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Dan had developed a very specific post show sacred routine over the past 7 months.
He would leave the stage, gulp down a big chug of water, grab his phone from the dressing room and head straight to the shower. He’d shoot Phil a heads-up text while folding his clothes neatly for the crew to pop them in a laundromat before the next show.
But ever since this morning, he knew the last show would be different.
They had landed in Reykjavik early, the cold, damp air swallowing them as the sunlight bounced off the piles of snow tiling down the streets. Phil hadn’t had his coffee yet. He was grumpy and visibly tired, having spent the whole flight battling the Peggle CPU —and losing miserably.
“I need food.” he muttered, nudging Dan’s foot.
Dan nodded, grateful for the distraction. It gave him something to do instead of sitting around and letting the adrenaline drain from his system before the final show. He stood up, making his way to the breakfast bar and bringing Phil a bowl of granola and some decaf.
“Here you go twat. Lazy, lazy boy.” Dan tsked, shaking his head playfully.
Phil didn’t answer, too busy shoveling down the much-needed fuel and, as he liked to say, savoring mindfully.
As Phil ate, Dan noticed the hesitant curl of his left hand, tapping anxiously on the table. His eyes had that slight glint he would always get when deep in thought. Dan debated on whether to press or leave it. He knew Phil well enough to know when something was brewing. Just as he was about to open his mouth, Phil mumbled.
“Thank you.”
“For the granola?” Dan teased. “It’s not that good, tbh. But you’re welcome.”
“No,” Phil replied, his voice steady in that rare way it got when emotions pressed hard against his chest. “Thank you for doing this with me.”
Dan smiled, unsure how to respond. He settled for a warm nod. “Of course. It’s us against the world—or however the song goes.”
Phil extended his hand towards his, bold and tentative, silently asking Dan to hold it. They rarely did this —not because of any lingering rule about public displays, but because they preferred keeping these moments private.
Phil needed reassurance. Dan intertwined their fingers, stroking his thumb against Phil’s palm.
Phil took a breath, steadying himself, “I know we’ve talked about this.” he said quietly. “And I don’t want to linger on the past. But I was scared.” His voice wobbled. “Dan and Phil means the world to me. And doing this—with you—, free to be ourselves, it just...” He faltered, his throat closing up.
“I just never imagined we’d get here, is all.”
Dan tightened his grip on Phil’s hand—a silent me neither. Then Phil dropped the subject quickly, ready to get on with the day.
︵︵﹆ . ⁺ . ✦ ﹒₊˚𓂃 ★﹒₊‧
A few hours of mundane tour habits blur by—a flood of calls, endless logistics, and half-hearted conversations Dan can't fully engage in. They get in the car, arrive at the venue. Phil says he’s grabbing Haribos from their suitcase and disappears into the corridor leading to the dressing rooms.
And suddenly Dan stands alone in the entrance, fidgeting with his thumb as the crew sets up a makeshift merch stand. Awkwardness gnaws at him. He feels useless.
Sarah shoots him a puzzled look. “You okay there?”
Dan cracks his knuckles, yawning. “Yeah, I just feel kind of silly standing here.”
She cackles, shaking her head. “You are silly. This isn’t your job. Go find Phil—rehearse, meditate, or something. Shoo!”
Dan follows Sarah's advice and goes looking for Phil, the warmth of the heated floors comforting his steady rhythm as he enters the dressing room.
Phil is sitting on a puff, legs crossed, munching on a bag of Tangfastics he’d managed to snatch at Schiphol airport.
“Hello you absolute sugar monster.” Dan says cheekily, sitting next to him and gesturing for Phil to give him a bite. Phil extends his hand and feeds him a sour crocodile.
“Hi. You didn’t see my messages.” Phil says, still chewing.
“Oh, I left my phone charging in here. Sorry.” he apologizes, reaching for his phone propped on the wireless charger stuck to the wall.
Phil. (13:46)
where r the haribos
Phil. (13:46)
did u eat them
Phil (13:49)
nvm just got them, come find??
Phil. (13:49)
answer me bitch
Dan cackles fondly, smiling up at Phil. “You’re such a menace.”
“You abandoned me!” he says, feigning shock. “You abandoned me in a foreign country with nothing but a bag of sweets to comfort me.”
“Actually shut up, you idiot.” Dan nudges him with his foot, settling down and scrolling through his phone. Phil opens TikTok, doing the same. They settle into a comforting rhythm until it’s time to start the meet & greet.
Dan stands up first, legs wobbly from his proprioception. “Woah.” He takes a deep breath and turns to Phil. “I’m okay. You ready?”
Phil rolls his ankles and marches to the door, nodding.
As they wait for the first people to line up, Phil catches Dan’s eye and whispers. “Isn’t it crazy that this is the last time we’ll be meeting everyone?”
