Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Philip Michael Lester, simply Phil to his friends, lives in Notting Hill.
It isn’t the neighborhood he grew up in, but a deliberate choice he made once he was old enough to build a life of his own. He was drawn to its contradictions: the restless weekend chaos as Portobello Road swells with tourists, antique stalls, street musicians, and a multitude of international voices, compared to the near-sacred quiet of weekday evenings when the crowds dissolve and the district exhales.
The area feels suspended between worlds. Austere Victorian townhouses sit in elegant rows alongside shopfronts that still carry the faded defiance of punk London. Wealth and eccentricity exist side by side; nothing quite matches, yet everything belongs together.
For Phil, however, the neighborhood's true charm isn't the bustling Portobello Road, but the quiet streets branching away from it. These are the hidden corners where ivy climbs iron railings and elderly neighbors greet each other by name, offering the intimacy of a village rather than the anonymity of a capital city. In these streets, London feels quite distant. He perceives Notting Hill as a self-contained world, lush with life and opportunity, and strangely untouched by time while the rest of the city races forward.
He lives there in a two-story apartment with a blue front door. Why blue? His grandparents painted it that way more than forty years ago when they moved into that rundown flat as newlyweds to raise a family. Phil wouldn’t change a single detail of this house, especially now that his grandparents are no longer around.
His family lives in the North of England, but he can’t bring himself to leave London. It’s not where he grew up, but by now it’s his adopted city. He lives alone and hasn’t dated anyone in a while after the last breakup
He runs a bookstore, also inherited from his grandparents. Not a typical bookstore: it sells only travel books; ironic, considering he’s never left Britain. “The Travels Book Co.” is a dusty little shop where sales aren’t exactly thriving. But he’s content; life has smiled on him in many ways.
After all, he’s only twenty-nine, with a degree in video making that he’s never used, and hair recently dyed blonde to bring a breath of change into his life. He watches too many films, truly an endless number. It’s all he does in his free time, which is why he knows most of the popular actors by heart.
That’s why he immediately recognizes the most talked-about movie star of the moment when, on an otherwise ordinary Wednesday, he walks straight into his bookstore.
Daniel Howell has been Hollywood’s most in-demand young actor for years. Phil can remember seeing his face on screen since he was a child, and his presence in newspapers and magazines is so constant it’s almost impossible not to recognize that insolent smile or those charming curls. He’s the kind of man people all over the world dream about at night: a role model, an icon.
So yes, the moment he steps through the door, silently drifting between the shelves without even offering a “hi,” Phil knows exactly who he is.
It’s Autumn in London, but Daniel is dressed in oversized black sunglasses that nearly cover his cheekbones and an all-black outfit. Every detail suggests careful, expensive taste: from the silky shirt to the tight jeans and high boots that add a few extra centimeters to his already striking height.
“Hi, can I help you?” Phil asks, still a little stunned. He, on the other hand, is dressed quite ordinarily, wearing tight jeans and an old oversized green hoodie that his brother bought back in college and that somehow ended up in Phil’s closet, where it’ll probably stay for the rest of his life, since he can never bring himself to get rid of anything.
Daniel glances at him for a brief second. “No.”
No “thanks.” Nothing else.
Phil tries to go back to what he was doing. But what was he doing, exactly, before the most famous actor of the moment walked into his bookstore? Oh, right, he was unpacking some new arrivals from a cardboard box.
He resumes the task, feigning nonchalance, but the truth is that the actor’s mere presence a few meters away is enough to distract him. He glances up and sees that Daniel is studying the shelf dedicated to Japan.
It took Phil a long time to organize the shelves by country, so he knows the placement of almost every book by heart.
“Those you’re looking at aren’t that great,” he says.
Daniel turns toward him, holding an illustrated guide in his hands.
“That one in particular… it’s a waste of money, I swear. I mean, the illustrations are nice, but there’s no useful information in it.”
