I wanted to write a lil something now just for the time being whilst I try to finish my other 20k fic which is proving to be a Monster to complete lol so look forward to that soon at some point!!

Happy (belated) birthday Dan. Hope you didn’t get too hungover today.

summary: the tour is ending, and after flitting from coast-to-coast, city-to-city and living in a bus for a month, dan and phil visit vegas again. copious amounts of alcohol later, dan realises he’s happy. and kind-of still in love. (loosely based on vegas by all time low [x])

warnings: emo 2012/2016 comparisons, smut (surprise surprise) swearing, getting drunk, I guess pretty much everything else you’d expect in a vegas fic lol

words: 5.6k

-

“But this time around, four years later, it’s like someone has turned the saturation of the city up. Turned up the contrast, the definition, the volume, the sharpness, brightness and every single other enhancement, and when Dan looks out into the view glittering in front of them, it feels like he’s wearing glasses for the first time. Everything just looks so much more beautiful through happier eyes.

Phil turns to Dan, and his eyes flit down to his lips for a split second. On a pocket-sized screen, four zeros line up.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, holding up his shot glass.”

-

i.

Stepping into Las Vegas is like stepping straight into a movie.

It’s like stepping out of the monochrome clockwork routine of daily life and into a whirlwind of colours and buzzing machines; a world where rules and inhibitions are dropped like coins into a slot, and money is spilt like alcohol. For a place that’s famous for its drunken wedding vows and tattoos in unspeakable places, it’s really quite incredible that somewhere so outrageous actually exists in the world. It just sounds so fictional.

They say New York is the city that never sleeps, but since they arrived Dan hasn’t seen a single club, casino or shop that isn’t twenty-four hour. Flashes of colour and lights blink through every minute of every day, illuminating the land in neon excitement and spontaneity, and to be honest, even after travelling through state-after-state, flitting from town-to-town, Dan hasn’t seen a city quite this colourful.

It hasn’t changed a bit since they last came. The minute Dan’s foot had touched Vegas ground, he’d felt twenty-one again. It’s almost as if time stops here, like the past four years haven’t happened at all and the reason they’re even here isn’t because they’re reaching the end of their international tour, but instead simply because two guys with longer fringes with a following of way less than a million between them wanted a holiday.

In fact, it was only when a small group of fans came hurrying up to them, all blushing smiles and notepads, Dan had snapped out of his nostalgic trance and bounced back into 2016 again. That never happened in 2012. They’d only ever encountered a handful of casual viewers throughout the entire holiday – they’d probably met fewer people during that whole week than they have now, literally less than ten minutes after leaving the airport.

It’s nice, of course it is. Dan’s already told Phil on more than one occasion during the tour how happy he is, through drunken mumbles and shared pillows and whispering over the bus engine. But he can’t deny it’s rather tiring sometimes – after a six hours on the road, all he wants to do is sleep, really.

It’s a hot day, the sun high in the sky, covering the city in a glow that has to be tipping over thirty degrees Celsius. He doesn’t know what that would be in the wacky units of measurement they have the nerve to use over here – even after a month in this place, he still hasn’t really got to grips with Fahrenheit. Anything that doesn’t use zero as a freezing point and one hundred as boiling is just dumb, to be honest.

Dan hasn’t really gotten used to the weather in general, here – for someone who can’t make it up a flight of stairs without breaking a sweat, it’d been hard to try to walk down the street in heat like this without feeling the urge to mop his brow and chug down a pint of water every three minutes. Phil’s feeling it too; it’s barely been a month and he’s already on his fifth bottle of factor fifty sun cream.

They’d stayed at Caesar’s palace the last time they’d visited but unlike back then, Phil had insisted that they could afford the Emperor suite instead of the marginally cheaper classic twin room with glass shower walls and almost no privacy anywhere. He hadn’t allowed Dan to argue with him – he’d insisted that this was his birthday present so he was going to pay for the entire thing, and he’d clicked ‘book’ with a triumphant smirk before the other boy could protest. And Dan has to admit that despite the lofty price, the Emperor suite really is pretty fucking incredible.

