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“Do you think they know what it really means to love?” his projection-self mused aloud to him. “That it isn’t the simple joy of fondness, I mean. In fact it’s violent, destructive. It means to cut the heart out of your chest and give it to someone else.”
“I’m obviously delirious from my full-time job as a homicidal academic.” “Oh, obviously.”
“Knowing why isn’t the same as forgiving me.” “Who says you need my forgiveness?” Nico expressed every manner of offense he could conjure into a single glance and Gideon sighed,
“I promise,” Gideon sighed, “that I won’t get myself hurt, killed, or otherwise maimed.” “No psychological damage either,” Nico warned. “Takes forever to get trauma out of the drapes.” “Te odio.” I hate you (affectionate). “Con razón.” Rightfully so.
“I need you to help me die,” said Tristan Caine. Which was when Nico decided he was probably done sleeping for the day.
“Enjoy your research, Miss Mori,” Atlas said in his usual hospitable tones, as if he were not currently in A) his pajamas and therefore B) a state of obvious distress. “Everything is fine.” “Reassuring,” said Reina dryly.
“Oh, hi,” said Gideon, the bastard. Nico wanted to punch him square in the mouth. “Hi,” Nico replied wildly. “Cómo estás?” “Bien, más o menos. Y t—” “Shut up. Just shut up.” Nico walked toward the bars and felt elation of the most frustrating kind. “Hi.” “We did that already, Nicky.” Gideon’s smile in return was wan and unforgivable.
“Sit,” Parisa told her. Irritably, Reina sat. “Good girl,” Parisa said, and Reina rolled her eyes.
Relief, that no one had put a stop to that arrogant laugh. That Nico de Varona had never learned how fragile Gideon really was. That because Nico believed himself to be invincible, Gideon sometimes believed it, too, right up until the terrifying moments when he didn’t. Like now.