He toyed with the chunky enamel earrings weighing down his ear lobes, eyes thoughtful.

“Just a moment!” Virgil called out loudly. “Choosing a tie!”

From down here, he could hear Killer Queen spilling forth wildly from his record player - which was perched on his bed instead of on the truck, which was where he happened to be right now. Inside the trunk, rather. He usually didn't have to come in here to help Figaro with his date outfits but this time his old schoolmate had an unusual request: formalwear. An actual suit and accompanying accoutrements.

Virgil's trunk had been a graduating gift from Solomon Carstairs. It was battered, secondhand, and looked wonderfully English but it boasted a first rate Ministry-approved extension charm with a DMLE lock. He had used it to move into this flat[1] but most of his belongings were still in here.

He snatched a silk tie off the rack he'd been examining, and left the Wardrobe Room. It was a silly trunk. A twenty foot drop into a narrow room - which led into another narrow room, then a slightly bigger corner room, and then down a set of stairs to another floor of small rooms. The whole trunk descended seven floors (he checked) but Virgil only used the first two.

The rooms were so small they only served single functions. Wardrobe Room. Book room. A room to keep dangerous Mysteries work.

Now, he returned to the entrance and climbed up to the mouth of the trunk using a rope secured at the top.

"Alright, it's purple, and so are the socks, but I promise it's going to look brilliant." Virgil clambered out into his bedroom, breathless -  he tossed the tie at Figaro, who was already in the wool suit of midnight blue. "Give it a go. It's different. You can pull off a severe silhouette, witches love a man in a dark suit."

It helped that Fig himself was not a severe looking person.

1.	26th June 2011 - This is Home Now

Virgil emerged from his trunk like a well-dressed sewer-cat with its prize. Figaro was fussing with the suit in front of the mirror. He tugged at the lux sleeves, smoothed the front of the clean trousers, and adjusted the collar of the dark-navy shirt. Fig still wasn't used to clothes fitting and seeing himself looking like a stocky shop mannequin, albeit a thicker one. Virgil, too, was thinner than Figaro but good with adjustment charms. Indeed, Virgil, his taste, and his wardrobe kept coming through for Figaro.

Fig took the tie and draped it around his neck. He popped up the shirt collar and began the knot they'd used in school. His face didn't scream acceptance at the look, but he had learned by now to trust Virgil. So far, he hadn't gone wrong - his new girlfriend seemed satisfied with the effort.[1] This morning, she'd told him he'd need a suit for Saturday.[2] It hadn't left him much time to sort something out - his old dress robes for the rare family funeral would not fit the criteria. So he'd returned to Virgil and for the fourth time.

"I can't wear trainers with this?" he asked even though he knew the answer. He tightened, then loosened, then tightened the knot again, trying to place it but the shirt and jacket were of a different cut than what he normally wore.

1.	Figaro has started seeing Wilhemena Gunn. They are enjoying keeping it quiet.
2.	5 Apr 2012 - A Little Snack, as a Treat

He strode over to his bed, lowering the volume on the record player while Figaro peacocked in the mirror. It was fun dressing people up - he was happy to help the other wizard navigate sartorial waters, especially in pursuit of a mystery witch. Whole thing gave him the feeling of being a supporting character in a romantic little play.

Virgil slipped a cigarette out of the case in his pocket and lit it, eyes resting on Figaro. "I can't wear trainers with this?"

A roll of the eyes, a derisive cloud of smoke.

"Forget about trainers!" he exclaimed as he walked up to his friend and batted those fussy hands away. "There's a whole other world of shoes out there. You can borrow my black Oxfords. Classic, polished, doesn't look like you're trying too hard."

The trick with Figaro was making him look like he was making just the right amount of effort. Virgil undid the schoolboy knot and started tying it over again, a St.Andrew knot that had a charming tilt to it. There was something Figaro-esque about that.

"Don't fidget so much," he mumbled through the cigarette dangling off the corner of his mouth. "Wearing a good suit is about power, feeling powerful. You look good, and you know it," Virgil stepped back and rescued his smoke, taking a quick puff. "But you don't seem like you're in a hurry to look good, right? All the time in the world. That's power."

Figaro was comfortable with Virgil's closeness, if not a little irritated he'd unceremoniously redone his perfectly fine job on the tie. He wasn't either bothered by being scolded about shoes, but Virgil's earnestness about the meaning of a good suit and the power of confidence made Figaro smile. Fig did like the way Wil looked at him when he dressed, the way she drank him in, and how that made Figaro feel lucky.

Virgil was taking this all very seriously. Figaro was motivated on some level not to disappoint Virgil, but on another level, sincerity was vulnerability and it was difficult not to tease. He let Virgil's profundity hang in the air for a moment, then responded.