Phil steps out from behind the counter and walks over to the shelf. Standing close, he and the actor are almost the same height, and Phil catches a hint of his perfume. He can’t quite place the scent, but it’s something refined and expensive… amber, maybe?
Phil pulls out another guide, bound in the traditional fukurotoji style, a little gem he’d searched high and low to get.
“This one, on the other hand, is incredible. You can tell just from the details. It was written by a Japanese journalist, and it’s full of absurd anecdotes, like the time he got so drunk on sake he spent an entire day wandering through neighborhoods he didn’t recognize and—”
Daniel is staring at him in silence, his expression completely unreadable.
“I’m not a fan of sake anecdotes,” he says coolly.
Phil feels like a complete idiot. “Right… yeah, you’re probably right. Maybe an illustrated guide like that one is better.” He smiles awkwardly. “I’ll let you browse.”
He retreats behind the counter.
He always talks too much, there’s no helping it. And besides, it’s well known that people in show business don’t appreciate pointless chatter.
Phil tries to keep himself busy with the box, and in the meantime, two teenage girls walk in, giggling as they head toward the Netherlands section. Daniel is still there, lingering in front of the Japan shelf. By now, Phil is almost convinced the Hollywood star is just killing time in his shop and will leave without buying anything. He’s practically expecting it.
Then he looks up and notices one of the girls slipping an Amsterdam guide inside her blouse.
“Excuse me,” he says, approaching them. “Do you need any help?”
They stare at him, still giggling mockingly. Phil realizes they’re probably the kind of teenagers who used to terrify him at school, but now he has his six-foot frame to back him up.
“You should put back the book you just took.”
“We don’t have any books,” one of them snaps.
“Well, that’s a shame, considering I saw you on the security camera, ladies.”
They look at him, less amused now.
“I’m going to turn around,” Phil continues, “and you’ll take the book out from under your blouse, please. Then either you buy it, or we’ll pretend none of this ever happened. Deal?”
They nod, and Phil turns his back.
Unbelievable. It’s already hard enough to make sales, and now high schoolers are trying to rob him too.
When he walks back toward the counter, he realizes Daniel Howell is waiting there. He’s holding both the illustrated guide and the Japanese-bound one Phil recommended. Phil is about to comment when the two girls suddenly appear beside them, laughing loudly.
“Oh my God! Can you sign an autograph? We love you,” says the would-be thief.
“Yes, please! We’re huge fans!”
Phil watches the scene, stunned. Daniel, for his part, remains completely expressionless. Phil hands him a pen while the girls pull a notebook out of one of their school backpacks.
“What are your names?” the actor asks.
“Meggy and Jenny,” they sing.
“Mhm.” He starts writing. “To Meggy and Jenny, who deserve to end up in reform school,” he says as he writes, then adds with a faint smile, “What do you think?”
When the girls finally leave, Phil finds himself alone with Daniel again. Still a little embarrassed by the scene, he places the two Japan guides into a roomy tote bag.
“This one’s on the house,” he says. “You probably already have loads of this kind of stuff, and I don’t exactly stock great gift items… I mean, I do have a cat calendar I made, but it’s October, so you’d only get, what, two months of cute cats before tossing it, which feels a bit like a waste, so, yeah. This is better.”
For the first time since entering the shop, Daniel removes his sunglasses, and Phil can finally look him in the eyes.
Phil, who often struggles to meet people’s gaze when speaking, finds himself completely caught. Those eyes… they’re a deep, intense brown that immediately draws him in. It’s one of the things he admires most about Daniel’s acting: the way he uses his eyes to convey emotion.
Phil hands him the bag, and for a brief moment, as Daniel takes it, their fingers brush.
It’s fleeting, almost insignificant, but Phil feels it ripple through his entire body.
“Thanks,” Daniel says.
“My pleasure,” Phil replies, watching as he puts his sunglasses back on, turns, and walks out of the bookstore.
In an instant, as the shop falls silent and empty again, Phil is overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the encounter. These are the kinds of things that only happen once in a lifetime, he tells himself, the sort of absurd story you save for old age, knowing no one will ever quite believe it.
