"Comfort, I find to be severely underrated," Bagoas agrees, cutting his eyes Josef's way as he drapes this travesty of a shirt over his arm, on which one finds the only visible scar on him if decency enters into things. A small gash running vertically across his bicep just below his shoulder, well healed but of purple hue still. It is the only wound he ever took for Alexander, and one he wears proudly.

The long locks of hair, Josef is already familiar with, as well as the long neck and curve of his shoulders. As for the rest, he is as commonplace as any other unicum; a dancer's physique, a softness to his skin not even found on a woman, broad chest and a narrow waist, curves where man and boy alike would have none, but less so than a woman; barely a hair on him, save for that on his head.

He stands, bringing his garment with him, coming to a stop within arm's length of his friend. In all honesty, he would rather burn his own garb too. Nonetheless, the long-sleeved shirt goes into the basket, and then, eyes on Josef's face, he steps out of his dark, voluminous pants completely without shame. Anticipation, yes. Brazenness, definitely, and a slight hint of nerves, but no shame.

Fatigue or no fatigue, he will choose when to put himself on display, and when he does, he'll do it well.