had got harrowing in recent weeks. Things got done, eventually, and it was easier to suit dietary requirements with most people cooking for themselves, meaning the kitchen was almost always free. Still, there was a strict system for taking items from the pantry. Supposedly on guard duty, Pat was slumped and sleeping on the stool outside the storehouse door as Five crept inside.

Last Shrove Tuesday, of course, things had been different.

Sara and Simon had been there for starters, keeping track of the calendar, her reminding him to give something up for Lent, him rolling his eyes and saying surely having to give up the entire world as we used to know it was enough of a sacrifice, ending with a puff of flour and annoyance as she shooed him out from under her feet. Last year, Janine had begrudgingly thrown her hands in the air and agreed that, as it was for religious and cultural purposes, she supposed the supply of eggs and flour and milk could be repurposed. Someone had found a semi crushed can of golden syrup, Sam had given over a curly wurly to be melted for the cause, and they’d made so many pancakes they’d gorged until they were stuffed. The kids had loved it, stickiness all over their faces and fingers. It was probably the first time most of them had ever been completely full.

Lent is supposed to be about repenting, you know, Sara had mock admonished a bloated Simon.

Repenting? It’s about eating your body weight! He’d patted his stomach, and belched. The kids giggled. The women had sighed.

This year, Five quickly grabs the ingredients and tucks them into their backpack, before belly crawling back through the pantry, shelves of tins and bags of potatoes pushing at the netting, threatening to spill onto their skull. It won’t even be missed, they tell their guilty conscience. It’s not like Tess. This is for a good cause.

Sam and Paula are waiting in the kitchen, him with bated breath. She just looks extremely tired, sitting in one of the sinks, staring out of the window every now and again. To be reunited, and so quickly left behind, has aged her. Living in a township where nobody trusts her can’t be easy, either, but Five saw the way she held Sara’s hand as she died. Sam knew how much Maxine adored her. And for both of them, that was enough for their friendship and gratitude.

“We never really did pancakes at home, you know,” Sam says cheerfully, measuring out some flour as Five breaks the eggs. “School were very big on it, though. I mean, in China there’s Spring Festival, which I suppose has similarities to Easter in a lot of ways… Five, Paula, have you ever had mooncake?”

Five shakes their head and shrugs. Paula doesn’t respond.

“Oh man, you’re missing OUT. Oh. I just remembered I’ll probably never have mooncake again. I mean, maybe we can figure out how to make it? I don’t really remember the ingredients, but…”

He chatters away as they stir the mixture and heat the stove (which for once, decides to work first time) and send Five on a dramatic quest to find a non-scratched frying pan. The first batter burns black to the pan when the two of them get distracted in conversation, Five’s hands swimming through the air at a pace only he can keep up with. The second falls on the floor in a valiant attempt to flip it.

“Sara made this look really easy, didn’t she.”

“She used to make them for her boys,” Five signs, and swallows. The fun of the afternoon suddenly sticks a little in their throat.

“Yeah. That’s why I wanted… I just wanted to keep today alive. For both of them, really.”

Paula stands, and wordlessly takes the pan, scraping out the mess and methodically starting again, turning the heat down. She makes three perfect circles, and Five slathers them with squandered butter.

“I didn’t think you did pancake day?”

“I don’t, but I can at least work a gas hob, unlike the two of you.” It’s the first time she’s cracked a bit of a smile since Maxine disappeared as she watches their delight biting into them. “You two just wait for Passover. Then you’ll know about cooking.” Then, remembering, looks at her hands again. “Except I can’t risk going near a knife.”

“Don’t worry, Five and I can be your sous chefs!”

“Yeah, that definitely won’t end badly,” Five rolls their eyes so hard even Paula gets the gist, and chuckles.

“What else do you do on Shrove Tuesday?” she asks.

“I’m pretty sure Phil was saying there’s a race?” Five scrawls in their notepad. “I have no idea whether that’s a real thing or a New Canton thing.”

Sam, running water for the dishes, turns and splashes them. “You also thought cheese rolling was just a New Canton thing.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t know your weird English town things!”

“Excuse me, cheese rolling is a legitimate event. Anyway, you could beat every single one of those New Canton runners in a straight up race, hands down.”

“I don’t know, Fifty-three is fast…”

“You’re faster. Hands. Down.”

Five grins up at him with a megawatt smile. He smiles back, reaching out to daub their nose with soap suds -

Pat’s crochety voice suddenly filters through the kitchen doorway. “Hey, did someone take something without signing for it?”

“Oh. So, this is where the running comes in.” Five grabs Sam’s arm, who grabs Paula’s, and the three of them burst out of the kitchen and charge towards the exit before the old man has time to turn and see them.

***

“Are you two,” Paula heaves for breath on the other side of the township. “Are you two always this childish? ”

Sam sputters as Five signs, “I prefer to call it young at heart?”

All she can think of is when her and Maxine were that way, rose tinted smiles, treating the world like it was still brand new despite everything and everyone being against them. I miss that.

Five sees her face, and signs slowly, mouthing the words to let her lipread. “We’ll get her back, Paula, wait and see. She needs to taste pancakes that good.”

“And in the meantime, you’re now officially in someone’s bad books for doing something pointlessly stupid.” Sam smiles. “Welcome to Abel.”

[danfanciesphil]

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

*Warning: This chapter has a mild reference to an eating disorder. Nothing graphic, and nothing more than a mention of past issues with it. But if you are easily triggered, maybe avoid this chapter.*

Three hours later, Kaspar is departing after a quick check around the hotel to see if anything needs repairing - “Little Dan, your handyman skills are excellent! You wound up Mona’s big ugly clock, and fixed all her trinkets! I am impressed!” - and then loading the cable car with around twenty large bags from the outside bins, which he does once a month.

“I am in for a smelly ride!” he shouts cheerily as he squeezes into the cable car amongst the bags, and waves to Louise and Dan as if he’s a child on a merry-go-round waving to his mum and dad. “See you soon, friends! Please do tell lovely Mona I think of her constantly, and send kisses upon kisses!”

Louise leads Dan back upstairs then, sits him down in a chair in the mezzanine, and brings him a freshly baked cupcake. He blinks down at the treat once it’s placed in front of him, pleased but bewildered.

“What’s this for?” He picks up the cupcake anyway, marvelling at the swirled peak of blue frosting. His mouth waters as he peels off the paper case.

“Well, I was hoping to get a smile out of you,” Louise says, pulling a chair around to sit beside him. She rests her chin in her hand on the table, and looks at him with obvious concern. “But perhaps I’m dreaming too big.”

Dan sinks his teeth into the cupcake. It tastes like sweet relief. “Unfghh,” he says, eyes falling shut. “Sensational.”

When his eyes reopen, it’s to Louise’s pleased smile, but her worry lines peek through, betraying her. “Was it that bad?” she asks.

“Meeting Nikolai?” Dan asks, and wrinkles his nose, contemplating the question. “Meh. I’m used to dealing with snobby wankers at this point. Though he makes Phil seem like a peach.”

“No, not that,” Louise says. “Obviously he’s a Royal pain. Could you tell he doesn’t remember my name? He learns it once and makes a big show out of using it, but after that you’re less than dirt to him, though he tries not to let it show.”

“Dick,” Dan says firmly, then takes another bite of fluffy, crumbly goodness.

“But I meant the weekend, Dan,” Louise says, apparently not willing to let this drop. “I knew you could handle it, but I did worry. What with all the... friction between you and Mr Novokoric.” She pauses, eyebrow arched, perhaps to give Dan a chance to jump in, which he doesn’t, instead opting to finish off the cake. “Did something happen? Another argument?”

At her first question, Dan almost chokes, but is quickly placated by her second. He thinks about pretending that nothing whatsoever occurred, that they barely glanced at each other in three whole days, but decides quickly that it would be far less believable that things went totally smoothly.

He shrugs one shoulder, trying to exude nonchalance, then licks his fingers of crumbs. “Some minor disagreements. He called me bony.”

Best way to disguise a lie is to conceal it in truth. That’s what Dan’s always found, anyway. The admission makes Louise laugh, and mercifully she seems to relax. “Struck a nerve, did he?”

“I have a perfectly normal amount of bones, thanks very much.”

She titters again, then eyes him curiously. “Anything else? You were alone up here for three days together. I half expected to walk in on a crime scene.”

Dan can feel the traitorous blush creeping into his cheeks, and he shrugs again, trying to think of something that will appease her. Perhaps he should give her a small nugget of the real story. The shock of it might be enough all on its own to get her to ease off. 

“We, uh, went skiing,” Dan tries. “Briefly.”

She balks at once, lipsticked mouth falling wide. “You what?!”

Okay, perhaps that nugget wasn’t the best one to choose. Dan winces at her obvious flare of anger. “I know it’s against the rules, but Phil’s super experienced. And anyway he practically dragged me out the door!”

“Do you even have skis?”

Dan hesitates, biting his lip. No point trying to backtrack now. “Phil lent me his new ones.”

A weighted blanket falls over the conversation then. It feels like Louise is scrutinising him, for some reason he can’t put his finger on. As if he’s accidentally revealed that he has gills beneath his shirt collar, and she’s spotted them peeking out.

“Did he now,” Louise murmurs. It doesn’t seem to be a question.

In the hopes of lifting the quilt of this weird new atmosphere, Dan decides a change of subject is in order. “Anyway, enough about me and dick-brain. How was it with Pearl?”

Despite her obvious reservations, Louise’s smile breaks through upon hearing her daughter’s name. Relieved to be off the hook for now, Dan listens avidly to Louise as she gushes about her little girl, about how she’s grown, about her predictable but adorable three-year-old interests - Frozen, My Little Pony, Peppa Pig, etc - and sits patiently smiling at photo after photo of the blonde toddler, beaming her gap teeth at the camera, ribbons decorating the wavy locks she inherited from her mother.

It starts getting dark eventually, he and Louise still talking about nothing much at all. It’s so pleasant, just sitting with her and laughing, bantering about life, sipping coffee and eating cupcakes, that Dan doesn’t even realise he’s stalling until Louise points out how long they’ve been doing just that. Reluctantly, Dan starts to extricate himself from the conversation, mind wandering to all the tasks he needs to accomplish. He hasn’t swept the balcony since the storm, and the lobby could do with a mop and tidy after all the hoards of people traipsing through it today.

“Oh, by the way,” Louise says, scooping cake crumbs off the table into her hand. “I don’t know if Mona mentioned, but as we don’t get a lot of opportunities to get into Mr Nov- I mean, Phil’s room, we usually snatch any chance we get as soon as he’s gone for any length of time.”

Dan sends Louise a puzzled look, and she chuckles.

“To change the bed and the bins and everything. He doesn’t let us do it normally. So might be an idea to go and give it a spring clean.”

“Ugh, do I have to?” Dan asks, dreading the idea of re-entering the scene of what feels like his very recent crime.

“You should go in just to have a nose around,” Louise tells him with a reticent grin. “You’ll never believe the size of his suite.”

Dan shrugs, picturing the untidy floorplan of room eight, already moving to the stairs. “The bed takes up most of it.”

He’s already up the second flight of stairs before he realises he’s probably let slip a little too much.

*

After three trips up and down the three flights of stairs, carrying dirty mugs, sheets, towels, and rubbish, Dan finally gets Phil’s room to a point where he can begin rebuilding. Phil Novokoric has the only King-sized bed in the entire hotel, so there are just two sets of bedding big enough to fit. After half an hour of searching, Dan is still unable to locate the second set, so he gives up, resigning himself to waiting until the sheets currently in the wash are clean and dry.

Knelt in Phil’s ensuite bathroom, scrubbing the glass pane of the shower, Dan is not feeling particularly warm towards the man. The bathroom isn’t dirty exactly, but it’s clear that it’s been a while since the sinks and bath have been properly scrubbed and bleached. By the time he’s done, he’s too exhausted to think about re-dressing the bed or lining the wastepaper bins. Instead, he goes down to Louise, wrung out and pissed off, to complain and beg her for snacks.

“I don’t know where you put them all,” Louise says as she hands Dan another cupcake - his third. “Phil’s right, you’re all bones.”

Dan shoots her a glare, but given that he has blue frosting smeared across his mouth, he doubts it’s particularly menacing. “He’s one to talk, he never eats anything. I practically had to force soup and pizza down his throat.”

She’s quiet for a minute, folding tea towels. “He ate soup and pizza?”

“Only after I yelled at him.”

Her mouth quirks. “What did you say?”

“Something like…” Dan tilts his head, trying to remember. The events of last night somewhat obliterated the rest of the day from his memory. “‘Starving yourself isn’t cute or impressive and I won’t be fired for your valiant attempt at martyrdom.’ Roughly.”

Louise stops folding, then leans against the counter. “And that worked?”

There’s something amiss in her tone. “Apparently. Why?”

She catches a strand of blonde curl in her fingers and twirls it. “I don’t know the extent of it, but I understand he has a tricky relationship with food. His brother, who used to be his PA, told me that once.”

Guilt lashes through Dan like he’s been whipped. “Oh. Shit, wow. I didn’t know.”

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it once was, judging from what Martyn told me,” Louise says with a shrug. “He only said something to me so that I wouldn’t push him to eat, or say the wrong thing. If you ask me, it was probably a sort of rebellion on Phil’s part, to do with all that awful Royalty training he had to go through. Can’t imagine the sorts of things they put him through.” She grimaces, and Dan replays some of the conversation he had with Phil last night, about nose jobs and personality bleaching. “You know, he told me once that they made him do something called ‘kidnap situation training’,” Louise says, clearly not noticing the anvil of guilt Dan’s struggling not to be crushed under. “They stage a kidnapping when he least expects it, take him to an unknown location and he has to get out of it using self-defense and mediation. And they use live ammunition to simulate reality. I mean, obviously they’re experts in avoiding actually shooting him, but can you imagine? It must be terrifying. And he has no choice. He’s forced to do undergo these crazy exercises because he married Nikolai so fast. He probably had no idea what he was signing up for, the poor kid.”

The impossible weight of the anvil buckles Dan’s knees. He feels himself crumble under its mass, slowly, and he has to discreetly grip the lip of the worktop to stop himself from slipping to the ground. Twenty-one, Phil had said. That’s how old he was when he was swept off his feet by a charlatan promising a life of love and luxury, and consequently forced through a complete physical and personal re-design, then locked away up a mountain. Is it any wonder he’s so moody, so snippy, so sad? And along comes Dan, griping and pestering him at every turn, telling him off for things he can’t help, for things he’s been traumatised by.

“I should…” Dan mutters, pushing away from the counter, only to wobble on unsteady legs. “I should get on. Lots to do still.”

“Are you alright?” Louise asks, slipping effortlessly into concerned-mother-mode. She lifts a hand to his forehead, and he shrinks away. “You’re all pale suddenly.”

“I’m fine,” Dan tells her, managing a tight smile. He walks briskly to the door. “Just… got a load to do before, um, before Mona gets back.”

“She won’t be back today,” Louise says, frowning.

Dan shrugs, already at the kitchen door. “Still. Best to prepare. See you later.”

