#danxphil

Dan gets a fever a day after the Singapore show and spends most of his time on the plane to Hong Kong sleeping on Phil’s shoulder, the occasional bump of turbulence jolting him awake before he falls back into drowsiness.

The flight over is quiet.

Phil reaches over, slow, heavy, and says, “Wake up, love.”

His voice is so fond that Dan’s heart aches, but in his delirious state Dan only manages to press his face into Phil’s neck.

He hears the flight attendant ask if he wants chicken or beef, but he can’t be arsed to answer when he fits into Phil perfectly.

He hopes Phil understands.

-

He stumbles after Phil to the exit. The flight attendant smiles at them, her smile the kind of perfected un-artificialness that would give Dan nightmares about retail for weeks if he were more awake. He forgets to thank her until he's two minutes away from the plane, but Phil smiles at people enough for the two of them.

"'m sleepy," Dan mutters, suppressing yet another yawn. "Philly. Give me attention." He knocks his head against Phil’s shoulder.

Phil grips him by the elbow and helps him manoeuvre the crowds with his eyes half-closed. "You're going to trip, and you're going to die, and I'm gonna be the one stuck with you haunting me."

"-ou'll look after me."

"Do I have a choice?" Phil says, managing to sound exasperated and fond at the same time. Dan trips over a sudden bump in the carpet. "I don't."

-

Dan wakes up enough to walk up the stairs to their room. Elevator broken, his ass.

The room is too big for the two of them. Dan sets the suitcase down on the floor.

“Hong Kong, eh?” Phil sits spread-eagled on the hotel bed, jeans dark against the pristine white. There is a gap between the curtains. The streetlights are neon-bright behind him, their fans would call it a halo if they saw Phil like Dan does, all soft and relaxed and his. "Can't believe we've been here twice."

Dan’s almost glad Phil can’t read his mind- he feels shy with how much he loves Phil most days. "Makes me feel like I'm doing something right."

"Does it, now," Phil says, teasing, but his eyes hold something soft and sweet when Dan looks over.

“I used to think we'd be sellouts by now.”

“We will be, but in the future.”

“Touché,” Dan says, and leaves it at that.

-

At night, the streets are hushed. And when they wake up, the noise is something that settles down as a background.

Hong Kong’s bright. Loud. Crowded.

Dan tilts his head back and wonders at the way the buildings go up, up, up. Being six-foot-tall means he stares at at the top of people's heads a lot, but here, he feels infinite.

Phil lugs their backpack on his shoulders and moans about how hot it is. The heat of the sun burns red into Dan's face, but he likes it.

"Sunscreen," Phil says, and gestures at Dan to get it from their bag.

Dan rolls his eyes affectionately, and brushes his fingers against Phil's arm in thanks. They can't do much here, even if they are, technically, known less than back home; because they're very much out of place here, amongst the crowds of Asians.

Dan grips the bottle tight in his hand, walks down the road with that measured space between him and Phil.

Soon enough, he promises himself, soon he won’t have to do that.

He’s been saying it for years now, but this is the first time it doesn’t taste like a lie on the tip of his tongue.

The handles of the shopping bags (“paper, please, not plastic,” Phil said) dig into the palms of his hands.

-

"Hello!" Dan says to the first girl. She's kind of pretty, not that Dan would ever tell her that. He wonders how long she has been waiting for this.

She shoves a letter into their hands. It trembles, an extension of her soul.

"It's for you," she says, as if it weren't obvious enough. "I love you guys."

Dan takes the letter, feels it warm in his hands like she's been holding it a long time close to her heart. He feels a little overwhelmed.

(Out of everyone, why him? Why Phil?

Why do they love a person they'll never know?)

Phil nudges him out of the way. "Thanks!" he says, voice bright and loud, just enough for Dan to remember that he isn’t alone.

"Yeah, we really appreciate it," he turns back to the girl, focusing all his attention onto her.

She deserves it.

-

When Dan was nine, he was supposed to perform a song on talent night. And when the curtain opened, he had dug his heels in, refused to move, and they'd sent for his mum.

"It gets easier," his mum had said, hands cupping both sides of his cheeks. She squished his face. "You'll get used to it, you hear me Daniel?"

Dan had managed a slight nod back then, but now, he realised what a lie that was.

The sound of the crowd chanting along to the set list was, honestly, fucking intimidating. Dan couldn't hear lyrics, or a melody, but somehow he could tell which song it was.

(And as long it wasn't that stupid ladydoor remix, he was completely fine with it.)

Phil looked over, a tuft of his hair sticking out from the back of his head. "You ready, Dan?"

Dan tugged at the bottom of his shirt, making sure his nipples were well-covered. White was a bad choice, but wearing black on black on black was a thing of the past. As it should be. "Guess I am."

The ending notes of the last song plays.

Dan takes a deep breath in, and sees Phll do the same.

When they step out, the crowd roars.

-

"Good show?" Phil asks, grinning so wide his tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth. "Bad show?"

"Finality," Dan says. He rolls his shoulders backwards, feeling his bones crack- almost. "But good, I think."

"I'm glad," Phil says. That's what he always says, I'm glad, like checking on Dan was routine by now. Dan narrows his eyes at Phil. Phil widens his eyes and stares back.

"-water?" One of the crew cuts into their stupid little contest, breaking Dan out from their bubble.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Thanks."

-

Dan turns their bedside light off. He can see a vague outline of the objects in the room, but that’s all that’s visible.

"So," Phil says from his left, like they’re ten and having the coolest sleepover ever, "So, Daniel,"

"-what."

"Tour two is ending, isn't it?" Phil says. His breath is warm in Dan's face. "What do you think about tour three?"

Dan groans, shoving his face into the clinical, foreign smell of the pillowcase. It doesn’t smell like Phil yet, not like the one back home does, the one he cuddles with when he’s having a bad day. “Shut up and go to sleep."

“Love you,” Phil flings an arm over his waist and ignores Dan’s yelp of protest.