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Phil's still asleep behind him but Dan sits on the spare bed, staring toward the window. The sunlight soaks into his skin in an indirect way, soothing the squirming mass of adrenaline and anxiety that's cohabitated alongside everything else in his mind for days now.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Whatever happens, happens.
Live in the moment. Love the moment for what it is. Find peace in every second that he can, savor of the excitement of the rest.
This is his life. This is his truth.
All he has to do is live it.
*
Phil looks sleepy over breakfast, toast and laughter and warmth and both of them so antsy they can't sit still.
They'll settle into a pattern soon, but Dan knows the undercurrent of excitement won't fade entirely. Every day is a new day; not the cliche but the reality of new city, new faces, new audiences.
(Some days it will be exhausting. Some days it will seem impossible. Some days his head will ache and his heart might feel heavy and he might feel frustrated with the weight of responsibility. But underneath it all, the spotlight hitting his face and the thundering applause will not stop being exciting.)
"You could have woken me," Phil says, because sometimes Dan does. Sometimes Dan drags Phil into some fucking mindfulness because it's fucking good for him, Dan always says.
But sometimes Dan enjoys his meditation alone.
"I mean," Dan says. "You were there. Snoring."
Phil laughs. "Sorry," he says, but he's not, and it's fine because Dan's not truly bothered. Nothing in this moment weighs him down.
*
"I'm already addicted," Phil says, typing out a caption on his phone.
Dan doesn't know what picture Phil's about to post.
They're playing a game of trust with this, trusting each other. No second guessing, no double checking. It's a different sort of thrill every time Dan's phone buzzes with the alert, even time he sees Phil's crinkled eyes smiling in anticipation as he opens it.
They're trying new things. Honesty in ten second increments; coaxed into opening themselves up with a misguided sense of impermanence, still aware of the underlying knowledge that everything they put into the world is forever.
And it feels fucking good, Dan thinks, reaching for his phone.
*
"What would you do-"
"Nothing," Dan says. Backstage, waiting - perpetually busy and yet with so many pockets spent doing nothing but counting the clock down.
It's good, though. Good internet time. Good chill time. Dan's legs are stretched out in front of him, feet on the table and computer in his lap. Phil's stretched out lengthwise on the sofa, knees bent up so his toes dig into Dan's thigh.
"Dan!" Phil laughs and pokes him with a socked foot. "You didn't let me finish."
"I always let you finish." Dan lifts an eyebrow at him.
No one can hear them.
Probably.
And even if someone can, it's worth it the way Phil gapes at him slightly before giving Dan an offended smile. "I hate you."
"I know." Dan looks back at his computer screen. Five, four, three, two...
"What would you do if I got locked in the toilet backstage and you had to do the show by yourself?"
"Mm." Dan considers it, humoring him. "Bring Cornelia on stage with me. Or just, I don't know, fuck off to the nearest Starbucks and let Martyn and Cornelia run the show themselves."
"They'd probably be more popular than us," Phil agrees.
"Or I'd just start telling stories about you," Dan says. "The most embarrassing stories. All of your drunk stories."
"I haven't had a drunk story in years," Phil says. "Not an interesting one, at least. Now it's just - oh, had too much to drink, now I've got to wee and I'll have a hangover for two days."
"Old," Dan says. "Anyway, I think they'll be just as happy with drunk stories from your youth."
"Or Cornelia," Phil says.
"Wait, I've got it. I'll have Cornelia join me and tell drunk stories about you. Done, settled. Feel free to get locked in a toilet now."
"You are the actual worst," Phil says, one foot dropping down across Dan's lap.
Dan wraps his fingers around it and squeezes slightly. "I bet you say that to all the boys."
"No," Phil says, smiling and settling with his head against the sofa cushion, getting comfortable. "Just you."
*
Sweat and bright lights.
His own voice echoing in his ears.
Phil's steadiness, radiating something familiar, company and compassion and chemistry.
He can do this. He is doing this. They are doing this.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Movement, both impulsive and practiced, trusting instinct.
Eyes closing, the screams of the audience. Snapshots that bring their own tiny bursts of energy.
The keys of the keyboard under his fingers, Phil's voice ringing out.
In these moments, he is enough.