“He’s alright, you know Dan.” Her voice is soft, careful. It makes him pause, halfway through the door. “He made a bad choice, I’d say, but he’s not completely without a brain.” 

“A dick-brain,” Dan says half-heartedly, though he still feels wretched. 

“Better than nothing,” Louise says. 

Dan doesn’t know how to reply, so he nods, swallowing something acrid and bitter, then pushes out of the kitchen. 

*

An unfamilar noise splits through the silent crackle of the night, burrowing beneath the thin skin of Dan’s light slumber, and waking him. His eyes are crusted and filmy with dried tears as he wrenches them open, and he scrubs a hand over them, sitting up. There is only one thought clear enough to articulate in the gloop of his viscous mind: why am I awake?  

Blearily, he turns to the window, or the place he knows the window to be, given that it’s dark and his eyes have yet to adjust. Nothing seems out of place as far as he can tell. No ghostly movements in the shadows, or unusual shapes that might be demons lurking, ready to pounce. Of course, these things are impossible anyway, but Dan’s rational brain doesn’t like to be disturbed during the nighttime hours. He listens for a good minute or two, ears straining against the thick blanketing silence; faintly, he thinks he can make out muffled movement from downstairs.

He sighs, thinking of Louise scuffling about, trying not to make too much noise, and reaches blindly for his phone. It’s two in the morning. Given that Louise often tells Dan she would rather watch her own legs be chewed off by ravenous wolves than disturb her slumber for anything less than an emergency, he thinks he’d better go and see what’s stirred her. As he peels back the duvet and drops his feet to the carpet, trepidation begins settling around him like a cloak. The more he wakes up, the more images his paranoid brain provides of possible situations happening below: Louise, legless and bleeding, at the mercy of an actual wolf. Some sort of mountain-dwelling-specialist burglar, currently hauling the TV down the floating stairs. A poltergeist, smashing coffee cups and tugging Louise’s curls. He’s barefoot, but it’s not cold in the over-heated hotel, so he pads out of the room and begins making his way down the stairs, wishing he’d thought to grab some kind of weapon on his way.

The shadows paint the wooden walls with hunched, crouching ghouls, warping the layout of the familiar building until Dan is disoriented enough that he has to pause on the lower landing and re-evaluate where he’s headed. Eventually he makes it to the mezzanine, and the moonlight streaming through the balcony windows illuminates things a little better. Dan looks around, thinking idly that he’s likely to find Louise in the kitchen, if anywhere. He starts towards the door, and stops suddenly, heart lurching into his throat as he catches sight of a shape curled in one of the beanbag chairs, large and too bulky to be a stray blanket.

As his eyes adjust, he’s sure he can make out the form of an actual body, and has to swallow a scream of terror. Luckily, as he’s spent the past few days staring at or thinking about a certain sweep of jet black hair, the specific hue of pale skin and big, long-fingered hands, he recognises the blob in under a second. He has to blink a few times to be sure he’s not hallucinating.

“Phil?” he asks once he’s relatively certain this is not a mirage.

Eyes flick open, and that brilliant blue shines out, caught in the wash of moonlight. “Dan.” His voice is barely a croak. He moves sluggishly into a more upright position, as if his limbs are weighted, and presses his palms to his eyes. “Ugh. Di’n’t wanna wake you up.”

Ignoring the urge to unpack that statement for now, Dan decides to tackle a more pressing confusion. “What are you doing here? How are you here?”

“Plane,” Phil says vaguely, floating a hand in the air above his head, as if Dan needs a visual aid.

“You’re supposed to be in Milan,” Dan says, utterly bewildered. 

As his eyes adjust, he can see Phil is in a suit and tie, somewhat creased now, but still obviously expensive and posh. He doesn’t appear to be wearing a coat, which is concerning. Had he walked from wherever the plane landed to the hotel without one? And even then, how he got inside is a mystery. It occurs to Dan that he’s pretty sure he didn’t remember to bolt the front door, which answers that he supposes, but the rest is still completely up in the air. 

“Yeah,” Phil sighs, shoulders slumping, “couldn’t bear to be parted from you, I guess.”

Despite the typical sarcastic response, there’s something off about his words; they’re all bumping together, the consonants jostling for position. It occurs to Dan that Phil’s probably drunk, as he’s been at some fancy event, and he doubts the snobs that put those together skimp on the champagne. Further interrogations can wait until he’s sober enough to speak some sense. It’s obvious that Phil is not capable of looking after himself right now, so Dan needs to get this man into bed. He contemplates how best to do this, chewing his thumbnail.

“I stripped your bed earlier,” Dan tells him in a sigh. “Your room’s not ready for you.”

“S’fine,” Phil says, toeing off his loafers and leaning back into the beanbag. “I’ll sleep here.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a prat. Just wait here a sec while I get the bedding.”

He descends into the dark lobby, shivering from something that doesn’t feel like cold, then ducks into the tiny laundry room to retrieve the sheets he’d washed and dried earlier. He folds it all up diligently - though not very neatly - and puts it all into a basket to bring back upstairs. As he passes through the mezzanine lounge, he inclines his head as a signal for Phil to follow him up to the top floor.

Dan walks slowly on account of his weak ankle and the dark, but he can hear Phil’s plodding, unsure footsteps behind him, careless and clumsy. Dan wonders how fast the other man’s mind is spinning, and wishes he had another set of hands to help keep him steady.

“Not far now,” Dan reminds him in a low voice, because they’re approaching the floor where Louise sleeps. “One more set of stairs.”

“Thank God you’re here, I almost forgot,” Phil mutters, though his words are so slurred that the contemptuous remark loses its potency.

In a way, it’s almost soothing to know that Phil is still lucid enough to deride him. They reach the top floor eventually, Dan’s arms aching and his ankle throbbing. He’d left Phil’s door unlocked earlier, so he pushes it open now and heads straight for the bed. Phil ambles in afterwards, moving to switch on a lamp on the bedside, which offers some yellow light that glosses the moonlight pouring in through the huge windows.

Dan sets to work immediately, pulling off the pillows and duvet in order to cover the mattress with a clean sheet. Given the size of the bed, this is no easy task, and the corners spring off twice in his haste. To his surprise, Phil begins attempting to help, moving sluggishly, but managing to hold the corners in position.

They work together silently, dressing the pillows and even stuffing the duvet into its cover. By the time it’s done, Dan’s about ready to drop, but he can feel the weight of responsibility on him right now, along with that anvil of guilt Louise heaved on his back earlier. It’s not something he can just shrug off, so despite the fact his shift doesn’t technically start for a few hours, and Phil is supposedly not his problem yet, Dan finds himself going to Phil’s small kitchenette area and finding a glass. It looks a bit smeary, but otherwise fine, so he takes it into the bathroom, rinses it out and fills it, then brings it out to Phil, who is now sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forwards, face in his hands. He still doesn’t look up to giving the full explanation Dan wants to drag out of him, so it will just have to wait until tomorrow. Not that he’ll be any more forthcoming then - he certainly doesn’t owe Dan any explanations if he doesn’t want to share. 

Given that there’s no point in attempting to pry answers out of him at the moment, Dan places the glass on Phil’s bedside table and studies the man in front of him, deciding how best to approach the task of getting him into bed. Probably best to start with removing his uncomfortable outer layers, Dan decides, and reaches for Phil’s suit jacket, which he then begins shoving awkwardly down his arms. As he works the material over Phil’s biceps, Dan vaguely notes Phil’s head lifting, blue eyes squinting at him curiously. 

After a moment or two, Phil asks, “um, what are you doing?”

“As fun as it would be to watch you attempt to struggle out of your clothes in your inebriated state, it’ll be a lot quicker if I help,” Dan replies, managing to pull the garment off him.

He turns to fold the jacket carefully over a chair, then spins around to find Phil fighting a smile. Dan ignores it, reaching for Phil’s shirt buttons, some of which are already undone. He works efficiently, keeping his mind focused resolutely on the action of slipping the round discs of plastic through their respective holes, and not anything about the soft, pale skin beneath slowly revealing itself.

“Dan?”

Dan tuts, wishing he’d just shut up and be helped without argument. “What?”

“I’m not drunk,” Phil says.

Dan’s fingers still. Phil’s shirt is almost entirely open, revealing the length of Phil’s lean torso in a long, deep ‘V’. “Yes you are,” Dan says stubbornly.

Phil shakes his head. “Not even slightly.” 

“But... you were at that event,” Dan tries, though his stomach is squeezing, and he can already feel the blush creeping into his face. 

Belatedly, Dan realises then that he’s got one knee on the mattress beside Phil’s left thigh, and the other nestled between Phil’s legs, almost pushing into his crotch. He’s essentially in Phil’s lap, methodically undressing him. For some reason, this incriminating position doesn’t seem to be anything other than mildly amusing to Phil. 

“Yeah, well after about a minute of watching Nikolai schmooze a bunch of CEO’s and their wives, I knew I had to make a break for it at the first opportunity.” He shrugs; one of his hands rests absent-mindedly on Dan’s knee, like he’s not even aware of the action. “Can’t fly drunk, so I avoided the free schnapps.” 

“Fly drunk...” Dan tries to process this information, and fails. “You don’t mean- you flew the plane up here?” 

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches. “And here I thought I was running out of ways to impress you.” 

Dan stares into Phil’s eyes - they’re bloodshot and drooping, but the pupils are small, the irises bright and clear. He’s not lying, Dan realises. He’s stone cold sober. Too caught up in the embarrassment of having tried to undress and basically straddle a man who was totally capable, the information Phil is feeding him - that he apparently can fly planes, that he’s been trying to impress Dan of all things, that he’d escaped from Nikolai’s side to come back here at 2am - is enough to have Dan totally flummoxed. He attempts to leap backwards, to extricate himself from Phil, but Dan being who he is, trips and stumbles. 

Though sluggish and inalert, Phil somehow still manages to catch him before he lands on his ass. He tugs Dan sharply forwards, and he ends up falling front-ways instead, pushing Phil until he’s toppling backwards, both hands coming down to bracket Phil on the bed. 

“God, you’re insatiable tonight,” Phil jokes as Dan attempts to scramble off him, mortified. “Relax,” Phil laughs, though it sounds numb and hollow. “I’m not under any impression that you’re actually that unable to resist me.” 

“Sorry, fuck,” Dan says, flushing, having rolled off Phil smartish. “I’m barely awake right now, and I thought you were sloshed and-”

Phil throws him a tired laugh. “Not sloshed, no. Just exhausted. Can barely see straight.”

Dan’s heart is jackhammering, but one look at Phil, sprawled out on his fresh bedclothes, eyes half-shut, tells Dan that this is a lot more than exhaustion. He can joke that watching Nikolai hobnobbing with a load of posh gits is enough to send him running for the door, but if Dan had to guess, he’d say something happened at that party. Something bad enough to have Phil finding the nearest plane and pointing its nose straight back up the mountain he loathes being stranded at the top of. 

“Well yeah, I’d imagine,” Dan replies carefully. “Round trip to Milan and back in less than twelve hours?”

Phil doesn’t answer; Dan wonders if he’s fallen asleep. He dithers, shifting, and the mattress bounces Phil up and down.

“Don’t,” Phil mutters.

“Don’t what?”

A pause. Dan’s ears strain to hear the response. When it comes, it’s almost a whisper. “Don’t leave.”

To spare Phil the humiliation of explaining himself given his current state, Dan just nods to the otherwise empty room, and shuffles to the edge of the bed. He gets up to plump the pillows, then pulls back the duvet. He turns to prod Phil in the leg.

“Get in, then.”

When Phil immediately begins moving in accordance with Dan’s instruction, Dan tells himself it’s because he’s so tired that he’d do anything he was told. Once he’s beneath the covers, Phil shuffles around a bit until he’s shucked off his trousers, which he then pulls out in a magician-like reveal, and throws to the ground. Dan picks them up, and folds them across the chair with the jacket. They’re still warm.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dan asks as he slides in to the other side of the bed.

“No,” Phil says half into the pillow. He sounds seconds away from unconsciousness, which is promising. Then, quietly, he says, “if you’re really gagging to know, I suggest you check the news.” 

Given that Dan himself is about five years away from getting any sleep, he reaches into his pyjama pocket for his phone and opens his news app. He doesn’t even need to use the search bar. Right there, on the front page, blares the headline:

‘SIR NIKOLAI’S HUBBY THREATENS DIVORCE IN SHOCKING DISRUPTION AT CHARITY EVENT’

Dan scrolls down, already alarmed. Granted, the newspaper this particular headline belongs to could probably be best described as a tabloid, but he hasn’t the patience to look for a more reputable source of information just yet. He reads quickly, eyes darting along each line like he wants to get it over with all at once.

‘...came as a surprise to us all when Swiss bachelor Sir Nikolai Novokoric announced his marriage to Philip Lester, a Manchester-born student he’d known for less than a year. The two lovebirds married in a secret ceremony in early 2016. After a few months of being snapped canoodling at various parties and events, Sir Nikolai pulled his new man out of the spotlight, and he’s barely been seen since.

Last night at the annual European Young Person’s LGBTQ+ charity event was the first public sighting of Sir Nikolai’s husband in some time. Evidently, due to the shockingly dramatic stunt Philip pulled during his husband's speech, this absence might be the sign of trouble in paradise between the young couple.

“It’s bloody hypocritical!” Philip spat into the microphone once he’d pushed Sir Nikolai aside [see video below]. “He’s getting an award for being this charitable gay icon, but he’s exploiting his own sexuality.”

As you can see in the video, there was little chance for him to finish his impromptu rant, as he was quickly escorted off stage by security. He did however shout, as he was being pulled out of the building, that he intends to file for divorce. We’ve yet to pin down Sir Novokoric for a responding comment.’

Beneath the wall of text is a video, taken on someone’s phone by the looks of things. Dan’s thumb hovers over the play button, heart pounding. Does he really want to see this?

“Go ahead,” Phil says from beside him, making Dan jump. He’d assumed the other man was asleep by now. “The rest of the world’ll have seen it in a few hours. Why not join them.”

Dan hesitates for less than two seconds, then locks his phone, placing it on the bedside table. “I don’t go in for that tabloid bollocks.”

There’s a moment where Dan thinks Phil might smile, but he just rolls over again, fringe falling over his face. “I was dumb,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Somebody needed to,” Dan replies sniffily, thinking of Sir Nikolai’s irritating winks. “I mean, if you’re right about the exploitation,” Dan clarifies quickly. There’s no use telling Phil that he has a personal dislike for his husband. “That should be brought to people’s attention, if it’s true.”

“Well of course he’s exploiting himself,” Phil says. “And me. And anyone who identifies as gay or bi. He’s pretending he’s the Ellen Degeneres of the Swiss Royal family, happily married to his true love, when he’s actually in the Bahamas, shagging anything that moves - male or female.”

