#it’s gonna storm before 3pm tomorrow and rain for the rest of the day

[rhys-is-puffs]

No im not autistic. Me infodumping in detail about the weather forecasts for the rest of the week when my mom only asked if it would rain tomorrow is completely irrelevant.

[danfanciesphil]

Phan Teacher AU (Part 4)

(Part One)

(Part Two)

(Part Three)

This is all Mr Horowitz’s fault. 

Okay, so it’s also a little bit Dan’s fault for forgetting to bring an umbrella, or even a sensible coat, but in his defence, he had no idea this would happen. 

Normally, Dan’s walk to the bus stop after school is little more than two minutes, and so far he has always made it in time to catch the 3:17 bus. It’s a good thing too, because Dan knows that the next one doesn’t come for another hour. 

He’d been on his way to catch this same bus, in fact, when Mr Horowitz caught his arm, asking whether, before he left, he’d just run upstairs to the labs and clear up the experiment from the last class. Dan, being the school’s servant boy, couldn’t exactly refuse. He’d raced up to the labs at just after 3pm, cleared the desks in lightning speed, run a broom over the floor and sprinted to the bus stop. 

But alas, the sight with which he was greeted was the tail end of it, chugging into the distance as the rain pelted down. 

So now, Dan is stood, shivering like mad, in the downpour. It’s currently 3:30pm, and he still has another 47 minutes before the next bus. 

“Fuck you, Horowitz,” Dan mutters under his breath, which comes out in a silvery puff of steam. 

He wraps his thin jacket around himself a little tighter, rocking on the balls of his feet. Students keep passing him by, some sending sympathetic looks, and some chuckling at his plight. Dan knows he must look an absolute sight; his hair is probably plastered to his head, and his smart shirt and skinny jeans are so drenched that they’d fill a few jugs if they were wrung out, he’s sure. 

“Wanna use my Physics textbook as an umbrella, sir?” A Year 11 student Dan vaguely recognises calls out as they walk past, laughing. 

Dan shakes his head with a grim smile. “No thanks,” He replies, as tactfully as he can bring himself to be. 

It’s at this moment that a car pulls up to the bus stop, pausing right beside where Dan is stood. 

The window rolls down, and Dan’s immediate instinct is to run away - a product of the copious amount of ‘stranger danger’ warnings instilled into him during his teacher training. 

Then, the driver of the vehicle leans across the passenger seat, and Dan nearly wails. It’s Phil. Of course it’s Phil. 

“Hey!” Phil says, a glimmer of amusement in his cobalt eyes. “Need a lift?”

Trying his best not to think about the fact that he looks the worst he ever has, Dan forces a tight smile, leaning towards the open window. 

“Hey, hah- yeah, I didn’t exactly prepare for the weather today.” Dan says, chuckling at himself. “But it’s okay. Thanks for the offer but I live really far away. I’ll just get the next bus.” 

“When’s the next bus?” Phil asks. 

A car behind him slows to a stop, unable to get past. Dan glances up at it worriedly. The driver, an older man in a suit, looks impatient. 

“Um, in forty-five minutes. Ish.” 

Phil’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open. “What?! You’re planning to wait here in the rain for that long?”

Dan tries to give Phil a bright smile, like he’s fine with it, but a raindrop falls from his forehead into his eye, making him wince. 

“Y-yeah, it’s okay, I’m-” Dan cuts himself as a sneeze surges up out of nowhere; he just about manages to turn away, aiming it into the crook of his elbow. 

When he looks back up at Phil, he does not look pleased. “Dan,” he says, his voice dropping to his firm, teacher tone. “Get in the car.” 

Partly because the gentleman behind Phil has begun honking his horn, and partly because his knees have jellified at the sound of Phil speaking to him this way, Dan pulls open Phil’s passenger door and climbs in. 

It’s so warm inside that he could cry. 

“I’m gonna get your seats all wet.” Dan says mournfully, trying to take up as little space as he can. 

“They’ll dry.” Phil tells him, turning the heater up until it’s blasting over Dan’s face and chest. “There are more important things than courtesy, you know Dan.”

