papadopoulos | (Reply)

From:

Claudius's mind, it seems, wants to play memories -- he watches them go by, without getting caught up in them. The procession at his father's funeral, the stone faces of the soldiers who acted as pallbearers, the coffin draped in a banner of crowned lions and lake-leaves. He should have felt something. He should feel something, standing on the other side of memory, looking in as into a glass, darkly. But there's nothing, nothing. A pretty piece of cloth to cover the emptiness. "I told him," he says, "at the next event, I'd ignore Luo Binghe altogether. I'd ask him to dance, even if Luo Binghe glowered." He didn't ask. He took one look at the couple, arriving together and late as always, and realized he didn't care enough to come between them. Let them have their night, he thought; there would be others.

There were no other nights. He should have asked at the first dance, should have insisted and let Luo Binghe simmer, because holding back from fear back has only ever cost Claudius. He shouldn't have had to fear.

But none of it matters, because, "I'm sure he would have refused."