[For a moment, Ianchus' mind goes to a bolt of cloth draped over the armour,light but strong, with colours shifting as it moves--that would definitely hold him.
But then he banishes the thought from his mind.

He instead pulls the shirt back over his head, tossing it to the side, and sits heavily on the bed, grabbing a sheet and pulling it forward.]

Plenty of those.

[He can't help but run his eyes up and down the other man, noting the attractive profile he cuts, his gaze lingering on the lips on the whiskey bottle, the movement of Jezebel's throat as he swallows.]