“S… s… stop,” he gasped, sucking in air. “Just please stop.”
“I hate you!”
“Winter, please don’t,” he begged, and then I felt him move away, his body hitting the wall and sliding to the floor. “Please stop. Just stop.”
I hated him. He was everything bad that happened to me.
But he was the only time—other than dancing—that I felt alive, too.
Being with him was like dancing. Dancing with death.
He needed me. I dug my fingers into his scalp. He had to realize he needed me. No one was going to hold him up like I would.
No one.
I dove in, catching his bottom lip between my teeth and pushing us both through the pool house door.
I wanted to tell him that I never would’ve hurt him. That my pride and anger wouldn’t let me retreat, and that if he had been pulled to the ocean’s bottom, out of my reach, I would’ve followed him.
I would’ve fucking followed him and rotted down there, close to wherever he was, because nothing I would’ve acquired after that—my inheritance or my vengeance on Winter—would’ve been worthwhile without him.
And I wanted him to hate me so hard he would fucking murder me, and then maybe, after his anger was spent, he’d love me again.
No one else cared if I continued my dancing except him. He liked it. I was probably the only person who knew that he loved it, in fact. He’d watched me. I’d danced for him a lot before.
No historian, pious or secular, can dispute the simple and compelling fact that Constantine was not formally admitted to the Christian church until he fell ill in 327 and called a priest to his sickbed to baptize him only hours before his death.
“I’m here.” Hearing those two words, a feeling Wei Wuxian had never felt before spread into his heart. It was like an ache. His heart throbbed a little, but it was also a little warm. He still remembered back when they were in Jiangling—Lan Wangji had traveled thousands of kilometers to help him but Wei Wuxian wasn’t grateful at all, and he’d constantly clashed with him and made it awfully unpleasant between the two of them. But he really hadn’t expected it to turn out like this. When everyone was praising him out of fear, Lan Wangji rebuked him to his face. When everyone spat and hated on him, Lan Wangji stood by his side.
I hated him. He was everything bad that happened to me. But he was the only time—other than dancing—that I felt alive, too. Being with him was like dancing. Dancing with death.