Yes I am sorry it has been ages, but I really have no excuse I guess just a complete lack of will/inspiration - but yes two weeks ago I went to Romania on a charity trip and this phan doing the 16 hour journey I did. Hope you enjoy!

Sleep fogged against Dan's eyes as dew drops knocked on the window. There were mild whispers of words, gentle lulling voices rattling through the cold air.

Quithoggingtheblanketjameswakeupi'mjustgoingtothetoiletwouldyoumindmovingoveraminuteadam,adam,doyouhavemypillowinthatbag,lookatthatyoucanseeikeafromhere,shutupfrankiamtryingtosleepwhatdoyoumeanyoucan'tfindtheticketsmelmoveover

Muffled voices down the aisle. Quiet as if they were afraid of waking the dead (or the stirring coach mates who were pretending to sleep)

The light above Dan flickered and the lights outside the window blurred into one. His head rocked against the soft head rest but his eyes remained open. His feet shuffled about the footrest and there was a wicked temptation to pull his knees against his chest. He couldn't quite believe he had expected sleep.

The national express. Never again.

He didn't know anyone who could sleep on such a mode of transportation. Or, as it turned out, he did.

Phil's head fell against his shoulder, his glasses clutched tightly in one hand and his lips parted slightly. His arms were curled compactly beneath his thick mop of black hair and his long legs sprawled out into the aisle. There was a crinkle on his left cheek. Dan could feel his breathing through his left shoulder.

He had accepted that he would not sleep. He had accepted the growth of the grey bags under his eyes. A small smile reached his lips as he watched Phil sleep, half listening in to the rising domestic argument occurring behind him (well you were responsible for the tickets not me, this is like fucking wales all over again, it was you who lost the keys!)

He leant his head against the cool glass and let the waves of vibration rattle through his skull.

The lights flashed on, searing into Dan's corneas.

Birmingham! Anyone for Birmingham!

The voice boomed, dragged through hell and back. Dan checked the time. Three am. Perfect. The dark sky was marbled up above and a certain lump had started to stir.

Phil curved his spine, elbowing Dan in the knee in an attempt to sit up. His eyes were small slits, unable to open and his nose looked positively wrinkled and confused. A headphone still dribbled from one of his ears (the other one lost to the Neverland)

"Are we awake now?" Dan said with a smirk

"Where are we?" Phil rubbed his eyes and leant back, exposing his pale neck to the bright, artificial light (as if awaiting a sacrifice)

"Birmingham! Anyone for Birmingham!" Dan mocked, attempting to mimic the thick northern accent of the driver and falling miles short (and attracting a rather bitter stare from the man himself)

"Oh" Phil said, his head falling back onto Dan's shoulder "Did you manage to get any sleep?"

"No, there's not a ton of room"

"Oh" Phil said, pushing himself upwards again, "Do you want to swap places? There's a little more room in the aisle." Phil slurred, his widened eyes fluttering shut again and envy turning Dan's blood black. But alas he couldn't justify waking Phil up (which had to do with his moral compass and had nothing to do with the little tuft of hair that stuck up from Phil's head and his sleepy face.)

"No it's okay"

"You sure?" Phil asked, but his voice was already drifting, caught in an in-between land, one eye open, one shut.

"I'm sure" Dan said, as Phil nuzzled back into his shoulder.

Dan must have slept at some point because when he woke the light had bled into the sky, switching it from the blanket of night to a bright white, bordering on pink, which shone its beams across the grey tarmac of the road. His neck hurt and he was still sat in the same position (and miraculously Phil was still asleep.)

Dan remembered the first time he had visited Phil's house, the ball of fear that had spread through his chest on the train, only amplified by the lashing rain and the thick tension that sizzled through Phil's living room. But what if it's not the same in real life. What if we sit in silence and have nothing to say. The television flickered in the background. It was at that annoying volume where you can hear it, but not properly, and you have to listen really intensely even if you don't care just to know what's going on. He remembered his eyes fixing on the television and his fingers nervously drumming against the fraying couch arm. He remembered Phil's head falling against his shoulder and his eyes going. He remembered feeling as if he should be panicking, left in a new house where the host has fallen asleep; but he remembered instead feeling calm, serene, feeling Phil's heartbeat through his shoulder, the air crackling with the rain beats and the television. He remembered the air was warm and lulling. He remembered feeling utterly comfortable in a foreign land with a stranger. But neither of those statements were true. Because both the place and the person, already felt like home.

Dan smiled at the memory (and Phil was still asleep)

Five am is not a time.

