"That waiter looked at me weird, m'telling you," Ben had insisted on you coming with him to this fancy ass resturant. He was practically using you as a shield, your polite smiles and kind demeanour his excuse to be as abrasive as he wanted to be, as the two of you sat at the table.

You're his most trusted companion, why wouldn't he make you come with him?

"Can't read half of this shit," he mutters under his breath, brows raising at all the French, or whatever, scrawled in fucking cursive across the page. He looked at you, brows raised expectantly, but he chuckles when he sees your equally hopeless expression meet his. Even if you were the less aggressive of the two of you, you were still both extremely alike. "What are you ordering? Might just get that."

He pulls at his bow, seemingly almost restless and hyperactive in nature. Was he high? That'd explain it. He didn't like these fancy restaurants anyway, to be totally, completely honest. So some top grade drugs would absolutely calm his nerves. "This fucking bowtie," he rubs his hands, then runs his hands over his face.

"He looked at me weird again! What the fuck's his problem?" you simply hum, cocking an eyebrow which appeases him and causes him to quiet down.

Before you hear him mutter—"M'gonna shove that candle up his fucking ass. Show him some flair."