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Justus pressed another cloth against the wound and frowned. "You're going to have to go to the hospital wing, Dev." He said matter-of-factly, cupping Devlin's pale, muscled calf in the other palm to try to hold him still.

"Sending the pictures to...?" Justus trailed off, not quite sure he was understanding what the professor was saying.

“It was a passing thought, truly, I know neither of you would…” Circinus trailed off, quite perplexed with the entire situation. As Devlin moved, Circinus’s eyes followed his gestures, how they contrasted with the delicate movements from moments before. He could identify with that; as a child he’d often snuck away to pretend he was a girl, delicate and soft in the family gardens, reversing back into an obnoxious boy when his brothers thundered outside to play Quidditch. Later those little instances of girlishness melted into his everyday routine, and became part of who he was, a gay male – but it seemed Devlin had fleshed out two entirely different modes of behavior.

“Oh,” he said upon spotting the dress flung at Justus, “Darling, that color is simply awful – here, perhaps I can…?”

Circinus was an openly affectionate teacher, calling his students his ducklings, imposing random petnames upon them whenever he felt the need.

Devlin finished getting dressed, pulling on his shoes with some difficulty because of the pricks of pain in his hand.

He then walked over to the discarded wrapping paper, and opened it until a slip of paper fell out.

"I've decided to go a different way artistically with this piece..." He read out loud, his voice getting more disdainful with every word. "Yeah, ******** you."

He crumpled the paper and threw it away, and continued towards Circinus, staring up at him a moment with clouded blue eyes before sweeping past him.

"I'm going to the hospital wing. Be back in a few minutes."

Circinus still disagreed with the color but allowed the subject to rest for the time being. He politely plucked the sketch from Justus’s grasp and glanced it over thoughtfully, his lips pressing in a light line as he viewed the design with the contemplative eyes of an ‘artist.’ “This is fixable,” Circinus murmured, “But it won’t capture the design as fluidly as you’d like, I’m sure. For – for future shoots, perhaps, I can have this made by a professional.”

Circinus glanced at the younger male with a pointedly speculative expression. Abygale Travers had been a good gal pal from the days of diapers; when Circinus was gathering up the pieces of his life, it was Abygale who suggested modeling, who helped him sort through career-furthering offers and possible flops. She had an attentive eye and wickedly talented fingers in fashion – her designs had helped him carve his name before the judgmental gaze of the fashion modeling community, and her Slytherin sense of support had pushed him into nude modeling to overcome his self-directed issues. If anyone could do the dress design justice, anyone he would trust, it was Abygale Travers.

“She’s been known to make me free things,” Circinus murmured, though he had no intention of asking her to do it without payment – due to Hermione Granger’s restrictions and Abygale’s own harsh nitpickiness regarding clients had nearly run her out of business. He looked up and met the Ravelclaw’s eyes. “If Mr. Wildsmith is willing to submit to a few fittings.”

He released a low chuckle. “Kekeke, maybe you’re too young. I was a model myself – I sympathize, I recall the difficulties of self-funding and all that nonsense. And I also remember taking advantage of every hand-out offered to me; to not do so would be downright foolish, since you have to fight with claws out for everything else.”

“Kekeke~”

Circinus’s high laughter filled the room with nervous waves, the teacher’s expression including a rather forced smile. Surely the younger male wasn’t implying that he’d illicit such favors from a student? Surely he wouldn’t consider offering such favors to a teacher?

“That’s… simply not acceptable,” Circinus said sharply, snatching the cigarette from Justus’s lips and lighting it by skimming his thumb over its tip, using a bit of wandless magic to summon the flame. He took a light drag – another twist of his fingers having cleansed it of Justus’s saliva traces – before passing it back to the boy before him. His paranoia manifested itself in many ways, but for whatever reason he had never been able to fear cigarettes or the damage they induced on lungs; perhaps because his parents and siblings had smoked. “Your body is your foundation, Justus – you don’t let people trample the foundation or eventually the whole building will crumble.”