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Dan hadn’t really wanted to go out, not tonight. He’s tired. He’s tired in a way that makes sense, muscles a little tight from being on his feet all day for months, running around on a stage and sleeping on a small lumpy bed every night.
But he’s also tired in a way that makes less sense. In the way he gets sometimes, where everything feels harder than it really is, where every smile takes effort. It’s not that bad yet but he can feel it coming on, and staying up late drinking in a noisy bar crowded with people is exactly the kind of thing he should not be doing.
Phil would understand. All it would take is a few words from Dan and Phil would be ordering too much food to the bus and tucking Dan into bed the moment they finished.
But Dan hadn’t said those words. When Phil had said, “The driver is taking a nap before we leave tonight. A bunch of the crew is going out for drinks, wanna go?” Dan had just nodded.
He gets tired of being a buzzkill. He gets tired of feeling like he’s dragging Phil down.
So they’re here, sat around a table in dim light surrounded by happy, vaguely familiar faces. Dan is still nursing his first drink. Phil’s on his third, and judging by the general volume and enthusiasm of the conversations happening around him, Dan would guess the rest of them are too, at least.
Dan’s got one leg crossed over the other, his arms tucked in tight to his body. He wants to keep himself contained, wants to fold himself in as much as possible. Phil’s sat on the opposite end of the table, between Marianne and someone Dan’s never seen before, a pretty girl with long blonde hair and a loud laugh.
Phil is not keeping himself contained tonight. He’s drunk, Dan can tell, even though they’ve not actually spoken to each other since the car ride over. His face is red and his hands are all over the place as he talks. His smiles come easy and Dan knows he’s telling the story of the very loud, very kinky sex they’d heard their neighbors having in a hotel in Atlanta the other night.
Of course he doesn’t include that part, the part where Dan had heard it too. The part where Phil had pretended he was horrified but soon after reached over and pulled Dan closer. He doesn’t mention the part where they both got horny despite themselves and ended up having rather loud sex of their own.
Of course he doesn’t mention any of that, and why would he? It’s not like Dan wants him to. That’s something they probably wouldn’t even tell their closest friends, let alone a room full of half strangers and employees.
He knows it’s not fair, but it makes his skin prickle to hear Phil edit the story to omit Dan completely. Most of these people surely know the truth. He and Phil are not as careful as they were last time they took their show on the road. They don’t even book separate rooms anymore. Would it really have killed Phil to say we instead of I?
The blonde woman sat next to Phil is— well, she’s staring. At Phil. Has been for a while, a large white-toothed smile splashed across her pretty face. She must be American, Dan thinks, a new hire. He also thinks he’s not imagining that she’s sat a little closer than would strictly be considered friendly.
Objectively, Dan can’t blame her. Phil is fucking gorgeous after all, and in all honesty Dan’s watched his boyfriend get hit on a lot more frequently since he changed his hair. There’s an air of confidence that simply hadn’t quite been there before, and Dan can’t really blame anyone for looking a little too long.
Usually, anyway. Usually he can’t blame them. Tonight he does, and he feels that thick heat in his chest, the feeling that makes him want to shove his tongue down Phil’s throat in front of everyone and fuck the repercussions. Phil is his, and tonight he just can’t suppress the wish that that was something everyone knew without a shred of doubt.
He swallows the rest of his drink, too much for one go but he does it anyway and it burns all the way down. He stands up and doesn’t even say excuse me to the guy sat next to him, just stands and waits for him to move the hell out of the way so he can escape to the toilets before he does or says something stupid.
Because he knows he’s being stupid. Maybe the girl is interested and maybe she isn’t. It shouldn’t matter either way, because he knows for certain that Phil isn’t interested, and that should be enough for him to just chill the fuck out.
He sees in his periphery that Phil watches him as he walks away. He doesn’t say anything though, so neither does Dan. He half expects a text asking him if he’s feeling alright, but it doesn’t come.
It doesn’t come, even after Dan’s sat in a stall for fifteen minutes reading all the graffiti scribbled across the walls. He’s really doing this then, really letting himself spiral into a deep pit of self pity and perceived persecution. He knows exactly that that’s what he’s doing, that it’s all in his head, and yet it never fails to feel all too bloody real.
He feels alone. He feels like the world is out to get him. He feels like Phil is a selfish asshole who doesn’t care about him anymore. He’s doing this on purpose, letting some random bird flirt with him because he likes it, and he likes knowing how much Dan hates it.
He pulls out his phone and opens up the camera roll, opens up the album he really shouldn’t have on his phone but does anyway. He needs it for moments like this, when his mind is betraying him and his chest threatens to crush him from the inside out.
These photos are nothing cheeky, really. Nothing he wouldn’t see other people post on Facebook without a second thought. Ones he’s taken in the morning, when they’re both still half asleep and Dan can’t resist how innocent and beautiful Phil looks with puffy eyes and messy hair. Blurry ones where their lips are pressed together, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. Photos of moments that belong to them and only them.