“Well, if it’s male or female-”

“Don’t,” Phil cuts in, tartly. He sits up, pushing a hand into his hair. “Are you really gonna argue, to me, that just because he’s bi, and he’s up front about it in the media, that he still deserves to be heralded as some admirable icon for the LGBT community? Why is it that just because he fancies blokes as well as girls, everyone can look past the fact he’s married? Don’t the public give a shit about what I might feel? It’s all so creepy, the way everyone pretends he’s some Saint, looking the other way when he’s caught snogging models on beaches. He’s a sociopath if you ask me. He doesn’t fuck people based on real attraction like everyone else - for him it’s all about who can get him the most publicity. Who would look best next to him in the paparazzi photos, or in the leaked sex tape.”

Dan is only able to glean bits and pieces from Phil’s rant at a time; the slew of information is startling, as is the sheer loathing coating each sentence. One thing Dan does catch though, are those last two words. “...you and Nikolai have a sex tape?”

Phil throws him a withering look, but there’s a tinge of amusement tucked into its far corner. “Not the point, Dan.”

“Sorry.” Dan sighs, sinking back into the pillows, mind spinning as it attempts to process everything. Dan doesn’t know the other side of it, has never paid attention to the public’s fawning over Nikolai, so perhaps he’s biased, but everything Phil is saying makes a worrying amount of sense. “Seems like he’s an absolute bellend,” Dan says, succinctly summarising his own responding feelings. He can hear Phil snort with laughter, and it’s nice. “Way I see it,” Dan continues, slowly allowing his words to shape around his developing stance on the matter. “He shows up here after months of nearly no communication, expecting you to play along with his plans, go right back to being the perfect little house-husband. If you ask me, it’s his own fault. Anyone in your position would have been fuming, ready to explode at the drop of a hat.”

“Yeah, but other people would probably have exploded in private,” Phil sighs, picking at the duvet cover. “You don’t get it. I’ve been in this world for a while now. I should’ve known better than to blow my lid on a damn stage like that, in front of all the press. Now the world will be on Nik’s side, and I’ll be the trashy scumbag that Kanye’d his acceptance speech and broke up with him in front of a live audience.”

Dan is silent, contemplating this. Instinctively, he reaches out and places a hand over where he thinks Phil’s knee is. Phil stares at the hand, perplexed, then turns to look Dan in the eye.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Phil asks, eyes round. 

The bits of Dan that still reverberate with hurt from all his mean comments, and a disgust for the bourgeoise in general, tell him to say yes. Dan thinks he could say yes, if he were crueller, if he didn’t think he’d throw up after watching the glacier-blue eyes in front of him fill with tears. It’s perfectly reasonable to argue that Phil’s been an idiot since the day he put on that bloody ring. 

But it’s too late. The pieces of Dan that started, days ago, to warm to Phil, to understand him, to sympathise, now form the majority of Dan’s being. He wonders if it was the same way for Phil, back in the first weeks of knowing Nikolai, as that charming grin and laser-focus on just him began chipping away at his resolve. Dan hasn’t much experience in love, but he’s beginning to suspect that even with every scrap of common sense you have at your disposal, pretty much anyone is in danger of being a complete idiot.

“No,” Dan says truthfully. He remembers Louise’s words from earlier. He made a bad choice, I’d say, but he’s not completely without a brain. She’s a lot wiser than she gets credit for. “A dick-brain, sure. But you’re not stupid.”

“I feel stupid right now.”

Dan lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, searching for a bright side of this gloomy looking cloud above Phil’s head. “At least he can’t pretend that everything’s fine between you now,” Dan tries. “You announced to the whole world that you’re unhappy. Puts him in an awkward position if he tries to just brush it under the rug.”

Phil cocks his head, looking at Dan as if he’s never seen him before. “I didn’t think about that.” He turns away slowly, eyes unfocused as he settles back down into the pillows. “Maybe there’s a way out.”

“Get some sleep,” Dan advises, noting the exhaustion in Phil’s voice. “It’ll all seem better in the morning.”

“Mmm,” Phil says, eyes already closed. 

“Can’t believe you Kanye’d him,” Dan marvels, trying to picture it. He notes the twitch of Phil’s mouth, and laughs softly. “And you weren’t even drunk.” 

“They should give me a medal for not chugging a bottle of Greygoose, listening to Nik talk about morality and political change like he has any clue,” Phil says, sighing heavily. 

“How’d you resist?” Dan asks affably, hoping to send Phil into dream in a lighter mood. 

“Just kept thinking...” Phil mutters, trailing off.

“Thinking what?” 

“Thinking that if I just didn’t drink... if I could hold on and hold on...” he breathes a long sigh, mouth falling slack, and whispers, “I could fly back to you.” 

(Chapter Twelve!)

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 6 August 2018

Quick Bits:

Black Badge #1 is a wonderful start to this new series from the team behind Grass Kings. Matt Kindt, Tyler & Hilary Jenkins set up a new story featuring a troop of kids engaging in black ops operations as a pretty neat premise. The characters so far are somewhat unlikable, but that seems partially to be the point.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Bloodshot Salvation #12 closes out this series and with it Jeff Lemire’s tenure with the characters. Amidst all of the crazy government organizations, experiments, and far-flung future assassinations, this has at heart been a story about family and the lengths people will go to in order to protect their own and there’s a wonderful sense of closure at the end here. We know it won’t last as Bloodshot: Rising Spirit is coming, but it’s still nice while it lasts. Also some very nice art from Doug Braithwaite and Jordie Bellaire.

| Published by Valiant

Clankillers #2 is pretty much made by the art from Antonio Fuso and Stefano Simeone. That’s not to take away from the story of family, betrayal, and Irish mythology with Sean Lewis, which is excellent, but Fuso’s art is just so perfectly suited to this. His style reminds me a lot of early Sean Phillips and a bit of Duncan Fegredo.

| Published by AfterShock

Daredevil #606 begins the next chapter for the series and it is ridiculously good. Interspersed with a main narrative of Daredevil tackling a band robbery by Hammerhead, Charles Soule and Phil Noto build up the pieces for the next stage in taking down Kingpin, bringing back two-thirds of Daredevil’s task force from Hunt for Wolverine. They’re a weird group, but it’s obvious that Soule likes writing these characters. Also, the art from Noto is just phenomenal.

| Published by Marvel

Death or Glory #4 is just more brilliance from Rick Remender and Bengal. The art is seriously god tier. The car chase this issue alone is incredible, not to mention the tension of Glory and her charges attempting to escape the abattoir. This is just astoundingly great comics.

| Published by Image / Giant Generator

Exiles #6 takes a little bit of downtime to figure out the new direction for the team to take before immediately dumping them in a new alternate reality. The artwork from Rod Reis is absolutely gorgeous and I really like how Saladin Ahmed seems to be building the team more as a family.

| Published by Marvel

Fantastic Four #1 is a very welcome and long overdue return, but thankfully this is a great issue. Sure, the team technically isn’t back yet, but in the main feature Dan Slott, Sara Pichelli, Elisabetta D’Amico, and Marte Gracia focus on one of the core tenets of these characters: family. And when combined with a sweet and funny flashback of the Four trying to find their way home, this is a good start, with beautiful artwork. That goes also for the back-up Doom story from Slott, Simone Bianchi, and Marco Russo, that gives us a more primal Doom. One that reminds me a bit of the Doom who was trapped on the Heroes Reborn counter-Earth. After his turn as Iron Man, I don’t want to see Doom slide back into outright villainy, but what comes next remains to be seen. Overall, I loved this, and am anxious to see what’s around the corner.

| Published by Marvel

Farmhand #2 is as good as the first issue, as Rob Guillory begins to flesh out the Jenkins family and hint that more strange shenanigans are going on in the town and at the family farm. Great art from Guillory and Taylor Wells.

| Published by Image

Her Infernal Descent #4 takes a few more interesting turns as Lynn takes a walk through “heaven” and then we get the ultimate cliffhanger. This entire series so far has shown a lot of inventiveness from the entire creative team, with Lonnie Nadler, Zac Thompson, Kyle Charles, and Dee Cunniffe all delivering some impressive work. This one kind of ups that with the depiction of Circle H and the angels constructing the condos. Also, the wood of suicides with Hunter S. Thompson is brilliant.

| Published by AfterShock

Hot Lunch Special #1 is a very solid debut for this crime drama from Eliot Rahal and Jorge Fornés. Comparisons to Fargo will probably abound, due to location, but this is much more serious in tone and execution, with some very evocative art from Fornés.

| Published by AfterShock

Hunt for Wolverine: The Adamantium Agenda #4 concludes the second of these minis, where the end result is seemingly all going to be “We didn’t find Logan, but we all found the true Wolverine that resides in our hearts.” I poke fun, but these have been enjoyable, especially this one from Tom Taylor, RB Silva, Adriano di Benedetto, and Guru eFX. Nice humour throughout as Taylor shows he really gets Spider-Man, Luke Cage, and Jessica Jones, leading me to hope that somewhere down the line he gets a New Avengers title going. Also some really big revelations that should have both personal and broad implications for the X-Men.

| Published by Marvel

Maestros #7 concludes what has been a funny, irreverent take on magic and fantasy from Steve Skroce and Dave Stewart. For a series that has had some interesting setbacks for our lead, this one’s actually pretty straight-forward, even as it gives us a sympathetic flashback for Mardok’s story.

| Published by Image

Medieval Spawn & Witchblade #4 is a decent conclusion to the series. I’ve liked the story that Brian Holguin and Brian Haberlin have been telling, even as the Spawn’s backstory does indeed reveal itself a take on the Arthurian myth. I’ve really enjoyed the art from Haberlin and Geirrod Van Dyke.

| Published by Image

Nancy Drew #3 has some really nice character moments as the crew tries to put the pieces together of Pete’s mother’s murder and some shady history. The art from Jenn St-Onge and Triona Farrell is perfect for the story.

| Published by Dynamite

Oblivion Song #6 claims to be an end to a story arc, but this book doesn’t really seem to work like that, instead with each issue being a series of transitions in a larger serial narrative. Changes occur and questions abound, but there’s no definitive conclusion to anything, just more story. And it works, because what Robert Kirkman, Lorenzo de Felici, and Annalisa Leoni are creating here is very compelling.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Optimus Prime #22 begins its tie-in to the Unicron event and the march to the end of IDW’s Hasbroverse. Like pretty much all IDW crossovers, it’s woefully out of sync with the event as a whole due to lateness, but it is still entertaining. This gives some of the much-needed back story for how the pieces got to where they were in the early parts of Transformers: Unicron and fleshes out more of the political machinations going on behind the scenes. Great art from Sara Pitre-Durocher and Josh Burcham. 

| Published by IDW

Outpost Zero #2 is not really at all the direction I expected this series to take, but it’s very good. Sean McKeever, Alexandre Tefenkgi, and Jean-Francois Beaulieu have some interesting teen drama on their hands here and a nice mystery to boot.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Port of Earth #8 concludes the second arc, with some fairly frightening implications and revelations that we’ve kind of suspected since the first issue. Zack Kaplan, Andrea Mutti, and Vladimir Popov are telling a very interesting story here.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Predator: Hunters II #1 begins a second series of these new Predator Hunters from Chris Warner, capturing a similar tone and approach as the original Predator film. Nice art from Agustin Padilla and Neeraj Menon.

| Published by Dark Horse

Relay #2 spotlights the dark side of the Relay and what they’re doing to the universe. Some very interesting moral and ethical issues are raised this issue by Zac Thompson and it looks like more to come between the team. Beautiful artwork from Andy Clarke and José Villarrubia. 

| Published by AfterShock

Shadow Roads #2 is another captivating instalment of this series. I love that Cullen Bunn and Brian Hurtt are back exploring the world of the Sixth Gun and expanding on the weird aspects of that world, with some very impressive artwork from AC Zamudio and Carlos N Zamudio.

| Published by Oni Press

She Could Fly #2 is more strangeness, even as the story comes together in some very interesting ways. I absolutely love the artwork from Martín Morazzo and Miroslav Mrva.

| Published by Dark Horse / Berger Books

Transformers: Lost Light #22 is another issue to do your head in as James Roberts crashes together the threads from the past several years of More Than Meets the Eye and Lost Light. It’s fairly impressive how all of this is coming together and still maintaining the wonderful humour that is always included in the scripts.

| Published by IDW

Transformers: Unicron #3 begins fleshing out some of the Transformers mythology and tying it together with some of the expanded Hasbroverse. It’s nice to see John Barber putting some of the pieces together here even as it heralds the end. Also, this is some of the best art of Alex Milne’s career, really stepping it up a notch, beautifully coloured by Sebastian Cheng and David Garcia Cruz.

| Published by IDW

X-Men Blue #33 explores the future that Magneto was transported to in order to escape Bastion and the Mothervine mutants. Great art from Marcus To and Matt Milla as it really feels like Cullen Bunn is working towards his Magneto endgame.

| Published by Marvel

Other Highlights: Accell #13, Amazing Spider-Man #3, Amazing Spider-Man: Renew Your Vows #22, Animosity: Evolution #7, The Beauty #22, Champions #23, Charlie’s Angels #3, The Dead Hand #5, Dejah Thoris #7, Dissonance #4, Domino #5, Dungeons & Dragons: Evil at Baldur’s Gate #4, Eternal Empire #10, Invader Zim #33, Lumberjanes: A Midsummer Night’s Scheme #1, Mech Cadet Yu #11, Nancy Drew #3, Old Man Logan #45, Quicksilver: No Surrender #4, Spider-Man Annual #1, Spider-Man vs. Deadpool #37, Star Wars: Darth Vader #19, Strangers in Paradise XXV #5, TMNT: Bebop & Rocksteady Hit the Road #2, Tomb Raider: Inferno #3, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl #35, Unnatural #2, World of Tanks: Citadel #4, Xena: Warrior Princess #7

Recommended Collections: Champions - Volume 3: Champion for a Day, Outcast - Volume 6, Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt, Star Trek: Discovery - The Light of Kahless, Star Wars - Volume 8: Mutiny at Mon Cala, Thicker Than Blood, Vs. - Volume 1

d. emerson eddy is wondering why there isn’t an even larger size cup of coffee. It should also come in jugs. Mugs and jugs.

[junker-town]

Super Bowl commercials, ranked

Screenshot: Cheetos

You’ll cry, you’ll laugh, you’ll yawn.

The Super Bowl is here, which means we have the most-watched TV program of the year. With all those viewers comes an exorbitant advertising cost, up to a record $5.6 million for a 30-second ad.

Spending all that money brings with it a ton of eyeballs, and brands try to make it worth it with their most ambitious spots. This year’s Super Bowl commercials run the gamut, from tear-jerkingly sweet to face-punchingly infuriating. Here’s a look at the most memorable — good, bad, and in between.

The home runs, best of the best

Loretta (Google)

Several of the commercials on Super Bowl Sunday have an A-list cast, with our most recognized stars trying to get us to buy something. But sometimes, the most simple approach can be beautiful.

I first saw this commercial as a pre-roll ad before a different YouTube video. It was so beautifully haunting that I couldn’t bring myself to click “skip ad” once the obligatory five seconds lapsed. Each piano key strike was foreboding, but I couldn’t click away from this poor old man, simultaneously attempting to fend off memory loss and trying to remember his dead wife. A valiant fight against the ravages of time but one we are all destined to lose.