“God, I could get used to this,” he exhales a long sigh of relief. He’d flopped down onto the first sofa he’d seen upon stumbling into the room and being left to their own devices by the hotel assistant. Phil had wandered off to explore the kitchen, and Dan hears the minibar door open, followed by a gasp.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Dan doesn’t bother turning around.

“They have Vanilla coke!” Phil proclaims as if it’s about as exciting as winning the lottery. He pulls out two cans. “We never get that in England. Oh my god, this is- d’you want one?” he offers it to him, remembering Dan hadn’t explicitly asked for one. Getting two of everything has kind-of become a second nature to him.  

“I think I’ll be needing something a little stronger than that,” Dan smirks, letting his eyes flutter shut and the air conditioning wash over him. Fuck, he’s forgotten how delicious cool air can be in this heat.

“We have all week for that,” Phil says, tossing a can in Dan’s direction. It lands on the sofa next to him. “You might as well enjoy this while you’re sober.”

The can angrily fizzes open from where it had bounced, and Dan jumps, cursing as brown bubbles spill over the aluminium.

“You’re lucky that didn’t go on the sofa,” Dan mutters, wiping his wet fingers on his jeans before taking a sip. “You paid enough for this room as it is.”

“Like it?” Phil flops down onto the cushion beside him.

Dan takes another sip. It tastes almost exactly like normal coke, but with a sweet, kind-of weird vanilla undertone to it. It’s pleasant enough, he supposes.

“Not bad,” he nods, before adding, “I don’t really feel at loss not having it in the UK though. I mean, it’s nice, but,” he shrugs.

“They have more flavours, yknow,” Phil says. “Raspberry, lemon, lime, cherry-“

“We have cherry in the UK, you twit,” Dan giggles, and Phil rolls his eyes, taking another sip.

“I wouldn’t mind trying lemon coke, though. D’you think it would just taste like lemonade? How do they even get that lemon flavour in there?”

Dan shrugs. “Maybe it is just lemonade. With, I don’t know, brown colouring, or something.”

Phil grins, relaxing into the sofa a little and observing their surroundings. A flatscreen TV takes up most of the wall in front of them, and the kitchen is a sleek array of marble surfaces and unnecessary utensils. There are two other sofas surrounding the one they’re sat on, flawless cream leather upholstery that makes Dan’s skinny jeans suddenly feel incredibly dirty in comparison, and glass panel windows with the entire stretch of the city below on the other side. They can see for miles from up here.

“Worth five hundred dollars a night?” Phil quirks an eyebrow, both of them sitting in silence simply drinking in their surroundings.

Dan hasn’t seen the rest of the place, but if this is anything to go by, it’s worth five times five hundred dollars a night. There are about six rooms, and it has to be at least about three times the size of their entire flat back in Manchester. It’s about three times as prettier too.

“Fuck. Definitely,” Dan’s eyes are still wide, admiring every inch of their expensive surroundings. He just can’t quite believe they’re somewhere only ever designed for the astronomically rich and famous who have this kind of money to dispose.

It’s only until Dan looks down at his shoes that he realises they’re the same price as about four nights here. Fuck, they are the ‘rich ones’ now.  And famous, too. Kind-of.

“Good,” Phil replies proudly. “Birthday money well spent, then?”

“Couldn’t ask for a better one,” Dan grins. “I think this might even outdo the Totoro plushie thing you surprised me with when we first met.”

Phil snickers. “That thing only cost me seven quid. I think I’ve raised the bar slightly here,” he gestures to their surroundings, and Dan grins.

“Looks like I’ll have to start planning our getaway to The Ritz when your birthday comes around, then?”

Phil chuckles at the thought of going on holiday to the city they live in. “Looks like you will,” he agrees, taking another sip of Coke. “At least there wouldn’t be any travel costs.”

ii.

