He shrugs. “Thy trousers are like hose, but less tightly fitted,” he goes on, still resolutely facing the closet in order to give Benvolio time to dress. Or perhaps it’s just so Benvolio won’t see how much he’s blushing.

“There are still hose, or things like it,” he adds, glancing back and motioning to his own fishnets peeking through the holes in his jeans. “If thou wishest,” he says, clearing his throat a little to banish the thought of Benvolio in fishnets from his brain.