It's fine. It's really fine. It's easier like this, curled up in a familiar way, where he can't second guess the appropriate length of a look and he knows from practice what he's allowed to do with his hands without making anything weird. There's nothing sexual about it. He was raised in a pile of dogs, warm bodies breathing on every side; the only way he could feel more at home would be if Zevran licked him to wake—

Scratch that.

"Ahhh," he says in flat, whiny protest at Zevran's cold fingers, but he doesn't flinch. It will be warm in a minute.

Maybe it isn't a Zevran thing, he thinks. It sounds fake even in his head, but he thinks it again anyway, stubbornly. Maybe it isn't a Zevran thing. Maybe it's a man thing. Maybe it's a two years since he got laid thing. Both. Maybe he'll flirt back at the next fellow who tries—it does happen, now and then—and get it out of his system.

"I spy," he says, shutting his eyes, which is probably not how the game works, but he doesn't have to look, "something that begins with T."