Their first night is spent gambling with strangers, spinning roulette wheels and watching, mesmerised as red and black stripes blur into one long colour. Money is lost, copious amounts of alcohol are consumed, and Phil’s just lost two hundred dollars to some stranger with stubble and a crooked smile. It takes all of Dan’s strength to prise him away from the slot machines after they call it a night with the roulette tables.

“Enough of that for tonight,” he commands. It’s like looking after a fucking toddler.

Phil whines in protest. “But what about just-“

“No,” Dan says. “You’ve lost enough money tonight. If I remembered how much of a gambling addict you are, there’s no way I would’ve let you loose on those guys,” he nods to the circle of suited men, flicking counters and coins and papery wads of cash.

Phil pouts. “But I could’ve-“

“Come on,” Dan’s eyes glitter. “Let’s get another cocktail. Stephen says apparently the Pina colada here is really good.”

“Ew,” Phil wrinkles his nose – he doesn’t like coconut, but he allows himself to be dragged over to the bar. His vision is already beginning to tilt and yeah, he’s probably had one too many cocktails already, but he needs to rely on a good few drinks to help him forget about his luck (or lack thereof) as far as gambling is concerned. Like, he could’ve spent that money on something far more worthwhile like another one of those luxury spa trips, but there’s no point dwelling on it now.

Then he remembers what had actually happened the last time they visited that spa, and he shudders at the memory of the severe lack of clothes throughout the entire place. He doesn’t think anyone over sixty should be allowed to be naked from the waist down, he really doesn’t.

“Try it,” a cocktail is being shoved in his face, and Phil glances down at it.

“What’s this?”

“Salty dog,” Dan grins, taking a sip from his own glass. “I thought the name was quite appropriate, and you like grapefruit, so.”

Phil chuckles at the name, and takes a sip, feeling the bitter aftertaste of the fruit bite the back of his tongue.

“Wow,” he chokes back a cough. “It’s certainly salty.”

“Bit like you, then,” Dan grins, taking a sip from Phil’s glass and licking his lips. He’s always been a fan of salt-rimmed cocktails – he’d even tried to make a blog dedicated to reviewing margaritas until he’d forgotten the password to it. Plus it was brought to the attention of fans about ten years younger than he is, and he’d then decided perhaps condoning alcohol consumption to underage people wasn’t the best idea, so he likes to pretend it doesn’t exist anymore.

“You would be if you lost two hundred fucking dollars,” Phil says sulkily, taking another sip. “I could’ve spent that on you, or something.”

“You’ve already spent enough on me,” Dan grins.

“Do you feel sufficiently treated, then?” Phil raises his eyebrows. Dan nods.

Phil grins. “Crap. Looks like I’ll have to cancel the strippers and the million-dollar wedding.”

“Shut up,” Dan smirks, swaying a little into the barstool. He laps up a touch of salt on his glass, relishing in the burn of tequila and the sting of lime and wonders why he isn’t distraught that Phil’s literally lost over two hundred dollars that they’ll never get back. It’s funny how only in a certain place in the world is it acceptable to have your money drained from you like water, get so drunk you can barely see, yet still feel so alive while you’re at it.

They spend the entire night in the bar, and a few more Salty Dogs, Adios Motherfuckers (yes, a real cocktail name) and Sex On The Beaches later, everything’s funny. When Dan laughs at something Phil had said, he suddenly feels euphoria thrum through him, like the colours and the vibrancy from the flashing fruit machine lights had been poured into his veins.

He’s happy.

iii.

The second night follows in a manner of very typical Vegas behaviour, but without the gambling and horrendous loss of money.

They don’t get married, or get matching face tattoos.

They do, however, lock their hotel room door with clumsy hands and little co-ordination leaving seconds before Dan gets shoved up against the door, Phil kissing him roughly. They haven’t been able to keep their hands off of each other all evening. Every brush of the hand, little nudges here and there, and a gaze lingering a couple of seconds too long had sent Dan’s heart racing like he was eighteen years old again, all fluffy hats and Manchester streets.

