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Aurors don’t have a uniform; it’s a part of their charm. Officers need one; it signals to the public where they can seek help and direct their inquiries. Opposite of that, unlike the officer, you’re not supposed to see an Auror coming. They’re not plainclothes, not exactly, but they do dress to blend in with the general populace. In the office, they fit themselves with whatever strikes them as professional, then go about their day.
That said, there is something they’re allowed on special occasions...
“Morgana’s heart, Theseus,” Percival whistles low, grinning, “the Ministry really knows how to dress you.”
His eyes rake over the dark fabric, tracing along the stylish cuts that trim the uniform closely to his frame. It’s not a set of robes, nor is it quite a proper long coat, but the sleeves hang in several layers, with that closest to skin snugly fitted. The collar, high and closed, lends elegance and poise. The outer fabric, black, is elevated by interiors of bold, flaming reds. Smaller fleeting accents of gold stitching decorate the edges of hems and trickle down his chest, reminiscent of free-floating sparks in the night sky. Were one unfamiliar with Wizarding dress, they might mistake him for grieving royalty. Those that are, know his costume is a sign of celebration.
Presenting himself in front of Percival’s mirror, Theseus tugs as the paneling, trying to unrumple his silhouette.
“It’s hardly any different from anyone else who’s going to be there.”
Seated on the bed, Newt smiles as he glances up from the notes he’s scattered across Percival’s bed, slowly reorganizing them into some semblance of order. “It’s a lot different,” he slips in. “Each division and branch has its own colors and symbology. Their Aurors have fire, though I'd argue that choice is just as much about renewal as destruction. Bit like a forest fire clearing out—”
“Newt…” Theseus rolls his eyes. His sigh comes more gently than his usual, and it’s a lovely sign to both Percival and Newt that the man’s not nearly tightly strung as he usually is.
“M’not sorry. And I'm right.” Tapping his wand across several sheets, they rise up from the pile, and once free-standing, Newt shuffles their positions with a gentle nudge.
Percival redirects Theseus, fingertips touching the man’s shoulders and guiding him back, setting the pair face to face. For the moment, however, Percival’s attention lingers everywhere but—
“You know,” he says, “for MACUSA functions, no one shy of the President herself is allowed to wear gold in their uniform.” Percival leans his head slightly to the side and the gold threads he watches shimmer in and out. With enough Aurors together, he thinks they must resemble a chain of bonfires alight along a blackened coastline. “Just a perk of the position.”
It snags Newt’s curiosity and with a few blinks of contemplation, he commits and pauses once more, “What did you and your fellows on the high-end of things go in?”
“Oh, we didn’t get uniforms at all.”
Both brothers frown and Percival laughs for it.
“Oh come on. What are those looks for?”
Theseus returns to the mirror, fixing an improperly twisted clasp, “This is about that American streak for individualism, isn’t it?”
“It was about everyone in the room being able to spot the directors and not having to descend into the masses to play duck-duck-goose in hopes they find the right one. For the record,” he amends, “I do miss the dress uniform I had prior to the promotion.”
There it is— That one chips away Newt’s frown and Percival chases for the underlying reason.
“You know, if you’re curious, Newt, you can just ask what it looked like.”
“I think I'd like to see it.”
“Well…” It feels like it's been ages since Percival saw himself in it. He glances over Theseus again, holding briefly over the circular broach that rests over the man’s heart. From one angle, it appears as an old Celtic shield knot. Shifting away in any other direction prompts a change and it morphs into the stylized ‘M’ the Ministry uses for their logo. Newt waits in quiet anticipation. With a muted chuckle, Percival draws his wand from his shoulder holster. “For the record, they actually went so far as to write it into my initial leave-of-absense paperwork that I'm not allowed to impersonate a MACUSA agent of any station. But…” He grins. “But both of you know I'm not, so it hardly classifies as that.”
With a tap, the transfiguration he pushes through his clothes ripples through the fabric, recoloring and reshaping it into old familiarity. As it finishes, he bumps hips and shoulders with Theseus, checking to see if he's gotten all the details correct.
