Chapter Text
A hypha is a long, branching, filamentous structure of a fungus. In most fungi, hyphae are the main mode of vegetative growth, and are collectively called a mycelium. This is the visible part of the fungus; the fine white threads in the soil, the blue-grey fuzz sprouting from that apple you abandoned on the kitchen counter. By the time you see hyphae, the equally toxic spores have already penetrated deep into the flesh of its host. This is how it spreads; silently searching, taking root, spreading its branches until it can’t hide anymore. This is why you can’t just cut off the visibly moldy part of the apple. Once you see the mycelium, the rot has already infected the core.
Dan doesn’t know what to make of the man sitting next to him. “Philip,” He’d warmly introduced himself as an hour ago when everyone had arrived, taking Dan’s hand in a slightly unsteady grip. “Phil. I’m the priest.”
Dan was biting back a slightly mean joke about how the man seemed to take the term “handshake” a little literally when he registered the words that had just been spoken, and suddenly he was biting back something even meaner, not a joke. He hasn’t quite figured it out, yet, how to smooth down the way his hackles still raise when he encounters people of faith. He can’t help but take it a bit personally, the way they seem so ready to walk into the mouth of something that chewed him up and spat him out years ago, broken and bleeding and split open. How can you believe in such horseshit, live in service of it, even? he wants to spit. Don’t you know He doesn’t care? Why worship something that abandoned you? That abandoned me?
But Dan had held his tongue, not wanting to ruin what was supposed to be his father’s engagement dinner. He’d let go of the priest’s hand - Philip, Phil - and, when Phil had settled in the seat right next to him, he hadn’t made any sarcastic remarks about whether the man of faith really wanted to sit so close to a filthy sinner like himself.
It’s not like it would matter anyway. Even if he did say that, all he’d get is an awkward laugh and that condescending smile his former-godmother-now-stepmother-to-be just loves to shoot his way. Bitch. No, best to avoid that. Instead he will sit here, and smile and nod while his emotionally constipated father stumbles through what’s probably supposed to be a heartfelt speech, and drink his tequila, and tune out the conversation, and think to himself that no one has asked me a single question in 45 minutes-
“So what do you do?”
Dan snaps to the present, looking up to see the priest - Philip, Phil - staring at him, eyebrows raised in expectation. Had he been talking to Dan?
“I- uh.” Dan flushes slightly, as he always does when answering this question, a vision of golden hair and bright blue eyes flashing across his mind. “I run a cafe.”
“Oh! Oh.”
Before Dan can process the look of - is that amusement? - on the other man’s face, his father is cutting in on the conversation.
“That’s going well, is it?”
“Yes! It is.” Dan nods and grins with quiet pride, perking up for the first time all evening. “It really is.” The light in his eyes dims as he’s met with thick silence from the table and he realizes they don’t believe him. Sure, it could be doing better, but it is doing well, considering. “It is.”
Martin laughs, fucking asshole, and then the waitress is back, and then Dan is able to slip outside for a much needed cigarette.
At least Claire seems to be doing well. Something is off, but then again that’s always the case these days. At least she looks happy. Dan can’t remember the last time he saw Claire look happy. Before their mum died, probably. He’s glad she took the promotion. Finland is good for her. And maybe she’ll like it there so much she’ll finally leave Asshole Martin and his creepy fucking son and escape this hellhole for good. He wants that for her.
Dan leans his warm forehead against the cool brick wall and lets the smoke choke out the ugly thing that rears its head in his throat. He’s happy for Claire. He will not let himself ruin yet another good thing for her. And he will not ruin his father’s engagement dinner.
He’s just straightened up, collecting himself to go back inside, when the side door cracks open ten feet away from him. The priest - Philip, Phil - is walking casually towards him, his hands in his pockets as he watches his feet like they’ll trip over the stairs if he doesn’t supervise. He’s got a slightly sheepish smile on his face as he approaches Dan, and for the first time Dan realizes his eyes are wide and blue, framed by blonde lashes and thin brows, and a pang of grief squeezes his lungs, but then there’s words being said to him and he forces himself to breathe.
“Fellow smoker.” The words are said slightly awkwardly, as if the source of them is not quite sure if, in fact, he is a fellow smoker. “Do you have a spare one?”