Dan turns to him, trying to work out whether Phil’s annoyed. He watches silently as Phil pulls away from the kerb, joining the thick muddle of after-school traffic inching its way towards the main road. 

“My mum raised me to be a polite young man,” Dan jokes, trying to lighten the mood. 

“My mum raised me not to put my health in danger for the sake of asking a friend for a lift once in a while,” Phil replies, looking over at Dan. The windscreen wipers squeak as they battle the awful weather. After a moment, Phil sighs, his expression softening. “Sorry, I don’t mean to have a go at you. But come and find me if you miss your bus again, okay? I’d rather drive a bit out of my way today than have you turn up tomorrow with pneumonia.”

Dan nods guiltily. “Wait till you see how far away I live before you get too generous.”

*

“Wow,” Phil whistles, eyebrows raised as he stares down at Google Maps on his phone. “You weren’t kidding.”

They’ve pulled into a layby, the rain still thundering against the glass. It doesn’t matter though, because Phil’s car is warm and dry. It’s littered with little plastic toys, highlighting Phil’s quirkier side. There are Marvel superhero bobble-heads blu-tacked onto the dashboard, and the cupholders are filled with keyrings that look like they were won out of those two-penny slot machines.

There are also sweet wrappers scattered around - skittles, starburst, pick ‘n’ mix, or anything sugary and colourful. 

None of it seems anything other than incredibly endearing, though. Dan could spend hours rifling through this car, which is so intrinsically Phil, just learning about him through his clutter. 

“Yeah,” Dan says awkwardly. “It’s a forty minute bus ride.” 

“You do that every day?” Phil asks, looking up at him in wonder. “Twice a day?”

Dan shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

It would be a lot worse if he had nothing to look forward to once he actually got to the school, Dan thinks privately. 

“Um, don’t worry about taking me all the way,” Dan says quickly, “just drop me at another bus stop or something on your way home-”

Phil flaps a hand at him distractedly, turning back to his phone. He pinches the map, searching the screen for a route to take. 

“No, no, I don’t mind taking you,” Phil says, chewing his lip. He looks up, out of the windscreen, appearing to have some sort of internal debate. “It’s just... well, do you mind if we make a stop?”

Dan blinks at him. 

“Uh, a stop?” He asks, uncomprehending. 

“Yeah,” Phil replies. “It’s just that I need to let my dog out. Would you mind if we stopped at mine on the way? I’ll take you straight home after.”

Dan pauses for a moment, the words not sinking in straight away. Phil wants to take him to his house, where he actually lives, and he’s asking if that would be a problem.

“Phil, you’re literally rescuing me from a storm,” Dan says slowly, watching the bashful smile spread over Phil’s gorgeous features. “You could drive me via the Eiffel Tower if you wanted.”

Phil grins at him, putting his phone down and releasing the handbrake. “Maybe we should save the Eiffel Tower for another time.” Phil side-eyes him, questioningly. “Like in two weeks?” 

Dan’s already racing heart picks up a little more speed, the fact that he is currently en route to Phil’s actual house beginning to seep into reality. He laughs, feeling awkward about what Phil is implying. 

“Yeah, I still haven’t decided whether I’m coming on the trip yet,” Dan says, hands clasping together in his damp lap. 

“You know it’s free for teachers, right?”

“I’m not a teacher.” 

Phil smirks. “I’m sure I can persuade John to let you in free of charge.”

“Who?” Dan asks.

“John. Mr Green.” Phil clarifies; Dan just stares blankly. “Vice Principal of the school?”

“Oh,” Dan says, vaguely remembering a ‘VP Green’ showing him round on his first day. “I haven’t seen him since I first started. Sorry.”

“Well, he’s coming on the trip.” Phil tells him. “So, that’s a perfect opportunity to get to know him better.” 

“Right, because having an awkward conversation in Paris with the Vice Principal of a school I’m heavily under-qualified to work at is top of my to-do list.”

Phil laughs heartily, pulling off the main road into a suburban maze of small houses. They can’t be more than ten minutes from the school. Dan gazes out of his rain-speckled window at the idyllic neighbourhood, trying not to be too obvious about how badly he wants to soak it all in. 