Because I use humor — or “humor” if you prefer — to cope while processing actual human emotion, the main thing going through my mind as tears streamed down my face was that Google should have titled this commercial “Get Back Loretta,” but probably didn’t want to pay exorbitant license fees for Beatles music.

The very Good Dog (WeatherTech)

This ad is tearjerking in a different, more uplifting way. This is a commercial for WeatherTech, but not really about their company at all. WeatherTech CEO David MacNeil used his 30-second spot to thank the University of Wisconsin School of Veterinary Medicine for saving his dog Scout, who suffered from cancer of the blood cell walls. The commercial promotes a WeatherTech website for donations to help the school, and if that isn’t uplifting enough just look at this sweet, beautiful dog:

Photo: WeatherTech on YouTube

Groundhog Day (Jeep)

It just feels good to see Phil Connors and Ned Ryerson again, and both look 27 years older. There was no The Irishman-style CGI de-aging here. The added weight of all those years make the dread on Connors’ (Bill Murray’s) face that much more real, when he wakes up at the beginning of the commercial. But his day becomes less hellish once he spots a new Jeep, then proceeds to steal along with Punxsutawney Phil for a joy ride.

This is only the second Super Bowl to fall on February 2, so perfect timing to resurrect the classic film. The other Groundhog Day Super Bowl was in 2014, when a defense with Richard Sherman obliterated one of the most dynamic offenses the NFL has ever seen. Hmmm.

Getting the message across

Katie Sowers (Microsoft)

This is a longer version of an ad that has been running throughout the NFL playoffs, expanded for the Super Bowl — a national introduction to Katie Sowers, the offensive assistant coach for the 49ers, and her road to coaching. Sowers is the first female coach and the first openly gay coach in Super Bowl history.

“People tell me that people aren’t ready to have a woman lead, but these guys have been learning from women their whole lives. Moms, grandmas, teachers. We have all these assumptions about what women do, and what men do,” Sowers says. “I’m not trying to be the best female coach. I’m trying to be the best coach.”

The message is as clear as it is inspirational. Solid work all around.

The Secret Kicker

This features an anonymous placekicker nailing a field goal, but once the helmet comes off to reveal it was Carli Lloyd (joined in the commercial by her USWNT teammate Crystal Dunn), the crowd is at first shocked, then applauds her successful kick. The slogan “Let’s kick inequality” is strong, and it dawned on me — of all the commercials, this has maybe the best chance of coming true. Lloyd clearly has the leg, nailing a 55-yarder during an Eagles' practice in the 2019 preseason. It’s not that farfetched that a soccer star could eventually make it in the NFL. Or maybe once Lloyd is done with soccer she can shift to basketball instead.

Make Space for Women (Olay)

This has the best tagline from any of these commercials — “When we make space for women, we make space for everyone” — and the ad features a real astronaut (Nicole Stott) among the all-female cast. The empowering commercial also touts a #MakeSpaceForWomen hashtag, with Olay donating up to $500,000 to Girls Who Code.

Bizarre, but good

Rick & Morty (Pringles)

I love the manic energy here. Though this is an ad for Pringles, it might as well be a commercial for "Rick & Morty." If the show is anything close to this chaotic, I’m in.

An SNL skit, but funnier

Sam Elliott reciting "Old Town Road" (Doritos)

The regular commercial was fine, featuring a dance-off between Lil Nas X and Sam Elliott, plus haunting mustache CGI work. But for me, the better ad is the one above.

Hearing Sam Elliott read the phone book would be a treat, but hearing him act out lyrics to Old Town Road by Lil Nas X is a delight. The way the others in the bar react to Elliott’s character makes it clear he’s a man to be respected. I can’t help but wonder if this is simply world building, creating a backstory to the character of Wade Garrett so we can finally get that Road House prequel we’ve been clamoring for for decades.

Smaht Pahk (Hyundai)

In theory, this ad should not work as well as it does. The three lead actors — Chris Evans, Rachel Dratch, and John Krasinski — are all from the area, so it adds some authenticity to their exaggerated Boston accents. The commitment to the bit is very strong (I counted 15 times the word park — or rather “pahk” — was used), and that’s what sells it for me. The only better use for a Boston accent in a commercial would have been if Chipotle bought time to apologize for child labah violations.

Plus, this kind of car commercial is a welcome reprieve from the usual type we get during football season, with folks buying giant-bow-adorned cars for their spouse.

Can’t Touch This (Cheetos popcorn)

You had me at M.C. Hammer. That could have been the entire commercial — it basically was, with the main character getting out of various tasks because of the orange Cheetos dust on his fingers — and I would have been fine. But what sold it for me was after the trust fall, the poor guy who fell to the ground, not caught by the orange-fingered culprit, expertly delivers, “Why?” I don’t know why it made me laugh, but it did.

I can’t unsee this

The Shining remake (Mountain Dew Zero Sugar)

Had Bryan Cranston retired after Malcom in the Middle he still would have been revered for playing one of the most memorable and hilarious television dads in history. But Breaking Bad will lead his obituary, and for good reason. Cranston is a wonderfully gifted actor, and his channeling Jack Nicholson in a remake of The Shining for this commercial — the slogan is “as good as the original, maybe better?” — is quite good. But I will not be able to shake this image out of my head for some time:

Screenshot: Mountain Dew on YouTube

The Doppelgänger

This isn’t a commercial at all, but rather a tweeted tease from Honda before the game. I couldn’t help but notice the Helpful Honda guy looks a hell of a lot like Brutus.

Photo: Honda on Twitter

Photo by Justin Casterline/Getty Images

Snoozefest

Typical Americans (Budweiser)

I appreciate the sarcastic irony of the ad, using footage of good deeds and various accomplishments, with bonus points for using USWNT Instagram stories from the post-World Cup celebration (but they should have found a way to work in “You’re welcome for this content, bitch!”). But still, this commercial falls flat. It’s probably the best of the boring subgroup here for at least having the decency to avoid jamming some shitty Lee Greenwood song into our ears.

Sonic the Hedgehog

This is a combination commercial and trailer for the upcoming "Sonic" movie, but is probably the most sports-relevant of the ads so far. Michael Thomas of the Saints, Christian McCaffrey of the Panthers, Olympic sprinter Allyson Felix, and NASCAR driver Kyle Busch are known for speed in their respective sports, but all sing the praises of the movie's main character, Sonic the Hedgehog. The inclusion of said athletes does nothing to save this commercial from being boring, however.

By the way, I hope there eventually is a sequel to this "Sonic" movie, just so it can have the tagline “The Sega Continues.”

Jimmy Works It Out (Michelob Ultra)

There are a ton of people who find Jimmy Fallon funny, so this is probably fine for them. This has everything a Super Bowl commercial is supposed to have: elaborate production, cameos from athletes and stars. But I can’t shake the fact that Jimmy Fallon tries too hard; the payoff just isn’t there for me. Maybe I still see him as the guy who laughed through every "SNL" sketch he was ever in.

Ostensibly this is an ad for Michelob Ultra, but it might as well be vanilla beer to match the bland Fallon.

Please, God, go away

Gabe Gabriel is my mortal enemy. He is unavoidable on Super Bowl Sunday, so stay safe out there everybody.

[jilliancares]

A Royal Pain: Chapter 7

Word Count: 4.3k

link to masterlist ; next chapter

ao3 or wattpad!

CHAPTER SEVEN:

Dan stood there, his hands uncomfortably sweaty, his legs shaking slightly underneath him, before he told himself to get a grip. If he decided to become paranoid after an incident like this then he was just as bad as his father. There were probably hundreds of that exact bottle of honey-oil in every bedroom of the castle. And, seeing as the stairwell was so close to the kitchen, wouldn't it make more sense for the oil to be cooking oil—assuming that the slippery step was on purpose? The fact that it wasn't cooking oil made it more likely to have been an accident.

Gaining surety with the more thought he put into it, Dan turned around and informed a random kitchen servant of the mess. Assured that it would be cleaned and no one else would have the chance of slipping on it, he made his way back up the stairs, careful to step over the slick one, and returned to his room.

"Prince Daniel," Bentley said, bowing his head slightly as Dan approached. He nodded in response, before remembering what his father had said—

"I've already alerted your guards to be extra wary from now on."

The thought of them being suspicious of Phil, of even suspecting him of something so horrendous, made Dan feel sick. He didn't want Phil being silently judged like that, distrusted and suspected of wrongdoing. He had to do something to remedy it.

"About what my father said," Dan started, his hand resting on the doorknob. "There's no reason to be wary of Phil. I trust him more than anybody, and I'll have your heads if you start trying to pat him down whenever he so much as tries to enter my room." There was a brief pause, during which neither Alfonzo nor Bentley said anything. "Okay?"

"In all due respect, Prince," Alfonzo began, and Dan groaned internally. Here came the speech, the constant reminder that his father's orders outweighed his. "We have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh," Dan said quietly. And because he couldn't help himself, because he couldn't quite silence that niggling worry in the back of his mind, he asked, "Has Phil left?"

"I believe he's still in there waiting for you, Your Highness," Bentley answered. Dan nodded slowly, unable to quell his relief.

Without bothering to answer, Dan stepped into his room and leaned against the door. Phil definitely couldn't have done it, seeing as he hadn't left the room, though Dan felt slightly ashamed of himself for not being able to trust in him completely, even without proof.

He pressed his ear against the door, hearing a quiet murmur on the other side.

"Is it just me or is the Prince acting a little... strange?"

"Bentley," Alfonzo admonished quietly, and they both fell silent.

Dan sighed and ventured further into his rooms, carefully peering into his own bedroom. Phil was still situated on his bed, though now he was lounging comfortably against the pillows, one of Dan's novels propped open against his knee. As Dan watched, Phil flicked the page, inhaling deeply as he slouched a bit further on the pillows.

"Phil," Dan said quietly, and Phil jerked, his head snapping up to look at Dan.

"You scared me," he said with a soft smile, and Dan felt his chest ache with something more than longing.

"Sorry," Dan apologized.

—

Dinner, to say simply, was awkward. Dan knew that his father was suspicious of Phil, and his father knew that he knew while also knowing that Dan disliked the fact that he was suspicious of Phil. The only one ignorant of this current predicament was Phil, blissfully oblivious and digging into his dinner happily.

"This roast is lovely," Phil commented, breaking the inexorable silence. Dan cleared his throat quietly, stabbing a chunk of potato with his fork.

"I'll pass on your regards to the cook," Dan's father rumbled. Dan glared at his salad as if it had personally offended him. How dare his father sit there and play nice while thinking that Phil was out to get him!

“Thank you,” Phil said. “You know, I’m quite close with the night cook, Charlotte—she makes excellent midnight snacks.” It was a valiant attempt at getting the conversation to pick up, at getting anything to fill the uncomfortable silence, but his father didn’t even try to help him out.

“Mm,” he grunted. “Well, I hope you’re not distracting her from her work.”

Dan snorted. As if Charlotte had much work other than setting the kitchen to rights and preparing long-dish meals for the next day, or perhaps organizing the food schedule ahead of time. Having a quick meal to prepare in the middle of the night was probably a highlight for her, something for her to do and to keep her from feeling so tired as to accidentally fall asleep.

“Is something funny, Daniel?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“May I inquire as to what?”

Dan sighed heavily. He didn’t like playing this game. He didn’t care to play it. He just wanted to be able to sit and enjoy a meal with his father and best friend (read: possible love-interest) without it containing this feeling of utter suffocation. Although, he could thank his father’s random suspicions for one thing: he no longer felt quite so torn up over the fact that he maybe-possibly was in love with his best friend, or that he was starting to realize that he had absolutely no interest in girls at all, which happened to explain a lot. It was like now that he had something to be properly upset about, he couldn’t waste time fretting over feelings he may or may not have. Sure, his best friend was adorable and a boy and Dan might be in love with him, but who cares? His father thought that that very same boy was trying to kill him!

“I forgot,” Dan lied blatantly. Phil was looking at him with alarm, probably wondering why he was being so short with his father. Preferably, he would just assume Dan was in some sort of mood, which, he could admit, wasn’t something unheard of. He could be a bit touchy, from time to time.

His father looked at him sternly over his goblet of wine, and Dan returned the look with boredom. As the king returned his glass to the table, a loud clank rang out through the opulent hall, one that might not have seemed so loud were there conversation filling the room as well. And how stupid was that? There were three of them in here! Usually two, seeing as Phil was only visiting. Why did they insist on dining in a room meant for many, a room that made it apparent just how alone they actually were? Did his father really not care—not care that he talked to no one besides his advisors and random nobles and his son? Not care that Dan’s only friend was another prince from a faraway land, without whom he never really bothered to talk to anyone at all?

“Daniel—”

“May I be excused?” Dan interrupted rudely. He glanced over at Phil, still wide-eyed and looking anxious, before clearing his throat. “And Phil too?”

“No,” his father said firmly. “You must finish—”

Before the words could even leave his father’s mouth, Dan was bending over his plate and shoveling food into his mouth as quickly as he could. It wasn’t prince-like in the least—was probably the least refined he’d looked (in company) in ages. And yet he didn’t care; he just wanted to get out of there, and he didn’t mind annoying his father as he did it.

“Done,” Dan proclaimed through a mouthful of half-chewed food, after which he (with difficulty) flushed it down with water.

His father glowered and opened his mouth to reply, probably a negative, and so Dan reached out and pushed Phil’s plate off the table, smiling slightly when it shattered on the ground, his food flying every which way. Phil paled, glancing from Dan to the spot that his food had been situated.

“Phil’s finished too,” he said. “Really, we have tons of plans for tonight, so if we could graciously be excused…”

“You might as well leave, since you insist on acting like a child,” his father conveyed, and Dan stood with a mocking bow, before jerking his head at Phil, who followed obediently.

“Er—thank you for the meal,” Phil said, rushed, before complying with Dan’s insistent hand on his wrist and allowing himself to be dragged from the room.

Once well away from the dining hall, Dan stopped walking quite so quickly, stopped stomping quite so loudly. He slowed down and let his angered breathing return to normal, at which point he looked at Phil.

“I can get you more food,” he said quietly.

“It’s okay, I was finished anyway.”

Dan rolled his eyes, turning down the hallway that would lead them towards the kitchens. “You haven’t angered me, don’t worry,” he said easily. “Wasn’t it the roast you liked?”

Once in the kitchen, Dan snatched a plate from a drying rack and maneuvered through the servants with ease, as if he owned the place (which, technically, he did). He squeezed his way through the cooks, not bothering to let them take the plate from him even as they offered, and served Phil some more food, taking the serving utensils directly out of the servants’ hands when he needed to.

“Is this enough?” he called, holding up the plate so Phil could see, still standing anxiously by the door.

“More than enough,” he answered, looking embarrassed. Dan shrugged and turned to leave.

“Will that be all, Your Highness?” one servant said boldly, perhaps not catching onto Dan’s bad mood. “Desserts have just come out of the oven.” Or perhaps he had caught on. Dan smiled genuinely at the man.