They haven’t really done this since the last time they went to Vegas, (excluding that drunken night after Vidcon they’d sworn never to speak of again), and even then it hadn’t felt like this – their touches were colder, the distance between them bigger and every time they fucked it had been angry and unforgiving and immediately forgotten the next morning. It was only as if they were doing it for the sake of doing something here – something they’d both never speak of again once they left the city.

But this time it feels different, it feels more, and every touch of Phil’s fingertips onto Dan’s back feels like a hot sweep of a flame to the skin and fuck, he doesn’t remember it ever feeling this good, not since 2010 at least. Phil’s busy lips work their way down to Dan’s neck and he whines, rolling his hips into the other boy’s crotch.

“Still just as sensitive as I remembered,” Phil grins against Dan’s skin, and his fingers tighten around Phil’s shirt.

“Shut up,” Dan whines, his hands travelling south in search of Phil’s belt. He can feel Phil’s own hands working their way down, caressing Dan’s slim form until they hover above his jeans, thumbs hooked around the belt loops. He pulls him closer in by them, biting and sucking a little lower down on Dan’s collarbone until dark purple stains his skin. It’s just low enough for him to cover it easily – as beautiful as Dan’s neck might look with lovebites peppered all across his skin, he doesn’t think even stage make-up could conceal it for the final show.

-

Clothes are on the floor, hotel room blinds are shut, and while one bed is still perfectly pristine, cushions lined up and sheets tucked in, the other is a mess. The duvet is crumpled and tossed over to the side, sheets are riding up off the mattress and the pillows are pushed untidily against the headboard. Dan flops down on the mattress head first, and Phil sinks down on top of him, hovering a couple of centimetres above him, their noses nearly touching.

“Hello,” Dan mumbles, giggling.

“Hi,” Phil grins, before leaning down and pressing their lips together. Movement is a lot easier without the fabric barrier of clothing, and Dan wraps his legs around Phil’s waist, rutting himself up against the other boy’s crotch and listening to the moan he all but chokes out.

When Phil’s hands hover above Dan’s underwear waistband, he throws the other boy a quick glance.

“Please,” Dan breathes, his grip tightening around Phil’s shoulders, and it’s all Phil needs to hear before he dips his hand below and his fingers wrap around Dan’s cock, stroking slowly, softly.

“Oh, fuck-…” Dan exhales a shuddering breath, bucking his hips up into Phil’s touch because he’s always forgotten how skilled Phil is with his hands compared to himself and fuck, why don’t they do this more often?

Phil grins against his neck, wriggling out of his own underwear until they’re both completely naked and working up a sweat beneath the duvet. He continues massaging Dan’s cock, his hands rough and calloused against his smooth skin. Dan throws his head back against the pillow, letting out a strangled whine when Phil flicks his thumb over his slit, and the words tumble out of his lips, ghosting over the shell of Phil’s ear.

“Fuck me,” he breathes. “Please.”

-

They come, hard, at the same time in a flurry of gasps and sighs of each other’s names, sweat coating them and loose sheets tangling up between them. Dan feels thrums of pleasure course through every vein in his body, waves of ecstasy wash over him as his entire body goes still before unknotting completely, every breath coming hard and fast. Only one word is repeated over and over in Dan’s mind like a heartbeat, and he can’t stop the phrase tumbling out of his lips along with a string of curse words and moans.

Phil.

Four years ago, this would have been forgotten the moment the uncomfortable post-sex stickiness was showered off of their skin. They still would have fallen asleep in the same bed, but there would be that cold distance between them lingering on the mattress when they’d roll over, away from each-other, trying to push what had just happened out of their mind and vowing never to bring it up again until next time they got a few cocktails in their system.

But this time, it’s different. They don’t shuffle as far away from one another as they can manage without actually falling out of the bed, but instead melt into each other’s embraces the second their bodies touch the mattress, Dan’s face buried into Phil’s chest and Phil’s fingers in Dan’s hair, winding locks of damp, wavy brown around his finger as if he could tie the two of them to each other forever. The light from the city leaks through the gap in the blinds, drawing stripes of amber onto the floor.

Dan’s heart is still racing and everything is still hazy, but he falls asleep within seconds, his limbs still intertwined with Phil’s.

iv.