Moments that may only ever belong to them, though sometimes Dan wishes they didn’t. Sometimes he wishes they were moments they could share. Not often, and not at the expense of the privacy and freedoms they might lose, but sometimes, against all his better judgements.
These photos help, though. They help remind him what’s real. Phil is real, and the way Phil loves him is real. This jealousy is not, or at least, the reason for it is not. Phil’s not going to leave him for an attractive woman with an American accent. That’s not real.
And Phil cares if Dan is feeling like shit. Dan knows that, too. He also knows that Phil is drunk and having fun and in all likelihood would be horrified if he knew Dan was hiding in the loo fighting back bitter tears and feeling forgotten.
Dan lingers on one particular photograph awhile, the one they’d taken at a pub not unlike this one. A pub in Dublin where they’d gripped their pints of Guinness and snuck out onto the patio to sip them underneath the light of the moon. Somehow, miraculously, they’d managed to go unnoticed there and they’d leaned their heads together and Dan had snapped a reminder of their stolen date.
That cool night in the Irish darkness feels so far away now. Now he’s sweaty and alone in a dirty bar bathroom in Phoenix, clutching his phone and listening to strangers pissing right next to him.
He knows what to do. He’ll get up and go back out there. He’ll stand behind Phil and put his hand on his shoulder. Not possessively, but if anyone sees it that way he won’t exactly be upset. He’ll lean down and whisper in Phil’s ear that he wants to leave. Phil won’t argue. He won’t hesitate. He’ll stand up and excuse them both and they’ll go back to the bus and hide from the world in a bed that barely fits them.
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and goes to the sink to splash some cold water on his face. He looks in the mirror, watches the droplets roll down his cheeks. He’s always so surprised that he still looks exactly like himself even when his whole world feels tilted and wrong.
When he rounds the corner and their table comes into view, his eyes are laser focused on Phil, and what he sees knocks all the breath out of his lungs.
He hadn’t been imagining it. Her hand is on his forearm, her face leaned close to his ear. She whispers something, like Dan had been planning to, and then pulls back. It’s only a quick thing, and Dan is too far away to have heard what she said, but he saw it. He saw it, and there are really no two ways to interpret her intent.
He doesn’t even stay to see Phil’s reaction. All logical thought is gone, all reassurance that he could get out of this evening unscathed completely obliterated. He turns on his heels and walks away, across the bar and out the doors, into the stiflingly hot Arizona night.
*
He’s in bed by the time Phil finally deigns to send him a text.
where the hell are you
Dan types out the shortest, most cutting reply he can think of. i left
He closes out of his messages and shuts his phone off. Not just to silent but off completely, something he pretty much never does. Phil is going to be fucking livid when he gets back, but… that’s kind of the point, actually. Dan wants him to know he fucked up.
Even though he didn’t fuck up.
Somewhere deep down Dan knows that, but he can’t feel it right now. All he feels is sick to his stomach at the thought of someone else’s hands on the man he loves, and that man doing nothing to stop it from happening.
Would he feel like this if he hadn’t already been on his way down into the hole? He’s not sure. In any case, it’s too late. He’s feeling it.
Shutting off his phone gives him a perverse feeling of satisfaction. He knows without a doubt that Phil will be texting, probably ringing and getting back nothing. It’s passive aggression at its absolute worst, but sometimes Dan can’t help himself. For all the years he’s spent discussing the benefits of communication with his therapist, sometimes it just feels really fucking good to spread the misery around a little.
The regret will come later, as it always does. Right now he’s going to enjoy wallowing.
*
“Dan, are you fucking kidding me?”
Dan doesn’t turn around. His heart leaps up into his throat where it pounds away and makes it hard to breath, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t say anything.
He hears Phil’s feet walking in the wrong direction. “He’s here,” Phil shouts. Then, a little softer, “No, it’s fine. Sorry. Yeah, goodnight.”
The door to their room shuts hard, just short of slamming.
“What’s your problem?”
He sounds even more cross than Dan had expected, and then, “I was fucking worried about you.”
And just like that, all of Dan’s anger vanishes, because Phil doesn’t just sound angry, he sounds hurt. He sounds like he’d been scared. And he doesn’t deserve to feel like that, he never did.
Dan wants to turn around and apologize, but finds he can’t. His face is already wet with tears, his shoulders shrugged up all the way to his neck. He wishes he could just disappear and spare Phil going through this bullshit. Again.
The bed dips on Phil’s side, his hand coming to rest on Dan’s arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he says gently.
Dan takes a deep breath in and holds it for a moment before breathing it out slowly. He repeats this a few more times, until his heart rate normalizes and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to crack in half. Phil waits, patient as ever, thumb stroking the bare skin of Dan’s arm.
“Sorry,” Dan croaks. “Didn’t wanna ruin your night.” It’s so stupid and he knows it, because that’s exactly what he’d ended up doing.
“Why did you leave without saying anything?” Phil asks again. “Why is your phone off? I would’ve come back with you.”
“Don’t wanna say it,” Dan mumbles.
Phil pulls on Dan’s arm lightly, silently requesting that he turn around. Dan does it though he really doesn’t want to. It’s the least he can do.