“We’ll be having some of that as well,” he decided. With that, the servant was calling across the room for cake, and Dan’s arms were soon loaded with even more dishes, which he precariously held onto as he made his way back through the kitchen. Phil took the dessert plates from him and Dan nodded his thanks before retreating from the kitchen and making his way towards the stairs.

“Wait there for a moment,” he said decisively. Phil simply stared at him in confusion while Dan made his way tentatively up the stairs, making sure that there was no residual oil spillage. Once assured that the path was safe, he called down the spiraling staircase for Phil to continue on.

“What was that about?” Phil questioned. He elbowed Dan purposefully in the side, and Dan stepped further away from him.

“There was oil spilled on them earlier today, I wanted to make sure it was all clear.” Phil was silent for a moment, before he finally shook his head in exasperation.

“You shouldn’t have done that—what if you’d fallen?”

“Then it would look like it was your fault,” he joked morbidly. Phil sucked in a shocked breath.

“That’s a scary thought,” he admitted, before adding decisively: “Don’t get hurt around me.” Dan just snorted in response, though he couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto his face. This was the Phil he knew and loved. Somehow, even when he didn’t know what Dan was upset about, he could manage to cheer him up.

He turned to smile at Phil, his curly hair falling into his eyes as he couldn’t help staring at the face that he saw every day—still handsome even when familiar, before he was tripping. It wasn’t a usual kind of trip, one where your feet stumbled or you tripped over yourself—this one was on purpose. His foot came into contact with something before he was pitching forward, somehow managing to hold onto Phil’s dinner as he threatened to meet the ground with his face.

Miraculously, Phil managed to reach out and latch onto Dan’s arm before he could fall completely, pulling him backwards into his chest moments afterward, though one of their desserts was sacrificed to the ground in order to do so. Dan had barely had a chance to settle against Phil, and definitely had no chance to thank him, before a torch was tipping out of its brazier in the wall and falling, as if in slow motion, to the floor. The second it made contact with the ground, there were flames, jumping into the air and shooting outwards, filling the space with loud crackling and vicious heat. The flames stopped mere steps before them, though the heat was intense, and they stumbled backwards in response.

Belatedly, Dan realized that there must’ve been some sort of chemical on the ground to make the fire act like this. Normally, fire wouldn’t spread across stones, and it had clearly reached a wall somewhere in front of him, where the chemical presumably stopped. Dan was lucky, having been caught by Phil before he could fall to the ground directly under the torch.

“Holy shit,” Phil whispered, still gripping Dan tightly against him. “Are you alright?”

“What?” Dan said, his mind feeling foggy with shock, before he cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean—yes. I’m fine.”

“That was terrifying,” Phil admitted, still watching the fire uneasily, though it was now growing smaller. Phil released him then, ducking down to examine the ground.

“There’s a trip wire,” he announced, looking up at Dan with concern. His fingers trailed the wire, right next to the fallen torch, which it had apparently been connected to. Dan tripping over the wire had caused it to pull the torch to the ground. This was no accident; this was a real, legitimate, attempt of assassination. “Who could’ve done this?”

“Anyone,” Dan answered, subdued. “Anyone who knows where to find the supplies. Anyone who knows the path I usually take to my rooms.” Phil swallowed thickly.

“Maybe that stair-oil wasn’t on accident,” he suggested. “Dan… is someone trying to kill you?”

Unable to hold it in any longer, after the stressful dinner and the adrenaline thrumming through his body, Dan blurted, “Yes. And my father thinks it’s you.”

For a long moment, there was silence. And then: “Oh,” Phil finally breathed. “Well—that explains dinner.”

Dan flushed, unable to maintain eye contact as he nodded. “Sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“I don’t blame you,” Phil answered easily. He glanced down at the fire, which was now barely flickering and low against the ground, having burned up most of the chemical used to incite it. “That was just idiotic,” he commented, still staring at the failed assassination attempt. “Really, they could’ve done much better.”

Dan laughed, reaching out to kick Phil in the shin, his hands otherwise occupied by Phil’s dinner plate. “Come on,” he said easily, his heart much lighter than before. “If we both make it back to my rooms alive, we might just be able to enjoy that cake.” Or what was left of it.

—

They did not get to enjoy the cake. Thankfully, it was not due to either of them somehow becoming the victim of murder, but simply because Phil tripped (of his own accord—no trip wire needed) and dropped the remaining one on the floor.

“Man,” Dan lamented, staring sadly at the wasted dessert. “I was excited for that.”

“We could go back…” Phil suggested, though he didn’t sound any more excited to go traipsing through the castle (in which they knew there was a hostile person) in search of more dessert. Dan wasn’t entirely sure what to do about the person trying to kill him, either. He felt as if he couldn’t go to his father, who was so convinced that it was Phil that he would probably deny the evidence suggesting otherwise. Plus, he didn’t really want to see his father anyway, seeing as he’d stooped so low as to suspect Phil in the first place.

“I wasn’t that excited,” Dan decided. They stopped in front of Dan’s quarters, now guarded by Lin and Elaine.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” Elaine greeted, and Dan nodded at her.

“There are two spilled cakes in the hallway,” he informed, knowing one of his guards would go to alert a maid. “Oh—and scorch marks too.”

“What—?”

Dan slipped past them, his hand latched firmly around Phil’s wrist so he would follow without staying to talk.

“Good evening!” Phil managed, before Dan was closing the door behind them and rolling his eyes. He let go of Phil then, oddly aware of every moment they were touching.

“What are we going to do?” Dan asked finally, the pressure of attempted-assassinations and suspected friends getting to him.

“Let’s play a game,” Phil suggested.

“What? I almost get murdered—you, right along with me, and you want to play a game?”

“Sure, why not?” Phil answered easily. “It’s best to get our minds off things, isn’t it? Let’s play truth or dare.”

Despite his better judgement (and his multitude of protests), Dan somehow found himself sitting on the floor before his bed, Phil a couple feet in front of him.

“Why are we sitting on the floor again?” Dan asked.

“It’s traditional,” Phil proclaimed. “It’s how we play back in Leona.”

“You and your friends?” Dan couldn’t help asking, feeling an odd bite of something that was probably jealousy  in his chest.

“Me and the staff,” Phil corrected. Dan couldn’t imagine asking Alfonzo or Charlotte to play a game with him, it was preposterous! But then, that was one of the differences between him and Phil. Phil just got along easily with everyone, it seemed.

“Okay, you go first,” Phil said easily, lounging against the wall opposite Dan, who was sitting up primly, more thanks to nerves than anything else. When in doubt, remember all that bullshit prince-training he’d had his whole life.

“I don’t know how,” Dan admitted. He was aware of the concept of the game, of course, but he’d never actually played it before. He certainly didn’t have any truths or dares lined up either—did Phil just keep them in stock at all times?

“Okay, I’ll go,” Phil easily remedied. “Truth or dare?”

“Er—what are they?”

“No,” Phil answered with a smile, “you don’t get to know them ahead of time. It’s part of the fun.”

“But what if I choose one and don’t like it?”

“Too bad.”

Dan looked at Phil, aghast, before deciding that if he truly didn’t like it, he would just throw Phil out of his rooms entirely.

“Fine,” Dan grumbled. “Um. Truth, I guess.”

“Okay. What do you hate so much about courting?” Phil asked, after a moment of thought. Dan paled. He couldn’t ask that! Dan would have to say that he was gay! Or… he could lie, he supposed, although that really broke the spirit of the game, didn’t it? Plus, he felt like Phil would be able to tell he was lying. A half truth, then.

“I’m not interested in them,” he answered finally, which was true enough. And it could be interpreted in many ways. For example, perhaps he wasn’t interested in them because they were all noble snobs who seemed to think themselves better than everyone else just because they’d been invited to be courted by the (gay) prince.

Phil hummed thoughtfully, before, “Okay, your go.”

“Truth or dare?” Dan asked. Phil didn’t even pause to think about it.

“Dare.”

Dan did have to think about it. There was a lot of humming and ‘umm’ing, but he finally thought of something. He remembered Phil’s second day here, remembered bringing him breakfast and reading dramatically from his book. He also remembered a letter falling out of said book, a letter covered in Dan’s own handwriting, which Phil had refused to let him read.

“I dare you to let me read that letter I wrote you,” Dan proclaimed, adding, when Phil looked confused, “The one you keep in that horrid romance novel.”

Phil groaned. He complained about how the dare should technically fall under truth, seeing as it was truth being revealed, but Dan would hear nothing of it. A guard was then sent to Phil’s room to retrieve the book. Soon enough, Phil was pulling the letter from the pages and tossing it towards Dan, crossing his arms immediately after.

Dan could tell right away that it was old, partially because of the state of the paper, and partially because of the date at the top, written shortly after Phil had last left Hirona.

Dear Phil,

I realize it’s been mere weeks since you left, but I miss you more than I could have possibly imagined. All the servants hate me as well—I knew they were only so nice because of you!

I’m planning my escape already. I think I’ll force open my window, climb onto the roof, and tie a rope along the spire on the other end of the castle, closest to the stables. From there I’ll prepare Alamo (I’ve watched him get prepared enough times to be able to manage it myself, I’d imagine) and ride into the sunset (towards Leona, of course!). I plan to shed my identity of prince and take up that of a commoner, a simple traveler.

You can’t tell me not to go, Phil Lester! For all you know, by the time you get this letter I’ll have already left! Or perhaps by the time you get it I’ll be leaving, or leaving within the week! You’ll have to be constantly prepared for a visit from yours truly, so you can’t let your guard down for a moment.

Anyway, this is a wonderful thought to have in your head regardless. Knowing that at any moment you could walk in from your morning ride, and there I’d be, sitting at your dining table and enjoying myself a large piece of fruit. Oh, the look on your face! It’ll be wonderful. Just you wait!

Dan flushed after reading his words of the past. He could remember thinking it was a marvelous thought, for Phil to be going about his tasks from day to day, constantly wondering if today would be the day they’d be reunited. Dan had never actually gone, of course, but he’d desperately wanted to.

“It was sort of my inspiration,” Phil offered voluntarily. “It’s why I didn’t tell you I was coming ahead of time.”

“And why did you come?” Dan demanded, the answer to that question still a mystery. Phil had said he would tell Dan if he beat him in a sword fight, but maybe now that they were playing truth or dare…

“It’s not your turn,” Phil answered easily, smirking as Dan huffed in annoyance. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare, I suppose.” And so the game continued, the tasks getting wilder and more obscure as they ran out of ideas. Phil continued to choose dare for every turn, so Dan didn’t even get a chance to ask him about why he’d come to Hirona anyway.

“Would you stop being a prince if you could?” Phil asked sometime later, after Dan had picked truth.

“Yes,” Dan answered, giving it little thought. The chance to give up his responsibilities? To be able to leave his kingdom, to perhaps go to Leona with Phil indefinitely? He would do it in a heartbeat. Phil seemed to take his answer in stride, and the game continued.

Eventually, Dan dared Phil to a sword fight, this time with the intention to win.

They fought long and hard, the rhythm familiar after all the times they’d sparred together. Occasionally Dan even saw Phil’s moves before he made them, side-stepping a moment ahead of time, ducking before Phil could land a hit.

He didn’t know how he did it; how he found his way inside Phil’s guard, how he tripped him (slightly unsportsmanlike) and pinned him to the ground, how he leveled his wooden sword at Phil’s throat. All he knew was that he did do it, and that he was sitting on Phil’s chest, pinning his arms to the floor and grinning wickedly.

“Tell me,” Dan demanded. Phil sighed.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, and Dan waited, excitement building in his stomach. “That I went easy on you!”

After that, it was only a matter of seconds before their positions somehow switched, Phil pinning him easily and disarming him as well. Dan hated being pinned by Phil, though mostly because he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like in a different scenario, in ones where instead of fighting, they were perhaps kissing, or maybe even more…

“You’re the worst,” Dan huffed, turning his head to the side to avoid looking at Phil’s face. It was too intense, looking at him so close, knowing how easy it would be to kiss him if he just leaned up.

“You love me,” Phil answered easily.

Yes, Dan thought. “Fuck off,” he answered.

When they finally went to sleep, after much too much truth or dare for just two people, Dan found himself as wound up as he had been during Phil’s first night in here. He could remember finding it so difficult to fall asleep, though this time Phil succumbed to it quite easily.

As Dan laid there, Phil rolled over and gathered him in his arms. He remained stiff, having sucked in a surprised breath, as Phil’s arms encircled him, his face pressed into Dan’s neck. It took a long time for Dan to fall asleep, due to the fact that he could feel each and every one of Phil’s breaths directly against his neck.

~~

next chapter 

[danfanciesphil]

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Dan wakes up disoriented in a bed that he’s sure isn’t his, with a sense that he’s done something irreversible - has crossed some barrier that he can’t pass back over. Softened by drink and overtiredness, it takes a few seconds for his brain to click into gear. He starts small, trying to place the bed and the room. From the décor he can tell he’s probably still somewhere in the hotel, and mostly through a process of elimination, as he’s been in every other room, he manages to figure out that it’s Phil’s room. Which means... oh God. Phil’s bed. 

He stiffens, suddenly horrified. It takes a quick glance at his thankfully clothed body to rule out any explanation too awful, but then, as he smooths a hand over the exposed patch of cream bedsheet beside him, he remembers everything. Interlocked eyes through a shroud of darkness. The quickening tempo of sliding strings. His own name, on the breath of a man lost to ecstasy. In the background, he realises that the white noise he can hear is the sound of a shower running. Dan’s breathing settles from hyperventilation to more of a nervous pant now that he’s sure Phil is not about to spring out at him, but it’s still mortifying to know that all too soon, he will emerge from the bathroom, and they will have to talk to each other. 

Like it’s latched on to Dan’s paranoia, the shower stops, and Dan’s heart lurches into his throat. He runs a hand through his messy curls, scrubs some sleep dust from his eyes, and tries to think of something - anything - appropriate to say. He doesn’t get very far. Phil walks out of his ensuite with a towel around his waist, and another draped over his broad shoulders. At this point, seeing Phil shirtless shouldn’t be all that shocking, but Dan’s lower stomach still twists and tightens as his eyes fall to that smattering of chest hair.

“Oh, hey,” Phil says, ruffling his wet hair with the towel. He glances disinterestedly towards the window. “Storm’s passed.”

“Hi,” Dan croaks. Before he can stop them, memories, thick and vivid, spring at him like excitable wolves. A shadowed figure, across from him in this bed, not bothering to stifle the groans slipping out as he pleasured himself out of view, murmuring Dan’s name. He swallows hard, averting his eyes. “Yeah, that’s... good. What time is it?”

“Late,” Phil says, raising an eyebrow. “I know I’m the only guest, but any chance you’ll get up for work soon? I need coffee.”

Mercifully, Dan detects the snide accusation tucked in Phil’s words, and the familiar annoyance that blooms in Dan’s chest is a welcome relief. They can, it seems, slip back into their usual dynamic, and perhaps never speak of last night ever again. 