They don’t exactly bring it up the next morning. But it isn’t uncomfortable like it usually is – they don’t avoid eye contact and keep a careful distance away from each other and chat up other people at the bar the next night. When they’d woken up the next morning, hungover and aching from last night, Phil’s arms were still loosely draped around Dan’s waist, their legs overlapped and their breathing soft and in sync. Even upon waking up, neither of them move except when Dan rolls over to face Phil, snuggling up closer to him instead of leaving the bed and pretending he was never there in the first place.

Neither of them say anything. Neither of them need to.

But they both know this is something more than a casual fuck. It has to be.

It’s love.

v.

“So, when does it actually happen?” Dan turns to Phil with a thoughtful frown. They’d woken up with a hangover and a foul taste in the mouth after the night before, but tonight it’s just passed eleven at night and they’re already on their third drink. Phil had been hesitant at first, but it didn’t take a lot of persuasion from Dan until he was knocking back shots that tasted like detergent. It’s Vegas, after all. It’s expected to get totally and utterly black-out drunk here.

They’re strolling (stumbling) outside through the city because the bar they’d spent the night in had closed, the street full of light but the sky pitch black, and the pavement won’t seem to stop tilting. The Strip is four miles of blinding colours, palm trees, illuminations and mock landmarks, and Dan had done a double-take upon seeing the likings of the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower standing in the wrong city.

“When does what happen?” Phil frowns.

“Birthday,” Dan slurs.

Phil narrows his eyes, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Like, half an hour? Don’t tell me you’ve lost the concept of time,” he stops walking, steadying Dan. “Come on, look at me. How many fingers am I holding-“

“I’m fine, you twat,” Dan pushes his hand down, grinning. “I just meant it, like-… I mean, I’m British-“

“Nice observation,” Phil giggles sarcastically, and Dan glares at him.

“Let me finish. I mean- like, I was born in Britain and stuff, so-… shouldn’t I go by the British timezone? I mean- technically at midnight here I won’t actually be twenty-four.”

“Well, midnight in Britain was about eight hours ago,” Phil shrugs. “We’re minus eight hours, remember? So I mean- if you were looking for an unofficial British celebration, you’ve kind-of already missed your slot.”

“Oh,” Dan frowns a little, his drunken mind trying to make sense of this tangle of information. “Shit. So-… technically I’m already twenty-four?”

“I guess,” Phil shrugs. “Do you feel any different?”

Dan glances down at himself. Nope. He moves around a little, his limbs feeling like syrup.

“Not really. Drunker, I guess.”

“Great,” Phil snickers. “Well, we have, like, twenty minutes to go now,” Phil says, and his eyes flicker back to the hotel. “Wanna make a proper celebration of it?”

“In another bar?” Dan raises an eyebrow. Phil grins.

“I was thinking somewhere a little more secluded, actually.”

Dan doesn’t know what that means. But then again, he’s a little too far gone to care.  

vi.

Dan doesn’t know if they’re allowed to be up here. He doesn’t remember how they managed to sneak so many vodka shots up here. Fuck, he doesn’t even remember how they’d managed to get up here in the first place. But for some reason, they’ve made it onto the roof of the hotel with six shot glasses between them, sitting side-by-side on the flat concrete with artificial lights twinkling three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around them. Sitting on top of Caesar’s Palace makes it easy to believe they’re sitting on top of the world.

“Three minutes to go,” Phil checks his phone, his eyes flickering with excitement. “Fuck. Twenty-five. It feels like only yesterday I was that age.”

Dan scoffs. “Way to make yourself sound like a fucking geriatric.”

“That’s how I feel,” Phil shakes his head in disbelief. “You know, the last time we came here, like, for your twenty-first, I would’ve been twenty-five. Now look at us.”

Dan’s head whips up. “What?” Phil nods. “You’re joking. What the fuck?” he shakes his head, eyes wide as he tries calculating it. The years blend together like watercolours and numbers squiggle and fuzz in his mind. It barely feels like any time has passed at all. “Now I feel old.”