"It looks exactly the same," Figaro said, looking past Virgil to the mirror and reaching up for the tie again.

 He was still grinning at the mirror, beginning to daydream.

For all his obliviousness after Virgil's pretty little pep talk, Figaro did seem to fidget less. He wasn't sure if this necessarily helped. When it came to things like suits and ties, he struggled trying to match his friend with a complimentary aesthetic. Probably because they were young and lively, and also owing to Figaro's particular brand of confidence.

Rather like a used broomstick salesman who might sell you a lemon but, hey, it wasn't personal. Still, there was something charismatic in that grin. Selling his broomstick to an especially interested client.

"So it was her idea, right? The suit?" Virgil turned to his regular wardrobe, dipping his head into the curtain of shirts to procure his Oxfords from the back. "Sounds like she knows how to treat a wizard."

And also like she knew what she wanted. He dropped the shoes on the rug next to Fig and sat on the now-closed trunk. "Don't forget to unbutton before you sit, do it with one hand."

Virgil continued smoking, trying to picture Figaro walking into a fancy muggle restaurant. Trying to see him through the eyes of a patronising maître d' - a lens Virgil knew well, simply from an adolescence of reading minds at restaurants or theatres.

"How does she usually dress?" he asked, now trying to picture Fig's mystery woman striding in to deposit her coat with the cloakroom. "Bright colours or dark, high heels, lots of jewellery?"

"Oh, it's all her idea," Figaro replied. He had managed to keep secret the identity of his lover. Few were asking, but some who'd noticed him acting differently had urged him for an answer. He'd evaded successfully so far, but mostly because Wil was far outside of his friends' and family circles. Personally, he'd have a laugh people knowing, but Wil preferred sneaking around. It seemed to make it more exciting for her and Fig got an immense amount of satisfaction doing what she asked.

Fig tore himself from the mirror to try the shoes, following Virgil's instructions about the jacket button with passable skill. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoe in hand. He stared at it a moment - hard-soled, stiff leather upper, stringy laces - there was nothing remotely easy about them. But he set about trying them on anyway.

He grinned knowingly when Virgil asked about Wil's fashion choices. "Like she doesn't know that the restaurant is going to be cold."

Bare shoulders, loose satins, straight-line shapes, sparkly jewelry, red lip - romantic and dramatic. Figaro didn't have a strong garment vocabulary though.

"Fancy but simple," he tried. "Last time it was this black silky dress. Just plain black. And this necklace, diamonds maybe? Giant, right. And this little furry cape thing. What are those called?"

Figaro put the shoe down so he could sort of draw his arms around his shoulders, modeling the invisible garment, a shrug probably. "Served absolutely no purpose. Just like, hugging herself with it."

He didn't seem critical at all. Wilhemena was utterly out of his league and could wear whatever useless garment she wanted.

He smiled, listening to Figaro describe the witch. Virgil closed his eyes for a second. A black silk dress, yes, but diamonds? Giant diamonds? Unless Fig was dating someone off the cover of Runwitch, this wasn't a woman close to their age group. It made him think of when he had first been old enough to attend fine restaurant dinners on summer holidays.

Sitting at a table in a long, dimly lit restaurant in Milan. His mother's amused voice by his ear as he watched a dark haired woman enter in black, backless velvet. Emeralds dripping, a sharp-looking young man refusing to let anyone else remove her mink stole. "A Countess," Angela Carstairs whispered laughingly. "But that's not the Count."

Virgil opened his eyes, back in his comfortable bedroom and not at the white linen table beneath chandeliers.

"Tippet, I think, or a stole or something," he answered Fig's question with smiling eyes. "She sounds like a real looker. Blonde? Brunette?" V raked a hand through his own golden hair. "Don't tie them too tightly by the way, if you think you'll be kicking them off after dinner."

This last bit he said as he used his cigarette hand to gesture at the shoes Figaro was failing to wear. A dry, knowing smile on his face. "Bringing out the furs..." he whistled. "She must truly enjoy what those Hufflepuff hands can do."

Figaro watched for the short moment that Virgil seemed to draw up something private in his minds eye, and found the other boy odd for it.

"She's blonde," Figaro replied, calling to mind Wilhemena's wavy ice-blonde bob. He sat back down on the edge of the bed to get the shoes on to complete the look, to see if it would all together pass muster. If it got past Virgil, Wil would be satisfied. Satisfied with the clothes, at least.

It wasn't often that Figaro blushed, but he did then, at Virgil's interpretation of the tea leaves. Figaro was an open book most of the time, easily written and easily read, and shameless said many. All of his past relationships at school had been either horny friendships, enemies with broom closet benefits,  or the personification of hand-on-her-hip awkward school dances. Even his fireworks-ride on-and-off relationship with Sophie Flickwick, who he'd once imagined he'd marry, with its violence and bossing around seemed really childish now. It was coming up on a year out of school and it was like life had finally started. He was constantly distracted these days.

