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Severus enters the Hog’s Head and quickly scans the dimly lit pub for unwanted occupants. Seeing nobody suspicious – nobody at all, in fact –, he saunters over to the counter.
“One firewhisky. And stop staring at me, I turned 17 weeks ago,” he snarls at the barkeeper.
“11 days,” an amused voice sneaks out from behind a wooden beam, and is followed by a grinning, tousle-haired head and a waving hand.
“Which is more than one week, so the plural’s justified,” he counters haughtily, hiding a smile, and accepts his glass.
“Do you even like firewhisky?”, Remus whispers as Severus slides into the booth next to him.
“Only one way to find out.” He puts the glass to his lips and drains the amber contents in one go. A couple of seconds pass. Then a couple more. Then Remus’ mouth is on his, carefully coaxing his lips open, sliding his cool tongue against Severus’ burning one.
“I could have left you some, you know,” Severus coughs, afterwards.
“Mm. I think my tasting experience beat yours”, Remus says as his thumbs tenderly wipe the tears from Severus’ cheeks.
“Kissing you beats anything,” he replies quietly, glad that his eyes are already wet.