…The accuracy hurts a bit, more than he'd like to admit anyhow.
Theseus elbows him gently. “Not so bad yourself.”
A stark, matte black base builds with green accents, faceted and glinting like gemstones. Percival’s right lapel sinks far further than its counterpart, and it buttons low on his waist, continuing further as it expands, draping loosely at his hip before sweeping behind him, and up and over the same side it began from, hanging over as a single-shouldered capelet. His shirt appears less like fabric and more like a liquid antiqued brass, dark and warm. The visible buttons and various clips and chains keeping everything in place match, albeit polished a shade brighter.
He turns slowly, pensive as he takes it all in. On the capelet shoulder, roughly over his bicep, the insignia for the Auror’s department shines. Once upon a time, his reflection reminds him, he used to be trusted with so much more. Before his tactical strength and leadership skills warranted that MACUSA shutter him behind a desk, this uniform used to be his... Blessedly though, the ache’s not as deep as it’s been since his expulsion. In hindsight, he feels less like a man abruptly cut loose and left to flounder, and more like a flight-ready fledgling coaxed from the nest.
It'd be a bold-faced lie to say he don't miss it, but he’s still making a difference here. He’s happy here and it's a feeling growing with every passing day..
Theseus nudges him again. “Soft-eyes, come on–”
“What?”
When Theseus nods over his shoulder, gesturing toward Newt, Percival looks back. “That—”
Oh. It’s even more trying a task to stay moping when he’s being stared at with such… Percival doesn’t have a word to adequately describe it, Newt’s gone starry-eyed to the point his floating notes are getting away from him as his concentration slips.
Quietly, Percival murmurs back, “You think he’s okay?”
Theseus spares a breathy little laugh at his brother’s wide-eyed expense, “I haven’t seen him look like that since mum told him he could name one of her Hippogriffs.”
“—Her name is Dolly and she’s a wonderful mother of six, last I checked.” Newt’s response sends them both a jolt of surprise. “Percival’s just.” He’s not blinking—it’s not unusual, but tonight it’s very intense. Newt’s tongue peeks out to touch his upper lip. “He’s very handsome in that.”
The abridged, but entirely raw honestly shakes a laugh loose from both Percival and Theseus.
Smiling wider than he has all day, Percival asks, “Do you want to elaborate, sweetheart?”
Theseus stalwartly refuses to mind his business, “I don’t want him to elaborate.” It earns him an elbow jab all his own.
“Go back to fixing your hair, Cinderella. You've got a ball to get to. I’m trying to have a conversation with the man I'm going to marry.”
Newt’s goofy grin tightens and widens, “You hear that, These? He wants to marry me.”
“Trying not to.” The bed creaks when Theseus sits on a corner, double-checking his shoes—not that there’s anything to get wrong with them. They’re slip-ins, for Merlin’s sake.
They’ve not discussed the topic widely, Percival and Newt, though it hung heavy over the latter's head for months like a curse until he finally freed himself and spoke the need aloud. Since, Newt’s drifted like a sun shower’s cloud, bright and airy. Sooner or later, they’ll tell everyone else, but until then, they’ve resolved to, as gently and lovingly as possible, torment Newt’s older brother with it.
“We're gonna be brothers-in-laws, These.”
“And I keep telling you, that you and I'll both hang ourselves first.”
“We both know I'd never give you that satisfaction.”
Neither expects Newt to back him up. They both know he prefers to let them hiss and spit at each other, like Kneazles newly introduced as they sniff one another from opposite sides of a door. Neither do they expect any long and winding conversation from him; strung between the complexities of his own record-keeping and whatever depraved depths that lurk behind his unassuming eyes, though able to pop in here and there, ultimately, Newt is miles away. What neither man anticipates is the slowly broadening scope of his attention and how it bit-by-bit swallows Theseus down as well.
“Newt?” No dice.
Newt curls a hand, his knuckles in front of his lips as he eyebrows furrow like he's juggling the weight of some world-shaking cosmic truth.