"I get the O for effort," Figaro shrugged. He was unable to wipe off that grin. The sex with Wil was amazing. Always her place, never breakfast.

The shoes were on now, and he stood back up for the mirror again. Fasten jacket button, pull on the shirt cuffs, adjust the eye-glasses. Without the purple socks showing, the tie made more sense.

"Something for the pocket?" he asked.

Blonde! Oh, that rather completed the image in his mind - the Countess suddenly blonde, the emeralds suddenly diamonds. Figaro the young man in the sharp suit with that smug little grin of his.

"Oh you do, do you?" Virgil laughed in delight, gesturing with his wand at the open doors of the wardrobe. "And not just the one O, I'm sure."

A long line of handkerchiefs, tied together to resemble colourful bunting, danced out of the wardrobe and into a circular holding pattern above their heads. He glanced at Fig's outfit once more, twitched his wand, and a plain silk handkerchief untied itself. It was the colour of the outfit's shirt, not too obvious. With the alacrity of a paper aeroplane, it folded neatly and slipped itself into Figaro's suit pocket.

"Always nice to be offered a handkerchief by a wizard in a suit..." Virgil sighed contentedly. "Flower in the lapel, I think. Let's try it."

He slipped off the trunk and crossed the room again. On the other side of his bed, potted plants lined the window sill and hung overhead. Herbs for cooking, succulents, flowers. Virgil bought more flowers these days, due to how often he now passed the florist on Diagon.

"Do you ever get her flowers?" he plucked a violet pansy and returned to Figaro with it in hand. "Or is she not the flower type?" A glance in the mirror made him feel odd - their outfits were so different, he looked younger than his friend.

Virgil wasn't used to that. He had been one of the older students in his year, and considered himself more mature. He didn't linger on the thought, focusing on Figaro as he pinned the flower to the suit lapel. "There. A sympathetic flower, pansies."

Good - he'd been right about the empty front pocket, and continued to accept Virgil's deft riffing on the theme. Figaro couldn't guess at what further opportunities there were to accessorize now, beyond a handkerchief and flower, but he had no reason to rush out the door.

"No, no flowers yet," he admitted, still looking at himself in the mirror. "I wouldn't know what kind, anyway. Honestly, she seems to like it when I fuck up. I don't get it. She gets all cross with me, and - yeah, no on the flowers."

He was grinning again.

"You have a boyfriend right now?" Figaro found himself asking. It had been Anton Schäfer at New Years months ago[1], but Figaro thought he'd heard that was done with. Virgil just didn't seem like the sort to be alone, even when he was alone.

"Does he expect flowers? Do you expect flowers?" Figaro looked around, clocking now, the obvious clues that Virgil did, indeed, have loads of flowers.

"Well, right, I see them now." He gestured and laughed.

1.	31 Dec 2012 - We Are Young

He stepped back, one arm crossed over his chest and the other resting in its crook while he smoked. Figaro's reflection continued to admire itself. The only thing really missing were cufflinks and a tie clip. One could always use a charm to keep the tie in place but it was nice to match one's cufflinks to something, if one wasn't into wearing jewellery.

A corner of his mouth twitched, smile turning into one of those sardonic Slytherin affairs. She got all cross with Fig, did she? Virgil was familiar with that brand of horny - some of his past flings[1] thrived on fucking the smugness out of him - but he refrained from bringing that up.

Instead, he approached his dresser and opened the second drawer to look for cufflinks while they chatted about flowers.

"I'm dating Cepheus, yes..." the blonde trailed off for a moment, looking at the rows of rings, pendants, brooches and cufflinks neatly arranged on old velvet. "I buy my own but he gives me flowers too. He sent me flowers even before[2] we were dating. That's just how he is, I think. I like to cook for him."

Virgil's tone was matter-of-fact, betrayed only by the colour in his cheeks. His habit of talking exuberantly about Cepheus had somewhat tapered off. He was too shy now to talk of beautiful hands or thick, glossy hair. Real intimacy with those aspects made him self-conscious.

He stubbed his cigarette out in an old coffee cup, then picked a set of plain silver cuffs and matching clip. "Your witch, does she get you any other gifts, if not flowers?" Virgil gestured for Figaro to hold out his hands so that he could put on the cufflinks.

"These are real silver by the way, I hope she isn't a werewolf."

1.	Jan - Feb 2012 - City Sang Such Mad Crescendo
2.	16th July - 2011 - That Place Between Sleep and Awake

"Who's Cepheus?" Figaro didn't know anyone by the name, which meant he likely hadn't been in school with them. Figaro was just one of those people who'd known everyone in most years, even if he hadn't actually known them. If he hadn't gone to school with them, he could be a muggle, from abroad, or much older. He realized with Virgil, it could be any or all of these. Hearing Virgil talk about it, Figaro marveled at how attentive he must be. It tracked, how generous he was with even his dopiest, most clueless friends.

