"Time and a little oil." Zevran murmurs, already slipping a hand to his beltpouch to dig out one of the vials he'd need. Or. Well. He starts to, stuttering to a stop and sighing at the bite. With most he postures and pretends, preens and purrs and twists himself about like an obscene dream.

Alejo? has no need of such things. And thus he sets aside his masks and training with care to let the man see his honest enjoyment. The sincere shudder that ripples down his spine at something so small.

Bedroll in a cave- he's done more with less.