[The game is selected and the participants engaged. L leans a cheek into his open palm, propped up on a sharp elbow, as he listens to Hector with interest that is either feigned or genuine, but exaggerated.

His over-wide eyes sell it rather convincingly. There's a slight intake of breath at the contact, if only because it's been so long, and he stiffens before leaning in a little closer.]

Thirst is a strange thing. I think of cacti, first... but you'd think that they'd adapt leaves like funnels to catch the rain, instead of thorns, wouldn't you? Then again...

[He clinks his glass against Hector's, pausing to speak again before downing its contents.]

I suppose it just means they're discerning, rather than desperate.