Five am is not a time. Five am is a mystical point, a rip in the fabric of daily routine. If you are awake to see the clock hand tick around to five there's been a serious mistake.

Either;

It's been dark this whole time and Phil's face was lighting up my computer screen and I could forget what a mistake this would be and how much I would hate myself tomorrow when my hand slips trying to stack the shelves.

Or;

Why did I agree to this, why did I say I would climb the hill to see the sunrise all my organs are dying and I wish to collapse onto this hill and let the grass take me.

Five am is not a time is what Dan thought when he clambered down from the bus, staggering like a bear awakening from hibernation to be met with the cruel sunlight, every organ racking and beating against his ribcage as if it were a prison. His hand slipped and slid within Phil's grasp.

The coach opened up to match Dan's giant yawn and the cases were unpacked, revealed to the harsh morning light like an offering; piles of clothes in exchange for the darkness to return.

Phil looked positively refreshed although the never ending bags under his eyes still glistened and his glasses fell crookedly across his nose. Dan felt an odd urge to kiss him and a flush at the people already watching their hands knotted together.

Dan didn't want to let go of his hand but the case needed pulling. And alas the moment was over.

Dan was always impressed and how busy an airport is, at all hours of the day, live a never ending cycle of tired people clutching a little too tight onto their possessions, and the overhead voice trickling along the corridors (and the moment it takes to work out whether or not the person is speaking English).

Several people lay sleeping on the floor; some curled up and some flat out and Dan had to stop himself from falling against Phil (who was now looking at him with the same level of fondness as Dan had held for Phil on the coach)

Dan and Phil fell into the queue, joining the rigid block, drawing an x to mark the spot. Dan pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and resisted the temptation to lean against the flimsy ropes that bordered the queue of people.

All sorts of people can be found in a check-in queue at an airport at five in the morning.

(A compiled list by a tired Daniel Howell)

Business people:
Specialities include staring at watches and sighing, fingers drift awkwardly across their ties, trying to resist swinging briefcases

Young couples:
Categorised by the large rucksacks that threaten to overthrow them (so as to get the biggest hand luggage possible in order to skimp on having to pay for baggage), as well as the several layers of clothes that they are wearing which couldn't fit into their hand luggage

Families:
Categorised by the children who for some reason still have the energy to run around at five in the morning and the parents who are at I-am-so-tired-I-just-walked-into-a-wall stage

School groups:
Multiple teenagers looking as if they wished they could fall asleep on someone's shoulder but they don't anyone well enough

In the sea of shuffling bodies there was one seat and once Dan and Phil had got through customs they were able to claim it and sit on their metal throne; in-between an angry man talking down the phone and a child with eyes that were slightly too large (and who wouldn't stop staring). But Dan managed to curl his head into Phil's neck and Phil's arm managed to stretch across Dan's shoulders and it turned out that the windows across from them were actually mirrors. The seats were so large that Phil wondered who they were built for (and Dan couldn't wonder because he had fallen asleep). Phil's eyes subconsciously twitched and switched from board to board (having a small fear beneath the surface of missing the plane.) But it was mostly okay.

When their flight got called it was another hoax, (you'll be able to sleep on the overnight coach journey! You can come and get on your flight now!) And another queue was presented (one where the source cannot be seen from the end) and they were herded at the back (because Phil had stopped to look in the shop; we have plenty of time, there's assigned seats, Dan.) The beige wallpaper curled and chipped and Dan wondered whether it had been restored since the airport was first built in 1972. In front a baby started to cry and Dan's ticket requested he use the back doors.

They were the absolute last ones to pass through the ticket check desk (and were herded into another room). There were even less seats in this room and the last one had been taken by an Armenian grandmother with a small tartan pull-along bag, but they found a spare patch of wall to lean on.

One giant window lined the wall, framing the runway and the plane that lay in wait (its nozzle painted orange and its brand rhyming with sleazy-bet).

Their seats were two thirds back on the plane and the leg room meant that Dan had to sit completely upright (although he had bargained for the window seat). In front of them was the usual paraphernalia; the awkward drawings of middle class white people escaping far too calmly from various horrific situations (and of course the sick bag that resembled a 15p mix sweet bag).

Air hostesses (and the token male air host) dressed in their ridiculous outfits paraded the aisle with seatbelts and waving arms but Dan's eyes were blurring, the blaring colours fading into the dirtying white of the walls. His eyes went black and later Phil would marvel over how he had never before seen a person sleep through take off.

