"You smell like a desk," Alistair says, chipper, "and if I had perfect hair I'd spend more time fending off women than genlocks. You know I don't have time for that."

He doesn't do a good job staying still. His chin knocks against Zevran's head when he talks, for one thing, and when Zevran talks he wiggles his head for no good reason, digging said chin into Zevran's scalp, solely to be obnoxious.

"Is it?" He wraps his arms crossways over Zevran's torso, and he isn't laughing aloud but his chest is shaking from containing it. A warning sign, maybe, before he punches Zevran's ribs and twists--there's some friction for him.