5:30pm Saturday 26 November
The Carstairs/Bevans/Gamp Flat
Diagon Alley

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Ow!"

Figaro Sellaphix was outside Virgil (and Nick and Ari's) Diagon Alley flat banging on their door, which was apparently enchanted against physical assault because now his hand had pins and needles. He had a bulging backpack and an urgent demeanor.

"Virgil! Open up! Dire importance, Carstairs!"

A door down the hallway opened and an old wizard peeked out glowering. He put his finger to his lips and shushed Figaro. Figaro responded in kind with a mockingly emphatic, hissing SSSSHHHHHHH!. That was enough to make the man grump his way back to his own business.

Forgetting, Figaro banged on the door again.

Bang!

"&$%*! Virgil!"

He was sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, eating takeout with one hand and slowly tapping away at a typewriter with his other. Virgil was still in his clothes from a lunch date earlier that day, miraculously untouched by Szechuan sauce. The record player on his trunk was spinning an old Queen song and his cat was curled up on the messily bed behind him. It was only when the player switched tracks that he heard Fig's yelling in the silence between.

            "&$%*! Virgil!"

That was weird. He hadn't been expecting Figaro - but Fig was certainly expecting him for something. Virgil put aside the food, hopping to his feet and heading straight for the living space[1].

"Merlin, you're going to have our neighbours after us..." he drawled even as he opened the door, stepping aside right away to let the other wizard into their flat. "What's the matter? Did Cuffe lose one adjective too many? Have your punctuation marks formed a union? You can't cross the picket line, you know."

Virgil nodded towards his room, not wanting to bother either of his other flatmates if they were trying to relax on a Saturday afternoon.

1.	[ur=http://absitomen.com/lexicon/File:DiagonVirgilUpdated.pngl]Floor plan[/url]

Figaro took a moment to thank the powers above when Virgil appeared. Fig slid past him into the posh-yet-cozy flat, and began following Virgil's indications towards his bedroom, presumably. 

"Cuffe can kiss my hairless arse," Figaro said breezily. He'd had one too many brushes with the old tycoon and there was no loving relationship kindling there at all. No, the Sellaphix crisis du jour had nothing to do with work. It was a topic more personal.

Figaro hadn't seen Virgil since the birthday caper; he and Virgil weren't exactly close but he was a decent guy and the sort to take pity and help a bloke out.

Only when he was about to enter the bedroom did Figaro turn and catch a full eyeful of Virgil's ensemble. His face fell. This was a mistake - no. No. It was either this or ruining his chances with Hannah. Fig took a deep breath and smiled.

"Yeah, alright. Let's do this."

He preceded Virgil into his very tastefully attuned quarters - lovely plants, many books, Queen on the record player, scarves draped around - and dumped the contents of his backpack on the rug. It was everything from Figaro's wardrobe, far more than a backpack would carry unenchanted, and most of it T-shirts, Quidditch jerseys, casual trousers in greys and browns. There were hoodies, jackets, a half-dozen pairs of trainers, one pair of bright red plaid skinny pants, and one well-used dark grey blazer.

"So, here's what's going on: I have a date. With a woman. And she's serious, right? Like, first time we met I was hungover and wearing a work apron and I can't show up looking like ... "

Realising that this visit was going to be a thing, he slipped his wand out to tidy the mess on his floor - the takeaway box swiftly closed itself up and everything was neatly deposited on his bedside table. A bouquet of dahlias drooped over the notebooks, the portable typewriter, his teddy bear. Virgil had gone to unlatch his window to let in a bit of fresh air when the other wizard began to unpack.

It had taken the tiniest bit of legilimency to get a better idea of why Fig had come to him.

His sweater wasn't giving the best impression. But it did say newsboy and here there was an actual newsboy in his bedroom, so perhaps his Seer ability was simply working overtime.

"And you can't show up looking like you've dressed in the dark?" Virgil finished as he lit a cigarette and came to stand near Figaro, staring down at the pile of clothes. "No quidditch jerseys, none of these trousers - maybe the plaid - and I'll lend you a proper blazer if we go down that road."

He blew out a ring of smoke, quiet for another second, and then threw open his wardrobe[1] door to see if there was anything in it that Fig could use. "So what impression are you looking to give?"

Virgil took out a couple of hangers, glancing over his shoulder. "Mature? Classy?" he hung the articles, a navy corduroy blazer and a pair of dark jeans, on the wardrobe door handle.

"How serious is she exactly?" he asked more as an afterthought as he took out a black sweatshirt with a silver moon embroidered on its breast. "If she's rather serious, we'll keep away from the plaid."

1.	This album is a good idea of Virgil's wardrobe selection: link

"And you can't show up looking like you've dressed in the dark?"