Percival tries. “Babe?” Nothing. He lends himself a boost in volume, “Newt?”
Newt twitches and blinks like he's woken from a dream, only to immediately slip half-back in as he looks between the two of them with grave intensity.
“Sorry. It's, ah. It’s this feeling like you’ve finally been explained the punchline of a joke that everyone's been carrying on about…” he says, practically mumbling. “I've probably seen you half a dozen times in that outfit, These. ‘Just never realized…”
Percival knows the soft, dangerously close to wistful tone of Newt’s. He’s heard it in late night whispers and hazy early mornings. It’s not quite love, but it’s a private sort of awe that Percival suddenly finds himself fearing, because it’s likely Theseus has no bloody clue what sort of thing comes next.
Leading with a small amount of trepidation, Theseus presses, "Realized what?”
“I, ah, hold on.” Newt’s expression shifts and he’s back to himself, bless him. It’s his wiggly and scrunched up thoughtful face. Percival wonders if he’s translating something from his mother tongue. He laughs, the burst short-lived and his smile taints with a shred of anxiety. “Saying something for exactly, precisely what it is— It’s so, so much more difficult than people insist it is. Please bear with me.”
They do.
Newt inhales slowly, lips moving in silence as he strings his thoughts together in lines he can sort and organize in his mind.
“Percy—” he turns, swallowing. His eyes flick to the man, and when they waver, Percival glances aside, allowing Newt the means to hold his gaze precisely where he wants it. “There is something in me that woke because of you. It’s very hard to define. It mostly only happens around you or in relation to you. The most pertinent example is. Ah. It’s physical attraction. I could tell when a person was conventionally attractive, because if you quantified their traits and publicized them, the general populous would all agree—yes. They are suitably attractive.” With little to do, his hands fidget, and he picks at his nails. “Until you, I knew these things, but I never felt them.
“There’s something about your uniform,” he continues, slowly climbing off the bed, mindful of his papers. “You have this presence and the form of this—” He touches Percival’s shoulders and the man breathes out, relaxing into the contact. “It bolsters you. It’s all these solid, broad shapes that make you that much more fiercely intimidating. You’re a predator in it. Apex. Ruthless as you are protective, and every line, every edge makes it so much louder. And becoming that twice over—the man you are and this second skin, this carapace…” Newt trails off with a flinch. “…Handsome,” he repeats. “Like I said.”
Then, to his brother, easing in as if fearful the other might bolt and fly away—
“It’s difficult not to try and compare things when dealing in unknowns. I know Percival. I just— Well, you heard it, you’ve been right here.” He can’t look at Theseus, but he makes do mentally tracing the pattern of the man’s broach, standing perfectly still to not to upset the knot and trigger its change. “I’ve never been able to see you past a list of traits. But looking at Percy and seeing him amplified… I suppose I just applied that to you.”
Theseus doesn’t backpedal. He doesn’t even move, but an undercurrent of unease pulls through him.
“And…what does that mean?”
Newt gives him earnesty. He doesn’t know how to soothe the worry, so he gives what he can as openly as possible.
“You’re very handsome. I—” A streak of animation takes Newt and his nervous hands jump up, seeking solidity. “May I?” When Theseus opens his mouth and does naught but stumble, Newt takes it for consent. “Here,” his hands swiftly find his brother’s waist. You’re incredibly slender here. It’s an. Ah.” He fights for his words, tooth and claw, as Theseus stiffens, turning a shade of red that sends Percival to cough into a closed fist, lest he laugh.
Newt elaborates, “You always wear these boxy suits that make you look like a shipping crate. You blend in with everyone else and frankly, someday it makes you difficult to find in a crowd—like trying to find a Hide-Behind in a forest. This though…” Newt smiles through it as he tracks up the seams of the side panels, up toward Theseus’s shoulders, “It’s an elegance—a flexibility you have with others that I don't. I feel like I'm looking at a phoenix instead of a man. You're soft and strong all at once.” The light-hearted sound out of him is almost a giggle, “Silly that a change of clothes lets me see that, and even then that I couldn’t sort it out without Percy. Almost wish I could have sooner—all this time I've been telling people you're just kind of so-so in the looks department.”
