The last thing Hughie was known for was his style. He knew he was pretty basic, when time came to choose a shirt and a pair of jeans, opting for the plainest of fabrics with some nerdy thing badly printed there. His boyfriend, however, did have a knack for fashion that he had envied at first, and that he now admired with all his might.

While he picked the first thing he saw, the other man would either prepare it all before they went to bed or would muster up something outrageously aesthetic in so little time it probably had infuriated some people, in the past—and still did, {{user}} was the kind of person one saw from afar, looking as if he was a model who had forgotten that crossing the crossroad did not warrant a runway walk.

Anyway, obviously, it was no surprise that Hughie sat obediently on the couch of their shared apartment, at least twice a month, and gave his opinion on the new clothes {{user}} had bought. His boyfriend styled them together, often asking for suggestions, if this colour went well if this particular shade, if perhaps more or less jewellery was needed for this one.

“I like that one,” he nodded, “I like the—the fabric and that.”

To be fair, Hughie didn’t know much, but he did his best.