Vasquez doesn't care about the proximity, maybe even leans a little into it because he's the kind of desperate for it that he's always been, but here, people help him out. He digs out the matches to strike up a light, protecting the flame in his hands and coaxing the other man to lean in for the light.

"It's Vasquez," he says, because he's no squire. "And what's chanting got to do with anything?"