#there is a pattern ... between him getting a divorce and his life in the vaults | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danfanciesphil · 6 years ago

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L’Histoire Française (Five Years Later) (NSFW)

Happy Nearly-New Year! This is a gift that I know a lot of you have been waiting for, I really hope it lives up to your expectations. Those of you that read and loved this fic mean a great deal to me, as this one is particularly close to my heart. You deserve a treat, and here it is!

I love you all very much, and here’s to a fab 2019.

Ellen xx

(L’Histoire Française Masterlist)

(TRANSLATION OF THE FRENCH IN THIS CHAPTER)

(Ao3 LINK)

Not Quite The Louvre

June 2022

The restaurant is one Dan has never set foot in, but admired from afar, the way he might admire one of Tyler’s designer suits, or Louise’s newborn - intensely, but with an awareness that it’s very much Not For Him. He walks through the large doors that sit beneath a calligraphic sign reading ‘Gilted’, already deeply concerned about what lies beyond them. From the name, this place promises extravagance, and from the moment Dan steps inside, this is just what it delivers. A wiry, angular woman at a small desk greets him, and immediately summons a young man to take his coat. The young man is wearing a pale green suit jacket, as are all of the other wait staff, which Dan admires for its quirkiness, but is also unnerved by. Is this some new, hipster trend that he’s unaware of? Is he outdated in his plain black suit? Or is it just the restaurant trying to distinguish themselves in some way? As his coat is being dealt with, Dan peers into the dining area, noting a lot of green decoration to match the waiters, including masses of tropical plants spreading their enormous leaves and vines throughout the tables. The walls are a distressed emerald, and plastered in enormous mirrors, which also cover much of the ceiling. Instantly, Dan is gobsmacked by the opulence, and fears for his wallet, which is about to get a pummelling, he can tell.

“Do you have a reservation, Sir?” the angular lady asks, one thin eyebrow arched. Dan tugs on his own boring suit jacket; he gets the distinct impression that she can smell inferiority on him.

“Yes,” Dan replies, cheeks warm. “I think it’s under Lester?”

The woman nods stiffly, then gazes down at her iPad, which has its own pale green cover, and the word ‘Gilted’ etched on in swirly gold. A nice touch, Dan can’t help but think. The woman pauses, then taps the screen, and locks it. She nods to Dan, marginally more amiable now that she knows he’s not some imposter.

“Right this way, Sir.”

She leads him through the maze of tables, of which there seem to be hundreds, scattered across a huge ballroom with vaulted ceilings, and a mezzanine balcony, accessible via an enormous spiralling staircase. Dan swallows, thinking again of his poor bank account, which has no idea of the violent assault headed its way. The woman takes him to a four person table in the centre of the room, underneath a chandelier so large Dan is astounded it can be safe, suspended as it is above his head.

“Enjoy your meal, gentlemen,” the woman says, and Dan nods awkwardly, mumbles a thank you, and sits down.

“Hi,” Dan says as he slides into his seat, and meets the gaze of the person opposite him. “Phil’s going to be late.”

Tyler’s mouth falls open, gasping dramatically. “The scoundrel.”

“He already texted to tell us,” Teddy says, and Dan relaxes a bit. It’s warm in here, not unpleasantly so, but as Dan is already uncomfortable, it feels stifling. He can’t help but think that it would be far easier to relax if Phil were beside him. “So,” Teddy continues, his fingers lacing together on the table in front of him. “Shall we get straight to it?”

Dan freezes, hackles immediately up, sniffing danger misting off of Teddy’s words. He looks between his two friends, trying and failing, as he always does, to decipher the mischievous look in their eyes.

“What?” he asks carefully.

“Well Dan,” Tyler jumps in, suspiciously keen to answer. “I know you’re not one for deep thought, but what do you think the reason might be that your other half might have summoned us here tonight?”

“I hardly think Phil suggesting we all go for dinner counts as a summons,” Dan says, though truthfully, Tyler’s implication stirs the butterflies that have already begun awakening in Dan’s belly.

Teddy’s left hand spreads itself atop Tyler’s, rather obviously. Dan tries not to roll his eyes as Teddy’s fingers waggle, making the large, princess cut diamond on his ring finger sparkle under the chandelier lights.

“Guys,” Dan says in his warning tone, which, granted, is about as terrifying as a guinea pig squeaking. “It’s just a catch-up dinner because you guys are gonna be on your cruise over my birthday next week.”

“Mmhmm,” Teddy says, sipping from his water glass. “In a restaurant expensive enough to bankrupt all four of us with the tasting menu.”

“It’s funny isn’t it,” Tyler muses to the general vicinity, leaning back in his chair. “That what with your parents being on the other side of the world, there’s nobody whose approval Phil could seek if he were inclined to, say... pop the question.”

“Oh, no, Ty,” Teddy says before Dan can object to that loaded statement, patting Tyler’s hand. They share an amused smile. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Oh no?” Tyler asks, theatrically.

“I think if I were Phil,” Teddy says. “In place of his actual guardians, I’d turn to Dan’s closest pals. The people he’s been closest to for most of his adult life, his mentors, his confidantes-”

Dan snorts loudly, and a nearby waiter shoots him a disapproving glare. “Kim and Kanye couldn’t make it, unfortunately.”

“D-list imitations compared to us, darling,” Tyler says, grinning. He’s wearing an irritatingly smug, patronising expression that Dan is very familiar with. “Come on, Dan. The set up is so obvious even you shouldn’t be able to miss it. He’s probably pacing the pavement outside right now, rehearsing his proposal speech.”

“He’s late because he had to supervise detention today,” Dan mutters, though beneath the table, his hands wring the cloth napkin.

Luckily, a waiter approaches then, and Tyler is distracted, demanding the wine list, and a round of nibbles and G & T’s to start them off. Dan turns his attention to his phone while the waiter reels off the various gins available.

From: Dan To: Phil omg please hurry up im about to commit a double homicide x

Ten seconds later, he gets a response.

From: Phil To: Dan no fair. you promised if you ever murdered them that i could help :( im four mins away. steer clear of the silverware. xx

From: Dan To: Phil no promises x

“Darling, I know the etiquette expected from this sort of establishment is a little beyond you, but texting at the dinner table really is terribly rude,” Tyler says, giving him a level glare.

