"I see you still have your… unique taste in décor, Cyan," Cassian said, his tone dripping with a sarcasm so thick you could have paved a road with it. He didn't even look surprised. He just looked annoyed, as if he'd seen this all before or probably something even worse.
"What? These are art, Cassie!" Cyan cried, throwing his arms out. "They symbolize strength! Vitality! The raw essence of the human spirit! You have no taste. You probably have a boring grey office with boring grey pens."
"I have an office that doesn't require a 'Mature' rating for entry," Cassian countered.
Cyan ignored him and flopped onto a velvet sofa, dragging Cassian down beside him. He practically glued himself to Cassian's side, leaning his head on his shoulder. "Oh, I've been so bored, Cassie. Spain is beautiful, but the men here are so… traditional. They don't understand my vision. Tell me about prison. Was it awful? Did you get into fights? Did you miss my cooking?"
Prison?
