phan one shots

tangled

Summary: Pure fluff. There's like no plot line. It's just some soft content for your soul.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: absolutely none

Usually, Phil woke up to warmth.

Pure, sweet warmth.

Tendrils of bursting heat, roses, and cherries blooming wherever their skin touched and legs tangled, breaths mixed, the air between them stained with the ink scrawled over their paper hearts, drawn with different constellations yet were reflections of each other in their contrasting skies.

He could feel his cold toes pressed to his warm ones, the length, and width and memorized feeling of his body pressed into his side, fitting against his like a puzzle piece made by time.

He'd run his fingers so many times over the soles of his feet, the column of his neck, his slightly freckled arms, his thighs, he knew every part of him so well, he could drink it in, savor the sight of his red cheeks, his damp, darkened crescent shaped curls, the bridge of his nose, his soft supple lips stained with strawberries and tasting of a thousand undreamed dreams soaked in sunshine.

His mind would go fuzzy with his intoxicating vanilla scent, the one that clung to all of his clothes and invaded his senses, drowning in a sea of a beauty he could never grow tired of studying, only growing more breath taking the longer he gazed upon it.

He usually woke up to long arms around his waist and finger tips over his hip bones, and gentle face pressed into his neck as slow exhales escaped his mouth and sunk deep into his bones and deeper than that.

But it was much too late or much too early, somewhere in between the cool, dark blue night, before pale golden rays cast shifting shadows over the crevices of their bare collarbones and the slope of their cheekbones, and shoulders, for the warmth to be gone, and even then that warmth was always there carding through his ebony black locks and brushing against the rising pink tinge.

The warmth should still be there, pressed to his side and the sweetness, mixed with the freshness and safety of an ever changing season that remained the same in its core, tainting his tongue and nose, bringing out the yellows and greens in the deep pool of sapphire jewels in his captivating eyes as something deep and indescribably ethereal rose from the depths of his heart and soul.

But the warmth was not there.

The colorful sheets were twisted and cold, a noticeable space where he was meant to be, just him and his pale limbs laying out across the covers, and without the feeling of his body pressed to him and his breath and his scent and his sweetness, he could not fall back into sleep's arms.

So he pushed himself up, black hair falling into his face and catching on his long lashes, tousled around his ears and contrasting with his complexion and the soft cherry color that bled through it.

His bare feet brushed the carpet as he stood, long legs stretching to their full length, perching his glasses on his nose as he yawned, exhaustion flooding his consciousness but fading as the small tinkling of piano keys flowed effortlessly and smoothly into his ears.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, eyes brimming with anticipation and excitement as his drifting thoughts sleepily made the connection between his lover's absence and the sound of gentle music floating like soft summer breezes and kisses trailing from chests to hips.

He padded down the long hallway, muffled foot steps against the carpet as he followed the sound to the living room, entering silently enough for his boyfriend not to look up, or maybe he was just lost in the melody spilling from his sun kissed fingers as they moved softly over the black and white keys, as though pressing the song into its heart and caressing it, dancing with the instrument as though it were made for him.