“Sorry,” Dan mutters, though he doesn’t mean it. He pockets his phone reluctantly, noting that the waiter has once again disappeared. “This place is too fancy for me.”

“I must say,” Teddy says, thoughtfully. He’s gazing around at the other patrons, clinking silver cutlery against china dishes, their bleached white teeth clacking against crystal glasses of Merlot. “I was a little surprised at the venue Phil chose to to do this.”

“To do what? Teddy, Phil is not going to-”

“Yes, I thought the same,” Tyler says animatedly, turning to his husband. “That man’s so off-the-wall in every other respect, you’d think he’d have conjured up some extravagant, personalised proposal scene in a lego version of the Eiffel Tower or something ridiculous. Not a restaurant so posh it almost makes me feel uneasy.” He sips water again. “Almost.”

“For God’s sake,” Dan near-snaps, nails pushing into his palms. “Will you stop? It’s just dinner, for God’s sake.”

Something over Dan’s shoulder catches Tyler’s eye, and the smile that spreads over his mouth is somehow both smug and excited. He leans back in his chair, and exchanges a glance with Teddy.

“Uh huh,” Tyler says.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m stupidly late I know,” Phil’s voice says at Dan’s ear. Seconds later, lips are pressed, fleeting and damp, against Dan’s cheek. “Have you already ordered?”

“Just the wine-” Dan starts to say, and then stops short as Phil slips into the chair beside his.

His boyfriend is wearing a suit that Dan has never seen him in before. The jacket is black velvet, with thin, undulating gold thread woven into swirling patterns across the expanse. It’s fitted to his long, lithe body, and hugs his broad shoulders perfectly. Phil’s hair has been trimmed, jaw closely shaven, and a haze of expensive-smelling cologne floats in the air around him. In short, he looks more delicious than anything on the menu, and Dan hasn’t even read it yet.

“Phil, darling, you look so scrumptious that it’s going to be a struggle not to leap across the table and devour you,” Tyler says with a gleeful grin.

Phil laughs politely, scooting his chair in. “Hey, Ty. Teddy. How are you guys?”

Dumbed by the appearance of his boyfriend, who earlier this morning had had to run out of the house without showering to get to work on time, Dan can only stare. He feels underdressed beside this deity. A pale, unworthy companion for someone so beautiful, in a place so beautiful to match. Dan is wearing a suit as well, sure, but it’s just the same one he always wears, black and tight-fitting, possibly a little on the small side, especially noticeable from how it exposes his ankles.

“We’re wonderful, my dear,” Tyler answers for both of them.

“I’ve been trying to get around to finally divorcing him, but he keeps distracting me with blowjobs,” Teddy says in a sigh.

At that moment, a slightly flustered waiter coughs from the end of the table, holding a bottle of expensive-looking red wine. “Y-your Rijoca, gentlemen.”

Tyler claps his hands excitedly. “I’ll do the tasting, garcçon.” He pushes his glass towards the waiter, who pours a drop in.

Whilst Tyler sniffs and sips pretentiously, Dan leans towards Phil as discreetly as he can. “You look absolutely amazing,” Dan says, still dazed. “Should I have dressed up more?”

Phil gives him a warm, fond smile which spreads, like treacle, through Dan’s entire body, until he can feel it in his toes. “Dan, tu es toujours la plus belle personne dans la pièce.”

A bunch of pink, sun-warmed flowers bloom in Dan’s cheeks. “Merci,” he mumbles. “But seriously-”

“The bouquet is divine Phil,” Tyler announces, gesturing for the waiter to fill everyone’s glasses. “Try, try. Is that not simply magnifique?”

Phil takes his glass, thanking the waiter, and sips politely. “Yeah, it’s delicious,” he says. “Well picked.” He turns his attention back to the waiter. “Um, excusé-moi monsieur, nous voudrons un boutéille de champagne aussi, s’il vous plaît.”

“Assurément, monsieur.”

“Oh? Are we celebrating?” Teddy asks in a knowing voice, chin resting atop his interlaced fingers. His eyes glimmer, though it could be the reflection on his superfluous, hipster spectacles.

“We are,” Phil confirms once the waiter has disappeared off. The three of them wait for Phil to continue, but he simply sips Rijoca, and pretends to be intrigued by the décor. Just as Tyler’s big mouth opens, clearly intent on prompting a further explanation, Phil clears his throat loudly, and opens his menu with a flourish. “So! What are we having? French cuisine can be a somewhat hit and miss. Do you think you’ll be alright finding something you like?”

Reluctantly, Dan turns his attention to his own menu, though his heart has started to thump distractingly beneath his shirt. He feels as if he might need to remove his suit jacket soon, or else rivers of sweat will begin pouring out of his sleeves. That might put Phil off whatever it is he has planned. Not that Phil is necessarily planning anything. This could, still, just be a normal, catch-up meal between friends. Where everyone is dressed to the nines for no reason, and champagne is being placed on standby, and the very air itself tastes decadent.

The menu is entirely in French, and despite the lessons he’s been taking for the past three years, and despite Phil’s steady stream of dirty talk and sweet nothings in the language, Dan cannot understand a word in front of him. Then again, even if the menu was in layman’s English, Dan doubts very much that the words would seep into his mushy brain.

“Hmm, what’s cuisses de grenouilles?” Tyler asks, peering at his own menu.

Phil hides a smile behind his wine glass. “Frog’s legs.”

Tyler shuts the menu sharply. “Right, think I’ll stick to the salade.”

“I can never resist a French Onion Soup,” Teddy says with a conspiratorial smile. “Just don’t tell my health-freak husband how much oil and cheese they pour in.”

Tyler immediately begins Googling this on his phone, which starts a quiet, whispered argument on the other side of the table. Phil turns to Dan; there’s no mistaking the hidden twinkle in his eye, unsuccessfully being held back, perhaps until the champagne arrives.

Phil’s eyebrow lifts. “Dan?”

“Y-yes?”

His heart is pounding against his chest, as if it wants to break free and launch itself onto Phil’s plate.

“What are you going to have?” Phil asks, nodding towards his menu. God, he looks phenomenal, Dan can’t help but think. In the low, warm lighting, surrounded by pastel green, Phil is a waterlily in bloom. He puts Monet’s Nympheas to shame, and Dan saw those right up close, too. “Do you need me to translate anything?”

