I don't particularly love this.. But, maybe it's not as much shite as I think it is. Actually it's too short to tell whether it is or not. Oh, well.
Try not to dwell on the slight slash aspect. And yes, the title and summary are lame. So am I. I'm sorry.
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I watch his back as he returns to center stage, where he rightly belongs, unable to fully process what's happening. I haven't been in such a coherent state of mind in ages, it seems. Regardless, it hardly matters when he turns towards me again and despite all of the dancers, singers, and, let's face it, whores between us, his eyes lock on mine, silently communicating that his yelling wasn't going to be all of the reprimanding I'd receive today. It doesn't matter; I deserve it. I've not only ruined my life and Satine's, but also everyone caught up in the entire ordeal. I don't need him to explain that to me. But I refuse to speak such a thought aloud, because I should have to hear this particular song, this particular show put on just for me and my damn obsession with love.
His eyes turn away now, partly in disgust, partly in a reluctant understanding, but still my own are trained on him.
I want to inhale as much smoke and alcohol as is humanly possible to dull the pain I feel at causing this. The pain I feel at his gaze.
The pain I feel for wanting.
I'm not even sure who anymore.