“You’re not under-qualified.” Phil says, leaving no room for argument. You’re one of the best TA’s I’ve ever had.” 

Dan stays quiet in the face of this statement, not sure how to handle it. 

“Besides,” Phil continues, to Dan’s relief. “John’s actually a pretty cool guy,” 

As it has rather often since the film screening on Wednesday, Dan’s mind wanders to thoughts of Paris, of being there with Phil and the rest of the Year Nine class. In his current state of awkward, socially inept pining over the class’ teacher, Dan’s not sure he’d be able to handle the experience. 

Yes, it would be an amazing opportunity, and undoubtedly fun at times. But the class already tease Dan, sensing his overly-fond opinion of their favourite teacher despite him trying to keep it under control. It’s hard to imagine an entire weekend of that, in the so-called ‘city of love’, whilst attempting at least a shade of professionalism. 

Not to mention how uncomfortable the whole thing could make Phil. 

“But I don’t wanna pressure you.” Phil says, interrupting Dan’s tumultuous thoughts. “I just think it’d be fun if you came.” 

Before Dan can properly comprehend that statement, let alone reply to it, Phil is pulling the car over and switching off the engine. 

They’re parked in the middle of a quiet, orderly street, right outside a cute little bungalow, complete with a neat front garden and little pathway to the front door. 

“You live here?” Dan asks, awed by how... lovely it is. 

Phil chuckles, unbuckling his seatbelt. “No Dan, I brought you to someone else’s house and we’re going to break in.” 

Dan turns to narrow his eyes at Phil, who just laughs more. 

“Come on, let’s get inside - it’s still belting down.” Phil says, unfastening Dan’s seatbelt before he gets the chance. 

Dan takes a deep breath in a vain attempt to prepare himself for what’s about to happen, and follows Phil as he hops out of the car, and jogs to the front door. 

*

If Phil’s car is telling of his personality, his house is as though he’d cracked open his chest, scooped handfuls of his soul out and splattered it all over the walls. 

Dan has never seen any sort of interior design that represented a person so well before. It’s not just visually appealing, it’s also a spectacle to behold. Dan’s sure that by just opening one random drawer in Phil’s house and glancing at the contents, he’d understand a thousand more things about this man, strange and enigmatic as he is. 

They enter into a small entrance hall, painted a sunny yellow. There’s a semi-circular welcome mat on the floor, made to look like half a pepperoni pizza. On one wall hangs a large mirror, in a bizarre, warped shape, the edges curved as though they’d been drawn by a child. 

There’s a tall cheese plant in one corner, and on a table below the mirror sits a potted scarlet anthurium. It’s a colourful room, and Dan’s very aware that this is only the very entrance of Phil’s house. 

Before Dan can comment on the aesthetics - which he greatly appreciates, having lived in a cheap, falling apart, ‘student house’ for some time now - a small creature tears through the doorway on the left, bounding towards them, barking shrilly. 

Phil crouches down to greet it, gathering the bundle of excitable fur into his arms immediately, laughing. Mouth falling open in an adoring ‘o’, Dan drops to the floor instinctively, an overwhelming urge to pet this animal forcing him to its level. 

“Dan,” Phil chuckles, receiving several licks to his face. “This is Buffy.”

It lets out a ‘ruff!’ upon hearing its name, turning to Dan, tongue hanging out as it surveys him. In a millisecond, the dog is wriggling in Phil’s arms, struggling to be free. It worms its way out of Phil’s grip in a second, leaping across to Dan’s lap, tail wagging excitedly. 

“Oh my God,” Dan says, cuddling the dog close to himself as he strokes and scritches and pets its soft, caramel fur. “This is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen in my life. What breed is it?” 

“She’s a paperanian,” Phil says, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor. He laughs as Buffy begins frantically licking at Dan’s face, front paws on his chest as she attempts to reach him. “A pomeranian-papillon mix.”

Phil strokes along her back, fondly, his hand occasionally brushing across Dan’s. 

Dan is giggling into the shock of Buffy’s fur, relishing the adorable, happy temperament of this dog. His only family dog had been a springer-spaniel when he was young, and it had died before he’d had a chance to bond with it properly. 