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A few days pass, and Phil almost stops thinking about his encounter with Daniel Howell. It’s strange, but in his mind he can only think of him by his full name, as if he were some distant kind of deity. And in a way, that’s still how he perceives him, despite the brief brush of their fingers and the fleeting moments their eyes met.
He hasn’t told anyone about the encounter. He keeps it to himself the way you do with strange dreams, the kind that leave you full of questions the next morning. When he was a teenager, Phil used to have dreams like that all the time: romantic scenes with mysterious boys. When he woke up, he would linger in the memory of those fantasies, savoring them until they slowly faded away. He’s always been a romantic. It’s just a shame that relationships have never really worked out for him.
Today is Sunday, and the bookstore is closed. It’s the day he dedicates to wandering around the neighborhood, breakfast out, grocery shopping at the local market, an afternoon at the cinema and dinner with friends.
It’s a clear, beautiful morning, with a bright kind of sunshine you don’t often see in the city, and Phil soaks it in like a thirsty sunflower. He’s just bought a large iced Americano, filled with vanilla syrup the way he likes it, and he’s walking toward the market, thinking intently about buying some honey to make delicious, crispy toast—when someone walking far too fast crashes into him.
“Sorry!” Phil blurts out instinctively; he’s the type to apologize even when something isn’t his fault.
“Oh, damn it!” comes the reply.
Phil looks up, and his wonderful five pound coffee has just spilt all over Daniel Howell’s white T-shirt.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Phil keeps repeating, unsure whether he’s more shocked by this second encounter or by how genuinely irritated Daniel seems.
“I… I have a photo shoot. I can’t go like this,” Daniel groans.
“I-I’m really sorry. Do you remember me?”
Daniel stares at him. “Oh God, the chatty bookseller.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Phil pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to him. Daniel tries to dab at the stain, but it’s clearly useless.
“Listen… I live right across the street. Do you want to come and change?” Phil suggests.
The actor looks at him, he’s wearing sunglasses, but Phil can still read the doubtful expression on his face. “Really. It’s that blue front door right there.”
“And then what? You’ll kill me?” Daniel asks dryly.
Phil lets out a nervous laugh. “No, I wouldn’t even know where to hide the body.”
Instead of unsettling him, the joke seemed to amuse Daniel.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ve got ten minutes.”
They enter Phil’s apartment, which is… a true bachelor’s place.
“Uh… wait a second,” Phil says, remembering the mess he left in the kitchen that morning before going out. He rushes ahead of Daniel into the room and starts closing all the cupboard doors he left wide open, then picks up the bowl of milk and cereal (his dinner from the night before) and tries to tidy up the spread of crumbs and beer bottles as best he can.
“Have you had guests over?” Daniel asks in his usual detached tone.
“No, just me.” Phil smiles awkwardly, getting rid of the bottles as best he can, making a loud clatter as they fall into the bin.
“You can go upstairs to change. At the end of the stairs on the right, there’s the bathroom, clean towels are in the drawer and… everything you need.”
“Mm.”
While the actor is upstairs, Phil tries to make the kitchen look somewhat decent, finishing tidying up. Then he throws the window open to let in some cold air. How long has it been since he last did that? It’s not that he’s a dirty person, per se, maybe just a bit messy, and he really should spend the weekend cleaning, but… life is simply too short for that. This house has always been chaotic and maximalist; he inherited countless knick-knacks, paintings, dust collectors, and trinkets from his grandparents, and he likes this chaos of colors, memories, and odds and ends. It’s like living in a museum filled with the history of two of the people he loved most. In their random belongings, in the magnets still on the fridge or the hideous souvenirs collected during trips, he finds their genuine spirit and affection. Someone else might say he’s just too lazy to get rid of all this stuff. But he’s a romantic: if only someone would listen, he’d have so much to say about the charm of messiness.
