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    Summary

    “Can I kill you?” Scaramouche asks, voice soft as it were the night before, when it was still warm and cozy, before his thoughts festered into an ugly, ugly shape.

    “I can die, if that is what you’re asking,” Xiao murmurs. Scaramouche rather prefers when his voice is low and thrumming with uncertainty, when the boundary between human and construct, beast and machine is blurred, when it is only them under the moonlight and Scaramouche can pretend — only for a minute, for sixty seconds is a time frame he can work with and delete from his memory, if necessary — he understands the emotions boiling inside of him.

    Language:
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