“Unff-” Dan says, voice muffled as Buffy licks eagerly at his chin. “How long’ve you had her?” 

“About a year and a half?” Phil replies, smiling warmly. “I used to volunteer at a shelter when I lived in France. I didn’t mean to get attached, but I couldn’t help it. So I adopted her.” 

“She’s adorable,” Dan says, stroking over her soft, pointed ears as she begins to calm down, happily settled in Dan’s lap. “I think I’m in love.” 

Phil glances up at Dan, eyebrow raised. For some reason, Dan finds himself blushing. “I get it.” Phil replies. “I fell in love on sight.” 

Dan holds Phil’s gaze for a moment, any responses getting caught in his throat. Buffy barks, stealing their attention, and Phil giggles at her. He stands, scooping her up from Dan’s lap and into his arms. 

Dan tries not to pout about this. 

“Come on, then,” Phil says, presumably to the dog, “I’ll let you out for a bit.”

Dan stands too, following Phil through his hallway and into the room on the left. 

Again, he is struck by the amazing decor of the room in which he enters, which seems to be a spacious living area, but he barely has time to appreciate it before Phil is heading into the kitchen at the other end, Buffy still tucked in the crook of his arm. 

At the back of the kitchen there’s a glass sliding door, leading to what appears to be a tiny back garden, surrounded by a tall wooden fence. It’s through here that Phil lets Buffy out, barking happily as she scampers across the wet grass, not bothered by the rain in the slightest. 

Phil slides the door shut after her, turning to Dan with a smile. “I’ll just let her run around for a bit. She’s been cooped up all day.” 

“I guess you have to leave her here while you’re at school?” 

“Yeah,” Phil replies guiltily. “It’s not as bad as some jobs, because I can let her out in the morning, and then I finish quite early in the day, but I still feel bad.”

“I’m sure she’s used to it.” Dan says, trying to make a positive comment. 

“Yeah, I suppose.” Phil says. “If I ever have to stay late, I can call my brother to come and check on her. He lives just down the road.” 

“That’s convenient, at least.” 

Phil shrugs, turning to his kitchen counter and retrieving the bright red kettle. 

“It’s not perfect, but it works okay.” Phil says. “Anyway, I’m rarely away from home. It’s not every day I have to rescue damoiseau’s in distress caught in rainstorms because they missed their bus.” Phil winks at him; along with the casual french he dropped into the sentence, it makes Dan feel a little dazed. 

“Do you want a cup of tea while she runs about for a bit?” Phil asks.

Dan feels his heart flutter, and wonders whether any of the other TA’s have ever had the honour of coming here, of meeting Phil’s dog and receiving hot beverages on rainy days. 

“That’d be great, thanks.” Dan answers quietly, still feeling like an inconvenience. 

As Phil fills the kettle and gets the mugs, Dan takes the opportunity to look around his kitchen. It’s beautiful, just like the rest of the house, but with a few youthful, quirky touches that indicate Phil’s sillier side. 

The walls are cream, as are the countertops, but there are splashes of colour everywhere. The microwave is bright yellow, and there are a host of tiny herb plants in red, green, blue and orange pots atop the windowsill. 

Phil’s fridge is a light blue, and around his light wooden table, the chairs are varying sizes and colours, mismatched, but in a way that seems put together. 

“It’s so homely in here,” Dan muses, not really meaning to say it aloud. 

Phil turns to him, evidently surprised. “Thanks! Most people say it’s a bit much.” He pours the boiling water into the mugs, chuckling. “My brother said that it’s as if I gathered a random load of furniture and scattered it about without thinking.” 

“Did you?” 

“Kind of, I suppose.” Phil allows, shrugging one shoulder. “I just pick up bits and pieces that I like the look of, and fit them in as best I can.” He laughs, opening his sky-blue fridge to get the milk. “I don’t pretend to be an expert in interior design. I just like things to be...” 

“Pretty?” Dan supplies.

“I was gonna say colourful,” Phil says, smiling at him. “But yeah, I suppose. Thanks.” 

