Verlaine hated this world, the world in which he was born from nothingness. No one could understand him, including Rimbaud.
Even though the two of them walked together every day, Rimbaud looked at him with pampering and pampering, but that pampering was directed at "Verlaine" rather than "Verlaine". He was extremely convinced that if one day Rimbaud knew his true nature, he would definitely show the same look as those people - showing praise and fear for an excellent weapon.
The blow just now hurt Blake Jing. He sat on the ground for a long time and was unable to stand up, or maybe he didn't want to stand up. He half-closed his eyes, rested his chin on Rimbaud's shoulder, and relaxed all the tension in his body. He looked extremely embarrassed, his clothes were stained with mud, and he could vaguely smell the smell of blood. He snuggled into Rimbaud's arms. The fatigue he hadn't felt for a long time came over him, and peace of mind spread from the bottom of his heart and he closed his eyes.
He thought he hated Rimbaud.
He slowly raised his hands and hugged Rimbaud's back, saying "Hmm" softly.
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