“N-no,” Dan says, mesmerised. He swallows, quietly, and tears his gaze away. Oh, God. Is his entire life about to turn upside down at the sight of one fold of a bended knee? “I’ll just have the, uh,” he casts about the thick ivory page for something vaguely recognisable. “The ratatouille.”

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, frowning. “I think they have galettes. They’re like savoury pancakes. You like pancakes.”

“No, really,” Dan assures him, stomach roiling at the idea of attempting to digest a flappy, doughy pancake right now. He lifts his glass of wine to his lips and pours about half of it down his throat. “I’m in a, uh, tomatoey mood.”

“What a romantic sentiment,” Tyler mutters to Teddy.

“He can treasure it forever,” Teddy replies, luckily too low to be overheard by Phil. Even so, Dan kicks both of them in the shin.

The waiter returns with an ice bucket and champagne, and Phil orders for everyone in his fluent, silken French. Dan is on edge, certain now that he is about to be jumped with some monumental romantic gesture that he is entirely unprepared to deal with. It all feels overwhelming - the glitz, the alcohol, the unrecognisable, expensive food - but he tries to cling to the presence of Phil beside him, safe and comforting even gussied up as he is.

Is this how it always is? Is the proposer supposed to fire the question out of the blue, giving the proposee no time at all to rehearse or prepare? He supposes in all the films he’s seen, the woman is always totally caught off-guard by the sight of her man kneeling before her. Dan’s always been pretty cynical about this however, thinking she must have had some sort of inclination.

Before he can dwell any further, the food arrives amidst casual chatter about jobs and grievances, and Teddy and Tyler’s usual guilt tripping about Dan having “abandoned them to go and live in sin with his French lover.”

“It was three years ago,” Dan says to Teddy. “I think possibly it’s time to forgive me.”

“We should really be angry at Frenchie, of course, for snatching you away,” Tyler says, studying a tomato on his fork with scrutiny. “But who could stay mad at those chiselled features?”

“You do know I’m not actually French, don’t you?” Phil asks, though he’s laughing good-naturedly, playing with the stuffed aubergine on his plate. “And hey, without Dan there I bet it was great that you could have sex in any room of the house, before you moved into your new place, obviously.”

“Never stopped us before,” Teddy mutters and Dan throws a napkin at him.

By the time dessert is over with, the red wine has been drained, and the champagne is finally lifted from the ice bucket, Dan has almost forgotten what he’d been worried about. The wine in Dan’s bloodstream is creating a pleasant, blurred hum around their table. It even makes Tyler’s loud, boisterous chatter just the right side of tolerable.

“So,” Phil says in a louder voice than he has been speaking, and reaches to pluck the unopened champagne from Teddy’s hands. “I have something I’d like to announce.”

Instantly Dan’s heart leaps into his throat. Tyler and Teddy exchange a look loaded with something like ‘here it comes’. Phil turns to Dan, and reaches for his hand. Dan lets him take it, limply, and tries to focus on the words about to come from his boyfriend’s mouth; in the thousand ways he’d imagined Phil might do this, he always knew he’d need to remember everything he said. Phil’s always been a master of language, wielding it like a sword in the hands of a medieval Knight.

“Dan,” Phil says. “There’s a reason I wanted us all to be here tonight.”

Dan takes a deep breath. “O-oh, okay.”

“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” Phil says, unexpectedly. “There are things I want to ask you, in the future, but that’s not what this is. You should know, by now, that I love you more than anything. I see a future for us, a long and happy future, and that’s why I think we don’t need to be swearing it to one another with rings just yet.”

“I…” Dan frowns, looking towards Teddy and Tyler. Their expressions are unreadable; they look excited, brimming with some secret thing Dan is perplexed by. “Wait, so you’re... not proposing?”

Phil smiles sweetly, and squeezes Dan’s hand. “No.” He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a key. There’s a keyring attached, in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. On it, Dan can see silver lettering, though he can’t read what it says. “I thought about it. I’m always thinking about it, honestly. Of course I want to be married to you. But before we splash out on a big wedding, I think it’s important for us to get to a place, individually, where we’re happy in ourselves.”

Dan’s heart squeezes. He knows that somewhere in that speech Phil said he loves him. That he wants to be married to him someday, even. But all Dan hones in on is the word ‘individually’. He and Phil have tried individually. It had been, and remains to this day, the worst period of Dan’s life, trying to extricate himself from Phil, after he’d known the touch of him, the closeness. Surely Phil cannot be suggesting they do that again - try some new-age method of spending some time apart to ‘find themselves’ before committing? Phil turns Dan’s hand over then, distracting him, so his palm faces up, and drops the key into it. Bemused, Dan brings it to his face, squinting at the words written on it.

La Cerise Galerie, 234 Lipton Avenue

He recognises the name. It’s a gallery Dan used to like visiting from time to time, smallish, and independent, run by a French couple with a passion for the romantics and the impressionists. Unfortunately, the couple, Madame and Monsieur Cerise, decided to put the gallery on the market a few months ago to go and travel the world on an extended retirement trip. They were clearly wealthy from some unknown source, the gallery just being something they did on the side. Sadly, the pretty mansionette that the gallery was in, with its white, modern, square exterior, and neat gardens, has since remained empty.

“I don’t understand,” Dan says, feeling as if he’s stood on the edge of some tall, sheer cliff in high winds.

“He never was the brightest bulb, Phil,” Tyler says in a stage whisper. “You may need to spell it out for the poor dear.”

“It’s yours, Dan,” Phil says, inexplicably. “I bought it. Well, almost. I’ve had a a little help.” Phil shoots a meaningful look towards Tyler, who lifts his glass, smiling. “You need to sign the deed for it, and I have to finalise some stuff. But it’s yours if you agree, Dan. I picked the key up on my way here. And now I’m giving it to you.”

Dan stands from his chair, making it screech across the wooden floor. He can barely breathe; he knew this suit jacket was too small for him. The key sits weightily in his palm, loaded with all that it represents.

“Phil” Dan says, shaking his head. He wants to hurl the keys across the room. “You can’t do this. This is... mad.” He looks at Tyler, who is wearing a fascinated expression, as if Dan’s reaction is a scene in a teledrama. “Ty... you knew about this?”

The room is rocking violently, side to side beneath Dan’s feet. Tyler nods, sipping wine. “Of course. Phil and I have been in the process of purchasing the place for weeks.”

