"You think you can win me?" The older man chuckled. "As if!"
"Win you?" The younger man crossed his arms, dread locked hair and features well concealed by the leather cloak he wore. "You should really be careful with your sentence structure and your choice of words. I have no desire to win you as my prize."
No sooner the words left Xaldin's mouth, he felt the cold metal of Xigbar's gun pressed against the back of his neck.
"Oh, my apologies, Whirlwind lancer." Xigbar said, impersonating Luxord's accent. "I didn't know that I'm not worthy of being your prize."
"I didn't know that the Sharpshooter is as sensitive as the Graceful Assassin." Xaldin didn't move from his seat. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the line of fallen pawns on the chessboard before him. His arms were crossed tightly but he could feel the sniper's arms snaking their way towards his shoulders.
Perhaps it was out of sheer instinct that made the Whirlwind Lancer leaned in towards his embrace.
A part of Xaldin suddenly longed for a heart. How would a human replicate these - useless - emotions?