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The bus is parked in front of a Target in some city that Dan can't really remember the name of. It's not a destination for them, not a city they're playing in. It's just an overnight park and a chance to stretch their legs and breathe something besides the blend of deodorant and perfume and cologne that clings to the walls of the bus.
Dan is stretching his legs, at least; Phil is asleep inside the bus, taking advantage of a few hours of being alone to get some rest. He won't say it outright but there's a certain anxiety that plagues him when he has to try and sleep with half a dozen people within feet of him.
Dan gets it, but only in that distant way, because he personally has no problem dropping off without a second's notice. It's harder for him to wake up than fall asleep, especially during the stretches of life where he's ending every day physically and mentally worn out. His insomnia is never further away than when he's on tour, the nonstop chattering in his brain worn out by sheer exhaustion.
It's after nine pm. He's wearing pajama pants with a t-shirt and airpods plugged into his ears. Tyler the Creator drowns out the noise of the store as he wanders without purpose. He tosses snacks into the cart, a couple pairs of new socks, a stupid magnet for the bus fridge.
Most of the crew took Ubers out to eat. Dan thinks he'll probably get something he and Phil can microwave to tide them over until a proper breakfast the next morning. They're on a mission to try as many different Denny's and IHOP locations as they can, apparently.
Or Phil is, at least. The man loves a meal that comes with a tub of artificial syrup.
Dan stares at the meager contents of his basket and with that thought lingering in his mind, turns to head toward the candy aisle.
-
Phil is awake when he gets back on the bus, but only barely. He's wearing obnoxious lime green pajama pants and an equally garish t-shirt he acquired recently at a petrol station the size of a small country.
"There you are," Phil says, a wounded tone oozing out of his words. "I thought you abandoned me."
"I did," Dan says, dropping the two plastic bags on the table. "I abandoned you to venture out into the wilderness of capitalistic America and find you sustenance. Brat."
Phil is already on his feet, digging through the bags. He ignores the individual salads in single-use plastic bowls, ignores the condensation covered cardboard boxes of their dinner, ignores it all to grab the candy bar and examine it. "Smores," he says, full of approval.
“What would Kathryn Lester say?” Dan snatches it out of his hand. "Dinner before pudding, naughty boy."
Phil bares his teeth playfully at Dan and grabs the boxes, ripping them open haphazardly.
-
The bus smells like a mix of tikka masala and the air freshener that spritzes lavender at half hour intervals. It's not exactly pleasant, but it's familiar enough at least to Dan's nostrils that it fades into background noise.
The crew is still out. He and Phil are stretched along the sofa in the back. They're watching the last season of a show they've been binging. Phil has declared himself peak cozy under a blanket that he won't share. He's wearing a pair of Dan's new socks, because apparently his socks have succumbed to the same fate.
"I bet they were just like, Dan's socks will be lonely if they're alone," Phil says.
"You mean they suicide missioned so even distance wouldn't part them?"
"No," Phil says immediately. "They're not dead. They're just living their sock-lives somewhere else. What if it's like, one sock of mine and one sock of yours at each venue? So they’re never alone."
"Do you really want to know what I think of that?"
Phil slaps Dan's thigh lightly. "No. Also, you can’t say suicide. You’re supposed to say unalived.”
He’s really just needling at Dan, who groans on cue. “There’s no fucking algorithm in real life, Phil. There’s no need to censor language until it’s all watered down into some strange amorphous advertiser friendly blob.”
Phil giggles. He’s very proud of himself, and Dan knows it.
They lapse into silence as the tv show plays, then Phil sighs dramatically and shifts over, putting his head on Dan's shoulder.
"What?" Dan asks, because he knows Phil well enough to know there are words behind that sigh.
"I was just thinking," Phil says. "This feels like home."
Dan smiles a little. He gets it. The bus is still a bus, but a sofa and blankets and snacks on either side of them, a darkened room and silence except the glow of the television... it's somehow more like home than the stationary realm of a hotel room.
"Yeah," Dan says. "Until everyone comes back half-drunk and noisy as fuck.”
“Ugh,” Phil says. He shoves his face further into Dan’s shoulder. His skull is bony and slightly uncomfortable. “Tell them not to come back tonight.”
Dan wraps his arm around Phil and readjusts him to a position that’s more comfortable. Phil’s arms snake around Dan’s waist and for a second they’re just properly hugging, holding each other. Dan closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of Phil’s dry shampoo. “I don’t think we’re allowed to kick them out. Union rules. Or something.”
“Or something,” Phil agrees. “We might get a fine.”
“Ooh, a fine,” Dan says. “Wouldn’t want that.”
“You’ve already ruined our IRL RPM.”
“And I can do it again,” Dan says. “Cunt. Fuck. Twat. Murder. Dead. Corpse. Dick, dick, cock, todger, wang, penis.”
Phil is giggling madly again. Dan’s not sure if he’ll ever stop being proud of being able to do that.
-
The sun is rising to the west of a square, beige building with a massively sprawling car park in front of it. The bus, from a drone’s eye view, would look tiny taking up only a few of the little slotted out spaces.
In it, each in their own little bunks, crammed in too tightly and getting sleep that isn’t entirely satisfying, Dan and Phil rest. Dan turns one way, facing outward. Phil, two bunks over, turns the opposite way and faces the wall. Both of them sigh, not in sync but close enough, but neither wake.
It’s not quite home, but it’s good enough for now.