[This is not the late-night advertised Temp-Your-Bed mattress that does not shift around when your partner drops an anvil on the mattress beside you, so Astral's weight -- since, for a change, he has it -- pushes down the bed. Yuma's head follows, rolling at the neck. A series of black lines, like railway ties, curve around his nose. The bruises around his throat haven't quite healed.
no subject
Still asleep.]