The appraisal of remaining unchanged warranted a frown, pulling at sallow features in a grotesque and fleeting disapproval. In place of a response, tobacco and clove crackled low, the resulting fumes hanging heavy between them. It masked the scent of transgression -- of permissions traded away for an upsell -- and carefully,
delicately,
Trystan perched on the outermost edge of the mattress, as though to fully impart his slight weight would make the room shatter around them, misgiving all illusion.
"You still have those fucking wings, I thought you'd get them ripped off or something by now." It was throwaway -- fodder that meant nothing. He breathed deep, poisoning himself with tobacco and distraction from the questions that would be dragged from the closet in time, only time.