Wendy: Sir, you are both ungallant and deficient!
Peter: How am I deficient?
Wendy: You’re just a boy.
~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan ~

Late evening. M for mature sexual themes.


Virgil shut his bedroom door behind him and locked it, softly. He did not want his flatmates to know that he was home. In the dark, only the comforting smells of his room greeted him - redolent of heather honey, clean laundry, dried flowers of a treasured bouquet. He flicked his wand and a row of ivory candlesticks sprang to life. They threw light across the long room; a cluttered space with a bed surrounded by bookshelves on one end, a well-used desk and tall mirror on the other. Small, potted plants dangled from the ceiling. He crossed to his bed. Dante was curled up on the periwinkle pyjamas he’d thrown off in haste this morning. He dropped his wand and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

That party had been a bad idea. He didn’t really know many people there and he was worn out from the play and… and… Cepheus. If only Virgil hadn’t gone, he wouldn’t have seen them like that. Kissing.[1] Of course he'd left right away.

The wizard sensed something tighten over his heart, throat, mouth. He rubbed his chest and approached the mirror, where his reflected self watched him worriedly. Still in costume. Offstage, the tunic looked much too big for him.

Were they a couple? What did they talk about, Cepheus and Penny? Werewolves and vampires and goblins? Did he always look at her like that, offer her the sort of smile that would have rendered Virgil utterly useless? What was it about Penny? Why her?

Virgil undid his belt, letting it drop to the floor with a soft clatter. He breathed in deeply, and reached for the hem of the tunic to tug it off in one quick go. The cool air teased goosebumps all over pale skin. He shivered but continued to undress. Pinched the band of his tights and pants, carefully stepped out of them.

Everything in Virgil’s room was a work in progress: dogeared books scattered across every surface, quills clipped to half-scribbled parchments, musical manuscripts partly annotated. In front of the mirror - the biggest work in progress of them all, quite naked and not a little sullen.

His arms crossed over his narrow chest, hands cradling elbows, and he rested on one foot slightly more than the other while he examined himself. Virgil wasn’t naive. He didn’t consider himself ugly but he knew the kind of people who found him attractive. He had read enough minds at The Closet before.

Legilimency was awfully useful in nightclubs. Made it easy to figure out if someone wanted to fuck or just have a chat. It was a precaution he took if he went alone. The wizards who approached him were… usually the same sort. Men who saw what they wanted to do to Virgil before they registered anything else. Men who liked younger wizards, twinks, effeminate coquettes, whatever the fuck you called it. Some were upfront, some weren't, some were dangerous.

He never went home with anyone. Virgil stepped closer to the mirror and unfolded his arms as he gaze dropped from countenance to neck, to lower. He touched his chest to feel the smooth, mostly invisible hairs.

What was it about Penny Pickler that Cepheus liked so much? It couldn’t be that inane mind. Was it her body? Did he want soft, protruding curves? Long hair, sweet dimpled smiles, cheerful burbling? Someone radiant? Virgil raked his fingernails down his chest, leaving behind a rosy red score until he finally came to rest his hands on those gangly hips.

“Let’s be honest, Carstairs…” he muttered to his reflection, “You’re a decent clothes horse, at best.” Virgil was horrified to hear the crack behind his voice. No! He wasn’t going to cry over this! He wasn’t a little boy. Penny Pickler probably didn’t cry about things like this, her hide of obliviousness was as thick as bloody dragon skin!

What did she have to cry about anyway, with Cepheus Gamp looking at her the way he did? Virgil didn’t measure up. That was it, wasn’t it? Just wasn’t Ceph’s type? It had been easier before. Virgil had only ever been involved with people he’d known all his life at school, after all.

But that was Hogwarts and this was real life.  And it would be simpler, so much simpler, if he did go home with someone from The Closet - someone who actually wanted him in that way. Only, they probably wouldn’t buy him flowers, would they? He turned away from the reflection, suddenly filled with too much self-loathing. Virgil sat down on the edge of the bed and glanced out of his window, at the alley below.

He blew out the candles so that nobody could see inside. The darkness drew a veil over body and mind. Virgil laid down, throwing an arm across his eyes and sprawling himself indolently across the white sheets. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t.


End

1.	Penelope's Party People