Page 33 of Someone Like You

“You won’t.”

So Ian squeezedtight, pulling Phil into his chest until he couldn’t tell anymore when he ended and Phil started. He was afraid Phil could feel his heart hammering against his back, but Phil was too busy hyperventilating to really be aware of anything.

“Still with me, old man?” he asked in Phil’s ear.

“Y-yeah.”

“Nice cologne.”

Phil spit out a choked laugh. “Dior Sauvage.”

“Fancy bastard.”

Phil laughed again. After a few deep inhales, his breath started evening out, and the shaking with it. It was a while before he was able to speak without quivering. Holding on to Ian’s bare forearms, he mumbled: “Please, tell me you’re not naked.”

“Would you not like that?” Ian snickered. “I’m wearing joggers, sorry to break your wee heart.”

Another laugh wheezed out of Phil, morphing the snicker on Ian’s lips into a genuine smile that spread down to his chest, rekindling that sense of sweet constriction.

You’re so screwed, mate.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, motionless and quiet, just waiting. Ian’s iron grip loosened as the panic ebbed, allowing Phil deeper breaths without depriving him of the support. When Phil’s hands lowered, Ian let go, stepping back to let him turn around, but Phil wasn’t stable on his legs and lost his footing, collapsing back into Ian’s arms.

“Easy, easy.” Ian guided him to rest back against the counter, cupping a hand around his neck to ground him. A few more deep breaths put some colour back into Phil’s cheeks. “You alright?”

Phil looked up, a sorrowful pinch in his brow, and Ian forgot how his lungs worked altogether. It took a considerable effort to refrain from wiping away the wet streaks rolling down to his beard.

“Been better,” Phil croaked in a thin, brittle voice that felt like it was holding back more words than it had spoken. Ian’s hand was still on his neck. Guided by a higher force, Ian tentatively moved his thumb, stroking the coarse beard along the jawline, and the raw emotion that that simple gesture ignited in Phil’s eyes nearly broke him. He couldn’t make himself let go, couldn’t stop staring at Phil’s mouth, frozen agape on those unspoken words.

Nothing about this was right. Or fair.

There had to be a limit, a line somewhere that marked the border between what was acceptable and what wasn’t. Ian had never condoned people who meddled in established relationships, stealing someone else’s partner, ruining others’ happiness. But he understood now. He still didn’t condone it, it wasdespicable, but he got it: you couldn’t find such a deep connection with someone and just carry on with your life. No guilt or shame could erase it. But after what he’d been through with Jamie, there was one thing he was absolutely certain of: he would never bethe other guy.

His hand fell to his side. The stab he felt in his heart when Philwhimperedat the loss was a shock he would never forget.

“Let’s get you sat down,” he murmured, taking Phil under his arm to steady his walk, fully aware that from now on not a single touch between them, not even the most casual, would ever be innocent again.

He helped Phil ease down to the couch, where he sank with a long sigh, eyes fluttering shut. The game had long since resumed, but no one was interested in it any more.

“I’m going to clean up and come back with some water,” said Ian, who needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and the instincts this man awakened in him.

He took longer than necessary to pick up the glass shards, collecting them one by one rather than sweeping them up simply because it granted him some time to regroup. It was impossible toknow whether the panic attack would’ve happened or not if Phil hadn’t come over, but Ian was glad he hadn’t been alone to deal with it. It looked like nasty business, nothing anyone would want to confront on their own. Phil knowing so precisely what he needed to curb it suggested he was used to it, or at least that he’d been through it enough times to figure out what worked and what didn’t. Either way, it was just further proof of how tough the man was under his layers of self-deprecation and self-pity.

Ian stilled with one knee on the ground, observing the jagged fragments in his palm. An insane, irrational urge to clasp his hand around them seized him. He could do it. He could, and maybe the pain would take his mind off that clutter of feelings he shouldn’t even be having.

A shiver shook his spine, reminding him he was still shirtless and barefoot. After disposing of the glass, he filled up a new glass for Phil and took it to the living room.

“Let me know if—” He stopped on the threshold and nearly facepalmed himself right there: his guest was lying on his side on the couch, hands tucked against his chest, fast asleep. Kibble had cuddled up to him, nestled in the crook between his belly and his legs, slow-blinking at Ian like someone who knew they’d done a great job.

Ian set the glass down on the table, where he sat with a heavy sigh. Apparently the entire universe was conspiring against his sanity tonight. Phil was slumbering peacefully, a thin lock of hair tickling his temple; Ian gently pushed it back and smoothed it down with a caress that was too tender and lingered too long, but somehow not nearly long enough.

This is such a shit move of you, Phil.

Something inside him started bleeding, warm and quiet and excruciating, swelling a sore lump in his throat. He retreated his hand to scrub it down his face, unable to look away from Phil’s tranquil expression. He might never get to see him like this again. So unguarded. So vulnerable.

He could have sat here all night, content to just watch a man with too many scars and too many struggles sleep with that peaceful expression that was filling Ian with a profound desire to lie down next to him and hold him through the night.

Kibble slow-blinked at him again, the feline version of a smile.

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