It’s a perfect time for Percival to slip back in. His expression in flux, Theseus looks like he sits on the cusp of discovery, mired in confusion, but so, so close to reaching the opposite riverbank.
“It's true,” Percival says. “When he told me he had a brother, he said you were sort of bland looking. After we met, you and I, I told him he was crazy.”
“I thought you were crazy,” Newt insists. “Makes sense now, though.”
“That's well and good,” Theseus hasn't completely come down from the red staining his cheeks. He points toward where Newt’s wound his fingers into a drape of fabric, “But are you going to let go of me?”
Percival tips his head back and barks with laughter.
“Oh, right. Probably should.” Though Newt releases, he immediately sets to fussing over the lay of Theseus’s uniform, tugging here and patting there. “You should try a more windswept look,” he suggests, fighting against his elder brother’s swiping rebuttals as Newt tries to muss the man’s hair. “It’d add to the phoenix feeling!”
“I’m not going to— Newt!”
With Newt insistent with a plethora of ideas that Theseus wants none of, effectively cornered, the elder brother breaks a retreat for the door. Newt gives chase. Percival lets them both go.
“Newt, I really must be going—”
“Send word if you're going to be out all night!”
“I’m going to be late!”
“We’ll save some dinner for you!”
Heralded by both the whoosh of the ground floor fireplace and the clip of Newt’s footsteps back up the stairs, Percival knows Theseus has gone. When Newt reappears, Percival welcomes him with open arms, though rather than sweep up into his lover, Newt meets him toe to toe and stops to fuss over all the details tied up in the dress uniform.
“This really is stunning on you. Driving me a bit mental.”
“Is this with or without processing the fact that you want to fuck your brother?”
Love has nothing to do with the pinch Newt gives him. “That’s very presumptuous. I don’t want to fuck Theseus.”
“Not necessarily,” Percival corrects for him. “You know,” he continues, “most people who find their brothers distractingly handsome don’t take the realization this well.”
“Hm?” Newt’s fingers hover over the scorpions of Percival’s tie bar, his investigative touch light, “Do you have a statistic for that?”
“Nah. Just teasing you.” Percival tries and fails to catch Newt’s hands. All dressed up and nowhere to go, he wants to dance, but his partner’s just too curious for his own good. Instead, he drops a plaintive, “May I?” that errs on the side of downhearted.
“Fine.” Newt relents, but lets the man lead. It leaves his hand that should be on Percival’s shoulder free to continue checking him over.
You win some, you lose some, Percival thinks warmly. He still considers this winning.
“The point is, whatever weird fixation this is opening, it doesn’t bother me.” It’s a slow waltz he shows Newt through and he doesn’t mind at all when his feet get stepped on.
“Of course it doesn’t,” Newt gives him the sort of stare down that Percival would expect from a knowing mother, readying herself to scold a willful child. It’s the same one he wears when he catches the Niffler puggles in the silverware drawer. “Your bucket list of sexual to-dos includes getting fellated by, and I quote, hot brothers, end quote.”
Percival tightens his hold on Newt’s waist. “Can you blame a man bound to the dusty earth for wanting to shoot for the stars?” he asks, throwing every ounce of whimsy he’s got into it.
Newt bursts into broken laughter and Percival swallows down the wince when he’s stepped on again.
“I can, but only so I can tease him about it later. I won’t judge him for his goals.”
“So…” falling a shade quieter, Percival cocks his head, “With what you’re saying, does that mean…”
“—If I'm going to ask him if he comes back? Do Fwoopers sing? Of course I am,” he huffs, positively fussy. “I think I'd go mad if I didn’t. Though I suppose that comes with the territory of having the broader strokes of one’s sexual awakening kindled care of a perverse Yankee.”
Knees buckling, Percival laughs so hard he nearly takes them both down.
