Oliver & Adrian
Oliver had gone to the bathroom to make sure Alicia's artistic rendition on his face still looked decent. He'd give it to birds. They did a lot of shit to look hot—they looked great regardless, anything with tits did—and all the effort was only further appreciated by Oliver now that he knew the background on it. He'd tried on some high heels and fucking thought he'd rather die. What weird center of gravity he'd managed to find again had immediately gone out the window.
So he's gone with jean shorts and a white loose blouse, some flat sandals Alicia had lying around, and had even let Al help him shave his legs—BLOODY FUCKING HELL. He thought shaving his face was a pain in the arse.
All in all, venturing out of his flat for this had been worth it. Being hit on by idiots? Not so much. But watching the shenanigans? Definitely. He was sitting against the back of Lavender's couch, pleasantly pissed and watching Charlie brag about his amazing rack. It was pretty fecking nice, Oliver had to admit. His own wasn't too bad.
And best of all, very few people knew it was him. Good night. Freeing or some shit.