Work Text:
It’s 7:30 in the morning, but Dan wouldn’t describe what he’s just done as ‘waking up’. That would imply sleep, and he’s not slept much. He’s been in and out, dozing between worrying. It’s definitely, officially, morning now, and he has shit to do. He climbs gently out of bed and creeps over to the coffee machine on the opposite side of the room, selecting a pod and a generic white hotel mug. He cringes at the sudden noise when he presses the button, sure it wasn’t that loud when they made coffee yesterday. He looks back at the bed, but Phil is undisturbed, sleep-messy blonde hair and a thin, shiny trail from the corner of his mouth to the pillow. Good. Sleeping is good.
Dan grabs his phone and sits in an uncomfortable pleather armchair, sips his too-hot coffee. He clicks the volume switch to silent and opens the crew WhatsApp chat. Phil will kill him for this later, but he doesn’t care.
Dan
Hey, could someone do me a huge favour? Can we rearrange travel for me and Phil to tomorrow morning? Or even tonight? Phil needs to rest today.
Dan
I’ll pay personally if the accounts say no.
He swipes across to watch the grey delivered ticks, willing them to turn blue. A few start to change, he gets a couple of thumbs up reactions that tell him that they’re on it, and he closes his phone. He’s not getting into the what’s and why’s any further - they know Phil was struggling last night, they don’t need the details.
Dan sips his coffee again, slightly cooler now. He watches Phil sleep, watches the rise and fall of his chest closely. Steady, rhythmic, alive. He’s a shade paler than usual, his undereyes a shade darker. Dan swallows hard, his brain pushing hard against the flashbacks; of Phil bleeding on the A&E floor, of Phil loopy on drugs in a cold hospital bed, of Phil coming home with a big green pharmacy bag and tired eyes and a new anxiety unlocked for them both. His emergency migraine meds are still on the bedside table next to him, a glass of water half drunk. He’d taken his first line painkillers mid-show and they took the edge off enough to get through, but only just. Dan had tried hard to convince Phil to use the faster-acting triptan injection they keep on hand for Big Emergencies, which Dan had decided the migraine was, but Phil was obstinate and whiny about not wanting a bruise on his thigh and swallowed the pill version anyway. Either way, he’s asleep now. Dan checks his chest again. Breathing. Alive.
Phil will wake up groggy and nauseous and grumpy but hopefully, hopefully, his head won’t hurt. Dan’s already browsed the room service menu but everything good will be too rich, so as soon as Phil wakes up, he’ll order a bowl of the plainest cereal they have with oat milk. It’s not a glamorous breakfast, and Phil will pout about the lack of sugar, but it’ll settle his post-migraine nausea and give him some energy. Dan will have the same, in solidarity.
He drains his mug and turns his phone over to check. The team has knocked it out of the park, and they’re already rebooked to leave tomorrow morning at 9am. It means an early start, but at least they have today. The crew are going to travel as planned, so they won’t be immediately on call but that’s fine - it’s not like they’re going to leave the hotel room today unless the building is actively burning. Dan makes a mental note to buy the whole crew drinks at the next stop. He sends a thumbs up to the booking details and a quick ‘fine, just tired’ to the people asking if Phil’s okay. He’ll deal with extending the hotel room himself once reception opens, and he’s not above being a Karen if they’re difficult about it. From the bed, Phil snores once. Dan jumps, then immediately calms. Breathing. Alive.
Dan takes a deep breath. He’s been slack on therapy while they’ve been travelling, but he definitely needs to book in a call. He’ll have to do some time zone calculations, but that’s for later. He barely knows where he is this morning, let alone what time zone he’s in. The coffee has just made him feel anxious, jittery. He needs to do something . He stands a little too quickly and his vision starts to fuzz, but he braces himself against the wall and breathes and pushes through it because the last thing Phil needs is to wake up to find Dan passed out on the floor. Dan takes his mug into the bathroom and rinses it, then looks at his reflection in the mirror. The fluorescent light washes him out, emphasising his tired eyes. He can cope with tired, can run on no sleep and the adrenaline of the stage. He’ll eat some salt to keep his blood pressure up and put some concealer under his eyes and he’ll be fine. Not long term, not mentally, but he’ll get through. He’ll perform and travel and make sure Phil survives alongside him and if that means he doesn’t sleep for the next few months, whatever. Priorities.