Phil grins. “Looks like we’ll have to be geriatrics together.”

“We’ll have to get our pension. Retire from YouTube.”

“Watch Emmerdale.”

“Join a knitting club.”

“Unlearn all basic skills regarding handling modern technology.”

“Adopt racist views.”

“Be sexist.”

“Be pretty much everything with an –ist on the end.”

They leave it there, the two of them grinning with heads full of alcohol and smiles full of humour and fuck, Dan can’t quite believe this is happening. Here he is, sitting on a roof of one of the most expensive, most famous hotels in the world with his best friend, his life companion, his soulmate, having nearly completed a tour throughout the entirety of this country and even a touch of Canada too, flitting from state-to-state, touching the hearts of millions of people with only so much as a smile, a ‘hello’ and a scribble of Sharpie and fuck, he’s made it. They’ve made it.

It’s like living the American Dream. And he isn’t even American.

“This is so weird,” Dan huffs out a little laugh of disbelief, the city lights blurring in front of his eyes. “We used to do this in Manchester, remember? Sneak up onto the roof with a bottle of wine and watch the city.”

If he squints enough and ignores the sign clearly shouting “WELCOME TO FABULOUS LAS VEGAS”, it could almost be Manchester again. There’s something about the way the horizon of lights glitter into the night.

“Oh god,” Phil grins. “I do remember that. Remember almost getting caught by that old couple next door?”

“Fuck,” Dan giggles. “I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my entire life.” He’s pretty sure his lungs are still recovering.

“But we got our revenge,” Phil’s eyes glitter. “Gave them a good few sleepless nights.”

“Oh Jesus,” Dan chokes out a laugh. The walls in their apartment block were like tissue paper. Every time they pissed them off, they’d fuck as loudly as possible. “We were never very discreet about that, were we?”

“Not particularly,” Phil agrees. “We probably traumatised them.”

“We were never dream neighbours,” Dan giggles, remembering how they’d sent them a letter of complaint about Dan cranking up his weird dubstep music to volume ninety-three, but never once mustered up enough courage to confront them about the sex thing. It made it all the more hilarious, to be honest.

“Oh my god,” Phil’s eyes go wide. “One minute.”

Dan opens his mouth to make a remark – were you ever this excited over your own birthday? – when his mouth goes dry once it sinks in that he’ll never be twenty-four again.

Being twenty-four was arguably the best age of his entire life. They’d been knee-deep in book writing all year; pretty much every day had consisted of four a.m. snacks, coffee, falling asleep on keyboards and replying to e-mail after e-mail from publishers all across the country. On top of that had been all of the organisation for the tour, and any moment they hadn’t spent writing had been in either a rehearsal room, clutching props and trying to dance without tripping over nothing, or in a meeting, discussing travel plans and transportation and merchandise. It was fucking insane – Dan often finds it a wonder how they haven’t literally collapsed to the floor with exhaustion yet. But it was- is, the best year of his entire life; 2015 into 2016

But then again, he ends up saying that every year. He’s pretty sure he’d referred to 2013 in the same sentiment and there had definitely been a time where he’d wanted to stay twenty-three forever, and that only has to be a good thing. Dan remembers being seventeen and feeling years and years pass through him with relief that the last one was finally over due to it always being so bad, and with little hope for the future. He’s often wondered whether perhaps his happiness is being made up for now; with him holding every year post-2012 very close to his heart.

He doesn’t remember ever feeling like this when he turned twenty-one in the same city. He vaguely remembers going to a bar and chatting up some random girl and getting a bit drunk and suddenly it’s midnight and oh shit he’s twenty one and then the night was over. Just like that. He doesn’t remember the name of the bar, and he barely even remembers Phil being there at the time – the only purpose he remembers Phil hanging around for was to buy him alcohol before midnight struck. Still shaken up from the sudden burst of YouTube success and their private life spilling out onto Tumblr, they were still a little distant towards each-other. It was almost like they were strangers sharing the same city. He doesn’t even remember Vegas looking this good.

