Quigley was different. Given, he had returned seemingly magically to the Quagmire's lives from death. Although Quigley had recounted his journeys again and again to his siblings, Duncan couldn't look at him the same way anymore. They didn't seem as close as triplets should be, Quigley was like a mythical creature, too good to really be true. He even looked a bit different to Duncan.
It wasn't his fault, Duncan reasoned, that he was having these irrational dreams about him. Dreams were a part of the subconscious. Duncan wasn't odd. Their weren't many other people, or things, for that matter, that they were in contact with, hidden away on Hector's property from all the lies in their lives.
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
One especially dull summer day, Duncan was sprawled in a lawn chair on the porch. Quigley was out in the yard, leaning his back against the Nevermore, leaning. It was so hot today, too hot every day. The heat pressed in his head.
Another irrational fantasy. He doubted he could control it and didn't really wish to. So standing up suddendly, knocking over his lawn chair with a loud clang in the process, Duncan strode across the lawn, strangely intent for someone about to do something incredibly stupid. Upon reaching his destination, he fell to his knees on the yellowed grass. It was too hot for thinking.
Quigley looked up.
"Duncan?"
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
It was always like looking into a mirror, yet rarely a mirror was so stubbornly different than it's reflector. The urge to wrap his arms around Quigley's waist, shove him against the rough bark-
Duncan figured this was one of those things he would actually look back upon when he was elderly and wonder what the hell he was thinking. He imagined telling his grandchildren. "You know great uncle Quigs?"
It took some reacting time. For a moment they were suspended in the moment, then Duncan leaned into it. His mouth was rough and shaking on Quigley's, and his lips were slightly chapped, but Duncan felt as if he were being turned inside out. He was gasping for air before he pulled away, and he realized he had Quigley's undivided attention, which was both arousing and terrifying. Quigley stood up, looking affronted, but he didn't say anything.
"Dinner!"
Hector was calling from inside, Duncan was praying he wasn't looking out the window.
Once inside, he still didn't say anything. There weren't any words that would remedy the situation. Forgetting about it seemed to be convenient for Quigley, so Duncan went along.
Days trudged by like months, and months trudged by like years. Eventually, things got less hot, but no less miserable.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter cry.