“Sure.” With practiced movements, Dan hands over a cigarette from his pack and lights it. As he takes a drag of his own and watches the man across from him, his brain sends up warning flares. He’s gonna try to be friendly, make small talk- fuck that, I’m exhausted. Moving on instinct, he puts out his cigarette and starts up the stairs back into the restaurant, right as - bingo - that voice pipes up again.
“So do your family get together much or-”
The question is interrupted by a scoff as Dan breezes by. Sorry pal, gotta go.
“Fuck you, then.”
That stops Dan in his tracks. He whips his head around and stares incredulously. Those wide blue eyes stare back, meeting his gaze, unreadable. Then smiling, one side of that pink mouth tilting up in crooked amusement. For a moment, Dan sees a picture so warm, so familiar, that Dan finds himself smiling back. Then he catches himself and turns away to continue into the restaurant. As he weaves through tables and servers, he fiddles with the pendant around his neck, grief lapping at his ankles in the soft way it always seems to these days.
By the time he returns to the table, Dan is feeling a little looser. He’s had two tequila shots in 40 minutes, their food’s just come, he’s got the pleasant buzz of nicotine running through his veins. He can get through the rest of this dinner.
And beyond that, he’s being surprised - something he hasn’t felt in quite a while - by none other than the priest. Philip. Phil. Phil is- well, he’s funny. He swears, which Dan feels should be surprising about a priest, and he orders a tequila when Dan does, which - Dan thought priests couldn’t drink, other than communion wine, but then again he knows fuckall about that kind of thing considering he stopped paying attention in church when he was 15. And he somehow manages to always pipe up at exactly the right time, answer questions in just the right way to keep the underlying tension of Dan’s family from shattering. He’s - well, he’s interesting. For a priest.
At one point, Dan even questions him, alcohol and curiosity making him bold.
“Are you a real priest?”
Phil turns to look at him, surprise and delight seeming to war for dominance in his expression. He nods and breathes out a quiet laugh, his answer carrying a tone of soft wonder, like even he can’t believe it’s true.
“Yeah.”
Dan watches him carefully for a moment, still not entirely convinced he’s not being fucked with, and once again Phil meets his gaze unflinchingly. They’re suspended, strangely, in that moment, and then his former-godmother-now-stepmother-to-be is breaking into their conversation with some inane, self-important comment that Dan immediately tunes out.
He tunes back in, though, when Phil mentions he’s new to the parish, and then, after a moment of hesitation, declares something that Dan couldn’t imagine admitting in front of anyone, let alone a table full of his entire family.
“I uh. I guess I’m just really fucking lonely!” It’s said in a forcefully cheerful manner, like a joke, and everyone laughs, but Dan catches the way Phil’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. Interesting. For the next half hour, Dan goes out of his way to engage Phil in casual conversation. He refuses to think about why.
Once he feels like it’s been a socially acceptable amount of time, Dan excuses himself for another smoke. This time, when the side door opens, the figure that approaches him is his father, who leans up against the wall next to him and tilts his head up to look at the sky. He always has struggled to look directly at Dan. Or Claire. Or anyone, for that matter. Except Dan’s mum.
Dan offers his father his cigarette, knowing the answer. It’s one of the few jokes they have, between the two of them. One of the few moments they can exist together. Dan offers his cigarette, and his father says no, and they share a little chuckle, and for thirty seconds they pretend to be a normal father and son.
The peace is broken, for once, by his father.
“Look, Daniel, I’m sorry I missed your birthday, so I just-” He begins to pull an envelope out of his jacket, and Dan’s stomach sinks.
“Oh no, that’s okay, I-”
“No, no, I just… in case you’re struggling.”
And there it is. Dan swallows the bile of shame that creeps up his throat. He knows, he knows how his father sees him, but the reminder still stings.
“Dad, the cafe really is doing well-”
“No, no, this isn’t for work. It’s just for you.”
Dan studies his father for a moment, then decides it’s better to just take the check and let them move on.
“Thanks.”
The awkward silence doesn’t last long before Dan’s father breaks it again.
“You look… strong.”
Dan laughs slightly. He has been trying to exercise more lately.
“Thanks.”
“Are you?”