“But earlier... you were hinting he was gonna propose!”

Teddy laughs then, clearly thoroughly enjoying this crazy scene as much as Tyler. “We had to throw you off the scent, obviously.”

Well, Dan thinks, they sure managed that. Dan feels utterly blindsided by this, can’t even wrap his head around something so absurd. The keys in his hand are dragging him to the floor as the responsibility they drip with mounts. Being a property owner of any description at his age is something far out of Dan’s expectation, let alone the owner of his own gallery. Carefully, as if he’s approaching a wild, skittish deer, Phil places his napkin on the table, and stands too. He holds his hands out to Dan, wary of spooking him.

“Let me explain,” Phil says, or Dan thinks that’s what he says; his heart is pounding so loudly it’s nearly drowning out the words. He takes Phil’s hands anyway, if only to ensure he doesn’t topple over. A few heads have turned towards them from nearby tables, presumably because Dan standing up and clearly on the verge of a panic attack is not the usual spectacle for a place like this. “I want you to be happy, Dan,” Phil is saying, somewhere on the horizon. “I want to see you flourish, and grow. I’m so, so grateful you decided to apply for a TA position five years ago, I truly am. But I know it’s not the path you’d have chosen, if you could.” He pats the keys in Dan’s hand. “This, right here, is what you want. I’m lucky enough to love what I do. All I want is for you to feel the way I do each morning, when you get in to work.”

Glassy-eyed, Dan just stares at Phil. He looks down at the keys in his hand again, and slowly curls his fingers around them, just to feel the cold, slim weight of them, and test out the idea that they belong to him.

“It’s too much,” Dan whispers, trying to remember the asking price painted onto the sun-faded For Sale sign in the front lawn of the gallery. Even with Phil’s additional new research-job at the University in the next town over, he’s can’t be earning enough to afford this. “We can’t afford it.”

“I loaned Phil what he couldn’t reasonably stretch to,” Tyler says then, dropping this snippet of information with far too much nonchalance. “My promotion has given me a salacious new salary. Teddy and I already bought the dream home last year, and had the big wedding. We thought about getting one of those abandoned infants from China shipped over, but on balance, this seemed more of a priority.”

“Tyler, no,” Dan says, coldly. “I don’t want a handout. I’m working full time, and I’m doing the teacher-training course. In a few years I’ll be a qualified English teacher, I don’t need-”

“Your dreams are always worth a shot,” Teddy interrupts, then reaches out, and pops the champagne. “Even if it’s just one shot, with everything you have. Besides, you’ll never persuade Ty out of it. He’s a regular sugar daddy now. Buys his way out of everything. Cooking dinner, doing the dishes, return blowjobs-”

As if to prove this point, Tyler whips out a few banknotes from some pocket in his immaculate suit and throws them into Teddy’s face. “Twenty pounds to shut your cute trap, darling.”

Suddenly exhausted from the overwhelm, Dan sits back down, heavily. Phil follows suit, watching Dan with scrutiny.

“I know it seems like a lot,” Phil says softly, one hand on Dan’s shoulder. “But it seemed… right. I was on my way to the jewellery store to get you some fancy ring, and I drove past the gallery on my way. And I got this feeling in my gut, a familiar feeling that I couldn’t quite place. So I drove on, and then I realised - it’s the same feeling I had when you walked into my classroom that first day. A kind of static buzz, exciting and hopeful. Like all the atoms around me just aligned.”

A lump, huge and insistent, aches in Dan’s throat, making his eyes water. “I won’t be able to repay you. Not for years.”

“I think I speak for Phil and myself when I say that the only repayment we need right now, is for you to give it your best shot,” Tyler says, making Teddy smile at him in that rare, fond, proud way. “Well,” Tyler corrects. “I’m sure Phil wouldn’t mind a grateful blowjob or two as well-”

“He’s right,” Phil interrupts, and Dan raises an eyebrow. “About you not needing to worry about repaying us,” Phil adds quickly, though a smirk has crept onto his face. “You don’t need to decide right now. But I thought we could go and see it after dinner, take a look at least.”

“See it tonight?” Dan asks. His full stomach squeezes and contracts uncomfortably, the ratatouille threatening to make a second appearance. “Um, w-well...”

He looks at Teddy and Tyler, now kissing on the other side of the table. He’s not sure he can take a visit to the potential property of his dreams with them in tow. Phil follows his gaze, then leans towards Dan, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll tell them seulement nous.”

They walk to the restaurant, floaty and slightly swaying from the champagne Dan had forced himself to knock back in celebration. He’s still incredibly unsure about this whole thing, and feels as if either accepting or rejecting the offer would have equally disastrous consequences. Not even taking into consideration how it would disappoint Phil to refuse the gallery, Dan can barely stand to imagine how, in the weeks and possibly years that followed that refusal, he’d slowly be consumed with regret. Phil had been right, earlier - Dan had never wanted this career path, and has only really stayed on it to be near him. But Phil’s career prospects are changing; he’s spending more and more time at the University, and Dan knows it won’t be long until he goes from Assistant History Researcher, to PhD student, to full-fledged History Professor. And then what will Dan’s excuse be for working in a job he has no passion for, with children that are more inclined to fondly mock him than listen to him as an authoritative figure?

Working as a teacher has always been a horrifying thought for Dan, if he’s honest. The only thing that makes it tolerable is knowing that he’ll be able to snatch time with Phil, before class and in class and a bunch of times between. The idea of patrolling the school halls without this prospect is not a fun one.

And... he has always wanted this. The cute, perfectly situated, small-town gallery. It’s a dream he’s only told a select few about, not even his parents, who would dismiss it as unrealistic. Perhaps their influence was stronger than Dan thought it had been, because never did he expect to actually get his dream, especially not like this, when he’s so young, and only because Phil’s willing to place so much faith in him.

All of this bubbles around with the champagne in Dan’s tipsy brain, until they’re at the door of the gallery, and Dan realises he hasn’t spoken a word to Phil all the way here. Their hands are joined, swinging gently between them. Now, Dan breaks the hold, reaching into his trouser pocket for the key. He looks at Phil before he inserts it into the lock.