Figaro snapped his fingers. "Bingo."

He crossed his arms as Virgil set about his craft, and chewed absently at his thumbnail and slowly paced the small space. It was hard not to take in all the little details of Virgil Carstairs's personal space and it was as every bit indulgent, eclectic and deliberate as that young wizard himself. The relative fussiness of it irritated Figaro, but at the same time, it was meant to be something. Time and thought had been taken. There was something good about that. It was all a fantastic analog for what was going on with the clothes.

Fig had also considered the plaid trousers being the only pair he had that weren't worn or frayed in some way, but figured Hannah would hate them as much as Figaro hated them. (Figaro had discovered he actually enjoyed the obnoxious trousers because they were obnoxious, and ironic delight in the macabre somehow. Also, the tight fit was far more comfortable than he'd estimated. But no. The first date was not the Plaid 'Pants on Fire' Trousers date.)

"So what impression are you looking to give? Mature? Classy?"

Figaro blanked, distracted by the pieces Virgil was pulling out of the closet.

"I dunno. Yea, mature, I guess."

He sat down on Virgil's bed, realized he'd been chewing on the nail and crossed his arms again to tuck his fingers out of his own reach.

"She is superlatively serious. I think. But how serious can she be, right? She's coming out with me. I'm not really capable of subtle first impressions. Or so I've been told. And it's not going to look right if I try and pull off something posh. (I do have a top hat - no. Nevermind.) Whatever. She'll know I'm faking it and then I'll have to keep it up. But I can't actually let her see how I live..."

He caught sight of the silver-moon sweatshirt and jumped up.

"Not that," Figaro said, gently moving to return the garment to its home.

Figaro Sellaphix wanted to look mature for a witch who was superlatively serious. So, older than him, clearly. Virgil raised both his eyebrows as the sweatshirt fell out of the running. He stepped back slightly and allowed the other boy to have a better look at the contents of his wardrobe. Everything was organised by style (trousers, tops, outwear) and then by colour.

"No embroidered sweatshirts at all or is this one particularly immature?" his mouth pulled into a smirk while he twisted his wand so that some of Fig's clothes floated on to the bed. "I think we can probably go with a hoodie, if it's something you need to keep up. As long as you pair it with the blazer."

Casual smart; h could picture that look on Fig. Virgil joined him at the wardrobe doors, now gesturing with the wand at different articles to draw out other options. Several of his own hoodies in various colours and a camel cashmere sweater that was absolute bliss on the skin; perfect for hugging.

Virgil glanced at Figaro, appraising. "What does she do? Give me details Sellaphix, it'll be my stylist's fee. And try this one on," he plucked one of the hangers out of the air. "White tee underneath, don't zip it all the way up."

"No, it's fine. I love it. Just - here." He slipped the sweatshirt back onto the rod.

If there's one thing Figaro was getting straight in his life, it was not telling people that other people were werewolves. But showing up to a date with Hannah wearing a moon on his shirt, eh, it was a gamble he didn't want to take. It was a gift Virgil moved on.

"Blazer and a hoodie? That's allowed? Brilliant."

Virgil was coming through. Figaro picked through the garments Virgil was pulling and levitating, feeling better and better about his chances to show up not looking like a scrub.

"She's a Healer," Figaro answered. "Like twenty-five. Met her at the shop morning after the pub crawl. My secret power is that hangover cures don't work on me, so I was wrecked. Anyway, I helped her find stuff. Owled her a few days later. She knows Zelda and Rafe already, so that's weird.  But at least we never have to have awkward 'meet-the-parents' dinner. Just skip directly to naked baby pictures..."

Figaro spoke about it easily, forgetting for the moment to be discreet. He held up the hoodie Virgil handed him. It was black with gold hardware and a Greek wave on the lower hem. He nodded. This he could do.

"Yea, like it."

He smiled to himself, thinking that a blazer and a hoodie was probably Figaro's best bet. In the background the vinyl switched tracks and I Want to Break Free began to play - Virgil stopped himself from tapping his foot. Instead, he reached into his wardrobe for a plain white tee; classic. If it were the summer, Fig would positively murder in regular jeans and a white tea. Tousled hair... just enough product to make it look a little wet...

            "But at least we never have to have awkward 'meet-the-parents' dinner."

Virgil snapped away from his thoughts, laughing. "Getting ahead of yourself. Have you thought about engagement rings yet? How many children you'll have?" he teased before handing over the tee. "Twenty five is sensible, I suppose. She's probably not just looking for a quick screw."

As the music picked up, he bobbed his head along to it a little and reached for a pack of cigarettes by the record player. Was Figaro truly serious about this witch? Merlin, everyone around him was getting into relationships. Sasha and Abby. Nick and Peyton. Perhaps it was just easier when the person you're mooning over is in the same age group.