Dan blushes faintly, casting another look around. He notices for the first time that Phil’s fridge door is covered in those alphabet magnets, some of which spell out the phrase ‘normalness leads to sadness’. There’s also a photo pinned there, of Phil and a man Dan vaguely recognises as his brother. He’s holding Buffy in his arms, smiling a very Phil-like smile.

“Milk? Sugar?” Phil asks, tearing Dan’s attention away. 

“Just milk, thanks.” 

Phil pours the milk, humming to himself, and adds two lumps of sugar to his own cup from a gnome-shaped pot nearby. He places the mugs down on the table, and pulls out a chair. 

“You can sit down, you know,” Phil tells Dan amusedly, slipping into one of the seats. 

Dan obeys, sliding into the chair opposite him and retrieving his mug. “Thanks.” 

He sips, even though it’s far too hot, trying to think past his nerves, for something, anything, to say that isn’t ‘wow you’re pretty and your house is pretty and your dog is the cutest thing in the world and I think I’m crushing on you far, far too much to even be here let alone go to Paris with you in two weeks’. He comes up blank. 

Then, quite unexpectedly, Phil reaches across the table, and pushes a strand of his fringe away from his eye, a slight smile playing on his lips. Dan freezes, a deer in headlights, as Phil’s fingertips brush his forehead, acutely aware of how damp he is still. 

“Your hair,” Phil says softly, wonderingly. “It’s curly.” 

Dan blushes furiously at once, ducking away from Phil’s touch, feeling self-conscious. “Shit, yeah. The rain, y’know...”

Phil draws his hand back to his mug, smiling amusedly. “It’s cute.” 

Dan looks at him in surprise. He’s never, in a million years, considered the idea that anybody might find his natural, untameable curls anything other than ridiculous, but all of a sudden he has a powerful urge to never touch a pair of straighteners again. 

Dan lifts his hand to his head, patting the mess of curls that are drying there. 

“I... never really liked them.” He admits, sheepish.

“You should embrace them,” Phil says encouragingly. He shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, if you want. I think they suit you. But then, it’s not my hair.” 

All of a sudden, Dan shivers, partly because he’s wet and cold, but mostly because Phil is being so sweet that his body actually seems to be rejecting the sentiment, not sure how else to process it. 

Phil frowns, noticing the tremble. “Hey, take that off.” 

He gestures to Dan’s torso, standing from the chair. Dan just looks, bewildered, at Phil’s outstretched hand. 

“Um...”

“Your jacket, Dan.” Phil says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll throw it in the dryer.” 

“Oh, no it’s okay-”

“Dan, you’re actually shivering.” Phil interrupts, voice firm. “I’ll just dry off your wet jacket, it’ll take ten minutes.” 

“It’s warm in here, you really don’t have to.” Dan mumbles, but he’s already shaking the damn thing off his shoulders, because Phil is using his teacher-voice, and it’s drilling right into his chilly bones.

Phil just takes the jacket from him, opening a secret cupboard door under the kitchen counter to reveal a washer-dryer. He places Dan’s jacket inside, presses a few buttons, and smiles in satisfaction as the dryer begins its cycle. 

He turns back to Dan, frowning again as he takes in the sight of him. 

“Hey, drink your tea, it’ll warm you up.” Phil instructs, moving across the room, towards the doorway. “I’ll be right back.”

Dan doesn’t get a chance to object; Phil slips out of the room, leaving Dan sat at the table in just his damp, clinging, white shirt, hands clasped around the mug of tea.

Then, in a moment, he’s back again, a bundle of green material in one hand. He hands it to Dan casually, then moves to sit back in his seat.

“Um, what’s this?” Dan asks, confused. He turns the green item over in his hands carefully. 

“A hoodie,” Phil says, like it’s perfectly normal. “You’re cold.”

Dan swallows, squeezing the material in his fist. It feels thick and warm. “Oh, th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Phil says, beaming. “Put it on, you’re not allowed to be cold in my house.”

“I didn’t realise you had such strict house rules,” Dan replies teasingly, but pulls the hoodie over his head, threading his arms through the sleeves. 

It smells - oh, Lord - it smells just like him. It’s cinnamon sweet, with a fresh, plant-like overtone. A cooling, freshly baked apple pie on a windowsill, the breeze sweeping in its delicious aroma, carrying the notes of the newly cut spring grass. 

