Around The World: A Dan and Phil Tour Book

Memories in Manchester

Phil

Dan's a talker. It is just who he is, who he's always been. He doesn't just like to talk, he needs to talk.

I love this about him. Nothing has ever gone left unsaid with him, even in the beginning. I always know exactly what he is thinking and feeling.

When he talks, it is like his brain has been turned inside out, and I love it. For us, this is a level of intimacy; it's foreplay if you will. He lets me see everything.

I don't always understand everything that he says, and we don't always agree, but you better believe that I love and appreciate every single word, every hand gesture, and every facial expression.

What he doesn't say is just as important as what he does say.
Dan can be very quiet and reflective. Tonight, for example, he has his head in my lap. We have been sitting silently for an hour. The tv is on, but it is merely background noise.

I love this. I love the weight of his head, the softness of the position. He is a grown man, but like this, he seems so small. Just as a child would find comfort in his mother's lap, Dan finds comfort in mine.

His body is completely relaxed, and now so is mine. He may be facing away from me, but I know the look on his face. His brown eyes are open but relaxed, and he is fixated on some tiny detail. He blinks softly and occasionally rests his eyes for a moment longer. The muscles in his face are completely relaxed, and his cheeks and jaw have slackened. His lips curl at the very corners from time to time as he recalls moments from tonight's show in Manchester.

My fingers are in his hair, playing with his soft curls. He loves the feeling; it brings him such comfort. There are times when this is quite sexual, but this is not one of them. This is me loving my boy, and me finding comfort and peace in the most perfect place.

Dan

Phil's lap is warm and familiar. My head fits perfectly in the cross of his thighs. We have been a lot of places in the UK already, but this is, by far, my favorite place.

The tv is on, but I am neither watching or listening. It is simply here, providing a gentle hum in the background. The only sound that really matters is the sound of Phil's fingers against my scalp. He is playing with my curls again, wrapping bits around his fingers, stroking them with his thumb, and releasing them. Every now and then he strokes
my scalp, sending shivers down my spine. It tickles, but more than that, it comforts me.

I know that he loves me. His touches are so lovely, so perfect. If I close my eyes, we are home in our own bed.

We are in Manchester now, where everything began. I gaze into the center of the black and white photograph that hangs on the wall of our room and recall bits of our show: the way Phil giggled when he tripped over the set piece, the roar of the audience when I gave away a domestic tidbit about Phil, and the exhilaration of our dramatic entrance.

I smile lazily and sigh contently. Phil rubs my back with his free hand, and I feel his legs relax. I don't need to see his face to know that he is smiling too. He has a way of grinning inward that makes my heart flutter; he does it with his eyes.

I can't think of anywhere I would rather be than right here with my head in Phil's lap. We will do this in Ireland, in Poland, and in America, and when the tour is over, we will do this at home, on our sofa, and in our bed.

It feels really good to lay here like this. There is nothing to be said, and nothing to be done. I slide my right hand up along the white sheet that separates us; I want it gone.