He throws the covers off himself, keen to get back to normality. “I see you’re right back to being a dick-brain,” Dan says cheerfully, swinging his feet to the carpet. “So much for the apology.”

“Apology?” Phil tilts his head to the side. “Oh, right you mean last night. Well, you know. You were all moody. Had to appease you somehow, and I thought a nice ‘sorry’ and a couple of G & T’s would do the trick. No use having the only member of staff around here despising me. You might’ve spit in my macchiato.”

Despite the half-hearted attempt to swallow everything he’s said last night back up, Dan knows Phil’s defence mechanisms well enough by now to see through them. He’s just embarrassed, probably, at having had to apologise in the first place. 

Drawing a deep, long breath, Dan makes the valiant decision to let it go. He stands, a bit wobbly as his ankle is always worse first thing in the morning, and begins limping towards the door. 

“Give me a minute to get dressed,” Dan says. “I’ll make the coffee after.”  He pauses in the middle of the room, remembering all the food he’d brought up yesterday. “Hey, what happened to that tray? I’ll take it down.”

“I already did,” Phil says off-handedly, pulling the towel from his shoulders. He throws it onto the bed, then reaches for the one at his waist.

Dan, already red, turns sharply away before he sees anything; he can still hear the ‘whump’ as the towel drops however, and shuts his eyes in a vain attempt not to picture the sight of Phil behind him, entirely naked. It doesn’t work.

“Wh-what do you mean you already did?” Dan squeaks.

“I mean,” Phil says slowly, like he’s talking to a halfwit, “yesterday after I ate the soup and pizza, I took the tray down to the kitchen, washed the plates and put the stuff away.”

“Oh,” Dan says, simmering with heat and confusion. Naked. Phil is naked right now, right behind me. All I’d have to do is turn ninety degrees and- “Right. Well… okay, then.” Naked. Naked, naked, naked. No clothes, no towels, all wet and- “I’ll just...”

“I’ll have a double macchiato,” Phil says, nakedly. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

Dan all but bolts from the room then, pretending with all his might that he didn’t hear the smirk nestled in Phil’s voice. 

*

The coffee machine seems uncooperative at first; it’s only after attempting to refill the espresso drip for the third time that Dan remembers he hasn’t switched it on. He rolls his eyes at himself, but allows some leeway for his own stupidity, given that his mind is positively reeling from all that’s happened over the past couple of days. His hands are jittering manically, and he’s yet to ingest any caffeine.

He watches his shaking fingers as he pours the frothed milk into two mugs, frowning. They seem a little more shaky than is perhaps normal, the more he looks. He stops pouring, placing the chrome jug down on a nearby counter, wondering vaguely if he might be about to jerk into some kind of spasm born of extreme sexual frustration. Getting to sleep last night after Phil’s little display had been just this side of agonising. 

Then, he notices the coffee machine is jiggling too, the metal contraption rattling alarmingly. In fact, as he looks around, the entire kitchen seems to be unstabling. Dan freezes in alarm, terrified he’s about to be buried alive by an earthquake-induced avalanche. Unsure of what else to do, he grabs the jug of milk to save it from falling and splashing everywhere. A loud, sneering roar suddenly fills his ears, sounding like an angry robotic buzzard, zooming overhead. Just before Dan has time to think about any rational reaction, the quaking stops, and the noise dies down into a more palatable stutter, then ceases entirely.

Still clutching the warm jug, Dan stands rigid in the middle of the kitchen, dumbed and petrified. Somewhere above him, he hears someone running down the stairs. In a matter of seconds, Phil appears at the serving hatch, hair still damp and messy, his glasses askew on his nose. Dan blinks at the sight of him, and his limbs release some of their tension.

“Dan, that was-”

“Is this an earthquake?” Dan squeaks, and Phil shoves a hand into his hair, despairingly.

“No,” he says. “I- I’m sorry, I had no idea he was coming. He never tells me-”

“Who’s coming?” Dan asks, flummoxed. 

Nobody ‘comes’ here. They’re in limbo. They’re up a literal goddamn mountain. Phil’s face is pained, panicked - he’s dithering on the spot and looking around frantically, as if he’s unsure what to do. Dan’s can’t remember him being anything other than aloof or furious, so this is a peculiar sight.

“Just give him a coffee or something,” Phil says urgently, already backing away. “He’ll be insufferable, and you’ll want to hit him but I think that counts as treason, so don’t. I just need to- just give me five minutes.”

And then he’s gone. Dan stares at the empty serving hatch, stunned and confused. He thinks he can make out some vague, distant voices, echoing off the peaks outside. People. Real, living people. There aren’t guests booked, as far as he knows. He’s so lost he can’t make sense of a word Phil just threw his way. Then there are the distinct sounds of feet tramping through snow; he’s not hallucinating, the noise is unmistakable now. And what had that earlier sound been? The machine-roar? It had almost sounded like a small, very close… plane.

And then, as swift and impactful as a real avalanche, the realisation smacks into Dan, hard.

There’s a lordly, somehow disapproving pounding on the front door. Dan places the jug down slowly, wide-eyed. He realises then that, somewhat unhelpfully, his mind is only half-here. The other half, traitorously, treacherously, is still lost somewhere in the sheets of Phil’s enormous bed. With only half a functioning brain - one that doesn’t do so well at functioning at full capacity anyway - he cannot predict how he’s going to deal with the situation that’s apparently on the other side of the front door. He’s the only person other than Phil in the whole hotel, so he has to answer that door, has to act the part of the concierge, despite barely feeling he can act the part of a human being. He swallows hard, sure he must smell of Phil’s room, of Phil’s breath, his shampoo. He cards hands through his hair, smooths down his un-ironed shirt, and walks briskly to the lobby stairs. 

Again, that loud pounding comes from the other side of the door, and Dan tries with all his might to picture what he’s going to find on the other side. When he reaches the wooden pane, he takes a deep breath, tries to brace himself as best he can, and pulls the bolt back, then turns the key in the lock. Before he can make any move to open it, the door swings open, nearly knocking him flying, and in swarms a hoard of people, maybe five or six, led by a man of medium height, with such an air of importance in his stature that Dan knows instantly who he is.

“I forget just how bloody freezing this damn place is,” Sir Nikolai Novokoric booms in a thin, barely-there Swiss accent.

He’s obviously been through some rigorous voice-coaching of his own to try and rid himself of it; the effect leaves him with a stunted, slow manner of speaking, which certainly pulls attention, if the rest of him failed to do so. He’s in a long, Sherlock-style coat, unbuttoned despite the temperature outside, beneath which his embroidered shirt collar peeks over a dark v-neck jumper. His black jeans are tight, and obviously designer, as are his leather gloves, which he sets about pulling off neatly, and handing to a woman with a shock of unnaturally red hair standing nearby.

“Don’t they ever renovate this place?” Nikolai asks seemingly everyone, though nobody responds. “At least it’s warm, I suppose.” He strolls across the lobby floor to the front desk and bangs a hand on the surface three times. “Hello?” he calls. “Staff? Are we expected to wait on ourselves?”

It hits Dan then, a little late, that none of the people in the room have noticed him standing here, partially concealed by the open door. He clears his throat, embarrassed that he’s been stood here gormlessly staring for the past minute.

“S-sorry,” Dan says, then silently curses his choice of opening - perfectly in character, some might say. “I’ll be right with you.”

He shuts the door firmly, then turns, pink-cheeked, as Sir Nikolai whirls around to face him, coat flying with the movement. Now that Dan is seeing him face-on, he can confirm that Phil was, indeed, correct about Sir Nikolai being... conventionally attractive. He’s got a thin face, with high, razor-sharp cheekbones- even sharper than Phil’s. His hair is a dark caramel and styled in a perfect sweeping quiff. He’s clean-shaven, and has big, pink, full lips that curl into an utterly charming smile.

“Ah,” he says, taking Dan in with one quick glance up and down. “Grand.” He paces across the room towards Dan, with rather alarming intent. Dan freezes, unsure what’s about to happen; whatever he’d expected, it was not being wrapped in a tight, almost unbreathable hug. Dazed by the sudden gesture, and choking slightly on whatever expensive cologne Sir Nikolai has dunked himself in, Dan manages to lift his arms and awkwardly return the embrace. Almost the moment Dan’s hands make contact with the back of Sir Nikolai’s coat, he’s released. Sir Nikolai leans away, grinning widely. His teeth are jarringly white. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet! Sir Nikolai Novokoric, and you are?.”

“Uh, D-Dan.” His own name suddenly feels startlingly dull. “Nice to meet you, Sir.”

“Daniel,” Nikolai repeats with an unexplainable wink, like he’s committing it to memory.  “Such a shame that I don’t get to spend more time up here with you lovely folk,” Nikolai says as he removes his coat. The customer service worker in Dan leaps into action just in time to catch the coat as its flung at him, and fold it carefully over one arm. “But then, I feel that way about every part of my dear country. I’m sure you understand, Daniel.” 

“Um,” Dan says, not entirely sure that he does. “I- I expect your schedule is-”

“Oh, horrendous!” he cries, glancing at the red-haired lady. “Isn’t it, Corn? How many meetings and events do I have, on average, each week?” Dan turns to her as she starts to reply, but before she can get anything out, Nikolai says, “I’m sure Phil is always griping about me being too busy for him.” 

He winks at Dan again, which only succeeds in unsettling him. “I, er, I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t speak a whole lot about... personal matters.” 

It’s not exactly a lie. 

“Oh, how I envy you, Daniel,” Nikolai says with a trill of laughter, then reaches to pat Dan on the arm. It feels ingenuine, somehow, like forced camaraderie. Dan has to fight not to pull his arm away. Luckily, he’s been trained rigorously to politely endure inane chatter with tedious customers, so manages a responding smile. “He won’t shut up about all his many terrible inconveniences to me,” Nikolai says with a sigh. “Must be dreadful for him up here in his luxury penthouse, with the run of the land and a limitless tab, don’t you think?”

It’s at this point exactly that Dan makes up his mind about just what he thinks of Sir Nikolai, and where he can stick his holier-than-thou attitude and false, creepy ‘look, I’m just one of the people!’ mask. What the hell does he even know about whether Phil has any right to complain about his living conditions? According to Phil, and Mona, and everyone else, Sir Nikolai barely even visits him. 

Dan is still floundering for a terse, polite response, when Nikolai apparently grows bored of waiting. 

“Anyway,” he announces loftily. “I’ve come to collect my dear husband, so I suppose I’d better find him. Is he about?”

Just give me five minutes, Phil had said. Dan pauses, thinking rapidly of another means of stalling. He’s not keen to do Phil any particular favours, but given that this man is unspeakably awful, and Phil is turning out to be only a tiny bit awful, Dan supposes he’s on Phil’s side. Just this once. 

 “Um, he’s... just getting ready,” Dan says quickly. “If you follow me up to the mezzanine lounge, I can get you some refreshments, and then I’ll go and tell him-”

“No, no, don’t bother,” Nikolai interrupts, straightening his collar. “Corn, are you bothered about drinks or anything? We should probably head straight off, no?”

The woman with red hair looks reluctant, but nods. For the first time, Dan casts his gaze over the rest of the ensemble, and realises that he’s being photographed. The noise of the shutter is quiet enough that he’d barely noticed it until now, but seeing the large DSLR camera in the hands of a young, curly-haired, bright-eyed gentleman, it’s obvious. Obviously, Dan is presumably not the primary subject of the photos, but given that he’s right next to Sir Nikolai, he’s clearly in shot. He blushes involuntarily, thinking of his un-showered, sleepless look.

“I’ll run up and get him myself then, shall I?” Nikolai asks pointedly in response to Dan’s silence.

“Oh!” Dan exclaims, blushing. “I can go-”

“Don’t bother,” Nikolai says sweetly. His charming smile is suddenly very punchable. “Room eight, isn’t it?”

Dan nods quietly, embarrassed by his own show of incompetence.

“And Phil says I don’t pay attention to him,” Sir Nikolai says, shooting a grin at the red haired lady. “Right, wish me luck everyone. If I don’t return in five minutes, he’s bitten my head off. So... inform the papers.”

Sir Nikolai bounds up the stairs, spritely and unconcerned despite his parting comment. Dan stares after him worriedly, knowing there’s nothing he can do to warn Phil, or to supervise the oncoming scene. He tries to imagine the conversation that might be had between the man he slept next to last night, and the man he just met. He can’t so much as picture Nikolai and Phil in the same room, let alone exchanging words.

“Excuse me,” the woman with red hair says, breaking Dan out of his spell. She steps forwards wearily. “Don’t suppose you could ignore that giant bozo and whip up a quick round of coffees?”

Dan immediately decides he likes this woman. “Sure,” he replies, laughing breathily. “Do you all want to come upstairs? There are chairs and tables.”

There’s a general sigh of relief amongst the group, all of whom begin lowering their clipboards, cameras, iPads and trunks full of who knows what. Dan leads the way, going slow until the red-haired woman, who introduces herself as “Cornelia Dahlgren, Personal Assistant and Publicist to Sir Nikolai Novokoric”, offers her arm when she sees him limping. She’s warm and chatty, with a general air of ‘I’m far too intelligent for this position but I’m aware of it and I’m sucking it up for now’. She enquires after Dan’s injury, but Dan decides no matter how personable this woman is, she’s working for the one man who probably shouldn’t know too much about the past weekend Dan and Phil have spent together. Instead, he tells her he slipped while sweeping snow from around the hot tub.

“God, I have no idea how you can stand it up here,” Cornelia says in response, helping Dan up the final stair. “I’m Swedish, but even I couldn’t handle somewhere this cold and remote.”

“You get used to it,” Dan finds himself saying. He’s not sure he actually has, though. Perhaps if unexpected developments didn’t keep slamming him from all sides, he could attempt to find some normalcy in this mountain lifestyle. “So, coffees. Who wants what?”

He takes orders from everyone, learning names as he goes. The photographer is named PJ, and has the same ‘isn’t this funny, look at us working for a silly, trumped-up Royal’ attitude that Cornelia projects when he speaks of his profession. There’s a blonde lady named Bryony whose whole job is to keep Nikolai’s hair looking pretty, and an Irish woman named Hazel, who is in charge of his wardrobe. Both of them have a small bag on wheels, which Dan presumes are full of emergency supplies in case he falls in a puddle or something. Finally, there’s Max, a heavy-set, straight-backed man wearing one of those discreet microphones on his ear, and not saying a whole lot. He doesn’t introduce himself, but Dan is pretty sure he’s security.

The jug of milk Dan had been frothing earlier is still warm, but Dan decides to make a fresh load; his head pounds as he works, completely overwhelmed. He has no clue what these people are actually doing here, he realises - Nikolai hadn’t explained. Is this a frequent occurrence? Does Nikolai ever phone ahead, or does he just drop by in a surprise visit every few months with a gaggle of workers, specifically to cause the hotel staff heart attacks? In the future, Dan will need to be more careful. If Nikolai had arrived an hour earlier-

Dan burns himself on some flying milk droplets, and curses. He should not be having those kinds of thoughts. What happened last night was an anomaly. A rare, unusual, one-time happenstance that will never, ever be repeated. This weekend has been a storm-and-isolation-induced bout of shared madness between two people; once Mona and Louise return, along with some actual guests, everything will settle down and this whole business can be forgotten. He and Phil will return to barely being civil to one another, and Dan will never have to worry about Nikolai dropping by unannounced, because there will be nothing for him to accidentally walk in on.