There’s movement in the bedroom and that breaks Dan from staring at his own face. Dan’s heart lurches against his rib cage and he quickly leaves the bathroom. Phil is sitting up, kind of, slumped against his pillows and rubbing his eyes like a cartoon. Dan steps quietly over, cautious in case the meds haven’t fully worked. He touches his fingertips to Phil’s shoulder and feels him jump a little at the touch. He lowers his hands from his eyes and squints up at Dan.
“Hey,” Dan says quietly. Phil blinks, processing for a moment, then smiles a tiny smile. Dan squeezes his shoulder slightly. “How are you feeling?”
Phil thinks, assesses himself. “Okay. Tired. Sick.”
Dan nods. “Head?”
Phil considers it. “No.”
“Good,” Dan says, and the tightness in his chest eases a little. “I’m going to order some food.”
Phil makes a face. “Don’t want food.”
“Tough.” Dan leans down and kisses Phil on the forehead, part affection and part temperature check. He’s a little clammy, but not overly hot. “It’ll make you feel better and you know it.”
Phil groans and starts to move to get out of bed. Dan stops him with a hand to his chest. “Woah, where do you think you’re going?”
“Gotta pee.”
Dan breathes deep, trying to calm his anxiety and his urge to coddle. “Go slow or you’ll puke. There are limits to my love, and cleaning up vomit is one of them.”
Phil laughs, small and breathy but a laugh, a sound that makes Dan’s clenched jaw start to relax. “No there aren’t.” He stands slowly, lets Dan hold his forearms until his legs feel steady, and kisses Dan on the cheek as he walks slowly, carefully to the bathroom. Dan watches him closely until the door closes behind him, then rubs a hand over his forehead. Phil is awake. Breathing, walking, alive. He quickly orders two bowls of cornflakes on the hotel tablet and plumps up the pillows on both sides of the bed before Phil returns, paler and shakier.
“You puked,” Dan says, and Phil nods.
“I puked. But I made it to the toilet so there’s no evidence, and I brushed my teeth so I can still kiss you.”
Dan rolls his eyes and steps over to Phil, giving in to his coddling urge just a little bit. He takes his hand, places the other on his back, and helps him back to bed. He climbs back in next to Phil, pulls him close, and Phil cuddles readily into him.
“First big migraine of the tour,” Phil sighs. Dan kisses the crown of his sweaty head, then scratches his fingertips gently against Phil’s scalp. “First big migraine in ages.”
“Bit surprised it’s taken this long,” Dan says. “All the lights and travel and not sleeping properly.” He feels Phil nod against his shoulder and tighten his arm across Dan’s waist a little.
“Glad we’re not on a bus right now,” Phil says. “Motion sickness.”
“Yeah,” Dan says. It could’ve been worse. “Good timing, bub.”
There’s a soft knock at the door and Dan untangles himself to fetch the tray from the quiet concierge. He may have made a note on the order to keep the volume down on delivery. It’s whatever. Phil might claim to not have a headache any more, but Dan won’t entirely believe him for a little while and he won’t risk anything triggering a flare up. His heart feels more settled now, though, his stomach unknotted. Phil is awake and breathing and alive, and he’s probably not lying about feeling better. He carefully carries breakfast to Phil, who pushes himself up against the headboard in anticipation then screws his nose up at the sight of two bowls of plain cornflakes and a jug labelled ‘oat’.
“Gross,” he says as Dan pops out the legs of the tray and settles it over Phil’s lap.
“Eat it,” Dan says. “Or I’ll call your mum and she’ll tell you off.” Phil considers that for a moment, like he’s debating whether it’s worth the scolding from Nurse Kath. Dan raises his eyebrows, and Phil reluctantly begins to pour oat milk into his bowl. He opens his mouth to complain, but Dan stops him.
“If you whinge about it, next time I will absolutely stab you in the leg. It’ll be healing for us both.”