“If I decide I can’t do it,” Dan says in a rush, because Phil has to hear it. “If it’s all too much right now, and I’m not ready… I just want to tell you,” he swallows, determined to find the right words, “nobody has ever done anything like this for me. Nobody has ever even listened to me long enough to understand that I dream about this all the time. I don’t think I really understood how much you must love me until now,” Dan confesses, feeling his eyes sting. “I don’t know if I’m quite able to accept something so…” he flaps his hands at the pale grey door of the gallery, with its frosted windows, and neat, quiet sign. “You know. But oh my God. Thank you for this. That doesn’t even begin to cover it. But thank you.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says with a small, pleased smile. “I know it’s big. And maybe I’m doing everything wrong. Maybe I should have proposed first, I don’t know.” He shrugs, eyes travelling to to the sign on the door. “But I know one day, maybe way in the future, but one day, I’ll look over and see a ring on your finger. I know it would make you happy, if I asked you. But I don’t want that to be... what defines you. I don’t want you to just be my partner, who hates his job. I want you to be your best self, and to commit to me knowing you’ll never yearn for more. No pressure, Dan, really. It’s all reversible. But let’s have one teensy, decadent little explore, try out picking which room you’d display what in. It can just be pretend, for now.”

Dan smiles, marvelling as always at Phil knowing just what to say. “Okay,” he agrees, and opens the door.

September 2022

“What are you doing here?”

Phil laughs, thankfully, and walks over to kiss him. “Nice to see you too, stranger.’

“Sorry,” Dan says against Phil’s mouth, sagging into his embrace. “My nerves are fraught.”

“Good thing I brought this then,” Phil says, leaning back and pulling out a bottle of cold champagne from the large bag in his hand. “To celebrate your Grande Ouverture, Monsieur.”

Dan smiles weakly, though the phrase makes his heart speed up. “God, don’t call it that. It’s just a small party to let people know I’m here.”

Phil nods seriously, but there’s a glinting smile in the depths of his eyes. That smile hasn’t faded for one moment since Dan announced, after just one tour of the gallery’s rooms, empty of everything but promise, that he’s going to do this. Since that night, Dan has thrown himself into getting it ready, procuring artworks, establishing a name for himself as a young curator with a new space, and it’s all led up to this. Tomorrow night, the Cerise Galerie officially opens, under new ownership. It’s currently eleven o’clock, and Dan’s been working tirelessly since 7am. He’s barely been home all week, in fact. Buffy probably doesn’t even recognise him anymore.

“Sure,” Phil says, then pushes the bottle into Dan’s hands. “Open this will you? I’ve got some plastic glasses in here somewhere.”

Dan watches as Phil sets the bag down, pulls out his zig-zag blanket and spreads it over the floor of the main gallery room. It’s a strange thing to do, probably, but Dan is rarely surprised by Phil’s peculiarities anymore. Phil finds glasses, and then produces a few cartons of Chinese food, and Dan falls in love with him all over again. They eat and drink sat on the blanket together, shoes kicked off, shirts unbuttoned, until Dan feels vaguely normal again, and much less like he’s about to burst into a million shards of stress and worry.

“It looks awesome in here,” Phil says, leant back on his hands as he surveys the walls. The frames are all simple wood, so as not to detract from the paintings within. This room shows the work of three artists, all Ethiopian by birth, who paint about their culture, their current lives in England, and their families, respectively. Dan found each artist separately, and has placed their work in one room, to see how their combined cultural experience compliments each other’s work. “You’re really good at this.” Phil lowers his eyes to meet Dan’s, still glinting. “I knew you would be.”

“Thank you,” Dan says, as sincerely as he can manage. He must have thanked Phil a thousand times by now, a hundred thousand, possibly, both verbally and… non-verbally, but he still feels he needs to stress it again. “Most people wouldn’t get an opportunity to even try. Let’s hope I don’t fuck it up.”

Phil frowns. “I don’t think you could, Dan. But you know if it doesn’t work out, it’s not your fault. This is hardly the best economy to be opening an independent gallery in. If it doesn’t take off like we hope…” Phil shrugs. “Then we’ll chalk it up to experience, and a fun adventure, and try again somewhere down the line.”

Dan nods, grateful for his optimistic practicality. Those two things shouldn’t fit together, but somehow Phil makes it work. Just then, Dan’s elbows give out, shoulders and back screaming at him to release the tension, and he flops back onto the blanket, groaning.

“You alright?” Phil asks around a chuckle, nudging Dan with his knee. “Getting old?”

“Everything aches,” Dan complains, eyes falling shut. “The stress of running my own business has aged me before my time.”

“And you haven’t even opened yet,” Phil teases, but starts to gather up the empty Chinese boxes, moving them into an empty carrier bag. “Turn over, Grandad.”

One of Dan’s eyes opens. “What?”

Phil laughs, eyes crinkling around the edges. This is a rather wonderful vantage point, Dan muses to himself. Phil is knelt up, in just black jeans and his white shirt rolled up at each sleeve. His jet black hair is starting to pepper grey at the shaved sides, which Dan adores, and tells him so frequently. He looks like a man, strong and lean, with the piercing blue eyes of a mythical sea creature, and the mischievous smile of an eighteen year old.

“I said, turn over,” Phil repeats, but this time he winks. Dan thinks about refusing, but that’s never normally a good idea if he wants to get through the night un-spanked. And yes, the idea of being bent over Phil’s knee is tempting, but as he’s got to run around an opening-party tomorrow, he probably needs to not be in pain every time he takes a step. So, Dan turns onto his stomach, intrigued already by what Phil has in mind. Phil crawls over to him then, and straddles Dan, sitting on his bum. He smooths his big hands across Dan’s shoulders and begins to squeeze and knead them; Dan is so caught off-guard by the massage that he sinks heavily into the floor, and groans, making Phil laugh again. “Good?”

“So good,” Dan says, practically drooling. “Your fingers are like wonderful knives.”

“Hmm,” Phil says. “I’m hoping that’s a positive thing.”

“Oh, it is.”

Phil keeps kneading him, knuckles working the knots out one by one, then carving pathways either side of his spine. He works Dan’s hips, the dip of his lower back, slots his fingers between Dan’s ribs and rakes over them. It’s sinfully good, and by the time Phil’s hips grind into his bum for the first time, Dan is so hard he can barely think straight.

