29th Jan, Sunday. 2130 hours.

"Hi. I like your shoes."

A deep, amused voice cut through the loud beat of  music playing on the busy dance floor behind them. It was early on a Sunday night at The Closet and Virgil had paired his ridiculous footwear with a form-fitting white tee and black jeans - nothing too stylised, bit of lipstick to match. He was sitting at the bar with... something very pink and very alcoholic a bartender recommended.

"Thanks," he observed the tall wizard who had sidled up next to him, a rather sharply dressed individual. "I, um.. ah," Virgil found that maybe the drink was working a little too well. "I like your arms," he finished with a nervous laugh, glancing at the man's rolled up sleeves.

Why is it guys always had sexy forearms when they did that? "Maviolo," laughed sexy-forearms and offered a hand that Virgil shook with a confused smile. Weird, shaking someone's hand when they were trying to hit on you.

"Virgil," he replied anyway, because Maviolo was easy on the eyes and he got the sense that everything with him was... almost above-board. Like a transaction of words.

            "So. Do they speak for you?" he pointed at Virgil's shoes. "Blind for love? Or looking for love?"

"Not in the least," Virgil finished his drink with a desperate gulp and turned to face the other wizard properly, hyper-aware of the dark eyes taking him in from head to foot (or foot to head, rather). It was an acidic, low-key thrill, being looked at like that. Like an outfit in a window you weren't completely sure about trying on.

Maviolo smiled, then, with the most even set of teeth as he cocked a head at the exit. "Good."

---

31st Jan, Tuesday. 2315 hours.

His bedroom door slammed shut when Eloise shoved him against it, and Virgil gasped into a wet kiss. He had his hands on her waist, his touch as light as a feather, but the witch was much more forceful in the way she handled him - grasping his collar roughly with one hand, manicured fingernails of her other digging into his hip.

She liked being in control. Virgil, after having several glasses of red wine at Stardust, seemed happy to relinquish his.

Eloise MacMillan was one of those girls he'd known for ages but only glancingly because they moved in the same theatre circles. She had never acted on his father's stage but she often showed up at event performances much like tonight's. Their little chat at the Stardust bar led the pair here, to this moment, Virgil giggling as she started undoing his shirt buttons.

Oh, she smelled so good. Tiaré flowers. And her hair was as blonde as his, and soft, tickling his cheeks as she kissed deeper to taste the vintage they'd both been sharing. He pulled back for a breath, staring into her eyes. They were brown, nothing at all like -- Virgil stopped himself and kissed her again, letting Eloise push his shirt off his shoulders.

She ran a thumb over his nipple piercing and he yelped in surprise, pink in the cheeks. "Oo!" the witch laughed, doing it again, "I like that sound!"

3rd Feb, Friday. 2300 hours.

Virgil whined piercingly and bit down on his pillow, hard, hands scrambling to clutch at his sheets. Every inch of him was on fire in the dark bedroom - was this his bedroom? Was it someone else's? - as the wizard who had him pinned down gave another, gloriously forceful thrust.

There was music on somewhere, perhaps the wireless, an undercurrent of something rhythmic over the sounds they were making; the guttural groan right next to his ear that sent goosebumps down every avenue of skin; the slap of flesh, awful, deliciously awful; his own mouth muttering gibberish while a kind of confused panic rose in his chest like a hive of harassed bees.

Where was he? Who was he with? He couldn't remember, he was stupidly high, he couldn't even remember if they'd met at The Closet or Spellsp--

           "Hey, hey," the wizard stopped, abruptly, sweaty chest pressed against Virgil's bare back. "Are you okay, man?"

Virgil realised he was still muttering (no no no please no don't know i don't know) and he quickly quietened as he lifted his face off the pillow it had been buried in. A rough hand was trailing soothingly down his right thigh, up and down, gentle, and even through the haze of gillyweed he could sense the muddled concern of the man inside him. Not anger or frustration, concern. And desire. "Do you wanna stop?"

The blonde head dropped back down with a huff, hips squirming against the pillow beneath them. It didn't matter, where he was. He was safe, this was fine.

"No, don't stop..." Virgil keened, regaining some sobriety in the physical discomfort of the moment, "Please, I'm so fucking close."

4th Feb, Saturday. 0100 hours.

He stepped into Malachi's bedroom, a towel loosely slung about his waist, and sat on the edge of the messy bed with aplomb. "I swear you have to be Nicholas Flamel to work your bloody shower," Virgil muttered with a glance at the older wizard, who was sitting entirely naked at a large desk across from him.

They had met simply a few hours ago, at one of Virgil's usual haunts, but it felt easy to relax in Mal's place. A one-bedroom affair, it sported a large queen-sized bed and loads of shelf space in addition to the desk. An illustrator's room; you could tell from the numerous pots of pencils and pastels and brushes. One of the shelves was full of nothing but immense bottles filled with enchanted inks.

He reached for his clothes at the foot of the bed and started dressing.

            "So what is it you're trying not to think about?" Mal didn't look up from his parchment.

Virgil got the uneasy impression that he was being drawn but he told himself that it wasn't a problem. He drew people all the time, right? Just wasn't used to the one being depicted. "What do you mean?" he lifted an eyebrow at the other man, standing to fasten his jeans.

A cutting glance, mouth curled into a very faint smile. "I've seen you at The Closet almost every night this week. I go there to sketch. You definitely don't."

"It isn't your problem." Virgil tugged on his sweater and shot Mal a pointed look - he didn't want this to become a thing, and from the way the artist had gently suggested they don't fall asleep together, neither did Malachi. This was just another experiment. A really fun one that didn't need to be anything more.

           "Fair." Mal finally put down his pencil. "If you need a distraction tomorrow though..."

---

5th Feb, Sunday. 1500 hours.

Virgil hadn't realised the Reid wizard meant a distraction in the middle of the day.

He called on him at Diagon, with a recently acquired strain of strong gillyweed, and the two young men spent an hour or so in the most pleasant manner that required them to soundproof the room against Virgil's two flatmates. Mal had only come around because he wanted to see Virgil's room and because he 'needed to do everything an even number of times'. It was a good thing they smoked too much to go two rounds, or they would be stuck in this cycle for-fucking-ever.

Unlike the night before, though, he had fallen asleep right after. When Virgil woke up, in the pale winter light of the late afternoon, Malachi was gone. He sat up groggily in his bed and heard a light thud! The blonde frowned, reaching down and feeling for what had fallen - oh. It was his journal[1].

A jagged piece of  paper stuck out from between the pages and he plucked it out.

Whatever it is, it isn't worth it.

Mal.

P.S. your coffee is subpar check out the roasters on Brick Lane

Snorting, he turned over the paper and realised it had actually been torn out of the journal. The other side was the lower half of Cepheus Gamp's face, which he had sketched for one of his more melancholy entries. Whatever. Virgil tossed the note aside and fell back on to his bed with a satisfied sigh. He stretched his body to feel every ache in it, closing his eyes to the world once again.

1.	Kindly Return to Virgil Carstairs