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It’s cold. It’s cold and the line’s way too long, so instead of standing underneath the overhanging roof like they’re supposed, him and PJ are standing outside in the rain. He shivers as his skinny jeans cling more to his legs than they normally do, the wind blowing against them in a merciless attempt to give them hypothermia.
“Jesus fuck, it’s cold,” he mutters, rubbing his hands together in a futile effort to warm them. He shoves them in his pockets when they’re still cold after two minutes. PJ rolls his eyes and waves a glove-covered hand at him and Dan glares in response, the effect of it probably ruined by the wet curls against his forehead and the mascara running down his face.
“God bless,” Dan says when they can finally walk a few inches forward again, his soaked, galaxy-themed Converse making floppy noises as he moves his feet.
“Hail Satan!” someone behind them shouts in retaliation and Dan laughs. He was definitely wrong about these not being not his kind of people, choice of clothing aside.
PJ nudges him in the side with his elbow, pointing at the roof that’s finally, finally, coming into view as they turn around the corner. They’ve been waiting for the past hour and have practically shuffled around the entire building by now. Dan lets out a sigh of relief, freezing when some icy water rolls down his neck.
He turns around, glaring at the person behind him but the guy just shakes his head and says,
“It wasn’t me, mate, it was your friend!”
PJ snickers behind him and Dan pokes him in the side, hard enough that PJ winces as Dan’s fingers jab at his ribs. “I think you should be a little more grateful,” Dan says. “I got us these tickets after all.”
PJ snorts as they reach security, giving off his backpack and turning to Dan, his slightly too big t-shirt hanging off his frame in a way that - if Dan’s honest - makes him look “stereotypically emo”. He guesses that’s why security gave him weird looks, because his light green jumper with thumbholes and flower crown don’t really fit in at a post-hardcore concert.
“Yeah, you got them by seducing the singer. Great job,” PJ deadpans as they walk together to the lockers, wrestling their way through the mass of human bodies trying to get away from there as soon as possible. Dan pinches the skin of his elbow in response.
“You’re welcome, asshole.”
PJ smiles then, all teeth and ill-intent, and Dan resists the urge to jab him in the side again just on principle.
“No, I’m serious, it’s a great job.” Dan narrows his eyes at PJ as the grin grows bigger and bigger. “Frankly, I’m surprised you even managed to seduce anyone at all.”
Dan sighs, rolling his eyes as he turns away from PJ to see if he can spot the merch stand. In all the chaos of the last concert, with him getting to meet Against Elision, meet Phil, he’d actually forgotten about buying some merch and God, does he want one of those soft grey jumpers.
His breath almost gets knocked out of his lungs as PJ grabs his elbow, practically dragging him further away from the merch stand he can see in the distance. He struggles against PJ’s grip, but PJ is unrelenting and doesn’t let up until they’re standing over by the toilets, in the darkened corner between the doors. The smell of piss is revolting and Dan crinkles his nose at PJ’s spot of choice.
“What was that for, you prick?” Dan hisses, glaring at PJ as his fingers glide over the familiar fabric of his jumper, the cotton stretching between his fingers.
“You were zoning out again,” PJ simply answers, like dragging him through a mass of people was a completely normal course of action when someone was lost in their own thoughts.
“Besides, we need to get some tokens first. You can fanboy over the merch when we have means to buy drinks.”
Dan lets himself gets dragged away this time, desperately clinging to PJ so they don’t get separated.
He’s not going to start this night with crying, dammit.
* * * * *
Warmth is the only thing he can feel, even though he’s tied his jumper around his waist, the knot pressing into his side every time he moves and bumps up against someone else, but all he can feel is the heat from the stage and the people pressed next to him as they all scream the lyrics back at Phil, not missing a single beat.
He wipes at a bead of sweat rolling down his face with a hand that immediately moves up afterwards, waving with the rhythm of the music, stretching out towards Phil. Phil, the singer of his favourite band, Phil who gave him these tickets, Phil who kissed him. He doesn’t realise he’s fallen silent until PJ’s elbow nudges him subtly – which is to say, very painfully – in the ribs.