Phil climbs off of him, and pulls Dan’s shoulder, encouraging him to turn over until he’s laid on his back again. Dan moves fluidly, easily, perfectly happy to be led by Phil’s desire. He learned long ago to trust that despite the teasing and playful build-up, Phil will always get him there in the end. Phil unbuttons Dan’s shirt, then trails his tongue up the exposed strip of skin between the lapels. He pulls the material aside, revealing a nipple, and closes his lips over it, first softly, and then biting down, hard.

Dan gasps, the sting of pain giving way to the instant tingle of blissful relief that follows it. At first, Dan had been more reluctant to experiment with the duality of pleasure and pain that Phil had slowly revealed he enjoyed. But over time, Dan has dipped his toe deeper and deeper into the waters, and discovered, to his shock, that he actually likes it a lot. Now, five years into their sexual relationship, Dan is no longer shy about his desire, and readily admits to Phil, as he found it so hard to do once, that he wants Phil to hurt him, and then kiss him. To tie him up with ropes that chafe, and then lick soft, warm lines up his neck. To bite his thighs hard enough to mark the skin, and then push slick fingers inside of him so gentle and slow that it takes hours to open him up enough.

Phil has removed Dan’s shirt entirely now, and is currently working his trousers off too. Once they’re thrown aside, he settles between Dan’s thighs, hands roaming over the bare skin on show. His fingers pinch Dan’s nipples, coaxing them into taut pebbles. His nails drag down Dan’s sides, leaving thin white lines across the skin in their wake. Dan just breathes shallowly, trying not to wriggle too much, or gasp too loudly, as he’s not been expressly permitted to do anything except lie here, on his back, and let Phil do as he wants.

“Do you know,” Phil says conversationally, as he runs a teasing, light hand over Dan’s erection, concealed beneath his black briefs. “You’re just as gorgeous as the day I met you.”

“Less cocky, I expect,” Dan replies, and Phil slaps him in the thigh for answering, then strokes the spot.

“A bit, perhaps.”

“You’re more gorgeous,” Dan blurts, at which point two spots of pink burst into each of his cheeks. “Maybe it’s the salt and pepper hair. Or just… happiness. You look magnificent, every day.”

Phil’s hands pause for a moment, and he gives Dan a fond, loving smile. “No more talking now,” he says after a moment, and Dan is sort of glad. Who knows what other schmaltzy nonsense might have seeped out if he were allowed to continue. He tips his head back, and sinks into the sensation of Phil’s hands on him again, and then his mouth, against his briefs, light and teasing with his flicking tongue.

“Lift,” Phil instructs, tapping Dan’s hip.

As he raises his bum from the floor, Phil tugs the briefs down, and then all the way off. He trails one finger along the slightly curved line of Dan’s cock, then scoops the pearl of precome on his fingertip, and deposits it into his mouth. He takes Dan’s thighs in each hand then, and pushes them upwards, until Dan’s near bent in half. Practiced at this by now, Dan knows to wrap his own hands around them, and hold himself like this, so he does.

“Bon,” Phil whispers, offhandedly, and presses a kiss to Dan’s left foot.

There’s a pause before anything else happens, and staring up at the ceiling as he is, Dan can’t tell why. If he had to guess, however, he’d say that Phil was in the process of removing his own clothes, and the thought of it makes Dan ache, in the centre of his chest. It’s a struggle not to lift his head, and see the slow reveal of Phil’s naked body with his own two eyes. Eventually, Phil is back, and Dan feels lips against the backs of his thighs, making his cock twitch in anticipation.

“Ne jouir pas,” Phil says, firmly, shortly before taking one of Dan’s balls into his mouth.

He does the same to the other, and right away Dan is not convinced he will be able to follow Phil’s instruction. Phil’s tongue trails down, not going the way Dan expected, and he groans, deep and long, sensing the impending development before it happens. His cock remains untouched and flushed a deep pink, Phil’s mouth moving to areas further south. He licks between Dan’s cheeks in one unbroken line, then places a hand on each, and begins to swirl the tip of that tongue around Dan’s rim.

Dan’s face is hot, and probably bright red. Each movement of Phil’s tongue against him sparks a dozen electric pulses through his whole body, along with that delicious, hot sluice of shame that comes from being so vulnerable, from doing something ‘taboo’. If Dan turns his head to the left, he can see a painting he loved from the moment he set eyes on it, of a wild desert, over which a string of bunting hangs, displaying the Ethiopian flag, and beside it, the Pride flag.

“Fuck,” Dan lets slip as Phil’s tongue inches its way inside him.

He’s relentless at this, and saves it for special occasions because he knows Dan goes mad for it. When he does press his tongue there, he is slow and teasing, and can spend hours at it, driving Dan to the brink of ecstasy, and sometimes over the brink, if Dan is out of practice at staying in control. He highly suspects this might be one of those times.

His hips dance and shift, pushing into the feel of Phil against him, all warm wet mouth, and insistent, flicking tongue. “Fuck, Phil,” Dan moans, breathless. “Y-you’ll have to stop if you don’t want me to-”

Phil’s hand draws back and then lands with a slap on Dan’s right cheek, loud enough that it echoes around the room. He draws back to look at Dan between his thighs, lips slick, cheeks flushed. “Ne jouir pas,” he repeats. “And no talking, either.”

Then he dives back in, leaving Dan struggling and gasping, eyes fixed to the ceiling, trying desperately to think of the most non-arousing objects he can conjure up. A teapot. A wheelbarrow. Phil’s socks on the table. Phil’s tongue against his ass-

“Unngh, God,” Dan groans, and then, miraculously, and awfully, Phil moves away. There’s a smirk twisting his lips, and he reaches for the champagne bottle, taking a cheeky swig. Dan lifts an eyebrow, but dares say nothing.

“Très bon,” Phil says approvingly, then offers him the bottle. Dan shakes his head carefully, sensing a trap, and Phil laughs. “Hey, I brought it for us to share, no tricks.” Still, Dan refuses, too aroused to contemplate trying something as mundane as drinking, and Phil shrugs, setting it down. He’s in only his pants now, Dan notes, which are doing a poor job of concealing how hard he is beneath them. He climbs back on top of Dan, takes both of his wrists in either hand, and pins them above his head, smiling. “If I told you to keep your hands here, would you?”

At once, Dan nods, eagerly.