What? “Are we gonna have a fight?”
“No! No, I’m sorry, no,” and then they’re both laughing, and Dan can’t remember the last time he laughed with his father. “I just wanna check that you’re… that you and I are… Well, you’re being very… You’re not being…”
He trails off and Dan’s laughter dies slightly as he realizes why his father won’t finish the sentence. You’re not being you, his brain helpfully supplies the ending. He tries to keep the tone light.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Oh. Because, I guess…”
“Yeah?”
Dan’s laugh completely disappears then as he realizes. He delivers his reply deadpan, statement of fact. Honest.
“It doesn’t matter.”
They stand in silence while Dan takes another drag of his cigarette.
“Oh. Okay. Is that right.” His father’s tone is unreadable, flat. Dan lets the silence back for another beat before he speaks up.
“I’m happy for you, dad.” And he is, he is happy for him. Happy he’s fallen in love, that he’s enjoying his life again, even if it is with that conniving fucking cunt. It doesn’t matter. He smiles at her like he used to smile at Dan’s mum, and while that turns his stomach, Dan has to admit he likes this version of his father better than the empty shell he was when his wife was slowly dying.
“Thank you.” With that, his father goes back inside.
Dan follows a few minutes later, falling back into the drone of family talk. He finds out right then and there that Claire works in finance - what the fuck, isn’t she a lawyer? - and then that his birthday present is, in fact, not a check, but a voucher for a counseling session.
“Thanks, dad.”
God, he cannot wait to get this night over with. Surely he can leave soon without stirring too much trouble, right? They’ve been here for at least an hour and a half. Maybe he can make up some excuse about having to feed Henrietta.
Claire excuses herself to the restroom and Phil pours Dan another glass of wine, which - he hadn’t even realized it was empty - then offers everyone else wine, then, when rejected, pours more in Dan’s glass, his sidelong glance begging Dan to indulge with him. Dan smiles and sips the wine, feeling- unsettled. This isn’t exactly how he’d expected the night to go. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing.
…
Eventually, the last of the wine is drunk (mostly by Phil - for a man of God, he sure seems to love rosé) and the conversation dies down. Claire and Martin leave, and then a few minutes later everyone else stands. Dan walks with the group outside, waves to his father as the couple climbs in their car, and then turns to see Phil standing right beside him. Phil is watching him with that same piercing gaze, like he can see right into Dan’s mind. Dan hopes he can’t. No one deserves that.
“You know, if you ever need anyone to talk to- or anything- you can give me a call.” Then there’s a piece of paper being shoved into his hand, smudged with barely-legible handwriting. “I’m- um. I’m available.”
Dan nods silently, putting the paper in his jeans pocket. He has no intentions of taking Phil up on that offer, but he should be polite.
“Good night,” he says shortly, not waiting for an answer before he turns to begin the walk home.
He doesn’t look back.
…
That night, Dan tosses and turns, dreams and memories floating through his sleep-fogged brain. His father’s face morphs into his mother’s, then to a guinea pig, then tawny fur melting into soft blonde waves. A vision of cigarette smoke and warm light envelops him, a bright smile flashing, walls covered in guinea pig photos, a glass of wine and the knowledge that time is still in this moment.
Boo.
Sitting across the table, luxurious and decadent, basking in the glory of her kingdom; a small kitchen and a room full of tables and chairs, the smell of fresh paint and glue and terrible coffee, the smell of hope.
She turns to him, and not for the first time, Dan thinks how beautiful, how good she is. Glowing and golden and soft in the candlelight, her blue eyes glittering with love and laughter. A spot of pink paint is streaked across her nose, and her hair is down, wild in the way it only gets when she forgets about it, and she’s flushed red with joy and wine, and she’s never been more radiant. She watches Dan watch her for a beat, a look of silent love that only two people who’ve been through hell and back together can manage, and then she’s leaning forward over the table to grab his hand and grin at him like she’s about to tell him the secrets of the universe.
“Hey. Let’s never ask anyone for anything. They don’t get it.”
Dan grins back and squeezes her hand. No matter what comes, even if the sun explodes and the whole world drowns in its own reckoning, at least it’s him and Boo. Together. That’s the way it always has been and that’s how it will always be.
“Deal.”