When he looks over PJ’s brow is furrowed, his eyes worried and Dan smiles at him and shrugs, going back to sing the last few words of the song.
“It’s like I’m stabbing in the dark, stabbing in the dark,” Phil sings, jumping on the stage, the entire crowd moving together with him and Dan knows no one in this room isn’t looking at Phil. “It’s like I think too much, and then I fall apart – like stabbing in the dark.”
People start screaming and whistling when the song ends, and the grin that breaks through on Phil’s face is blinding. Dan’s mesmerised by it, swallowing when he thinks of the memory of those lips against his, a grin curving them up as Phil covered Dan’s mouth.
“How is everyone doing?” Phil shouts into the microphone, light bouncing off the sweat on his forehead that has his black hair plastered to his skin, the drops rolling down his neck over the tattoos until they reach his shirt collar. The crowd screams, and Dan winces at the sound of all the teenage girls shouting, their high voices making his ears hurt.
Phil just smiles, saying, “Good! That’s good.” He’s panting from exertion, Dan knows what singing and simultaneously jumping around can do to a person and he’s heaving just as much as Phil is – if not more.
Everyone goes silent as Phil sits down on one of the stands at the edge of the stage, almost in front of Dan, close enough that Dan can see the way Phil’s trousers are clinging to his skin, leaving little to the imagination.
“I’ve been having a good time myself lately.” Dan blushes as Phil starts talking, rubbing his fingers against each other in a nervous habit as the colour rushes over his face. “I met someone, and I – I really like them.”
Someone in the crowd wolf-whistles and Dan ducks his head, hoping the bad lighting will cause no one to notice the way his face grows red. When he looks up, PJ is staring at him knowingly, an eyebrow raised in mocking and Dan pushes at him. No one but PJ, unfortunately.
“They’re here tonight, in the crowd,” Phil says, his eyes finding Dan as he pauses and Dan shifts a little, practically exploding with nerves and the fluttering feeling in his stomach. “And I’d really like to dedicate our newest song to them.”
A few people shout and whoop and Dan only barely resists the urge to either run away forever or hug Phil right now. Phil chuckles into the microphone as he watches Dan duck his head again, and Dan’s face grows even hotter knowing that Phil knows he’s blushing.
“So here we have our newest song,” Phil starts. “It’s called ‘Deathbeds’ and I’d like to dedicate it to Dan.”
PJ is the one who shouts the hardest when the song starts, trying to get Dan to pull Dan’s hands away from his face, occasionally screaming, “Dan, he’s looking at you!”, in Dan’s ear. Dan just stands there, dumbfounded, as Phil recites the lyrics to probably the best song Dan’s ever heard.
* * * * *
“Hey you,” Phil smirks when Dan walks in, PJ trailing behind him, his eyes big with wonder. Dan blushes, looking down at the ground when he notices all the band members staring at them with mirth in their eyes.
“Hey,” he mumbles back, not knowing what to do with so many other people in the room and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers tapping a rhythm against his palm in a futile effort to distract himself from the scrutiny of the others.
Phil’s clearly just come out of the shower, a towel slung around his neck and his hair still damp. Dan kind of wants to kiss him, wants to run his hands through Phil’s hair and make it stick up at absurd angles. He wants to leave hickeys on the patches of skin on Phil’s neck that aren’t covered in tattoos, a not-at-all permanent mark that might just hold as much meaning to Phil as the tattoos themselves.
“What did you think of the song?”
The question shouldn’t come as a surprise, and it doesn’t, except that it actually does, because Phil’s voice is soft, careful, filled with nerves that Dan isn’t really used to hearing. He swallows, an attempt to get rid of the dryness in his throat as the rhythm he taps out gets faster and faster with the second.
“It was-“ he pauses, taking a moment to find the proper words to express what he’s feeling.
