The window was his companion for a long while, cold glass and a city that didn't care beyond. It was home in more ways than one, even if he hated it here. Manhattan was still crisp for him, the edges clean and neat, and Liam? He liked clean and neat. But the grime was a better companion, and this room more comfortable than he cared to admit.
It was several minutes later that he turned to look back at Trystan, meeting the gaze of the other writer as he slumped against the window, wings pressing into the cold glass, arms folded across his chest. "I'm not the best companion any longer," he said after a moment, the words pitched quiet, an utterance for them and them alone.