Queer

"I want to talk to you. Without speaking." Have you ever dreamt of reading one's mind ? Well, William Lee does. A lot. One mind in particular actually : he wants to read Eugene Allerton's mind. He's not sure why but this want - need- aches so much he can't think properly. So he doesn't. If he happens to be drowned in his thoughts, be fully aware that this submersion has no way of proving to be of his own making. All of his will and control washed away the second his gaze lingered upon the young man's elusive frame far longer than propriety would allow. Beautiful, he must have thought, utterly bewitching. He's an addict, and he had just found his new drug. How could he resist ? He falls. Hard. So he drinks three shots of tequila in a row, takes a deep breath, turns to him and - he curtsies. A fucking curtsey: he lowers his eyes, removes his hat and bends his back so fast he can still feel his vertebrae cracking emphatically in the middle of the bar they're both in. He can't help himself but giggle at this mere thought alone. When he finally raises his eyes again, his laugh escapes at once : Eugene's gaze barely grazed him with an intrigued smile that you only reserve for unsettling situations - a knowing nod, a mocking grin - before turning away. Oh, he thinks as he straightens (not quite - too queer for that) up, I'm making a fool of myself. And he's right : he's a pathetic man in his late forties who is addicted to opium and who curtsies in front of uninterested young men. His shoulders sag dramatically as he comes to an irrefutable conclusion : he wants him. And wants, and wants, and wants - he can't get enough. Anything, everything. He takes, precotious, all that is given to  him, and then snaps to reach for more - always and always more. He's alone, Eugene's aloof ; he desesperatly needs to get inside of his head because he's too afraid to ask him a single question. Pathetic. Sordid. Tragic. William Lee dreams to read Eugene Allerton's mind. He wants to map out his thoughts and pinpoint his every scent with red tacks in order to reach for them every night. He wants to touch him. To touch, to grab, to hold. He wants to feel his frozen legs overs his at all time. He wants to love him but doesn't, because Eugene is not queer. Not queer. And he knows it. His heart lodges in his throat before he vomits it onto the floor. Door's already open, then. Can't close it now. All you can do is look away But why would you? How can you convince someone that they're part of you?