“I’d better go.” Daniel reappears in the kitchen. He’s changed his T-shirt and is now wearing a glittering top covered in silver sparkles, his tone arms fully bare. Phil lets his gaze travel over his body. “It’s for the shoot. A bit flashy, right?”
Phil can only nod, stupidly dazed. Daniel’s arms under the light reveal his tanned skin, the small brown freckles climbing along his forearms and around his elbows. It’s a tiny detail, yet it dries out his throat. The same adorable freckles that dot his nose and cheeks.
“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got—” Phil opens the fridge. “Hm, well, I’ve got some apple juice. It’s been open for a while, but you can just smell it. And a terrible drink, super sweet, which I personally love.”
“No.” Dan shakes his head slightly.
“Would you like something to eat? Uh, something to nibble? Um, apricots soaked in honey? Quite why, no one knows, because it stops them tasting like apricots and makes them taste like honey, and if you wanted honey, you’d just buy honey instead of apricots. But… they’re yours if you want them.”
Daniel smiles faintly, it’s the first time Phil has seen him smile. “No.”
“Do you always say no to everything?”
“No.” Dan pauses. “I’d better be going.”
“Oh, yeah. The shoot and…”
“And not wanting to be murdered by a stranger and his apricots.” Dan smiles again, showing his teeth this time, his beautiful white teeth, and his whole smile, his bright eyes, and his top are nothing short of dazzling. “Thanks for your help,” he adds, turning serious again.
Phil wishes he could keep him there somehow. He knew it’s a foolish, senseless desire, but he thought he would never see him again. He was ready to accept that it had only been a fleeting appearance in his life. But now Daniel Howell is in his kitchen, he has taken off his shirt and changed in his bathroom, and Phil feels dizzy and disoriented at the thought of losing him again so quickly.
“My pleasure,” is all he manages to say, walking him to the door.
“Uh, I think you’ll be cold with just that. Let me lend you something to cover up.” He grabs one of his fleeces from the coat rack in the hallway. It’s light blue with clouds on it and has red and yellow little buttons going down the front. It’s actually one of his favorites, and he’d never give it away lightly, but at the moment he’s so caught up in everything that he barely notices. “Take this.”
Daniel looks at him, surprised. “And how am I supposed to give it back to you?”
Phil feels himself blush, something that probably hasn’t happened since middle school. “You know where I live, you can always send it.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Phil. Philip Lester.”
He accepts the hoodie and puts it on over the top, covering it completely. It’s strange, seeing him wearing all those colors. Phil tries to pull his thoughts away from his body, his beautiful body, wrapped in Phil’s own clothing, and from how intoxicating that simple image is. “I assume you already know my name.”
Phil lowers his gaze, ruffling his hair at the back of his head. “Like everyone in the world, I’m afraid. Daniel Howell.”
“I prefer just Dan.”
They look at each other, standing close by the front door. Phil feels the weight of the moment that’s about to end. In a second, he’ll be gone, and all of this will become just another memory, too beautiful and strange to feel real.
“It was nice to meet you, Dan.” He takes a breath; it’s as if Dan’s gaze gives off warmth on his skin. “Surreal, but nice.”
What did he just say? “Sorry.” He opens the door, and Dan stays silent, never looking away from him.
“Bye, Phil.” he says before stepping out.
Phil closes the door behind him, his heart racing.
He feels embarrassed about what he said, but also so incredibly exhilarated that he could just die right now, in this very moment. He hides his face in his hands and tries to breathe normally. He just gave away his favorite hoodie and will probably never see it again, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay if this thin connection can keep him tied to Dan. How ridiculous this feeling is, yet how strong and irresistible.
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It’s evening.
Phil had just come back from the cinema, where he watched a sci-fi film he didn’t particularly enjoy, but at least it served as a distraction from the day’s events. He’s making himself toast, which he’ll eat with some red wine. He’ll probably put on some lofi background music and simply end the evening like that. All his friends were busy tonight; probably for the best, given the circumstances. He needs a moment to think. He’s changed into a simple, slightly old and faded tracksuit, put on his glasses, and is staring at the bread toasting in the pan.
