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Summary
“Won’t we clash?”
“It’s Christmas. We look perfectly paired.”
“I’m not wearing a fake bosom, and I’m not painting that nonsense on my lips. It’s a nightmare to scrub off the glassware.”
Every protestation was making Guy’s smile grow bigger, and he hated it, and he would do anything to see it more.
“God help me. Alright, you’ll have to help me with the bloody buttons. My hand’s acting up in this weather.”One of Guy's bigshot Hollywood friends (a mutual friend of Dorothy, naturally) holds a Christmas bash every year, and the dress code is rather more lenient than Thomas is used to.
Just some Christmas pudding levels of flaming, tooth-rotting sweetness for our favorite Old Hollywood gays.