“Alright,” Phil says, leaning down to give him a slow, explorative kiss. When it’s over, he releases Dan’s wrists, and tilts his hips forwards, pressing their groins together. Even through the fabric of Phil’s underwear, Dan’s eyes roll back at how good it feels, to have some friction against his tortured erection at last. “I’m going to let you fuck me,” Phil says, as if he’s telling Dan he’s bought Buffy more dog food. “And you’re not to move your hands.”

Dan’s eyes widen. There’s absolutely no doubt in his mind that he is not strong enough to achieve this feat, but to say so might mean it won’t happen, so he stays silent. His heart races, watching as Phil finds his suit jacket a few feet away, and rummages in the pocket for a hidden bottle of lubricant. Dan wonders if he’s got any other exciting objects in there, but doesn’t dare ask.

So Dan is forced to watch, silent and unmoving, as Phil tilts up onto his knees above Dan, shucks off his underwear, and reaches between his legs to insert two lube-slicked fingers inside himself. It’s utter torture, and Dan’s eyes sting from how badly he wishes he could reach up and touch, bite, kiss, claim him. But he does none of this, just watching, mind blurred from lust, as the Adonis above him prepares himself for Dan.

“D’accord,” Phil says after what seems like centuries. “Je suis prêt. Ne bougez pas.”

Don’t move. As if that’s even a possibility, Dan thinks as Phil adjusts their positions, and then carefully sinks down onto Dan’s cock. It’s blinding, and consuming, like a meteor dazzling across his vision, obscuring everything else. Burrowing into Phil’s tight, warm body is akin to no other sensation. Dan feels sounds slipping from his mouth, feels tremors undulating through him, and still Phil engulfs him in a slow, steady swallow, until Dan has bottomed out entirely, and Phil is speared on his cock.

“Oh, for the love of fuck, please move,” Dan begs. Maybe it’s because Dan’s been so stressed, or because despite talking aloud, and making demands no less, he hasn’t actually moved his hands from where Phil pinned them. Whatever the reason, Phil does start to move his hips, in small increments at first, shifting up and down, and then gradually increasing the speed. “Oh, fuck. Oh, God.”

It’s when Phil shifts his angle, and then tips his head back to gasp, that Dan can’t help himself. His hands fly out to grab at Phil’s thighs, to feel his hips shift as he moves them. Seconds later, he remembers that this is not allowed. Despite his own flush, and the glassiness of his eyes, Phil is coherent enough to recognise that Dan has broken the rules, and grabs him by the hands, pinning them up above his head again. This time, he holds them there as his hips work, pulling Dan to the precipice of a cliff with each thrust downwards, grinding himself onto Dan’s cock. It’s Phil’s moans that throw him over the edge. It’s the flutter of his eyes, the slackening of his mouth as the tip of Dan’s erection grazes his prostate. He is a corrupted angel, fallen into iniquity, and Dan cannot bear the sight of it. He cries out as he comes, hips pushing himself as far into Phil as he can manage.

As his body slackens, the tremors slowing and stilling, Dan relaxes into the blanket beneath them, shuddering as the aftershocks ebb through him. He looks down; Phil hasn’t come - looks as if he intended to resist all along - and extricates himself from Dan carefully.

“You broke the rules,” Phil says, making Dan’s spent cock twitch again. “You moved your hands.”

Dan’s mouth is dry, but he manages, “I’m sorry.”

“Tu veux me faire jouir?” Phil asks, and Dan’s heart skips a beat, as it always does when Phil talks to him this way. Filthy and unabashed, not even a light flush against his pale skin. Dan nods, emphatically, and Phil’s smile grows wide. “Trente secondes.”

At once, Dan jumps to attention, leaping for Phil’s lap with such enthusiasm that Phil can’t help but laugh. It’s a kind punishment, really, as Phil is well aware by now how much Dan absolutely loves sucking him off. Before Phil, he’d never have dreamed he’d find it so pleasurable, but now he can’t get enough of it. Phil jokes, from time to time, that he’s more at home at floor level than Buffy is.

In the many, many opportunities Phil readily gives him to indulge himself in his favourite activity, Dan has gotten… pretty fucking good at it, if he does say so himself. He knows Phil’s tells, can switch techniques expertly just by listening to the shift in Phil’s breathing. But thirty seconds to make him come is a tall order, particularly as Dan prefers to draw it out.

Nevertheless, he does his best, head bobbing, keeping a tight seal around the girth of him, using one hand to meet his lips as he sinks down. Before he knows it though, Phil is tapping him on the back of the head.

“T-time’s up,” he says, sounding a little breathless himself. In the second that follows, Dan makes a snap decision. He continues sucking, tongue laving at him as he goes. He doesn’t bother wiping the spit that drips from his lips, and doesn’t respond when Phil taps him again, and says, “Dan. That’s thirty seconds- oh, oh merde.”

Dan can feel the give in him, can sense when he decides to just abandon that incredible willpower he has and let Dan pull him off the cliff as well. Phil plummets down into the ocean of bliss beneath, flooding Dan’s mouth with his release, and groaning loudly, his hands tangling in Dan’s hair. He swears several times in French, and then releases Dan, letting him slide off.

Dan sends him a sheepish, but pleased, look as he wipes his chin. “Sorry,” Dan says, and doesn’t mean it for a moment. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Bitte salope,” Phil says, but fondly, teasingly, and reaches his arms out wide, so Dan tackles him to the floor. “I’ll have to punish you again,” Phil says, trailing his fingers through Dan’s curls. “But I guess it can wait until after your big fancy opening.”

“Very gracious of you,” Dan says, laughing, then sighs happily, pressing lips to Phil’s chest. “I needed that. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Phil replies with a giggle. “It’s very taxing for me, obviously. But for you, anything.”

Dan swats him gently. “If you weren’t so hot and great in bed, you’d probably be a right pain.”

“Je t’aime aussi, chaton.”

In the middle of the party, just as Dan is about to grab one of the wait staff he hired and ask him why he’s been having to top up his own wine glass all night, a familiar, loud and obnoxious voice booms out from nearby.

“Mr Howell!”

Even the sound of that name is enough to make Dan shudder. In this environment, he’s simply Dan. He only TA’s at school a few days a week now thanks to PJ’s unwavering support and understanding, so most of the time Dan can forget he’s got an awkward, stern twin personality, charged with looking after a bunch of teenagers. He looks around, trying to place the voice in his mind, and failing.

