“You called yourself sick, and until you said it, I’d considered the word… an insult. But if you’re sick, Remiel, if whatever pumps through your heart and coats your brain is a sickness, it’s a fucking blessing. Not an insult.” I pick up the leather strap and hold it in front of his mouth. “I want you, too, Remiel. I pick you, too.” He chokes out a weak sob, still drooling. “And I want your sickness to meet mine, and whenever we get too tainted and Moros can’t handle us anymore, I want to die sick with you.”
