Ah, perfect. The best kind of throne a king can have. One that is warm, sturdy, and very clearly Potemkin. Ky indulges in his position, moving slightly to tuck himself perfectly in the larger man's lap. Warm, comfortable, safe, with the sun shining radiantly through the window of the room.

The image he makes isn't unlike a small, gold bird curling up to rest in his perch. Ky remains this way for a moment longer, firmly deciding against waking completely for now.