You Don't Know What You Have Until You (Almost) Lose It

Rain Rain Never Go Away

*Dan POV*

I wake up with my arms wrapped tightly around Phil's stomach, slobbering like a dog. I sit up and wipe my spit off my chin, my face heating up.

Hot, Dan. Hot.

"Sorry, that was gross," I say. Phil is sitting up on a pillow, his hair puffed up in a quiff from sleeping, glasses resting on his nose. He smiles at me, his blue eyes piercing in the morning light.

"I didn't want to wake you up," he says. I can feel myself blushing. I woke up literally clinging to him like he was the last person on earth. He can sense my embarrassment.

"Hey, it's okay. Come over here," he says, motioning me closer. I put my head on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around me, and I am safe. I feel warm and secure in his arms. I smile and hold him closer, but I can't shake a tiny part I the back of my head telling me that someone will find out. Someone will know. I can feel my heart rate increase.

Dan, you and Phil are literally the only people on the flat. Calm your tits. Plus without Phil you wouldn't even be here right now so be grateful and just love him.

I do love him. I make myself relax and we lie in comfortable silence before I hear Phil's stomach growl.

"Hungry?" I ask, touching his stomach.

"Yeah, a little."

"What do you say we make some British Pancakes?"

Phil hops off the bed and screams, "You grab the eggs I'll get the butter!" I laugh, stretching before stepping into the hall. He's a sucker for pancakes. Phil's head is buried in the refrigerator, scavenging for the ingredients. He closes the door and looks at me like he just got shot in the foot.

"What?" I giggle.

"We don't have eggs, butter, or the milk! This is a disaster! What are we gonna do now. . ."

"Get your clothes on and we will head to the grocery store," I say, walking into my room, planning out what combination of black clothes I will assemble for today.

"Okay," he agrees and runs down the hall to his room like an excited child.

I throw on my black and white striped long sleeve and check my hair, which is still fairly straight from yesterday, and call it good. I exit my room to find Phil a plaid, button-up shirt and jeans. Oh, sweet Jesus. He looks so good in that shirt. Then again, he looks good in every shirt he wears. . . No shirt would be nice too. I catch myself staring and cough in my hand to clear my throat.

"Ready?" I ask. Phil nods and we walk out the door, down the stairs, and to a cab. The drive is about 10 minutes before we pay the driver and enter the grocery store.

"Dan, hurry up! There are pancakes that need making!"

"I'm coming, Phil!" I see him full on sprint down the refrigerated aisle to retrieve some eggs. I wonder why the main reason people run these days is for food. Just then Phil jogs towards me, out of breath.

"Hold this?" He asks, handing me a carton. "Oh, and also. . ." He puts his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. "There's sour cream in a can and I just feel like we need to get that for obvious reasons."

"Sour cream in a fucking can. We are making pancakes, Phil!"

"Yeah, bu-"

"No, Philly."

"It's in a can!"

"Phil!"

"Awh." He stands up. "Fine!" He says then zips by me to go get flour. I follow him with the cart. Phil is already coming in my direction before I even reach the aisle carrying a sack of flour.