After Hours: Ollie, Easter Colors

The kitchen smelled faintly of vinegar and sugary cereal. Not exactly pleasant, but not bad either. Just… very Easter.

Damian hovered by the doorway for a moment, hands buried deep in the pockets of his oversized black hoodie, the cracked skull on his chest staring blankly into Ollie’s bright, chaotic kitchen.

“Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there like a vampire waiting to be invited?” Ollie called out, already halfway through setting up the table.

“I was invited,” Damian muttered, stepping in anyway.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d said yes.

It wasn’t his thing. None of this was. Bright colors, holiday traditions, sitting around painting eggs like some kind of… wholesome activity. But he hadn’t had anything better to do. And, if he was being honest, he’d been a little curious.

About the whole thing. About Ollie.

The table looked like spring had exploded all over it. Bowls of pastel dye, brushes, cartons of eggs lined up like they were waiting for judgment. Ollie stood on the other side in a striped tank top, already smudged with color, looking completely at home.

“You’re late,” Ollie said, though he was smiling.

“I’m on time,” Damian replied. “You just started early.”

“Because I was excited,” Ollie shot back easily. “Sit. I saved you the least ugly eggs.”

Damian sat, dragging the chair out with a soft scrape, still eyeing everything like it might bite.

“…You actually enjoy this.”

“Yeah,” Ollie said, like it was obvious. “It’s fun. You’ll see.”

At first, he just watched.

Ollie moved without thinking, dipping eggs into soft colors, rotating them, layering tones like he’d done this a hundred times before. Mint green faded into pale blue. A soft pink blended into something warmer.

“They’re supposed to be happy,” Ollie said, holding one up. “Spring. New beginnings. You know, all that.”

Damian reached for a brush.

“…That sounds fake.”

“It’s not fake, you’re just dramatic.”

“I’m consistent,” Damian corrected, already dipping into black.

Of course.

He worked slowly, carefully. Where Ollie’s eggs were soft and bright, Damian’s were dark, detailed. Thin lines, tiny shapes, patterns that wrapped around the curve like something hidden rather than shown.

“…That’s actually really cool,” Ollie said after a while, leaning closer without thinking.

Damian didn’t look up. “It’s just lines.”

“It’s not just lines,” Ollie insisted, watching. “It’s like… I don’t know. Fancy.”

Damian huffed quietly, but there was the faintest hint of satisfaction in the way his brush slowed just a little.

They kept going like that.

Talking. Not about anything important. About school, about music, about how Ollie’s colors were “too bright” and Damian’s were “too depressing.” Their elbows bumped once, then again, and neither of them made a big deal out of it.

At some point, Damian stopped thinking about whether he wanted to be there. He just… was.

“Wait,” Ollie said suddenly, squinting. “You missed a spot.”

Damian paused, finally looking up. “Where?”

Ollie leaned in slightly, pointing at his own face without realizing it. “Right—”

Damian moved first.

He dipped his finger straight into the nearest cup—pink, the brightest one on the table—and reached forward without hesitation.

“Here.”

A quick, precise tap.

Right on Ollie’s nose.

Ollie froze.

Then blinked.

“…Did you just-”

“Yes.”

There was a split second of silence.

Then Ollie burst out laughing.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” he said, trying to lean back, but too late. The pink smudge was already there, impossible to ignore.

Damian didn’t pull his hand away immediately. He watched the color settle, head tilting slightly like he was evaluating something important.

“…It suits you.”

Ollie laughed again, softer this time, bringing a hand up like he might wipe it off,but he didn’t.

Instead, he looked at Damian.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“You invited me.”

“…I regret everything.”

“You don’t.”

Ollie smiled, just a little smaller now.

“…No. I don’t.”

Their knees bumped under the table again. This time, neither of them moved away.

Around them, the table was a mess of mismatched colors. Soft pastels next to dark patterns, bright and quiet sitting side by side like they weren’t supposed to work and somehow still did.

Ollie reached for another egg, then paused, glancing back at Damian.

“So… next time,” he said, trying to sound casual and not quite managing it, “you’re using actual colors.”

Damian picked up his brush again, dipping it just barely, into a soft, muted pink.

“…Don’t get used to it.”

Ollie grinned.

“Too late.”

🐣🖤💗