But this time around, four years later, it’s like someone has turned the saturation of the city up. Turned up the contrast, the definition, the volume, the sharpness, brightness and every single other enhancement, and when Dan looks out into the view glittering in front of them, it feels like he’s wearing glasses for the first time. Everything just looks so much more beautiful through happier eyes.

Phil turns to Dan, and his eyes flit down to his lips for a split second. On a pocket-sized screen, four zeros line up.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, holding up his shot glass.

Dan grins, clinking the glasses together and knocking the liquid back, feeling a stripe of fiery alcohol burn down his throat. He’s usually pretty disgusted by shots and in any other situation he’d probably wince and cough and shudder, but he finds he’s actually enjoying the warm glow of vodka in his chest. He’s enjoying the way the city looks like through hazy, drunken vision.

“Thank you,” he finds himself leaning into Phil’s touch, drinking up the confidence he needs right now. Despite it being the middle of the night, the air still holds quite a warmth to it and Phil’s skin feels hot underneath his t-shirt.

“What for?” Phil asks gently, slipping an arm around Dan’s waist. There are still boundaries between them, but this time Dan doesn’t pull away like he probably would have done four years ago (back then, if it wasn’t sex, he wasn’t interested). Instead, he grins and shuffles up closer to his best friend, resting his head on his chest and watching the city before them, the two of them in silence whilst the world below them roars.

Dan opens his mouth, ready to tick off the extensive list of everything Phil’s done for him that he needs to be thanked for – Thank you for putting up with me for all these years. Thank you for being here tonight. Thank you for buying me alcohol last time we were here even though I was a fucking lightweight and probably embarrassed you some way or another. Thank you for the best fucking birthday present I could have ever wished for. Thank you for the other six birthdays you’ve been here for. Thank you for the best seven years of my life. Thank you. I love you.

He can’t bring himself to physically say the words. There’s too much Phil needs to be thanked for.

So, instead, he shows him.

He turns himself around in Phil’s arms, sliding his hands around the back of his neck and locking his fingers together. They stand there in a tense silence, hesitant eyes flitting from one another’s eyes to lips and back up to eyes again, before Dan gives in and pulls Phil into him.

It’s quite a short kiss compared to what they’d gotten up to last night, but it’s enough to send surges of electricity through Dan, his nerves as neon as the flashing street signs hundreds of feet below them as Phil’s lips press against his, soft and hesitant, and he tastes like vodka and 2009.

They pull away after a few seconds, breathless and desperate, and Dan grins when Phil pulls him in for a proper hug, feeling a warm, protective tightness envelop him. He nuzzles into the fabric of his clothing, breathing in his aftershave and feeling his heartbeat against his ear and fuck, Phil’s so warm and everything is warm and drowned in colour and Dan’s really quite drunk now but so fucking happy.

“For that,” he simply says, giving Phil’s lips another gentle peck.

They stay like that, wrapped up in each-other’s arms, only focused on the colour of each-other’s eyes despite the ethereal view of the city surrounding them, and it’s then that Dan realises.

He realises the best birthday present wasn’t actually this trip to Vegas, as vibrant and as luxurious and as fucking incredible a city it is. It wasn’t the things of material value here; the expensive meals out and the cocktails with ridiculous names and the walks along the strip when the city is electric and alive, four miles of drunken paradise with fortune resting precariously on a roll of the dice or a flick of the playing cards.

The best birthday present was, instead, seven years of happiness. A visible future. A book, a tour, a successful YouTube channel and millions and millions of adoring fans behind the two of them. Seven years of love, despite it not always being as straightforward as it’s so often portrayed in the movies.

The best birthday present was Phil.

-

From coast to coast, I’ll make the most
Of every second I’ve been giving with this crowd
Without a doubt, you’re all I dream about
At night we lie awake
With stories taking us back to the nights we felt alive
-

Feedback is always appreciated!! I haven’t written fic in over a monTH wtf I hate exams im gonna try to get back into writing more regularly ok I hope this is ok anyway

If u enjoyed this pls like/reblog thank u xxx