It's beginning to become easier, letting the pattern of flashing go on and off in his peripheral vision, piecing together the more obvious shapes of lips and barely-visible flickers of tongue. He twists his head enough to keep watching when Zevran rises from the kiss, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder.

"Spoilsport." It's said as affectionately as the word can be said, rueful and warm and a little rough. "What's for breakfast, then?"