By the time he carries the tray full of coffees out into the mezzanine lounge, Dan is shaking so much he’s surprised he doesn’t drop them everywhere. Everyone retrieves their drinks gratefully, practically chugging them straight away as they slump into chairs and across tables.

“He’s a slave driver,” Cornelia explains, patting Hazel on the back as she fakes a sob into the crook of her elbow. “Got us all up at four this morning and herded us onto the plane. Insisted we needed a head-start because he wants Phil to undergo a buttload of beauty treatments before tonight.”

“I hate event days,” Bryony says, slurping her matcha latte.

“What’s tonight?” Dan asks, watching PJ flick through his camera roll, and discreetly trying to see if he’s in any of the photos.

“It’s a big charity thing,” Cornelia answers, flapping a hand in the air. She sips some green tea. “What is it, Max? Some LGBT-thing, right? I forget what exactly. Anyway, Nik’s the largest contributor. He’s getting some fancy certificate and he wants Phil there to gaze on admiringly for the cameras.”

“Oh, right,” Dan says, feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden. His intestines seem to be knotting themselves together. “Do you guys want something to eat? We haven’t got a lot, but there’s some snacks around-”

“Better not without his Lordship’s permission,” Cornelia says, though she smiles gratefully at Dan. “You can go ahead and stick the drinks on his tab though.”

“Oh no, that’s okay-”

“Dan,” Cornelia says, raising her eyebrows. “Don’t be a hero. He’s got stacks of money. He won’t miss the price of a few coffees.”

Dan smiles back, but inside his guts are writhing. By this point, Sir Nikolai and Phil have been upstairs together for at least twenty minutes. Perhaps they’re locked in a fiery passion, rolling atop the very sheets Dan slept on last night. The image is enough to have sluice up the acid in Dan’s stomach, sending a ripple of nausea through him. It’s an unlikely scenario, Dan is pretty sure, but he has very little real idea of the relationship Phil and Nikolai share. He’s only heard Phil’s side of it, after all, and that account had been born of a long stewing hatred from being left alone up here so long. Perhaps their relationship is purely physical, and they don’t talk at all. They’re both intimidatingly attractive men after all, and they are married. Is it so inconceivable that right now, they’re tangled up together, grunting and moaning and- 

Before Dan can think himself into a fit of insanity, there comes the unmistakable sound of someone briskly jogging down the stairs. The party of coffee-drinkers suddenly sit upright in their chairs - Max even stands up, hands clasping together in front of him.

When Nikolai emerges, he’s flushed, with a slight frown creasing his forehead. He goes straight to Cornelia, takes her wrist and pulls her into a corner, where he begins speaking in a low murmur that Dan can’t overhear. He thinks about attempting to sneak off at this point, perhaps to go sit in a dark cupboard and hyperventilate, but he turns towards the stairs, and almost bumps straight into Phil. He’d moved so silently down the stairs that Dan hadn’t heard him, but now he walks across the mezzanine, a YSL overnight bag over his shoulder, and dressed in all black. He doesn’t spare Dan a glance, despite the fact he is stood in the centre of the lounge like a lemon, obviously lost and out of place.

“Phil!” Bryony cries as she sees him, and jumps up to wrap her arms around him. He lets her, just about, but barely returns the embrace. His expression is hardened and fierce; as Dan remembers from many occasions, this generally means he’s seconds away from exploding. “God, I missed you,” Bryony says, apparently totally sincere. She reaches up and plays with his quiff, moving some strands of hair this way and that. “What’ve you been putting on this? How many times do I have to tell you about monthly hair masks-”

“Right!” Nikolai announces brightly, making everyone - even Dan - turn to look. He claps his hands together and sweeps across to stand in the middle of the room beside Dan, who shrinks back at once. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us, so let’s try not to mess about, alright? I’d rather this whole thing went smoothly, as I expect my darling husband will put up enough of a fight for all seven of us.”

Shocked by the casual diss, Dan glances at Phil, who remains stony-faced but silent, staring at a spot on a nearby table. When we get to Milan Phil and I will be going straight into our tux fittings, then we’ll move on to hair and makeup. I want all hands on deck, so no texting the boyfriend or updating your story, got it? Good. The pilot’s keeping the engine warm, so let’s get the hell off this mountain before the lack of oxygen makes me break out.”

As Nikolai speaks, Dan is intently aware of Phil’s responding scowls and eye-rolls. Again, he wonders what was spoken between them up in room eight, as it clearly wasn’t a peace offering.

“Oh, and Daniel,” Nikolai says. It takes Dan a moment to realise that Nikolai is addressing him, mostly because as soon as the long version of his name leaves the nobleman’s mouth, Phil noticeably stiffens, facing Dan in alarm. “Would you grab your boss for me? I’d like a word about my standing deposit.”

“I-I’m sorry but Mona isn’t here,” Dan replies. “She had a personal emergency. I’m acting as manager while she’s away. Can I help you, or…?”

Nikolai frowns. “What about your chef? The bubbly one. She’s the sort-of ... deputy, isn’t she?”

Dan glances at Phil, whose eyes flick worriedly between he and Nikolai, lips pressed closed. “Um. Yes,” Dan replies distractedly. “She’s away too. She should be back today, though.”

“Is there anyone else here?”

Dan has to fight the urge to look at Phil for the right thing to say. He manages, just. “No. It’s just been me. And- and Phil.”

A moment passes where not even Nikolai’s team utter a word, and then the corner of his mouth curves upwards. “So you’ve had to endure my dear heart’s wrath all on your own! Gosh, you poor thing. Remind me to double your tip.”

He winks, laughing, but Dan is too nervous to join in. Nikolai laughs harder when he sees Phil’s pissed-off face.

“Would you lighten up, love? I’m only joking.”

Phil shakes his head. “Of course, love.”

As Phil turns from the scene, something sparkles, catching the light. Dan’s eyes fall to Phil’s hand; there, on his ring finger, instead of the usual demure silver band, is an enormous, Princess-cut diamond.

*

What Dan would have liked to happen, is for Phil to have pulled him aside, just briefly, and explained what the fuck is going on, why he didn’t mention he’s jetting off to Milan today, and when he’ll be back. Instead, aside from that one instance, Phil doesn’t so much as meet his eye. Now they’re stood in the lobby, Nikolai is shouting instructions at Cornelia, who is speaking to the pilot of the private plane they arrived in through her mobile phone.

“Is he aware we’ve got to be in Milan at two?!”

Cornelia covers the phone with her hand, glaring at Nikolai. “He’s checking the engine so we don’t all die mid-flight.”

“Tell him to hurry it up,” Nikolai barks. Phil is slumped in a nearby chair, scowling at his phone. He’s dressed smarter than normal, Dan notices. He can see several more prominent designer labels on his dark, chic outfit. “Christ, must everyone I hire be totally incompetent?”

“How smart of you to ask that to a room of people you hire,” Phil says snarkily, not bothering to look up. Nikolai just rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” Cornelia says, hanging up the phone. “Plane’s ready. Let’s roll.”

Unexpectedly, the door swings open with a sudden crash, and in strolls Kaspar, followed closely by Louise, who is talking animatedly at Kaspar about the fragile contents of her bag, which Kaspar is holding above his head.

“Oh, for God’s-” Nikolai murmurs, but cuts himself off with that dazzling smile he’d aimed in Dan’s direction earlier.

“There she is!” Nikolai booms, arms spreading. Louise stops in her tracks when she spots him, seeming mildly alarmed, but as Nikolai approaches, she carefully opens her arms to return the hug. He leans in and squeezes, despite the thick, snow-covered coat she’s wearing. “This place is barely the same without you, my sweet. So glad to catch you before we ran off.”

“Yes, um, lovely to see you, Sir Nikolai,” Louise says, sounding a tiny bit strained. He releases her, and she takes a hasty step backwards, shooting an unreadable look at Kaspar. “Off? You’re leaving?”

Phil stands from his chair, moving towards her, and wraps a gentle pair of arms around her neck. It’s a display of affection so genuine that Dan is startled by the sight of it. He hasn’t witnessed much interaction between Louise and Phil, though from the way she spoke, he’d known they must have shared a fondness. He rocks her to and fro, face glum as it rests on her shoulder.

“Yes,” Nikolai says, lower lip jutting out. “Unfortunately so. Phil and I have a big night ahead of us. We’re very excited, so we’d best get off.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. If this is Phil ‘very excited’, he’ll eat one of Phil’s skis.

“Right, well I hope you have a lovely time,” Louise says, gently prying Phil off her and giving his arms a sympathetic squeeze. He sighs, and moves to collect his bag. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

“Oh, absolutely you will,” Sir Nikolai says, putting too much emphasis on the assurance. “Can’t keep me from surprising my lovely Phil whenever I get the chance! Come on now, sweetheart, let’s get back on the plane or we’ll really be late.”

It happens so quickly Dan almost misses it, but Nikolai reaches for Phil’s hand, and Phil snatches it sharply away. In the next second, Nikolai is flitting to speak with other members of the group about the schedule for the day ahead, as if nothing happened. Together, they all make their way out of the door. 

Just before Cornelia pulls it closed, Nikolai peers around it and calls out, “So good to meet you Daniel. Thanks for looking after the world’s largest toddler.” 

Then he winks once more, as if they now share some inside joke. Just the idea of it makes Dan want to jump in the shower and scrub the thought away. 

“You too,” Dan calls, probably not sounding particularly sincere, and then Nikolai ducks out of sight, the door closes, and he is gone.

A silence ensues, as if a hurricane has just swept through the lobby, leaving the three people standing there ruffled and reeling. Eventually, Dan reorients himself, catching his swirling thoughts like flies, one at a time. Once he’s more or less gathered together, he turns and hurls himself directly at Louise, almost knocking her to the floor.

“I’ve never been more happy to see anyone in my life,” he gushes into her coat lapels. She pats him on the back a few times, allowing the tight hug, and then pushes him off.

“Pull yourself together you big wuss,” she says, but she’s grinning. “Good to see you too. Though can’t say as much for-”

“Little Dan, how I have missed your sweet face!” Kaspar cries, then lifts Dan directly off the floor and shakes him several times. “How did you cope in the storm? Did you bolt down the tables and chairs?” Red, pulsing alarm flashes through Dan’s mind. He pictures round, white tables cartwheeling down the slopes of the mountains, barrelling into bunnies and small children on hikes. Then Kaspar barks a loud, disconcerting laugh. “Only joking, little Dan! They are already permanently fixed to the balcony. Your face is very amusing!”

“Oh,” Dan says, heart rate finally settling. “Ha ha.”

“So, shall we all have a drink and a snack?” Louise asks in a mumsy voice, at which point Dan almost shoves adoption papers into her hands.

Before he can reply however, that great, shuddering machine-noise starts up, zooming over their heads, making the chandelier in the centre of the lobby rattle. In the middle of Dan’s chest, something aches and pulls, like his ribs are attached to the plane by a fishing line, unspooling rapidly as Phil and the others glide further and further away. 

(Chapter Eleven!)

[danfanciesphil]

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Mr Novokoric doesn’t cross paths with Dan for the rest of the day, so Dan doesn’t get a second opportunity to gawp at an entitled semi-celebrity, not that he has much of a desire to, after their first encounter. It’s probably for the best that Dan avoids him for a while, given that he’s still shimmering with rage. How was he supposed to know that this man is some sort of Royal exception to the hotel rules? Just because he made a mistake doesn’t mean he deserved to be talked to with such... disdain. 

So, devoid of any further unpleasant - albeit unnervingly handsome - strangers, the rest of Dan’s third day passes without much to note. Mona had been right about the days here being pretty much the same. He imagines it will soon become hard to distinguish one day from the next. He’ll have to use the evening film as a marker so he can remember which days he did what, though that won’t be easy either, as Mona has an apparent love for heist movies, which aren’t known for their vastly dissimilar plots.

Dan heads to bed weary, wondering how long it will take to fall into a routine, so he can drift through the days without thinking. As he fumbles for his key, he notes the light on in the next room again, and pauses. He spends most of his days alone here, either in the suite on the top floor, or out on the slopes somewhere. If Mr Novo-dick is really in the room next to his, then that presumably means the music Dan has been hearing is coming from him. At least that means Dan isn’t developing a slow schizophrenia, but it does seem odd. Dan wouldn’t have had the man who shouted at him this morning pegged as a Chopin enthusiast.

Putting it to the back of his mind for now, Dan goes inside and gets ready for bed, only realising he’s being especially quiet when he’s already in his pyjamas, sat under the covers, ears staining to hear something above the silence. As the wait stretches on, Dan feels the familiar weight of his own guilt, failure and misery closing in, and soon the first of his tears begin to drip from his lashes. Soon, he is full on sniffling, eyes streaming, mouth pulled down in an unattractive curl.

And like clockwork, a melody begins, drifting slowly and calmly through the wooden wall. It’s soothing and delicate, making Dan’s sniffs lessen, and then stop altogether. He sighs in relief, settling back into his pillows, and lets the music buffet him gently into a long, deep sleep.

*

The next couple of days pass in a similar vein. Dan is woken early by the extreme light pouring into his room. He drags himself downstairs and into the kitchen, where Louise teases him for ten minutes straight while he drinks the coffee she makes him, and eats whatever delicious food she’s prepared. He sets up for breakfast out on the balcony with Mona, and serves the four guests that attend, all of whom tell him he’s a ‘charming’ and ‘polite’ young man. 

In the intervening hours between breakfast and lunch, he cleans the guests’ bedrooms and changes the beds, tidies the communal areas, and if he’s feeling brave, goes outside to sweep the area around the hot tub and wipe down the benches in the sauna. He and Mona then serve lunch, eat whatever Louise has left over, then do a general stock take. After that, they serve dinner, eat dinner, and finally set up the evening film. During any downtime, Dan sits at the front desk, answering the phone when it occasionally rings, booking in new guests, or granting the requests of current ones. At the end of the long days, Dan falls onto his bed, sometimes managing to worm out of his clothes, sometimes not, and makes a valiant attempt at crying himself to sleep. Inevitably however, that light, classical music starts up before he can get too lost in his own sadness, and he finds himself floating away with it, his cheeks sticky with dried tears when he wakes up the next morning, ready to repeat the whole thing again.

He’s never exactly rushed off his feet, but he rarely has time to be bored, apart from late in the evening, when Mona leaves him at the desk, and he wiles away the hours until his shift ends playing on his phone, or reading one of the books left for guests on the mezzanine lounge.