He lit his cigarette. "Does your mystery witch have a name?" Virgil drew breath, perching himself on the edge of his trunk and crossing one arm across his chest while he observed Fig. "Try on the outfit, let's have a look."

Figaro took the shirt from Virgil, and peeled off his own. "Mate, I dunno. Could be that. We met once and she's completely inscrutable. Pretty, dry, interesting, and impossible to read."

He actually had no idea what Hannah wanted from this. But it definitely wouldn't be anything resembling his absent rambling. It was more likely to be a bit of fun. Figaro, for all his nonsense, wouldn't actually know what to do with a serious relationship. The thought of being married - he couldn't imagine it.

"She's Hannah. Honestly, could very well just be a shag. Which I am not opposed to. What can I say? Older women love me. It's like they think I'm a puppy."

Genevieve Garcia-Gamp had almost eaten him.[1] The aunties as well, but more, hem hem, literally.[2]

He pulled the shirt over his head and laughed. It was too tight. Virgil was probably thirty pounds lighter than Figaro, although they were about the same height. To exaggerate the comedy of it, Figaro slumped and used his impressive abdominal agility to expand his tummy. A party trick that never got old.

"No no!" he giggled, pre-empting any suggestion to fix it with a charm. "I like it. Check it out."

Leaving the shirt on, he quickly flitted through the wardrobe and found the turtle-neck, half-length wrap sweater and pulled it on and posed.

"Too much?"

1.	Nov 2 - Tickling Sleeping Dragons
2.	Oct - Figaro, Morgana, and the Black Cat.

            "Pretty, dry, interesting, and impossible to read."

"I think we might have drastically different definitions of interesting," Virgil muttered while the other boy changed out of his regular clothes. Even her name sounded dull. Hannah. Mature, pretty, Healer Hannah. There was nothing he detested more than dull people - especially dull witches - but the heart wanted what it wanted. Or Fig's crotch did, anyway.

Speaking of which: those jeans weren't going to fit right. Virgil drew his wand, laughing as he was forestalled. This entire scene reminded him of when he had been playing drunken dress-up in Ceph's bedroom... only he and Ceph were about the same size. And Ceph had a good eye for clothes.

No, better to push the memory away. Stay in the present. The present is real.

"Please use an alteration charm or I'll be wearing that as pyjamas!" he exclaimed between laughs as he shook his head. "On the other hand, she might like you like this. She did agree on a date." Perhaps Figaro had met an older, calmer, female version of himself.

Frightening thought. Cigarette in hand, Virgil gestured at his friend's appearance. "What does she dress like? Do you remember or were you bewitched by a pretty face?"

"You're a real funny guy, Virgil," Figaro said, amused. Virgil's trademark snark was showing, but Fig didn't mind even if it was trained on him. He also didn't mind if Virgil didn't like Hannah. Figaro couldn't imagine he and Virgil had the same taste in much of anything. Fashion, music, or partners.[1] But he was lending him an outfit anyway, so Virgil could carry on if he wished.

"I got it, I got it," he said and started peeling off the too-small clothing with effort.

There was no way he was going to cast a spell on the jeans while he was wearing them. Fig found his wand in the trousers he'd come in with. While standing on Virgil's rug in just his boxers, Figaro cast a quick growing charm on the ensemble: t-shirt, jeans, black hoodie and the navy blazer. They moved as if brushed by a brisk wind, expanding up a size (by Figaro's estimation.)

"Mate, I don't remember." He actually rather had been distracted. About fell off the stool.

Spell done, he started to get dressed again.

"Oh, wait." He snapped his fingers. "Purple scarf. Shit. Should I wear a scarf?"

Still half-dressed, turned back to the wardrobe. Virgil had at least a dozen scarves in different colors, shapes, and weights. One of them had little foxes running around all over it.

"Merlin ... how do you do this every day?"

The longest part of Figaro's morning routine other than a shower was the two minutes it took to run a styling paste through his hair to get it to look like he just woke up for the rest of the day. He'd never seen Virgil in anything that didn't look carefully chosen.

1.	Yeah, Figaro doesn't know about Sophie and Virgil.

His clothes generally fitted to form or were cut to be worn oversized - he wondered, as he watched the shirt and jeans expand, whether Figaro had ever gotten his clothes tailored outside of the robes one wore at Hogwarts. Probably not, unless mother and father Sellaphix were the kind who insisted on sets of formal robes for family celebrations.

            "Purple scarf. Shit. Should I wear a scarf?"