Dan holds his shoulder, grounding him, and smiles. “Let’s do this, mate.”
The meet and greet passes by in a blur. Dan’s always happy to meet his audience, but it can be overwhelming, and by the time they’re done, they’re almost late to the Q&A portion, forcing them to rush through the motions without much time to themselves. He notices Phil’s maneuvers, —how his warm smile morphs into something nostalgic when someone from the crew mentions the tour being over.
Dan wishes he could cocoon them both into a quiet space for a few hours, hold Phil tightly, and talk it from the inside out. He goes for the next best thing—grounding Phil with his physical presence and inching closer to him whenever he feels the aching need to reach out and make him laugh.
After they’ve said goodbye to the silver ticket holders, thanking them for coming and enthusing them about the show that’s about to come, Phil turns to face Dan. They’re sitting again in the dressing room, Dan making a mental setlist of things to go through before the show: boxing gloves, Phil’s silicone thing, the pig, remind the tech guy not to put anything too crude when doing the Role Model No-Model section, soundchecking. Dan doesn’t feel Phil’s gaze on him until a few seconds later.
“Deep in thought are we?” Phil asks, smiling.
“I could say the same about you, Mr. Thank You For Doing This With Me,” Dan retorts playfully before continuing. “What's up? A penny for your thoughts?”
“Your mum.” He answers unconvincingly. Sighing, he slumps forward. “I don’t know. I’m fine, I’m happy, but I also feel weird. It’s a bit much.”
“That’s called nostalgia, bub.” He answers with a knowing smile. “D’you wanna talk about it?”
“Not really. I’ll be fine. I think it’s just overwhelming—I can’t believe it’s over, you know?” Phil mumbles, attempting a smile as he stands up. “I’m gonna go check on the tech guy. Don’t want a repeat of last night’s ‘helping Grandmas die and come.’”
Dan snorts as he watches Phil leave the room. Phil had a point—it was overwhelming. The tour, the audience, the constant adrenaline, and now the looming excitement of “Dan and Phil 2.0” Dan felt it too, gnawing at the edges of his pride for a job well done. They'd built so much of their lives around these shared moments. The idea of it ending, even temporarily, was surreal.
Shaking off the haze of sentimentality, Dan stands, rolling his shoulders. He knew Phil needed humor, structure, and grounding, not a solemn heart-to-heart right now. That could come later—probably over takeout in their hotel room.
Grabbing his checklist, he mutters to himself, “Right. Boxing gloves, silicone abs, pig, soundcheck.”
Dan stretches his arms behind his back, mentally ticking off the last item on the checklist as Phil returns, grumbling.
“Tech guy says we’re good. No rogue jokes this time.”
“I’ll believe it when I hear it,” Dan replies, already feeling the buzz of adrenaline creeping in. He rolls his neck and shakes out his hands. “Showtime, bub.” Phil grins back, pushing the door open and stepping into the pulsing backstage area.
Crew members weave around them, barking instructions into headsets. The air thrums with energy, the last chords from Britney’s Toxic vibrating through the walls.
As they wait in the wings, Dan shifts closer to Phil, catching the slight tremor in his breathing.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
Phil nods, but his jaw’s a bit too tight. “Yeah. Just—big moment.”
Dan doesn’t push, just bumps their shoulders together. “We’ve got this. Let’s make ‘em laugh.”
The stage manager waves them forward. The roar of the crowd blends with the bass drop of the final notes of the song becomes deafening as they step into the blinding lights, heat washing over them.
“Good evening, Reykjavik!”
︵︵﹆ . ⁺ . ✦ ﹒₊˚𓂃 ★﹒₊‧
They swim through the show in expert tandem, used to the motions of the initial segments. They don’t miss a beat, fueled by the audience’s laughter and the brightness of the stage lights. Finally, they reach the boxing match, joking playfully at Phil’s inevitable demise, then they leave the stage. The lights dim around them, with the heavy noise of the public fading to a softer hum as they walk into the wings and take out their mics.
As they stumble backstage, Dan wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Science cannot explain how on earth I manage to sweat so much," he declares, voice still tinged with adrenaline.
Phil, slouched in a chair, smirks faintly but doesn’t bite. Dan catches it—the tightness creeping back into Phil's expression. He knows they don’t have time, he doesn’t want to rush it. They barely have 15 minutes to get Phil into the silicone suit and get ready for the most physical parts of the show. Dan swipes on some deodorant as he waits.
“They were so excited. It was nice.” Phil says finally, reaching for the powdered talc and coating himself with it. “Dan, help me put this thing on, please.” Dan stretches the silicone over Phil’s head, as usual.