The doorbell rings.
He isn’t expecting anyone. He goes to open it almost absentmindedly and finds Dan standing there again.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” Phil must have fallen and gotten a concussion. This can’t be real.
“I forgot my earrings in your bathroom today,” Dan explains.
He’s changed again, now wearing a simple black hoodie. In his hands is a bag containing the fleece Phil had lent him. “And I had to give this back. I won’t be in London for a while.”
“Shipping from the States must be expensive, even for a star,” Phil tries to joke, but Dan doesn’t smile.
“Mm, come in. Do you want something to eat?”
Dan seems guarded, looking around as he thinks. “Is it just you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then.”
They sit at the small kitchen table, and Phil serves his delicious toast: sliced bread with ham and mayonnaise because he despises cheese in any form. The wine is served in hard plastic cups because he kept breaking the glass ones. It feels like a dinner for teenagers, or one improvised after moving house. And it’s so strange having Dan there, sitting at the table with him, drinking his cheap three-pound mini-market wine and tasting his toast.
“So, how was the shoot?” Phil asks. He can’t believe he’s actually making small talk with a movie star.
As Dan talks, Phil realizes he’s wearing makeup. He’s no expert and couldn’t say exactly what was applied, but he notices how glowy his skin looks, and his eyes are outlined in a warm, intense brown, maybe eyeshadow or eyeliner; he has no idea. He just knows it makes him fascinating in a different way. He has a true star’s allure, something Phil has never seen in ordinary people. Even the smallest details, like the shadow of stubble on his chin or the fine hair on his arms, take on a certain significance, like clues that he still belongs to humanity.
Dan holds the plastic cup midair; on his wrist is a thin bracelet that, judging by how it shines, must be real diamonds. “Normal. After a while, you get used to everything. The photographer tells you what to do, and you do it, you just become something to be shaped.”
Phil nods. “And what kind of ‘thing’ did they make you today?”
Dan lets out a soft laugh, almost like a breath. He drinks some wine, then, looking Phil in the eyes, says, “You have a strange way of speaking.”
“In a bad way?”
“Surreal,” Dan says, immediately making Phil embarrassed about that word.
“You’re blushing,” Dan adds.
Phil laughs. “I’m just a small-town guy, you know? You should show some respect.”
“Mm. Tell me more.” He crosses his legs, a slow, deliberate gesture.
“More about me? Well, I don’t know… don’t expect anything interesting.” Phil looks away. Dan’s direct gaze unsettles him, so he focuses on his glass instead. “I was born in Rossendale, but my grandparents lived here, in this house. My parents didn’t like big-city life, but I do. I mean, I like London, but I love even more that there’s a neighborhood like Notting Hill, which is like a microcosm inside the chaos. You get what I mean? I don’t know, you’re from the States…maybe it’s different there.”
“I’m of British origin too,” Dan corrects him.
“Oh, right, then you get it. Anyway, I’m twenty-nine. At nineteen, I moved here with my grandparents while studying for university (a degree in linguistics and a Master’s in video making). Not exactly a path to getting rich, but I doubt you need advice from me on that. This was supposed to be temporary, until I found a room in a dorm, but I ended up really liking it with my grandparents. We did so many things together, and I had a lot of fun with them. They were really funny and talkative, like me. And I think they needed someone beside them. I was happy to be there as they passed away; first him, then her, within a few months.”
He stops; he hadn’t meant to turn it into something sad.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dan says.
Phil shakes his head. “No, in its own way, it was okay. They lived their lives, and eventually it was time to finish the sentence, as my grandmother used to say. She was very spiritual and philosophical, but in a good way. And well… I stayed. I was already running their bookstore in their last months, and it’s not like my studies guaranteed me much.”
Phil sips his wine, it’s been a while since he’s talked about these things.
“And you don’t have a girlfriend?” Dan asks.
