"Potter first then," Rus tells him, eyes glittering madly.
"Make sure you do," he almost-orders. "You work too hard. It won't kill you to let someone help." The barman, having heard the 'thwok' of Rus' dart making bullseye, ambles ever-so-casually back to the game. "Can I get anything else for you gentlemen?" His nose twitches.
"Still a bit too squashy," Rus decides. "And the pit gets in the way." The corner of his mouth quirks up. Your jealousy is so transparent, the look says. "What? I should aim for the glass of the bloke behind me is that it? Bouncing the dart off the Guinness plaque in an amusing fashion?"