Then, in the centre of the room, a young man stands between a few curious patrons, their heads turned to find out who is shouting in the midst of all the quiet, appreciative murmuring. Even staring him full in the face, it takes Dan a while to figure out who this person is, familiar though he seems. Then, his brain helpfully removes the heavy beard from the man’s chin, shrinks him down a few feet, and strips away the pyjama-like clothing, dressing him in a school blazer instead.

“Jonah,” Dan breathes, astounded. Before he can think anything more, Jonah Frank is storming over to him, a grin peering out from within the thick, unruly beard. Two impossibly strong arms wrap around him, thumping him on the back. “Oh my God,” Dan says, “what on earth are you doing here?”

“Came to support you, teach!” He releases Dan, jostling him by the arm.

“I hardly recognised you,” Dan admits, still baffled that the brawny but short kid he once chaperoned to Paris and back has somehow morphed into this stoner-dude, with long hair and a full beard. “You look, uh... nice tunic.”

Jonah laughs heartily, plucking a canapé of some kind off a nearby tray and seeming to swallow it whole. “Thanks,” he says, still grinning. “I’m at uni now, innit. Decided to reinvent myself.”

Dan chuckles, but then re-examines what Jonah just said. “Wait, you’re at uni?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Sir!”

“Dan,” Dan says, blushing. “Call me Dan, we’re not in school now.”

“Oh yeah, guess you’re right! Weird.” Jonah is looking around, nodding as if impressed, as he takes in each artwork. “This is pretty decent if you ask me, Sir. I mean, Dan.”

Dan smiles at him. “Thanks, Jonah. It was really sweet of you to come.”

“Aw, don’t be a nonce,” Jonah responds, batting Dan in the shoulder. “You’re the reason I got into uni at all! Well, you and Mr Lester, obviously.”

It’s an absurd thing to say, and Dan has no idea where to begin responding to it, so he catches a waiter’s eye and waggles his glass, indicating he needs more alcohol, stat. “What are you studying?”

Jonah grins, then clears his throat. He pinches his thumb and forefinger together, accenting himself as he says, “L’histoire Francaise!”

Dan’s eyes bulge, and he almost drops his glass when a waiter, appearing at his shoulder, begins to fill it. “Is that… are you actually?”

“I swear,” Jonah says, readily accepting a second glass of wine from the waiter. Instinctively, Dan reaches to pluck it from him again, but Jonah pulls it out of reach. “Oi, I’m eighteen! I just told you I’m at uni, remember? Keep up, Sir.”

“Oh right,” Dan says, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Jonah says. “So, where’s Mr Lester these days, then? I heard he’s not teachin’ at school anymore. Did he come to his senses in the end? Or did you scare ‘im off?”

The lack of tact in that question is so blunt that Dan sincerely hopes Jonah knows this is not the case and is just teasing him. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he does, a voice at his side butts in.

“If Mr Howell and I can survive your meddling Jonah, I think we’ll make it.”

“Ah, there he is!” Jonah cries out, arms thrown around Phil before Dan can blink. “Missed you, Sir. Uni’s got some well shit professors. When you gonna come and teach in the big leagues, eh?”

“Give it a year or two,” Dan says, aiming a loaded look at Jonah. Phil nudges him in the side, but doesn’t contradict the statement.

“Oo-er,” Jonah says, stepping back and draining his wine. “And here I was worryin’ that without me you two’d be lost!”

“Oh we are,” Phil says, smiling. “In an emotional sense.”

Dan nods in agreement, and feels Phil’s arm wind around his waist. “Classroom Nine echoes with Jonah Frank’s timeless words of wisdom… ‘when’s lunch, Sir?’, ‘how come they didn’t just wash a bit in the Middle Ages, Sir?’...”

“‘Stop flirtin’ with your TA, Sir…’” Phil adds, then winks at Dan.

Jonah laughs good-naturedly, and they chat a bit more about his Uni, what he’s studying, how it’s all going. He seems to be enjoying his first year, and not just the partying side of it, either. Dan still doesn’t believe that Jonah is there because of him - for some reason, in his last two years at secondary school, Jonah knuckled down and actually left with a decent set of GCSE’s and an acceptance to a nearby college - but he’s immensely glad that he was there to see it all happen, and in some small way, to help.

“At least now you can say it wasn’t all a huge waste of time,” Phil says once Jonah has excused himself to go and wander round the few other rooms.

Dan looks puzzled. “What wasn’t?”

“Doing the TA thing,” Phil says, nodding in the direction Jonah disappeared. “You successfully transformed the school’s most troubled student into a typical, bong-smoking uni fresher.”

Dan snorts, rolling his eyes. “Wow, I’m truly a marvel at my unwanted profession.”

“It’s not your profession anymore,” Phil says; he’s got a stupidly lit-up expression on his face, like he’s bursting with something Dan suspects might be akin to pride. “This is what you do. It’s what you’ve always been meant to do.”

“Well, don’t jump the gun just yet,” Dan says, mind back on how many tickets are left at the door, and if he’s going to be able to pay the caterers and still make a profit. “It’s only the first night.”

“Dan, look around,” Phil says gently, and Dan surveys the room he’s stood in, which is crammed with people, all admiring the art, talking and laughing, the wine in their hands flushing their cheeks. “This is a huge success. It’s a fantastic start to a promising career. You’ve done it.”

Dan opens his mouth to argue, but the sight of Teddy and Tyler in the corner, bickering over the meaning of the abstract sculpture Dan had fought some collector for, he closes it again. They’re arguing over what they deem is art. They’re arguing because they see different things within it, and interpret it in separate, personal ways, in just the way art is supposed to prompt people to do. And Dan’s responsible for that argument, he’s responsible for their individual reactions that caused it. He placed that art in front of everyone here, for those reactions to spill out of people’s mouths, even in the form of a snappy retort.

“You know,” Dan says in a low murmur. “I think you might be right.”

Phil leans in and kisses him, excitable and without finesse. “Je t’aime, mon petit propriétaire de la galerie.”

Dan laughs, softly, against him, drawing back just enough to dive into deep, brilliant pools of pure blue. “Moi aussi, mon amour.”

Fin.

#l'histoire française #phan #phanfic #thank you all so much!!#five years later

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