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In the best of situations, the sort where there were running cameras, lights, action, makeup and a pair of people fair and fun, the rejoinder would be witty. They’d both get a good laugh and a shot in the pants, because funny would also be sexy.

‘I'd have to change too much, nobody could wait that long.’ Fanny spoke from the screen, from memories, and sang at the end when it all fell apart anyway. Nothing witty was coming to Haüyne’s mind, nor any reasons for things to keep going smoothly for the long game. Things would fall apart, they’d fall apart, and they’d be sad or dead or youma both come a year or a year and a half on. It’d be sad to have nothing nice to think about while the light died in their eyes. Even if it wasn’t clever.

“A forked tongue under a mistletoe, I hear. You could even leave your hat on.“

Like chocolate, hot, but not, but cold. There was not warmth as should be in his lips. Haüyne’s mouth melted molten. Their cheeks were all snow sore, jewel warmed. He doesn’t keep his hat.

A funny thing to fixate, with its red or black curves fit for his skull. Could his eyes see blushes? Could he feel blushes himself, anymore, with rushed flame and red blood bled? A friend was a home to hang your hat on as much as one’s hotrod, which was faster than a Bus that couldn’t go below 50 miles per hour.

“You real slick. You
Follow quick. You
Thick snek.” the Corrupted lifted the abandoned hat and donned it, rising. “You quake shake. You Wake late. We play mate.”

They didn’t need the snow to cool them, or the sparkle of the strange jewels to shine on them so much as sweat. Maybe. Maybe. Morgan-Machine tried to ignore the echoed words that formed the former.

“I’m Thirsty. Let’s go home. “