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Summary
It was one of the many small, secret things about Quentin that Eliot guiltily treasured. Things he loved, things that made his skin flush. Things that got him hard. Little details he wished he could hold in his hands but that he had to pretend not to notice for fear of somehow tarnishing them, as if Quentin’s personality tics might be subject to Heisenberg’s fucking Uncertainty Principle.
And so Eliot observed them from afar, mentally snapshotting them and filing them away.