What are friends for? Constans mused darkly on the comment as he slunk into his friend's alcove, only half-listening to the exchange between roommates. Bethen's attention elsewhere, he turned away and pulled back his clammy right sleeve, examining his hand in concern. A long, straight cut across the fleshiest part of his palm still oozed blood, yet to his relief already seemed less than half its previous breadth, presumably having absorbed some of the magic pumped into him to seal the more serious wound. With luck it wouldn't join the fine mesh of pale lines already scattered across both hands and up the insides of his arms.
Slightly startled to feel Bethen's eyes on him in the dark, he let the sleeve drop back over his hand and shrugged back, not even sure what he was replying to. As Bethen scrubbed her hands he retreated to the far wall to deal with his own mess.
Lacking even the slightest modicum of modesty or good sense, by the time Bethen finished washing and chanced to look back at him, Constans was already yanking off his robes over his shoulders. Blood-smeared chest bared, smallclothes on full display, he paused in his struggles to emit a puzzled "Mmf?" before renewing his efforts to get the garment untangled.
After a few more embarrassing seconds of conflict he succeeded in freeing himself. He winced as though pained as he wiped his hands on the ruined fabric, reiterating in a hoarse whisper, "What?"
Even in the dark it wasn't hard to detect Bethen's horror. "Oh, sorry, right," Constans mouthed, biting his lip to keep from bursting out laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. After the night he'd had the last thing that would ever have occurred to him was decorum, but he should have known that nothing in the world could keep Bethen from being a determined prude. He hastily draped his ruined robes around the offending region of anatomy and pointedly turned to face the wall.