Today's line: "At least this time they're in a pattern. Sort of."
The Three Broomsticks is mostly empty – three o'clock on a Monday afternoon yeilds only a group of wizards in uniformed robes having some kind of business discussion in a corner, a drunk obviously well in his cups crooning Celestina Warbeck to himself at the bar, and Aidan, chatting idly to Madam Rosmerta at a two-person table in the middle of the pub.
The two of them look up at him when he enters and smile; Madam Rosmerta's smile is polite and pleased, but Aidan's is joyful, delighted, and makes Oliver want to take the few metres between them at a run. He smiles back instead.
"Butterbeer," Madam Rosmerta says firmly as Oliver approaches. "First round's on the house, Aidan, dear – thanks for dealing with that man for me."
Oliver quirks an eyebrow at the Seeker as he sits down. "Dealing with that man?"
Aidan shrugs. "There was a drunkard in here this morning when I stopped in for coffee," he says unconcernedly. "He started throwing things. I started catching them before they hit anyone."
"Seekers are handy things to have around, aren't they?" Oliver raises his voice for the statement so that the busty barmaid can hear them; Aidan chuckles.
Madam Rosmerta grins over the pint-glass she's currently filling with Butterbeer. "Good with their hands," she agrees, and winks lewdly. Oliver can't quite stop himself from turning scarlet at the thought.
The Butterbeer fills Oliver's stomach with warmth, and he's not quite sure exactly when it happened but he suddenly notices that Aidan's hand is in his across the gleaming tabletop and a kid-shoed foot is tracing lazy circles around his anklebone. He tries to say something, but the former Slytherin is looking away, a blank expression on his face as though he were not mercilessly teasing Oliver beneath the surface of the table. "The Easter decorations are interesting," he comments idly.
Oliver glances at them. Each year Madam Rosmerta gets the Hogsmeade kindergarten children to colour in a myriad of paper Easter eggs and sticks them over the windows, winking cheerily at passers-by; this year most of the eggs are featuring some assortment of stripes. "You should have seen them last year," he says, shifting his foot into the caresses of Aidan's. "She got them to do spots. There was paint everywhere."
Aidan chuckles. "I suppose," he says, still not looking at Oliver. "At least this time they're in a pattern. Sort of."
"I love the way she does it for the kids, though. My niece did it last year, she had the time of her life."
The blond actually toes off his shoe and drags his toe up Oliver's ankle, catching on his jeans and taking them with him, the soft wool of his socks nudging the hairs on Oliver's legs. He supresses a shudder.
"Lovely as the decorations are," Aidan purrs, finally turning his head towards Oliver and smiling in a way that sets his heart spinning, "I think we should get out of here."
Sighing with relief, Oliver manages a noise of assent and downs the last of his Butterbeer. He stands by the table and laughs while the Seeker fumbles with his shoe under the table; when the other man stands up he slings an arm around his waist and feels an answering hand on his hip, their sides bumping comfortably together. As they step outside, Aidan, half a head the shorter, tilts his head until it rests on Oliver's shoulder.