Today's line: "It's a three-pipe problem." – Obviously credit to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Also, I added to this one the next day to make that prompt easier. I feel like I cheated, but hey.
They stumble into Oliver's flat already kissing; the door bounces off the wall and Aidan's pliant body bounces into Oliver's chest on impact, tiny breathless giggles escaping from between their joined lips.
A soft eek! of surprise announces that Isabel's in the room, sitting on the sofa and staring at the two of them as though unable to look away. Oliver shoots her a pointed look where Aidan can't see it; the number of times he's cleared out the flat for her, she certainly owes him one.
"Oliver!" she squeaks, standing up and searching around for her purse. "I didn't think you'd be home so soon. Lovely to meet you, Aidan – I'm a huge fan. I'd ask for your autograph but I think Oliver might kill me so I'll leave it for another time. Bye!"
Before either of them can blink, Isabel has grabbed her bag from over the coffee-table where she'd dumped it after the cardigan fiasco and practically sprinted from the room. Aidan laughs brightly. "Whew," he says. "She left in a hurry."
Oliver laughs in return, not letting go of the smaller man. "We have a sort of unspoken agreement that consists of me leaving when she brings someone around because I don't want to hear anything and her clearing out in return on the odd occasion I turn up with company."
Aidan nods pensively. "Sounds fair. Howard and I probably would have something like that, were I ever to bring anyone home without expressly asking him to not be there first."
They think about it together for a moment before Oliver realises what they're doing, and what they were doing, and how much he'd like to be doing it again, so he leans forward and presses his lips against Aidan's again, gently tonguing the last tiny remnants of Butterbeer away from the inside of his mouth.
In a few minutes they're on the sofa, Oliver's lap full of blond Seeker sucking desperately on the soft skin of his neck.
Aidan's stomach growls agressively. Oliver giggles; the smaller man leaves off his neck to rest his head on Oliver's shoulder and join in. "Are you hungry?" Oliver asks, concerned.
The former Slytherin looks awkward. "Famished," he admits after a moment's hesitation. "I didn't have lunch, I had a meeting with the Irish Quidditch Board. I didn't want to say anything because I wanted you…"
Oliver smirks and kisses him before patting his arse as a motion for him to get up. He throws open the pantry doors, hoping vainly that Isabel will have done some form of shopping in the few days that he was away, before sighing at the state of the cupboard. "Ah," he says apologetically. "This may be a problem."
Aidan peers over his shoulder. "It may be," he agrees, looping his arms around Oliver's waist and looking at the loaf of furry green bread on the countertop.
"It's a three-pipe problem," Oliver murmurs without thinking.
The blond chuckles. "All right, Sherlock," he agrees, planting a gentle kiss on Oliver's neck before moving past him to grab the mouldy bread.
He realises what he's said and could kick himself; ever since a Muggle-born friend introduced him to Sherlock Holmes he hasn't been able to leave it alone, and references and quotes have simply woven their way into the fabric of his internal monologue. Then he realises what Aidan said in reply and rethinks kicking himself. He supposes, with the other man's Little Mermaid obsession, he shouldn't be surprised that he recognises Sherlock Holmes.
"Right," he says instead. "Well, we can always go back out and get something."
When he turns around, though, the blond is directing a careful, steady heat at a piece of bread magically restored to full freshness. Oliver stares. "You've got to teach me that one," he says in amazement. Aidan chuckles.
"Elementary," he says easily. "Now – you must have butter? Jam?"
Oliver frowns. "Butter, yes," he says hesitantly, opening the cool-chest and removing a dish half-full of butter. "Jam, from memory, we've run out of."
Aidan smiles tightly as he spreads butter on his toast. "Oh, dear," he says wryly, taking a bite. "You'll have to get some before I come around next time.
The words next time bounce around Oliver's head and spread a smile across his mouth. "All right," he says, grinning as the former Slytherin wipes toast crumbs away from his mouth. "Any particular flavour you prefer?"
Swallowing the last of his toast in a distinctly suggestive manner that makes Oliver flush hotly, the Seeker grins. "Raspberry," he says firmly. Oliver doesn't question him. "I think we were doing something before my stomach rudely interrupted us," Aidan continues, stepping forwards and brushing an imaginary – Oliver assumes it's imaginary – speck of dust off Oliver's shoulder, his blue-grey eyes coquettish but uncertain, asking if it's all right, if he still wants to, and Oliver's heart melts a little bit.
"Yeah," he says, stepping back into the smaller man's personal space. "I think we were."