“Tell me,” Phil says.
“Come to bed first,” Dan replies.
Phil stands up then and pulls off his clothes. Dan watches the whole time, a shameful, irrational relief flooding through him. He’s the only one who gets to see Phil like this, naked save for his blue Calvin’s. No one else but him.
“Sit up,” Phil says.
Dan does, letting Phil strip him down to his own pants. Their clothes lie in a heap on the floor as Phil slips under the covers and pulls Dan close. Dan closes his eyes and wraps his arms around Phil’s waist. Phil’s chest is warm against his cheek and he wants nothing more than to let sleep take him and forget this night ever happened.
“Dan,” Phil says softly, because there’s no way he’s going to let Dan get off that easily. “We have to talk.”
“Can we just— I just want to sleep.”
Phil combs his fingers through Dan’s fringe, pushing the curls up and off his forehead. “I know. But you need to tell me what happened.”
Dan sighs. He doesn’t want to admit he’d been a jealous twat, but it feels a little easier with Phil’s body pressed up against his.
“I saw that… that girl. Sat next to you. I saw her like, touching you.”
“Oh.”
“I know it’s fucking stupid. I just— my head’s not right and I snapped.”
“I didn’t even really notice,” Phil says. “I thought she was just friendly. Martyn just hired her to help out with merch stuff.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not your fault, it’s mine.” He kisses the hair on Phil’s chest.
“I was a little drunk,” Phil says. “Maybe I was—”
“No, Phil. You weren’t. You were fine. I just…” Dan sighs. Putting all these thoughts, these emotional spirals into words for other people to make sense of is something he still hasn’t really learned how to do well. “I was already feeling like shit and I just hate it sometimes. You know? I hate that they don’t know.”
“Me too,” Phil murmurs.
Dan’s not sure Phil means the same thing he means, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not going to change anything. Nothing is going to change right now. They live how they live and they’d agreed a long time ago that this is how it has to be. They trust each other, but this thing they have is too good, too important to risk the corruption that exposure might bring.
They trust each other— it’s everyone else that makes them wary.
“Can I ask you something even though it’s shitty and I have no right to ask it?” Dan asks.
“Yeah.”
“What did she say to you? When she like, whispered in your ear.”
Now it’s Phil’s turn to sigh. “Don’t freak out.”
His body is already halfway there, but he refuses to give in again. “I won’t.”
“She asked me if I was single.”
“Oh.” Dan doesn’t know if he feels relieved or upset. “Oh.”
“Are you freaking out?”
“Um… no?”
“You wanna know what I said?” Phil asks.
Dan nods, squeezing his arms tighter round Phil’s middle, bracing himself for whatever Phil’s about to say.
“I said no.”
“Oh.” His heart thumps against his ribs with force. “Yeah?”
Phil tugs gently on Dan’s hair, pulling his head back so they can look at each other. “I told her the truth.”
“What, you mean…?”
Phil nods. “Like I said, I was drunk.”
“Fuck,” Dan mumbles. “Fuck. Were you going to tell me?”
Phil shakes his head. “I thought you’d be pissed off.”
Dan can’t help laughing. Usually they’re pretty good at knowing what the other is thinking. Not tonight apparently.
“Are you?” Phil asks.
“Course not. What do I have to be pissed off about? I’m the one who’s been an asshole. I wish I could’ve seen her face.”
Phil frowns.
“Not like that, not in a shitty way, I just… god, I hate how much I actually love that.”
“She did look pretty shook.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Dan says gently, because he wishes it wasn’t something he had to say. “We can’t just tell random people.”
“I know,” Phil says, pressing a kiss to Dan’s forehead. “And you know you can’t just disappear on me like that, right?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“And the jealousy…”
“I know,” Dan whispers. “I fucking know. I—” He cuts himself off. He has excuses, lots of them. He’s tired, he’s depressed, he hasn’t seen a therapist in ages.
Phil doesn’t need excuses. He deserves better, and he knows them all anyway.
“I’m really sorry,” Dan says. “I fucked up tonight.”
“You’re feeling low?” Phil asks. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I can’t always tell.”
Dan nods. “I wanted to pretend I wasn’t.”
“Well don’t. It doesn’t do any good.”
Dan nods again.
“Is it bad?” Phil asks.
“Don’t know yet. Maybe.”
“We’re almost done America. It’ll be easier after that. No more bus.”
Dan doesn't say anything, just nuzzles his face into Phil’s neck and breathes in the scent of him. He smells a little different, like sweat and cigarettes and cheap body wash. It doesn’t matter because he’s still Phil, and he’s all Dan wants.
“I don’t want it like this forever,” he whispers.
“I know.”
The bus starts rumbling beneath them and a few moments later the distinctive feeling of wheels turning. It’s instantly soothing to Dan. He thinks maybe Phil’s wrong. Maybe he’ll miss the bus a little bit.
“Can I sleep?” he asks. “Do you forgive me for being the world’s worst boyfriend?”
“Sleep,” Phil says softly. “You’ve always been the worst.”