Gerald/Baz
"I suppose a Stonehenge shirt will be treasured memorabilia one day," Basil admitted, and then flushed what he was sure was an obnoxiously deep shade of red as Gerald held the shirt up to Basil's chest admiringly. Fetching. Don't be stupid, Breckinridge, Gerald's just being Gerald. He should be used to this by now. "Thank you, sir, but I don't think I'll ever look, ah. Like a 'rocker,'" he said wryly, but, admitting defeat, began unbuttoning his shirt, sighing a bit as the breeze hit his bare skin.
The young woman selling the merchandise caught his eye as he turned to pull his shirt off. To Basil's annoyance and amazement, she stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then flicked her eyes back at Gerald, then to Basil again before winking. "Fetching indeed," she said. "Your friend has good taste. Though really, you look better out of the shirt, wouldn't you agree, sir?"
Oh, peachy. Sublime. Now he wanted to sink into the sacred ground beneath his feet and die there. Basil tugged the t-shirt over his head in lieu of a response.