"Just because she wore one doesn't mean you have to," Virgil slipped off the trunk and over to his bed, where he sat on the edge and continued to smoke the cigarette while Dante curled on to his lap. "That isn't how it works. Purple's not your colour anyway."

But it was probably Hannah's, if Fig remembered it. That didn't tell him much about her, though. Perhaps they'd simply have to aim for something respectable and not too bold.

"It's fun to put things together," he answered Figaro with a smug and somewhat dreamlike smile. "Nice clothes are a kind of magic too, you know. That's what the costume maker at Stardust used to tell me. If you put effort into it, you get results." Virgil shrugged, leaning back on one hand slightly to get a better look at his guest.

He looked on the more mature spectrum of his age. If they weren't playing it safe, some jewellery would have been nice but most wizards didn't tend to wear jewellery until they were older.

"You do need an accessory. Gloves? Black ones, top drawer. And patterned socks." he pointed at the middle drawer in the wardrobe. "Was she wearing any perfume, this Hannah? Or heels?" The question came as more of an afterthought, his eyes flicking briefly to the bottles of perfume next to the record player on the trunk.

Figaro glanced over at Virgil as he waxed poetic about clothes, regarding him for a moment. He wasn't sure what kind of results Virgil was referring to, but knowing Virgil it was probably something more complex than just romantic attention. When he thought about it, Figaro had a hard time remembering who, if anyone, he'd known Virgil to be with. Which was odd. Virgil seemed like a catch, or would be to the right sort.

Whatever the reasons, Virgil's penchant for fashion was good enough for Figaro. Fig liked to like things, and he liked it when others liked things. What could be better?

With the outfit on, Fig had a look in the mirror while Virgil continued to advise on accessories, socks or gloves or something. He almost didn't hear, not expecting such a simple change could make him look so different. It was just jeans and a jacket really. There was no reason not to like it, it just felt ... strange to try for a purpose other than his own entertainment.

He scratched his hair, then tried his hands in the jacket pockets.

"Oh, um," he said, realizing Virgil was talking to him. "No, I think she came from work. Late shift or something."

He checked back in with Virgil again, trying to guess from his face if the other kid thought the hasty make-over had been at all successful.

            "No, I think she came from work. Late shift or something."

Virgil rolled his eyes, plopping his cat on the floor so that he could get up. The other wizard clearly wasn't listening and he wasn't certain if looking into Figaro's mind would be helpful - sometimes it was less confusing to not glean thoughts, especially when you were trying to do something as subjective as styling another person.

"Will you stop admiring yourself like a cockatoo?" he reached past Fig to open a drawer, taking out a pair of lambskin gloves and then some checkerboard socks. "You look fine. People do wear perfumes and heels to work, by the way, unless you mean she was still in her Healer robes."

He thrust the accessories out at him, blonde eyebrows arched meaningfully. Figaro had come for help and he was going to get it now, whether he liked it or not. There was no way Virgil could let him leave like a half-finished drawing.

"I'm no Lord Byron but the main thing about dressing for dates is that you feel comfortable," he gestured at his friend's figure and paused to adjust the way the blazer fit around the shoulders. "So. Do you feel comfortable? If you don't, she'll be able to tell. Witches are canny like that."

At least, the witches he knew were. "Black trainers, by the way, and that should complete it."

Figaro grinned as Virgil started getting fussy, and whistled a little two-note response at being called a cockatoo. At least Virgil halfway approved, deeming him as looking 'fine' which was much better than 'dressed in the dark'.  All the previous eye-rolls and snips were enough for Figaro not to admit that he couldn't remember what Hannah wore other than the scarf and coat and that she just looked, like, practical.

"She didn't look done up is what I'm saying."

He inspected the items Virgil handed him - the socks he could do but he was not wearing gloves.

"Um, veto," he said, reaching to slip them back in the drawer. He went to the bed to pull on the socks, getting the idea to cuff the jeans.

"It's good," he said, careful not to seem ungrateful, "but it's all your stuff. 'Hello, Figaro, you look smashing.' 'Why thank you, I raided my mate's closet, but I'll tell him you said so.' Isn't that going to be weird? Mate, I don't know. I mean, it's physically comfortable but, I feel like something should be mine other than my arse."

He was having that feeling he hadn't had in awhile, the dread of trying at something only to bollocks it up. He had his own pair of black trainers at least. He rooted through his pile to find them, and on the way started holding up his own t-shirts. Most of them had some kind of logo or band poster on them, but a few were unadorned.  He tossed a faded grey one onto the bed, followed by a white one with a simple circular logo on the front. If you didn't know the band, might think it was just a design.

"What about those?" he asked, shrugging off the jacket and hoodie and prepping to change shirts.

He had a few white T's of his own, but they weren't as nice as Virgil's - actually just undershirts, really.