Ordering at fancy restaurants was one of the situations most dreaded by Daniel Howell and Philip Lester.
The piercing, icy cold stare of the intolerant waiter or waitress that penetrated right through your very soul as they impatiently awaited your faltered order that came in short bursts of awkward stammer.
Phil was especially bad for this. As in many social situations, his mouth decided to not work properly and suddenly he couldn't make any noise at all.
If he did manage to make any noise, though, it would come out in a strong, Northern accent.
It was in situations like these that Dan had to gather all of his responsible willpower to not burst into fits of giggles. Even after many years, wasn't used to his friend's sudden outbursts of Lanky Twang.
Dan had come up with the brilliantly awful idea that one person should decide what the person to their right ate. This was mostly for fun.
It took Phil a while to grasp quite how Dan could possible view this as 'fun', but eventually agreed when Dan assured him that he would chose the safest and least food poisoning-inducing.
So Phil cunningly scanned through the menu and tried to find something fun but mess-free for Dab, who was sat to his right.
Beyond him, Dan also had his face buried in the menu.
"Why does nowhere serve normal food..?" He heard Phil mutter, and gave an unknown smile, veiled by the paper in front of him.
He supposed his friend was right, but then again, if you want to eat normal food, you should just stay at home.
Dan resolved to cook dinner later as a nice surprise. After all, he didn't want Phil over-working himself.
Dan looked up to say something but soon forgot what it was when he saw the waitress coming to take their order and straightened his back, attempting to look as composed as he could, preparing his words in the back of his throat carefully.
Afterwards, he and Phil both agreed that ordering for other people was a lot less daunting than ordering for yourself. They decided they should do this more often.
It was only after a bit of conversation with Dab that Dan noticed Phil zoning out a little bit.
Or rather, it looked like he had zoned out, but he was actually listening.
He was sure he'd heard a familiar voice from a way away – they were sat on the lower floor instead of a booth this time. There were two four-seater tables and two two-seaters down here with a few steps leading up to the main floor bit. There was also a stage with a piano on it to their right, but that was irrelevant – the voice was faint, though, and he wasn't sure whether he was just imagining it, so he quietly waited to see if he would hear it again.
He did.
"I think we should move seats," he blurted out, spontaneously, flashing a glance to Dan, who looked back up at him in a confused manner.
"I don't think we're allowed. Why, what's wrong?" Dan asked.
Phil didn't answer, but he made a good attempt to, stuttering 'I- I-' a few times before eventually giving up and fluttering his eyes around the room.
"Phil?" Dan breathed, watching him closely, as he heard him start to murmur something under his breath, "Pal? Really, what's up?"
"Uh- Nothing, nothing, just…" and here Phil paused for a second to give a nervous laugh and fold his hands on the tabletop, "Just… thought I heard someone I knew…"
"Who was it?" Dan asked.
"I don't think it was them," Phil replied, avoiding the question, "It doesn't matter; it's fine!"
Dan smiled, softly, brushing everything off,
"As long as you're OK," he said, reaching over to lightly stroke the back of his friend's hands before sitting back again. He supposed Phil was just a tad paranoid – he'd have to talk to him later, when they were alone.
"Completely fine," Phil nodded, but then his face fell as he heard footsteps approaching and he turned away to see whether his suspicions were proved true.
They were.
"Not fine- I repeat, not fine!" He swallowed, violently shaking his leg, "Get ready for the anti-fine…"
"Phil, you need to talk to me," Dan ordered, "Who is it?"
Phil tapped his fingertips on the table in the rhythm of an S.O.S in morse code and his gaze was fixed straight ahead as he seemed to watch someone and their friend, from the corner of his eye, walk down the steps and across the floor to take a seat at the table in the corner furthest away from them: a two-seater one in the corner.
"Brown hair, pony-tail," Phil whispered, "Yellow dress. Sitting with somebody else, don't know who – don't recognise them."
"Eri-" Dan started, but was interrupted.
"Shhh! They'll hear you. Act inconspicuous," Phil snapped, under his breath.
"Have they seen us?" Dan hissed. He knew exactly who his friend was talking about, even though his back was turned so he couldn't see the table.
"I certainly hope not," Phil almost seemed to growl.
"Take it easy, it's going to be fine," Dan assured him, then lifted his head as he saw the waitress returning.
The grey-haired woman gracefully swept the dishes off her tray and onto the table, cheerily said 'enjoy!' and disappeared again as swiftly as she had arrived.
Dan stared down to the plate in front of him and gave a sigh.
"Volcano Pasta. Thanks, Dab…"