Dan has to force himself not to bury his nose in the sleeves that hang down over his hands. 

He tries to distract himself by looking down at the text on the front of it, which reads ‘York University’. “I see I’m repping your college.” 

“Hah, yeah, sorry about that.” Phil says bashfully, sipping more tea. “I guess it’s a bit weird to hang onto that, isn’t it?”

Dan shrugs. “Not if you liked it.” 

Phil smiles at him appreciatively. “I liked the uni, yeah. And I like the hoodie. I like it even better on you.” 

Simply because Dan doesn’t trust himself to speak further about this without melting into a gooey puddle, he decides to change the subject. 

“So, is it Buffy as in... the vampire slayer?” 

He nods towards the screen door, through which Phil’s dog is sprinting happily across the grass, pausing every so often to sniff a patch, tail wagging furiously. 

Phil turns to watch her for a moment, laughing. He nods, turning back to wink at Dan. “I mean, it is the greatest show of all time.” 

Dan considers this, nodding. “It’s definitely up there.”

“You’ve seen it?” Phil asks, sounding surprised. “Not many people have, these days.”

“You spend too much time around teenagers.” Dan says with a wry smile. “The kids in your classes probably weren’t even born when Buffy was cool.” 

Phil sighs, nodding in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

“Hey, it’s their loss.” Dan says. “They’ll never know the awesomeness that is Buffy Summers kicking kicking the ass of every monster that dares to cross her.”

“Or the incredible hotness of Spike,” Phil adds, somewhat wistfully. 

“Spike over Angel? Interesting.” 

“To be honest, if I were Buffy, I think I’d have a similarly hard time deciding between them.”

“Same,” Dan agrees, staring down into his tea. 

“Hey, I forgot,” Phil announces suddenly, his voice bright and cheerful. “I made cupcakes! Would you like one?”

Dan watches as Phil stands from his chair, heading to a cupboard to pull out a cake tin. 

“Um,” Dan says; his stomach is rumbling at the mere mention of food, let alone cake, but he wants to be careful about how far he should run with Phil’s generosity. In the end however, his tummy, which hasn’t been fed since lunch, makes the decision for him. “Sure. Thanks.”

Phil finds a small plate and presents Dan with one of the most incredible looking cakes he’s ever seen. Putting bakeries to shame, Phil has piped rainbow frosting atop a small, palm sized cake. He’s also sliced off the top of the cake, cut it in half, and pushed the pieces into the icing in a traditional ‘butterfly cake’ style. 

The whole thing is covered in some kind of edible glitter too, making it sparkle under Phil’s soft, overhead lamps. 

“Christ, you made this?” Dan asks, staring down at it in amazement. “I feel like I shouldn’t eat something this pretty.”

Phil chuckles. “It’s either going to you or Buffy, so eat up.”

Phil takes his seat again, and Dan diligently begins peeling the glittery pink case from the sides of the cupcake. He glances up at Phil, watching him, and pauses.

“You’re not having one?” 

Phil shakes his head. “Trust me, I’ve had about sixty already since I made them. He leans back in his chair, placing a hand on his stomach. “I’m cupcake’d out.”

Dan’s eyes fall to the cake in his hand, feeling awkward about eating it now. 

Phil laughs at him, and Dan looks up. “What?” 

“Afraid I’m trying to poison you?” 

Dan splutters, having not even thought of that. Realistically though, he perhaps should be a bit more concerned. He doesn’t know Phil that well, after all.  

Playing along, Dan eyes the cake suspiciously, bringing it to his nose and sniffing. “Well, it is awfully convenient that you just had to let Buffy out whilst you already had me in your car...”

Phil rolls his eyes, smirking. Without a word, he leans forwards, plucks the cupcake from Dan’s hand, and brings it to his lips. He takes a small bite, frosting and all, licking glitter and crumbs from his lips as he holds Dan’s gaze. 

He hands the cupcake back over, looking triumphant. “There. If it’s poisoned, then we’ll both die.”

“Finally,” Dan jokes, taking a bite out of the cupcake, heart palpitating over what just happened. 

