There are certain things Sinbad never expects to see, especially on a day that's been less than savory thus far.
It's been joked about, certainly, but to actually look over and see the sight of Judal draped in fine gauze, in beads and gems and dangling chains is something else entirely. It doesn't look out of place on the Magi at all—nothing ever does, not even the slightest, wavering hesitation that furrows Judal's brow.
Judal isn't shy. He never has been, so if Sinbad has to hazard a guess about this—"Justlooking at you is good enough. You don't actually have to—"
"Sit down and enjoy yourself, stupid."
Sinbad tries to sit down. He doesn't have to try to enjoy himself, not with the natural way that Judal moves, the way his jewelry clinks together in a rhythm that makes his pulse pound, every slide and roll of his hips, every step and flex of those long legs only serving to make itbetter.
Enjoyment is easy. Sitting something else, and Sinbad relishes the moment that Judal dances just a bit closer, grasping him by the wrist and hauling him bodily into his lap, jewelry and silk and gauze and the long, tangle of his braid all to follow.
"My day is much better now. You've outdone yourself."
If only Judal were this pleasant to deal with all of the time—belly dancing he can handle on any day, ice spears not so much.