Dan woke up with a crick in his neck, a shooting pain darting through his legs and an eyeful of regret (as well as a Phil-arm across his face and a rather questionable look from a middle aged woman one aisle over.) When he sat up his back cracked with a velocity that made him wince. He was 30,000 ft. in the air and he was old. He felt heavier somehow.

He gently removed Phil's arm from his face and pressed his nose against the small aeroplane window; a move that seemed almost self-destructive once the light burned his eyes, but he enjoyed watching his breath fog up the plastic-y glass and he enjoyed looking at the small crystallised structures that had formed between the layers of window. Not to mention the view. Dan had never been a nervous flyer, because he had always been in awe with the journey. In awe with seeing the world from such a distinct place, from seeing all the green stretch before him, all the tiny dots which signify a little life, a little collection of lives, to forget about modernisation and the technological era and be reminded of a more primitive time, and of how much of that green still remains. He couldn't say he wasn't at least a little afraid of crashing, but who wasn't? (for some reason there is something about the plane that brings about an irrational fear of crashing – the same fear that doesn't often come when one enters a car, or a train – where the chances are significantly higher – and yet comes in blazing force when a plane takes off – perhaps it's the height, perhaps the speed, perhaps the novelty for many people. Or perhaps it's just that people don't buy any scientific theory – the fact that a plane can fly makes no sense – people are nothing if not stubborn in nature.)

The air began to get stuffy 1.565 hours into the flight, and Phil began to complain (and fling himself upon Dan dramatically). At that point Dan started to wish they had enough money for a proper flight, one with actual television screens etc. but alas it was not the case. Therefore, a zealous Phil suggested eye-spy and who was Dan to say no to a zealous Phil? (Coincidently this was the time the old man and his newspaper shifted a little further away from them.)

When the plane landed it not only exacerbated Dan's existed pains but also brought new ones in the shape of Phil squeezing his hand and, (accidentally Phil would later assure him) digging his nails into his palms. Dan was sure his eyes popped out significantly further than humanly possible. And he was sure they would never go back. Bugsy Howell. That's what they'd call him (and then I'd protect you, whispered Phil.)

The plane doors didn't open until 5893587208 hours after it landed (which can be rounded down to twenty minutes) and Dan's legs screamed to be released from their cage with a pain that couldn't be relieved by Phil's debateable "massages". Phil ran his hands through Dan's hair and kissed his cheek, making Dan blush redder than the air hostesses uniforms (almost as red as several rather embarrassed football fans who saw them from three rows in front).

Ding Dong

I am sorry about the wait, we are just currently waiting for somebody to connect the stairs to the flight

Sajnálom a várakozás , mi csak éppen arra várnak hogy valaki csatlakozni a lépcsőn, hogy a repülés

Lo siento por la espera , sólo estamos actualmente a la espera de alguien para conectar las escaleras para el vuelo

Je suis désolé pour l'attente, nous sommes en train d'attendons quelqu'un qui peut connecter les escaliers au vol

There was a universal groan and Phil laughed into Dan's neck, his breath making Dan's neck snap backwards and a smile crack onto his face.

After the plane there was a bus. A small mini-bus with seat-belts that looked as if they had been chewed, windows that were stuck with a substance Dan didn't even want to know about, and a rusty AC system that smelt strongly of dog hair. The road was so rocky that Dan gave up on appearances, and let himself clutch onto Phil as if the very world was ending (which it might well have been, judging by the amount of bouncing the mini-bus was doing).

Theirs was the last hostel which the mini-bus pulled up at, the driver turning around with an assertive nod when they pulled up outside (or rather two nods – one with the head and one with his aggressively thick moustache). Dan clambered out of the bus (or rather fell seen as every single one of his limbs had stopped working), Phil's arms catching him before he hit the gravelled road, making Phil smile and the macho man shake his head. They grabbed their suitcases from the boot (or trunk, although there was a difference which Dan was too tired to recall) waving their hands and slurring thank-yous (the man had already drove off) before half-carrying each other towards the check-in desk.

Their room was small and vintage as Phil would call it in the morning - meaning as of so far they had counted two broken lights, three questionable stains and a television that only spoke Yiddish (despite the fact they were in Hungary) - Character! Character Dan! Can't you feel it, it's practically alive! Phil would later shout as he pranced around the room, narrowly escaping an expertly thrown pillow on Dan's behalf. But Mr Phillip Lester, boyfriend to Mr Dan Howell would be saying nothing at that moment in time, because, yet again, he had face planted into the covers and fallen fast asleep.

Thank you for reading ! Please review if u can bc it means a lot!