The cupcake is glorious. Dan shuts his eyes, moaning a little in appreciation. It tastes like strawberry laces, and vanilla ice cream, and pure, unfiltered joy. It tastes like how he imagine Phil himself would taste, were he smothered in frosting and had a surprise, raspberry jam centre. 

“Fucking hell,” Dan says eloquently, diving straight back in for another bite. “Phil Lester, you’re a genius.” 

In three bites, Dan has devoured the entire thing, and he licks the remnants off each of his fingers, wishing he could go back in time and experience that slice of heaven all over again. 

When he eventually meets Phil’s gaze, he’s looking a little dazed. There’s a pink tint to his pale skin, resting just above his sharp cheekbones. Seeming to gather himself, Phil clears his throat, and adjusts his glasses, smiling. 

“Glad you liked it,” Phil mumbles, busying himself by taking Dan’s plate to the sink. 

“You should apply for Bake Off,” Dan says sincerely.

Phil laughs, rinsing the plate under the tap, faced away from him. 

“Actually don’t,” Dan says, changing his mind. “Just bake for me, instead.” 

Phil stacks the plate on a drying rack, turning back to him. He doesn’t sit back at the table, though. He just leans against the counter, watching Dan from afar. 

“And what do I get out of that deal, Mr Howell?” Phil asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Literally whatever you want.” Dan replies, meaning every word. 

“Careful,” Phil says, typically flirtatious, making Dan’s stomach flip. “Some people might take advantage of a promise like that.” 

Dan just laughs, staying quiet. In his mind however, he silently comes to the realisation that he can’t think of a single thing that Phil could ask for, that he would refuse to do. 

Oh, dear.

*

By the time they leave Phil’s house, the rain has eased to more of a drizzle, but it pours continuously nonetheless. Dan says goodbye to Buffy about five times, softened by her sad little whimpers and puppy eyes each time he turns to go. 

He doesn’t mind that her fur is soaked and a little muddy, he just cuddles her close, no doubt ruining Phil’s hoodie, though Phil doesn’t object. He doesn’t even tell her off as she tracks damp pawprints through the kitchen, he just uses a spare towel to dry her off, giggling as she wriggles about beneath it. 

“Aw, he’ll be back another time, Buffy,” Phil assures his whining dog, and secretly Dan bursts with happiness. 

They get out of the door eventually, and into Phil’s car. Phil sticks the heating on straight away, blasting them both as they rub their hands together. Dan wishes it would be socially acceptable to lean across and nestle into Phil’s shoulder, but alas, he settles for simply wrapping the hoodie more tightly around himself, pretending it’s Phil’s arms. 

“She loves you,” Phil says, laughing. “She’s not going to let me forget that, either.”

“What a shame,” Dan says, faking a dismayed sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to come and play with her all the time.”

Phil grins at him. “You should. Buffy would really like that.”

“Buffy would?” Dan asks, feeling just brave enough to attempt a flirtation, fuelled by the adrenaline his own body has been pumping through his veins for the past hour or so. 

Phil just smiles at him, eyes holding Dan’s for a moment, seeming to forget about starting the car. “Yeah,” he says after a while. “She really would.”

*

It’s quite painful to watch Phil driving away. 

It’s only been a couple of hours, but in the short time he and Phil spent together this afternoon, Dan had grown rather attached to his presence. 

This whole crush-thing would be so much easier if Phil was a difficult person to hang out with. But it’s so easy. They fall into banter as quickly as breathing, their conversations lasting indefinitely, because they could spring off each other’s witticisms for hours on end. 

Phil is so funny, and so effortlessly charming. He’s intelligent and sharp, which is attractive on its own, but he has such a flirtatious streak, and it only makes things worse. 

The more time Dan spends around him, in fact, the more he feels himself falling into a deep cavern of yearning. 

When Phil pulled up to Dan’s house, right before Dan got out, he handed Dan another one of his cupcakes, which he’d hidden in a little Tupperware box in the glove compartment, unbeknownst to Dan. 

Dan had protested at first, saying he couldn’t possibly steal another of his incredible creations, but Phil insisted on him having it. Eventually, Dan managed to create a condition - that he owed Phil a favour, not only for the cupcake (and the other cupcake) but for the cup of tea, and introducing him to Buffy, and the kindness, and for literally rescuing him in his hour of need and driving him forty minutes across town to his house. 

