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There's a thundercloud trying to cast its shadow over Phil's head, and he's not sure who put it there.
*
Late nights, little sleep.
A bad hotel room bed.
A snoring boyfriend.
A wake up call that comes too early.
His body aches and his throat is sore and his fingers shake with even the weight of his toothbrush.
He wants the day to be over before it's even begun.
*
He hasn't been keeping track but he's fairly sure he hasn't spoken to anyone in at least an hour.
It's not strange, but - it is strange.
There's conversation happening all around him. There's a world of activity, bustling and bright, and he's meant to be at the center of it.
Instead he sits back and lets it turn to static noise.
*
In front of their fans, he finds the smile they're expecting to see. It's a pattern he can fake; hug, eye contact, nod and smile, do you want us to sign this, should we take a picture.
There's no melodramatic moment where he feels Dan's eyes on him. Dan's almost the only person not looking at him, because Dan's got to match every smile, every hug, every picture posed and smiled for.
Then it's over and he has a moment to breathe.
*
He finds a sofa in the green room and slumps down onto it.
He knows they're asking Dan about him. He can hear them right outside the door. They're not very quiet.
It's only Dan's voice that's low, though still not too low for Phil to hear.
"Coming down with something," Dan says.
He's not wrong, Phil realizes. He's achy and feverish and it's not all in his head.
"Yeah," Dan says. Phil missed what he was responding to. "Twenty minutes, yeah? Yeah."
*
"Alright, Lester," Dan says, walking into the room and shutting the door behind him. "Move your feet."
Phil bends his knees, making room for Dan at the end of the sofa. It's ugly and green and Phil misses his pillow. Why didn't he bring a pillow?
He flings an arm over his eyes and listens to the sound of Dan unzipping his bag and taking his computer out.
*
Phil doesn't even try to keep track of the minutes. He keeps track of the room instead, Dan's typing and occasional laugh or sound of annoyance to himself. It's more grounding than annoying, even though Phil wants to rest.
There's a ceiling fan whirring somewhere nearby. It's set to the lowest setting and every time it makes a rotation something in the mechanics of it makes a groaning sound.
"That's gonna fall," Phil says. "Kill us all."
"There's only two of us here," Dan says.
"Kill us both, then."
"I welcome death," Dan says. "Want a foot rub before our inevitable demise?"
Phil cracks one eye open. "Is this a trick?"
"No trick," Dan says. He closes his laptop and wraps his fingers around one of Phil's socked feet. "You look pathetic."
"I feel pathetic," Phil says.
"Got you something coming," Dan says. "With our lunch."
"Is it Lemsip?" Phil asks. "I hate Lemsip."
"It's probably Lemsip," Dan says. "You're gonna take it and you're not gonna complain, because I'm giving you a foot rub."
He plucks Phil's socks off one at a time. Phil wiggles his shoulders further down onto the sofa. A foot rub won't make him feel less like shit, but it certainly won't hurt.
The way Dan makes his chest feel warm and full doesn't hurt at all.
"Are you going to wait until we're at the hotel room tonight and I'm exhausted and then tell me that I owe you a blowjob?" Phil asks.
"I mean," Dan pauses to think about it as he squeezes tight around Phil's arch. "I wasn't, but I do see the merit of that idea."
Phil kicks a foot out.
*
Their manager is unphased to walk in and see Phil's bare feet on Dan's lap.
"Is the patient going to pull through, then?" She asks, tossing a bag from the nearest chemist at them. It lands on Phil's stomach. The food is placed more gently on the table.
He can see the Lemsip box through the clear plastic. Fucking Lemsip.
"Outlook unclear," Dan says. "Haven't seen signs of brain activity in roughly thirty one years."
"Hey," Phil protests.
"But he's got a will to live somehow despite that," Dan says, rubbing his thumb between Phil's toes. "It's incredible, really. A medical miracle."
"As long as he's fit to go on stage," she says.
Phil crosses his arms over his chest. "Hate you both."
He feels a bit better already. His mum always said it only takes a bit of a cuddle when you're under the weather, but apparently a foot rub from Dan does the job almost as well.
*
On the stage, the lights propel him. Adrenaline and medicine tangle together and do their job well.
Everything his body feels is suddenly secondary to the wall of pure energy the stage brings with it. He hits every beat, says every line, answers every question, makes the audience scream and laugh.
He sneezes twice and tries to avoid the knowing looks from Dan. In the interlude between segments of the show when Dan says, "You got this, mate?" Phil isn't afraid to look back at him and nod.
*
It'll still be another late night.
He still won't get much sleep.
The next wake up call will still come too early.
But Dan will ply him with medicine and mock his inferior immune system and make him eat healthy things that Phil will absolutely complain about and let Phil cuddle up to him even if Phil gets a snotty nose.
Phil will thank him, sometimes, if he remembers, for keeping the clouds at bay.