For three days, Dan doesn’t speak again with Mr Novokoric, though he does glimpse a flash of crimson from his window each morning, and occasionally catches sight of him wandering through the hotel, on his way back from the hot tub, or clasping a cup of coffee as he sneaks back into his room. On his fifth day, Dan watched from the desk as Mr Stevens - a middle aged guest with a receding hairline and an aversion to wearing anything except a robe - accost Mr Novokoric in the lobby to discuss the weather. Somewhat hilariously, Mr Novokoric appeared to be too polite to simply turn his back on the man, and had stood for eight patient minutes, responding in short, stunted sentences, and looking extremely uncomfortable. It had been the highlight of Dan’s day.

On Saturday, Dan’s seventh day, just before noon, Dan is sat at the front desk, wondering if Louise might have finished making lunch yet, and if he could go up and see, when the front door slams open, and Mr Novokoric hurtles through it, still wearing his skis. Dan can only watch, mouth agape, as the man awkwardly but determinedly slides his way into the lobby before reaching down, muttering angrily, and undoing the skis one at a time. He then proceeds to kick each one hard, sending them skittering across the wooden floor, and into the far wall. It’s reckless, idiotic behaviour, and if it had been anyone else, Dan would not have hesitated to call them out on it. The skis are heavy, and the walls are made of wood, for christ’s sake. Dan can see the chips they’ve made from all the way across the room.

Mr Novokoric does not, apparently, care about this. He marches across the room towards Dan, pulling off his thick gloves and tossing them to the floor as he goes. If he thinks Dan is picking them up for him he can forget about it. By the time Mr Novokoric is at the desk, Dan’s mouth is a set line, and he’s having trouble keeping himself from curling his fingers into fists.

“Sir, is there something the matter-”

“I need to use your phone,” Mr Novokoric barks. “Now.”

Dan thinks about saying no, or refusing, mostly because he wants to piss this asshole off, but his years of customer service training override his petulance. “Certainly, Sir,” he says through gritted teeth, then reaches underneath the desk, and lifts the corded telephone up onto it. “Go right ahead.”

Mr Novokoric snatches the receiver at once, and immediately begins punching in numbers with such vigorous jabbing motions that Dan fears for the keys. He lifts the receiver to his ear, fingers drumming restlessly on the lip of the desk. He turns to Dan, incredulous.

“Are you just going to stand there and listen to my private call?”

Heat surges into Dan’s cheeks, mostly born of the intense anger that sweeps through him. He doesn’t trust himself to reply, so he simply turns from the sight of the man in front of him, and begins pretending to be engrossed in the guest information database on the hotel’s only ancient computer.

For a moment, Dan can still feel eyes on him, and is convinced he’s about to be shouted at further, but then he hears Mr Novokoric’s voice say “about bloody time!”

The voice on the other end of the line, which Dan can just about hear, replies, “who is this?”

Dan has to hide his smirk in his hand.

“It’s your husband, you wank-stain,” comes Mr Novokoric’s hushed, furious response, which has Dan’s eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t recognise my voice.”

“Phil?” the disembodied voice says, vaguely. “This isn’t the number you were calling from a minute ago.”

It’s taking an extreme amount of effort for Dan to keep his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him. He tries valiantly to appear as though he’s engrossed in reading the Stevens’ guest information. It seems that under ‘special requests’, Mr and Mrs Stevens had asked for ‘an extra robe each’.

“That’s because you pissed me off so much that I dropped my phone down a mountain!”

There’s a pause in the conversation, and then the responding voice says, a touch amusedly, “a little harsh to blame me for that, darling. What could I possibly have said that would upset you so much?”

“I’m upset because you cancelled on me, again!” Mr Novokoric snaps. “I can’t believe you, Nikolai. How long are you going to leave me up here at the peak of Mount-fucking-Whatever? Are you playing out some warped, Rapunzel love story for the media?”

There’s something vaguely pathetic lurking beneath Mr Novokoric’s words. Dan squints at the screen, not seeing it, and strains to hear whatever is being said on the other end of the line.

“Darling, you know I’d have you with me in a heartbeat if I could,” the voice says, sounding slow and distracted. “I’ve just been drowning in all these meetings and dull media-stints. You’d be bored stiff if you were here. It won’t be much longer. There’s that benefit thingy in a week or so, right? You should probably come along to that. I’ll send the helicopter to collect you.”

“Oh I should probably come, should I?” Mr Novokoric snarls. “Good to know that, as we’re married, it’s probably a good idea for us to be together at least one fucking night of the year. You know, most married couples actually live in the same house. We’re not even in the same country most of the time!”

“It’s for the best that you stay out of the public eye for a bit, Phil. We’ve spoken about this.” 

“Even if that’s true, Nik, you said you’d take a few days off to spend some time with me-”

“I have to go, darling, I’m sorry,” the voice says. Dan might be imagining it, but he thinks he hears a splashing noise, followed by a shriek of laughter. “I’ll see you in a week.”

“What’s that noise? Nikolai, are you in the Ibiza apartment again-”

He cuts off as the dull note of the dial tone replaces the other person’s voice. Dan chews the inside of his cheek, and sneaks a glance up as Mr Novokoric places the receiver down, slowly, and turns to lean against the desk. At first, Dan is smug; he wishes he were able to hang up so brutally on him, but on closer inspection, he notices that Mr Novokoric actually appears to be crying. At least, his bright blue eyes are glistening. Traitorously, Dan’s good nature wins out, and he feels his heart squeeze in dumb sympathy. Dick-brain or not, Dan can’t just sit by while a guest he’s employed to look after cries right beside him. He plucks the box of tissues from the shelf behind him.

“Ex-excuse me, Mr Novokoric,” Dan says, swallowing a wash of pride for getting the name right on his first out-loud try. He holds out the box of tissues even though the other man doesn’t acknowledge him. “Here, take these.”

Mr Novokoric turns to Dan coldly, snatching the box from him. “I’m not crying,” he insists, but yanks a tissue from the box anyway, scrubbing it over his face.

“Oh, no,” Dan says, nodding in complete agreement with this outright lie. He really is an absurdly patient and talented customer service worker. “I just thought…” he scrambles for a viable explanation. “Well, I don’t know about you but I think the, er, high altitude of this place does something weird to my sinuses. I’m blubbering every night,” he jokes, thinking that the peppering of truth might give his ramble a little weight. 

It would be so easy, Dan thinks, for Mr Novokoric to accept Dan’s fumbling excuse for the offer of tissues, to blame the thin air for his tears and never speak about it again. But evidently the man has a defensive arsenal so loaded and precarious it can be triggered with the slightest wrong step.

So, Mr Novokoric’s expression hardens, and he says, “so it’s you that I can hear wailing on the other side of my wall, is it? You should keep these for yourself.” He shoves the tissues back into Dan’s hands. “Maybe then I'll actually get some sleep.”

Like he’s been whipped, Dan shrinks back, attempting to swallow the burning lump of coal now lodged in his throat. Any response he might have had, stupidly kind or not, dies on his tongue. For a split second, he imagines he sees a flash of regret pass over Mr Novokoric’s features, but then he is stalking away, skis lying forgotten against the wall, and stomping up the stairs. Dan sits heavily down in his chair, and tries not to let the flames of angry, hurt humiliation burn him to ash.

*

That night, Dan does his best to muffle his sobs in his pillow. They’re worse tonight, because the embarrassment of knowing he’s being heard, that he’s been heard this whole time, only makes him feel worse. If he could halt the tears altogether for Mr Novokoric’s sake he would, but nightfall has always been the time where his resolve leaves him. With nothing to distract him, Dan can only dwell on everything that’s wrong. At ten past one, however, the music seems to know to start up anyway; it’s baffling, obviously, but the only explanation Dan can think of is that the music is either unrelated to Dan’s crying, or being played to drown it out. He tries not to be grateful for it, knows that before long he’ll rely on it to send him off, but in the end he can’t help letting the swells of notes wash over him, and press him into unconsciousness.

*

Just after lunch has been cleared on Sunday, Dan is caught in a pleasant but rather over-detailed discussion with Mr and Mrs Stevens about their show-dog, Sherbet, when Louise calls him over from the serving hatch. He excuses himself politely, leaving the middle-aged couple to their game of Uno, and walks up to her.

“What’s up with you today?” she asks as soon as he’s within earshot, then places a mug of coffee in front of him. “You’ve got a face like a trodden foot.”

He manages a smile, but he doubts it’s very convincing. “Just tired,” he says, picking up the mug. “Thanks.”

She slaps his wrist, and he almost spills some. “That’s not for you, foot-face.”

“Oh.” He lowers it, glancing back at the Stevens’s. “Did they order…?”

“It’s for Phil,” she says, briskly wiping up the coffee Dan spilled with a wad of kitchen roll. For a moment, Dan just looks at her blankly, and she raises an eyebrow. “Mr Novokoric.”

“Oh,” Dan says, and smartly places the mug back down, stomach squeezing.

For whatever reason, his abrupt action makes Louise laugh. “Christ, he’s not a yeti, Dan. Anyway, he’s been looking for you all morning, so I thought you could take this to him.”

Exhausted as he is, it takes the words a few tries to penetrate Dan’s addled mind. “Wait, what?” he asks eventually, sure he must have misheard. “Looking for me?”

“Yes,” Louise replies, like this is a perfectly normal occurence. “Mona mentioned it earlier. Apparently he was hoping to catch you at breakfast but you weren’t serving.”

“I… I was adjusting the chlorine levels in the hot tub,” Dan says, feeling as though he’s stood on the edge of a crumbling cliff. Mr Novokoric is looking for him, specifically? Had he not made Dan feel awful enough yesterday? Is he looking for another chance to brutally attack his ego for a trivial reason? “Do I have to take this to him?”

Louise looks at him strangely. “Are you scared of him or something? I know he’s technically Royalty, but he’s just a regular guy underneath, Dan. Not much older than you. I know it’s a bit daunting at first, but don’t worry. He’s pretty chill.”

This makes Dan snort. “I’ll try and remember that next time he’s verbally abusing me.”

“Yeah, he’s a hot-head at times,” Louise allows. “I remember my first few encounters with him being on the snippy side. You’ve just got to get past that though, he doesn’t mean it. I just think he’s a bit… frustrated.” This makes Dan’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and Louise laughs at her own phrasing. “Not like that. Well, maybe like that. I mean, he’s here for weeks at a time, supposedly having ensnared this fabulous young hottie. But where is this prize pig, y’know?”

“Ibiza,” Dan mutters, and when Louise sends him a puzzled look, he picks up the coffee mug, sensing defeat. “Where am I taking this, then?”

“He was heading for the gym, last I saw.” Louise watches him make his way towards the stairs, being extra careful not to spill any coffee lest he feel the wrath upon its delivery. “Dan?” she calls out, making him pause. “Be nice, okay?”

“Me be nice?” Dan exclaims, and turns to shoot her an incredulous look, but Louise’s expression is unmoved. 

“Just let him say what he’s got to say.”

“Let him belittle me, you mean?”

Louise sighs heavily, turning away from him, and Dan is left in the middle of the mezzanine with a steaming mug of coffee, and a niggling sense that there’s still some great secret etched into the wooden walls of this place that he still hasn’t been entirely privy to.

*

Dan has only been in the gym once, on his first day, which is a perfect allegory for his entire mentality around gyms in general. From outside the door, he can hear a rhythmic pounding noise, like someone is punching the shit out of something. It’s unsurprising, then, that as he enters the gym, he sees Mr Novokoric in the corner by the mirrors, punching the shit out of a big cylindrical bag. For obvious reasons, this sight does not instil Dan with a desperate urge to go over and interact with Mr Novokoric, who is wearing headphones, and appears not to have noticed Dan come in.

Giving him a wide berth, Dan slowly approaches, intending to place the mug of coffee down on a nearby surface and escape quickly before Mr Novokoric has the chance to either hit him or yell at him some more. Instead, what happens is this: Dan attempts to edge along the wall to put the coffee down, and at the same moment, Mr Novokoric draws back his elbow and catches Dan in the arm, jolting him. Louise makes a good cup of coffee, Dan will admit. As it soaks through the fabric of his shirt sleeve, however, he can’t help but wish it was a little less scalding.

“Fuck,” Dan shouts, just as Mr Novokoric jumps back in surprise, ripping his headphones from his ears. He’s panting and damp, strands of his jet black hair sticking to his forehead, making it look like he’s got a stupid noughties side-fringe.

“Careful!” Mr Novokoric exclaims, as if Dan hasn’t already done the stupid thing. Surprisingly, he takes the mug of hot coffee from Dan’s hand. “Are you hurt?”

Dan shakes out his sleeve, wincing. “I’ll live. Sorry for startling you.”

“You should announce yourself next time,” he says, like a wanker. Like Dan calling out ‘whaddup it’s me your boy Dan’ would have done any good at all when he was blaring what Dan thinks is... Fall Out Boy? Really?... through his headphones. “I could have really hurt you.”

Doubtful of this statement, Dan’s eyes flick down to Mr Novokoric’s biceps. Begrudgingly, as he surveys the shallow valleys of his arm muscles, Dan admits to himself that out of the two of them, there’s no question of who would best the other. Dan’s never been more glad of his own long sleeves.

“Yeah,” Dan mutters, wanting nothing more than to scurry away to his room and recover from this incident with the excuse of changing his wet shirt. “Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again. Enjoy your coffee.”

“Wait,” he says as Dan turns to go. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Oh, God. It’s true. Louise wasn’t pulling his leg, it seems. Dan seriously considers just legging it. He could potentially feign a third degree burn from the coffee and sprint back through the doors. “Um, yeah,” Dan says, his own cowardice feeling vaguely nauseating as it curdles in his stomach. “She mentioned.”

“Yesterday, when I used the phone at reception-”

“I’m really sorry that I’ve been keeping you awake,” Dan blurts, badly needing this to be over now. “I never meant to-”

“I owe you an apology,” Mr Novokoric says, which stuns Dan into silence. For a minute, all he can do is stare into those two darting blue eyes, utterly perplexed. Mr Novokoric sips his coffee self-consciously. “It was rude and completely unacceptable for me to hone in on something so personal. I have no idea what your circumstances might be. I was upset, and I lashed out. So,” he sticks his hand out, awkwardly, into the space between them. “I’m sorry. Can we put it behind us?”

Dan stares at his outstretched hand as if it were a foreign beast. Then, belatedly remembering societal norms, he reaches out and takes it. “W-well, I suppose-”

“Great,” Mr Novokoric says, shaking Dan’s hand quickly, once, up and down, and then dropping it like it’s coated in poison. 

Dan stares at Mr Novokoric’s back as he sets the coffee down and pulls his gloves back on. Could it be that there’s a shade of decency to this man? Not once did it cross Dan’s mind that the reason he might be looking for Dan was to apologise.

“Yeah, great,” Dan echoes softly, and Mr Novokoric turns, eyebrows raised, as if he’s surprised Dan is still standing there.

“You can go now,” he says, puzzled, and turns his back.

All thoughts that Mr Novokoric is anything less than a rude, entitled bitch flies out of the gym window. Dan rolls his eyes, shaking his sleeve dry as he turns to leave.

(Chapter Four!)