Figaro probably snapped to attention a bit too quickly at the word 'werewolf' but he caught himself.

"No."

Wilhemena was only spokeswitch for the entire Werewolf Wing. He held out his hands so Virgil could slip in the cufflinks, a task Figaro could have managed.

"A comb set. Cologne. Really expensive, I think. She pays for everything."

Figaro wasn't exactly sure how he felt about that. He'd tried to pay once and had been so thoroughly chastised, he hadn't tried again. And all the better - Wilhemena's tastes far exceeded Figaro's means. He'd not be shy to admit he didn't find it thrilling to playact, but he felt more like an escort than a boyfriend sometime. Wait.

"Is that strange?"

Virgil glanced quickly at the other wizard's face. Who is Cephe-- oh. Not everyone had been subjected to his melancholy mooning over Cepheus this past year; he couldn't recall telling Fig. They weren't that close. Now, at least, they had the benefit of these dress-up sessions.

He adjusted the tie clip and stepped back, studiously taking in the entire look while Figaro talked about the kind of gifts he received from his witch.

Expensive gifts! And cheeky ones. A comb, so that Figaro would better comb his hair. Cologne, probably because she wanted him to smell a particular way. It screamed sugar mommy.

             "Is that strange?"

"Not at all, I think it's exceedingly common." Virgil drawled as he stepped back to perch next to the record player on his bed, turning the volume down a touch. "She's older? Proper job? Why shouldn't she take care of a pretty young thing...?" he raised his eyebrows pointedly. "You might as well enjoy the gifts."

Being someone's pretty young thing was an attractive notion. Virgil didn't consider Ceph a sugar daddy or anything that transient but he did relish looking lovely for his boyfriend. Speaking of which...

"Cepheus is the head of Beings, by the way. On level four," he clarified. "Cepheus Gamp. We've been seeing each other since Valentine weekend. Try moving around a bit in the suit?"

Virgil gestured, encouraging Fig to walk around the room. He liked dressing people - it made him think of when he helped the costumiers at Stardust, or when he himself had been subjected to their fussiness at dress rehearsals.

If Figaro thought he'd been subtle about the identity of his keeper, Virgil was too perceptive for him. He grinned again, as he had been all day. This smile should be enough to confirm Virgil's informed guesses. Wilhemena was in her thirties, Figaro estimated. He'd never asked, obviously, and she hadn't said. She was mature, accomplished, and needed absolutely nothing from him; it was all about 'want with Wil.

Dating the head of Beings, though.

"Damn, mate. Practically the Minister of Magic," Figaro said and took a turn around Virgil's quarters. He stuck his hands in the trouser pockets, certain it was the wrong thing to do, but having no better ideas.

Virgil Figaro could see with an older man. It had been harder for Figaro to guess he'd himself be attracted to older women, but it had started to make sense. (Whatever that had been with Queen G, for example, now had context.) If Virgil found it all sane and normal, then Figaro was content not to worry about the imbalanced in the relationship. Playing in the same league as Virgil was enviable, to be honest.

He paused by the door, took a contrapposto stance and put his hand to the tie. He could feel it, now, what Virgil had said about power and confidence. He allowed Virgil his camp, calling him a pretty young thing. Wil hadn't used those words exactly, but the way she patted his cheek when she was sizing him up - that was the implication.

"Yeah?" He sought Virgil's approval.

He couldn't help that quick flash of satisfaction when Figaro confirmed his guesses. Virgil was getting better about not looking into people's heads unnecessarily, and it was gratifying to know he could figure things out without resorting to bad habits.

The smugness was quickly taken over by an unexpected blush.

            "Damn, mate. Practically the Minister of Magic."

Ceph's job had never been a pulling point - it was just his simplest identifier - and Virgil still wasn't used to it. He tried to say these things like they didn't matter to him but of course they mattered. Fig was having a good time though, not quite Romeo-esque, and he didn't want to dampen the anticipation for his fancy date.

"Yeah? Yeah." Virgil crossed his legs, appraising the other wizard. "Looks good. Maybe not both hands in your pockets? Just the one, don't think about it too hard. You'll be a lovely present to unwrap I'm sure."

The only thing sexier than someone in a suit was taking the suit off them. He got off the bed and approached Figaro, still examining the outfit. There wasn't much else he could do.

Besides, this witch clearly wanted something in Figaro that she spotted before this stint of dressing well. He would be fine. "What are your dates like, by the way?" Virgil was curious.

He wandered back to his dresser, looking for his little tin box of gillyweed.