Work Text:
The heat is sticky, clothes glued to their bodies with sweat that's formed and dried half a dozen times as they slip in and out of buildings for respite from the weather.
"Hate this," Dan says, walking away from another smiling face.
He doesn't mean the fans themselves. He means the way his breath seems to hold in his chest until everything is tight, the way he knows he looks shit in a picture that'll be on the internet forever, the way he's confident in his demeanor in the moment but feels shaky for ten minutes afterwards. It's fine, sometimes, but he's tired now and his lungs already hurt and his bones ache and this city is beautiful, he's sure, but he needs about ten hours of sleep and maybe Phil to rub his back before he can really appreciate it.
Phil elbows him, the barest glance of contact. "My mum used to say little pictures have big ears."
"Pic-tures?" Dan places emphasis on the first syllable. "You sure about that?"
Phil gives him a puzzled glance. They're in step together, Dan glancing at signs to make sure they're going in the right direction and Phil adjusting with each turn Dan makes, unquestioning. "Yeah."
"Does that make sense to you? That pictures would have ears?"
"I - no." Phil says. "But my mum always said. And my mum's never wrong."
Phil's not smiling but he's teasing all the same. "She was wrong when she had you."
"Not what you said last night," Phil says under his breath.
The laugh bursts out of Dan slightly too loudly. "Pitchers, Phil. Little pitchers have big ears."
The irritation is escaping Dan like a thin stream of air from a boiling kettle until the bubbles of it barely roll against the surface.
"Pictures don't have ears, but pitchers do?" Phil's expression is dubious. "Dan, I don't think that makes any more sense than my version."
"Sure it does." And then Dan is on his phone, looking up the etymology of the phrase, thrusting the screen in Phil's face while also paraphrasing the paragraph that he just read, that Phil is now reading. "See, pitchers have handles on the sides shaped like ears, and they hold things-"
He notices Phil grinning at him halfway through the explanation but continues undeterred.
*
He gets his rest, on a bed that's big even for them. He wakes once partway through the day to blink the sleepy crust out of his eyes and watch Phil work on the laptop. He's got glasses on and he's only wearing pants, slumped so far down that his shoulders are concave. It looks ridiculous and slightly painful and it makes his belly fold over the band of his pants a little. Dan doesn't think so much as observe; the soft hair on Phil's belly, the paleness of his skin, the little moles and freckles. It's nice just to open his eyes and have this be what he sees. He breathes in the comfort of Phil close and warm and his and lets himself drift back off.
*
"This is our life," Dan says, sitting at a table overlooking a massive twinkling city, drink in hand. "Did you ever think?"
Phil's laugh is low and sweet, that private one. "Not in a million years."
Dan looks over at him. He looks good in that red checked shirt, looks like a different person than he is in front of a camera. The world can have that one, this one is Dan's. (Forever, please is the promise in the back of his mind, and one day soon they'll make good on it. They're not in a hurry.) "But good, right? It's a good life."
"Dan." Phil's smiles just barely, mouth closed but so much affection there. "It's the best."
*
Phil's caught Dan staring at his reflection four times and it isn't even past midday. Dan knows Phil sees him doing it. He knows Phil sees him reaching up to push and prod at his hair.
"It looks good," Phil says. He's already said it twice.
"It's a mess." Dan's response is automatic but his eyes linger in the reflection of himself visible in the metal lift door. Everything is sleek and chrome in this building. It’s a good aesthetic, Dan approves. His voice is too casual when he says, "Probably won't do much good to straighten it tomorrow if the weather stays."
"Probably not," Phil agrees. His eyes are still on Dan, contemplating. He doesn't ask, though. He doesn't push. He doesn't make it into a thing.
“And if we run into people, who cares, right?” He squints into the mirror and tries to smooth it out, then ruffles it back up. “It’s just hair.”
“Just hair.” There’s a smile in Phil’s voice.
Dan glances at him and makes a face. “Shut up.”
“Didn’t say anything!” Phil grabs Dan’s hand and pulls it away from his hair. He squeezes briefly then lets go as the door dings a warning that it’s about to open. “But it looks fine, really. You look good.”
“You’re contractually obligated to say that,” Dan mutters, smiling politely at the couple that steps on with them. He’s close enough to Phil now that if he moved just a smidge over their shoulders would bump. He’s aware of it the way he’s always aware of Phil close to him, like a low grade hum of background noise, but he’s too busy contemplating what the humidity will do to his hair to bother with minor indulgences like bodily contact in a foreign country.
“Haven’t signed that paper yet,” Phil says. It takes Dan a moment for that to sink in. He gives Phil a slightly startled look. Phil is just smirking at him, looking all nice with his new haircut and his date night shirt and one hand strangely positioned in a pocket.
Their eyes meet properly and Phil’s got that expression on that lets Dan know he’s in a particular mood and it’s going to be a very good night with a very interesting lead up to it. Marriage talk gets them horny. That’s a thing now, and probably has been for the past year or so. Dan feels no shame, not for that.
Suddenly his hair doesn’t seem that important after all.
*
They slow dance on a balcony and Phil only steps on Dan's foot twice. It's ridiculous and indulgent and but they've got wine and two days stretching before them all to themselves.
After the dance is done they dirty up the hotel room like they haven't done in a while.
America wasn't like this. Vegas, maybe, but they had barely a day. America was mostly long hours shoulder to shoulder in bed with laptops out, sometimes just the one between them as they sorted out various projects and tried not to lapse too far behind.
But this is a lull, that time when the decisions are taken out of their hands, when the process of creative work is over and the actual production cogs have to turn.
This is, apparently, a time when they can afford to fuck in hotel rooms like they're teenagers. They are young and they are in love it's not like they ever forget it but sometimes there isn't time to celebrate it like they once did.
"Do you remember Portugal?" Dan asks. They're laying in their mess, flushed and sweaty. They'll sleep like this and wake in the morning and leave it for someone else to clean. They'll leave a tip, a nice one.
Phil looks at him, one eyebrow lifted slightly. "That it exists? Yes."
Dan laughs. "No, I mean, when we went. What that room looked like when we left."
"Oh, god." Phil laughs. "I'd forgotten."
It's not the most noteworthy of early holiday memories but it still stands out in Dan's mind. He remembers plucking up a used condom from the floor and dangling it in Phil's direction, snickering. He remembers how they spilled lube across the sheets and played rock paper scissors to see who had to ring down for fresh ones. He remembers how the room smelled, even; funky with the scents of sex and sweat and lube.
Dan slides his hands up Phil's arms and locks their fingers together. "I remember you singing to me."
Phil tips his head back and laughs quietly, embarrassed. "Wasn't any good."
"You were amazing." Dan presses a kiss to his jaw. "Pun intended."
*
Dan’s eyes open thirty minutes before their alarm is set to go off.
They’ll have half an hour to shove their things back into their suitcases, another twenty minutes past that for Phil to get his caffeine fix and them to find something to eat.
He thinks about waking Phil up, but Phil’s breathing heavily and sleeping deeply. Dan decides he doesn’t really mind anyway. He’ll take the few minutes to gather his thoughts and reflect on the day - or maybe just let the screaming ten year old in his head run in proverbial circles of excitement. He can’t help it. He just feels good. His heart feels light and his mind feels clear and his body feels rested for the first time in ages.
“Thinking too loud,” Phil mumbles.
Dan hadn’t even noticed his snoring stop.
“Sorry. Excited.”
Phil smiles, because he understands, and then yawns and rolls over. “Going back to sleep.”
Dan grins at his turned back. It’s been a good few days and he’s determined to have it only get better.