His mum always told him that describing feelings with words was impossible, because that means applying something logical to an emotional situation which Dan knows from experience is actually not possible, but he wants to try as best as he can. “It was good.”
He sees Phil’s shoulders slump a little after he’s made the comment and he swallows again, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, the fabric threading. “I mean, it’s the best song I’ve ever heard in forever,” he scrambles back, panicking.
Phil looks intensely at him, his eyes burning holes into Dan’s skull and Dan can’t look at him, not like this, so his eyes flit around the room, from PJ to Gabe to the guitar standing against the wall, anything to distract him from Phil. The others have apparently taken to pretending they’re not having a heart-to-heart in semi-public, though he can feel their glances.
“Do you mean that?” Phil asks, his eyes still on Dan’s face, looking at his lips and up to his eyes before flying back again, like he can’t decide where to look. Dan nods, not trusting himself to use the proper words, not when Phil Lester is looking at him like he can’t decide to kiss him into oblivion or hug him until he can’t breathe.
He watches the crinkles come back around Phil’s eyes, watches the way a grin makes his lips turn upwards, watches as Phil takes a step forward. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in when Phil’s fingers ghost over his before grabbing his hand and tugging him over to a sofa in the corner of the room, a kind of secluded space that’s not bathed in the bright light of the LEDs above them.
Phil sits down, and Dan lets himself be pulled down until they’re sitting next to each other, so close that their legs are touching, their still linked hands lying on top of both their thighs, Phil’s thumb absent-mindedly rubbing circles over the back of Dan’s hand.
They’re staring at each other, Dan knows they are, but he can’t bring himself to look away from Phil’s bright eyes, from the pink tint on Phil’s cheeks, from those lips that he really wants to taste against his own. Phil’s leaning in, his eyes focussed on Dan’s mouth as he cups Dan’s jaw, his thumb rubbing over Dan’s bitten lower lip, and Dan blushes, his cheek heating up against Phil’s palm.
“Don’t be shy,” Phil mutters, his warm breath ghosting over Dan’s face before he dips down, kissing him. Dan moans, his hand tangling in Phil’s hair, the other trailing over Phil’s arm as Phil’s lips move against his. Dan parts his lips and Phil’s tongue teases at the inside of his mouth, coaxing noises from him. He knows he should be embarrassed, knows there are others in this room who probably just heard him, but all he can think about is Phil’s mouth, hot against his own.
Phil lets go of his hand so he can grab at Dan’s waist and push him down onto the sofa until their bodies are pressed up against one another, and the other hand trails from his jaw to his hair, tilting his head back. The new angle is amazing and Dan eagerly presses against Phil, the kiss becoming more heated, more insistent.
Dan’s head is spinning when Phil moves to kiss his neck and he groans.
“Jesus, Dan,” Phil pants against the skin of his neck, still wet from where Phil’s mouth was pressing a second ago, sending shivers down Dan’s spine. “The fucking noises you make.”
Dan blushes, turning his head to bury it in the – albeit it really scratchy and uncomfortable – cushions, but Phil stops him, bringing a palm up to Dan’s face. Phil kisses him again, so hard Dan can’t think, can’t breathe and he moans into Phil’s mouth.
“We should probably stop,” Phil breathes and Dan nods before kissing him again, lips moving frantically against each other as hands scramble for purchase.
They both jump when someone clears their throat and Dan blushes as he sees the band merch from the corner of his eye – PJ, then – and they separate quickly, shifting as they adjust themselves in their way-too-fucking-tight-for-comfort skinny jeans.
“As adorable as this very touching reunion is, I’d rather not see my best friend getting fucked by someone on a sofa.”
Dan buries his face into his hands at PJ’s comment and Phil chuckles next to him, sliding closer to Dan and taking one of Dan’s hands in his. “You weren’t kidding about him squealing, I see.”
The huff that follows is so indignant that Dan has to throw his head back with laughter and when he looks up, Phil’s staring at him with a twinkle in his eye. Dan flushes, staring back and squeezing Phil’s hand.
He hasn’t been this happy in a long time.