Even though they’ve done it practically every night for almost 7 months, and despite 15 years of constant proximity to Phil, the air feels charged. He can hear Phil hitching his breath as Dan’s fingertips swiftly caress his neck, checking to see if the silicone properly blends. Dan can't tell if it’s lingering tension or raw emotion. So he snorts, stepping back and shaking his head and cocking his head to the side.
“Perfect. You look like the twunk of your dreams.”
Phil huffs a laugh, shaking off whatever tension lingered. “Cheers for that.”
The stage manager's voice crackles over the comms. “Two minutes.”
Dan offers a final grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet to hype them both up. “Let's homoerotically knock some sense into each other, yeah?”
Phil straightens his shoulders, the familiar glint of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’ll destroy you with my ass.” Phil deadpans.
“Shut up, idiot, let’s go.”
They stride back toward the stage as the roar of the audience builds again, the energy sweeping them forward into the madness of the boxing match. They chaotically bounce off of the energetic motions, accidentally knocking off the prop boxing ring as they settle into the heavier parts of the scene, with Phil gagging Dan with the llama hat. The audience roars with laughter, egging them on and fueling them with that distinct stride.
They swiftly go through the rest of the script, Dan catches Phil’s lingering look as he stumbles onto the stage in his Sister Daniel attire. It’s a bit he’s done countless times, Dan knows it’s routine by now, but there’s something exhilarating about holding Phil’s attention. He feels intoxicated, maddened by it, even.
After a quick backstage change and a brief exchange of reassuring glances, the lights dim, leaving only a warm yellow spotlight as Dan reaches for the blue ukulele. Phil stands a step behind, shoulders tense. Their eyes meet briefly—quiet reassurance passing between them. Dan grips the ukulele tighter, taking a steadying breath.
Dan notices the exact moment Phil’s voice wavers as he starts singing. The soft hum of the ukulele highlights the tremor of Phil’s deep voice. Dan instinctively picks up the melody, strumming louder and lowering to Phil’s register, trying his best to ground him. As the ukulele segment finishes, Dan catches his eye—A silent glance passes through them, Phil nods, and Dan motions on with the rest of the song.
The intensity catches up to them as Phil moves on, muscle memory washing over the pulsing electronic beat. Neither of them falter as they slide seamlessly into the spelling bit, their bodies in sync through the final dance break. The atmosphere thickens, deafened by the audience’s screams and the pounding rhythm.
The thunderous final note of the rave beat fades into the roar of applause, the audience's cheers sweeping over them like a wave. Dan and Phil exchange a knowing glance. They've done it. They've reached the end.
As they soak in the energy, filled with pride and disbelief, Dan’s gaze finally adjusts to the light, taking in the hundreds of Thank you for ___ signs. Bright acknowledgements scrawled across blue posters held up high. Thank you for everything. Thank you for dads. Thank you for the mems. He catches sight of people wiping their eyes, the applause swelling louder and louder, wrapping around them like a tidal wave. His heart tightens with emotion in a way that only the overwhelming roar of their audience manages to bring.
Phil steps forward first, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, everyone!” His words falter as a sniffle escapes, gratitude pouring out faster than he can control.
Dan notices immediately—of course he does. With practiced ease, he steps in, waving to the crowd and smiling brightly. He gestures grandly at the signs. “Can I have one?” A flurry of signs wave in the air, and Dan grabs one near the front. “For posterity, thank you!”
He motions forward like a seasoned showman, lifted by the roars of the audience. “Okay, picture time,” Dan announces as he and Phil expertly pose for the final crowd picture. “And one with our boys, who made this whole thing possible.” He motions for their stage manager and assistant to climb on stage, snapping a selfie.
They climb off stage, hearts still pounding in sync with the echo of the final applause. Dan’s ritualistic instincts attempt to kick in: water, phone, shower.
But the weight of the ending presses gently into his chest, steady but impossible to ignore. He sucks in a breath, glancing sideways at Phil, who is wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, the emotional charge still clinging to him like static.
“We did it.” Phil mumbles, dumbfounded. “We actually fucking did it.”
Without thinking, Dan pulls Phil into a tight hug, holding him steady. "I'm proud of you," he murmurs into Phil’s shoulder. “Proud of us.”
Phil clings back harder than Dan expects, his breath shuddering as he holds on. "You too, you rat." he manages, voice barely audible.
They stand there for a beat longer, wrapped up in their own world, until Phil finally pulls back with a watery smile. "Shower, then hotel, then fries?" he suggests, his voice lighter now, a glimmer of humor returning to his eyes.
Dan grins, wiping a hand across his face. "Fries."
Phil laughs, the sound bright and genuine, cutting through the weight of the moment. "Maybe fries will be our always."
“Shut the fuck up.” Dan snorts pointedly, making his way down the dressing room.
He feels lighter, steadier. The tour might be over, but this—them—will always be ongoing, evolving, unshakable.
It truly is them against the world.