Baz stands up, leaving the violin on my bed, and comes over to me. He moves my hands away and finishes buttoning the shirt. It’s his shirt, an olive-green cotton one with complicated stripes and short sleeves. (I’ve never even seen Baz wear short sleeves.) “Are you going to dress me every morning?” I ask. “If you allow it, absolutely.” I’ll probably allow it, what do I care. “I don’t want to wear flowers,” I say. Baz is wearing flowers. His button-down shirt is grey with sprays of pink and blue lilacs. He makes it look manly somehow, with his indigo trousers and grey lace-up shoes. I’d look
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