Phil laughed, but agreed to these terms. Dan had gone to leave his car then, cupcake in hand, but Phil had stopped him, saying he had an idea for how Dan could repay him. 

Of course, he had to say Paris. 

So, because he’s helpless to refuse Phil anyway, and because he owes Phil a lot, Dan agreed. So, in two weeks, he’s off to Paris, to spend an entire weekend with Phil, in the most romantic city in the world. 

Yes, there will be twenty or more teenagers along for the ride, but Dan finds it difficult enough to keep it together in Phil’s presence as it is, even during class. 

Forty-eight hours of uninterrupted time in close proximity to this man is going to render him as useless as a smitten nerd-girl in any teenage rom-com that’s existed since the beginning of time. 

He sighs, watching from his doorway as Phil’s car rounds the corner, out of sight. He opens the Tupperware, and takes a bite of the delicious cake, sighing in defeat.

“Okay, who was that?” Tyler’s voice says from right by his shoulder, making Dan jump. 

“Is that hot, French, teacher-guy?” Teddy interjects from further inside. 

Dan rolls his eyes, turning to push past both of them as he stalks into the house. “Don’t you guys have anything better to do than spy on me?”

“Aw, Dan we just want to see you happy!” Tyler exclaims, following Dan into the kitchen. 

He wraps his arms around Dan’s waist, walking behind him like a drunk mum too into the conga line, until they reach the counter. 

Dan puts his half eaten cupcake back in its box, placing it on the counter. 

“How do you know I’m not?” Dan asks crossly. 

“I mean, you’re fine.” Teddy says, strolling into the kitchen to rest his arm on Dan’s shoulder. “But fine isn’t good enough for our lovely Daniel. We want to see you being adored!”

Teddy pinches Dan’s cheek, smiling at him. Tyler kisses him on the temple, ruffling his hair. 

Dan rolls his eyes, but smiles a little under the affection. “Thanks, but I’m good.” 

He struggles free of them, intending to take an immediate shower in order to wash the rainwater off himself. He heads for the door of the kitchen, mind already on other things. 

Phil things. 

Paris things. 

“Hey, Dan?” Tyler calls out, sounding confused. Dan turns on the spot, somewhat reluctantly. “I thought you went to the University of Manchester?” 

Dan frowns in confusion. “Ty, we all went to the same uni. We literally met at uni.”

Teddy hides a smirk in Tyler’s shoulder. “Right, right.” Tyler says. “So whose hoodie is that?” 

Having completely forgotten he was even wearing the thing, Dan flushes bright red, stammering in place of a response. It’s an absurd reaction, obviously, but it sends the others into fits of laughter, and Dan instinctively knows they won’t let this go for weeks, no matter how much he tries to insist it was a purely platonic gesture on Phil’s part. 

“I hate you both,” Dan groans, practically running out of the room. 

He slams the door of the bathroom, switching on the shower, cheeks still flame-red in the mirror. He pauses, caught by the sight of his reflection, swathed in the emerald green of Phil’s hoodie. 

He strokes the words on the front, feeling how they’re beginning to flake from multiple washes, and from the creases Phil has made as he moves around in this same garment, when it’s wrapped around him instead. 

Dan lifts the sleeve to his nose, breathing in that delicious scent. The vanilla-strawberry cupcake still lingers on his tongue, making it that little bit sweeter. 

He’ll return this hoodie, he tells himself, saving it until last as he strips off for the shower. But maybe he could forget for a few days. Or maybe he could say that he wanted to wait until the next time he’s in class with Phil, which isn’t until Monday now. 

He places the hoodie carefully to one side, not wanting it to get wet, and hops in the shower. He lets his mind drift, skimming across memories of Phil’s touch against his forehead, the sound of the rain pattering against his screen door as the dog played outside, the low, fond tone of Phil’s voice from across the table, the flame of something vivacious dancing in his glacial eyes. 

Paris, he decides, as the light trickles of warm water travel over his body, might not be so bad. 

(Part 5!)