Phil laughs. “No, no. You should know I’m not very successful in love. I’ve had a few relationships, sure, but… first of all, I should clarify something. I’m gay. One hundred percent, if I had to give it a mathematical estimate.”
Dan just looks at him.
“I had a boyfriend who was kind of a model: he cheated on me. Probably should’ve expected it. Then a guy who only talked about cars and engines: not compatible at all. And PJ, who was a university fling, but now he’s married to my best friend: and honestly, that’s for the best. They’re beautiful together, and I care about them both a lot. So no, no one.”
“Do you always talk about it so naturally?” Dan asks.
Phil doesn’t sense judgment, but the question feels loaded.
“Yes. I want people to know me for who I am. Orientation included.”
Dan nods.
“And you, what do you want to tell me?” Phil asks carefully, not wanting to push. It seems like Dan isn’t very open.
Dan thinks for a moment, pours himself more wine. “People already know a lot about me from the tabloids.”
“I don’t read them.”
A curl falls softly onto his forehead. Phil keeps watching him, thinking how beautiful he is. It’s just a fact, his looks, the light he seems to emit, but also the melancholy in his eyes and the way he always seems to hold himself back, as if there’s an inner energy he can’t release.
“I’m twenty-four. I’m from Wokingham. My parents were young and obsessed with commercials. So, at six months, I was advertising diapers on TV, at one year clothes, and then my first film came at five. We moved to Los Angeles because there were more opportunities, and the rest is history, I guess.”
“So you never had a normal life.”
Dan looks at him, his pupil trembling slightly. “Define normal, Phil.”
Phil looks around, not wanting to offend him, but the wine makes him more direct. “A dusty house, toast for dinner, a job that barely pays, having to take crowded, smelly public transport, standing in line at the bank. That kind of life.”
Dan seemed relieved. “No. I’d say not.”
“You said you would’t be back in London for a while.”
“I’m starting filming in a Hollywood studio for a TV series.”
Phil nods. “Thank you for bringing this back. I wouldn’t have survived long without my fleece; it’s my favorite.”
Dan laughs. He looks so young when he laughs, like a kid. “Then why the hell did you give it to me?”
“I don’t know… maybe I was hoping for a way to see you again and talk to you.”
They look at each other.
They’re separated by the table, the dirty dishes, the wine bottle and their glasses, yet Phil feels the warmth of his body.
“I have to go,” Dan says.
Phil stands up. This time, he’s calmer; he’s had an incredible amount of bonus time with Dan, even the chance to have a real conversation. However fleeting, it’s more than he ever imagined. So now he’s better prepared for the idea of never seeing him again.
He walks him to the door, and in the hallway Phil asks,
“Did you get your earrings?”
They exchange a glance; Dan’s eyes are large and dark, unreadable.
“I didn’t have any. It was a lie,” Dan replies flatly.
Phil doesn’t even have time to process the words before Dan’s lips are on his, a brief, chaste kiss, barely more than a touch, but it leaves him stunned. Dan’s hand is behind his shoulder, while Phil hasn’t moved or touched him at all; he just let himself be kissed, completely frozen like an idiot.
Dan pulls away.
“I’m really sorry about the ‘surreal but nice’ comment. Disaster.” Phil blurts out.
“That’s okay. I thought the apricot and honey thing was the real low point.”
Phil chuckles.
Dan stiffens, running a hand through his hair. “Probably best not to tell anyone about this.”
Phil tries not to feel hurt, its normal Dan would worry about things like that. He’s not accusing him of being a gossip. “Right. No one. I mean, I’ll tell myself sometimes. But don’t worry, I won’t believe it.”
Dan smiles, hesitates for a moment. Phil wonders if they’ll touch again. He can still feel the pressure of that kiss on his lips. But instead, Dan opens the door and leaves without another word, saying goodbye only with a look—and it’s the expressiveness of his eyes, the very thing that made him so famous and admired on screen, that tells Phil they won’t see each other again.