Fine, what? It took Don Juan a moment to realize what Hudson was doing. He hadn't gotten an immediate capitulation from Don Juan when he'd tried to kick him out, so now he was leaving?
"Where are you going?" Don Juan demanded, stepping forward to try and put himself between Dean and the floo. At this time of night and already drunk — he didn't know if he was more frustrated that Dean was running away or concerned about the circumstances. (Was it hypocritical of him to feel concern when he'd just told Hudson not to try and be his father?)
Anywhere but here; anywhere but with you. This wasn't fair, Don Juan thought desperately. He hadn't done anything bad enough to deserve this reaction. He was late but he was here, and he wasn't high, and he wasn't even actually trying to stir up a fight, despite how Hudson kept frustrating him.
"How about you tell me what you want from me," he said. "Instead of making passive aggressive comments on your way out the door, huh? You want me to be here? Cause you couldn't handle me being here last time," he said, thinking of the last time he'd been here in 1888, when Hudson had left him. But this was supposed to be different. Hudson had said he could be patient. He'd said he would always be here... and now he was leaving.
"I'm not throwing it in your face," Don Juan retorted. He was, a bit, but he also thought it was a relevant point — Hudson said he was always going to be here and he could be patient, and he said he didn't want to be lied to, but they had already tried that and it hadn't gone well. Don Juan had tried cutting back and being honest with Hudson about how it was going, and what he'd gotten for his trouble was left alone in an empty bed holding back tears, mere minutes after coming out of withdrawal. So it was all well and good for Hudson to say that Don Juan was wrong for dodging the issue and that he would prefer the real story, except that it wasn't true.
"You want to know why I was late?" he echoed back as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Sure, Dean. I was busy getting drunk, and then I was busy buying drugs," he said flippantly. "And I don't have them on me and I'm not high, so I really don't see how it's any of your business. In fact," he continued, picking up speed now. "Do you know how many times I've come here high since we started this up again? Zero. And how many times have you needed to come pull me out of somewhere? Zero. I've been cutting back for you and I do all this cloak and dagger bullshit so you can pretend it's not happening and you don't give me even a little credit."
Hudson worried about him when he was gone, but that was the whole point he was trying to get across. He didn't get that bad anymore, and that was directly because of Dean. He didn't see it because they never talked about it, but Don Juan had been cutting back significantly, if not in frequency than certainly in quantity. He had been trying to take care of things so that Dean didn't have to worry about him — but it was always for nothing, because Dean assumed the worst when he was gone. But Don Juan didn't say any of this, because suddenly Hudson was stepping back and his fists were balled and Don Juan was having trouble remembering when he'd last seen him this angry. What the fuck do I get? he asked and Don Juan thought you get me — but the voice of his internal monologue had gotten small, cowed by Dean's expression, and about to get smaller.
He couldn't hide the hurt as Hudson continued. Little notes, grand gestures, or a cute face. It would have been hard to think of a more efficient way to dash his spirit, even if Hudson had been intentionally setting out to do it. Such a dismissive little laundry list. The message it conveyed: I see the things you bring to the table and they are not enough. I know what I get here and it's not enough. You are not enough.
"Guess I'm not cut out for a real relationship," he said, hollow.
Don Juan's whole body tightened. That was it, then. Don Juan wasn't enough; Hudson couldn't keep doing this. It had always been heading to this conclusion. Part of him had known it from the very beginning, and he'd even said it to Dean once: I want to believe this doesn't end with me hurting you. He'd always known it, though. Maybe that was why he tried all of the gestures and notes and things, this time around — preemptively trying to make up for the hurt he would cause when he left, giving Hudson something pleasant to look back on. A weekend in Paris, sailing at the Sanditon, teasing him endlessly about the orange scarf he'd never worn. See Hudson, look — it wasn't all bad.
It hurt to keep looking at him. Don Juan shifted his eyes up to the ceiling and took a shaky breath. He'd get through this, eventually. People had left him before. Dean had left him before. In the end it was always the same: just him and all the things that never changed.
"I would like," he started, going slow through the words to keep his voice from breaking. "For you to kiss me goodbye this time."
Don Juan sank into Dean and kissed him like he was dying. A collapsing star burning brighter in its final moments. It was never going to be anyone else. Dean was the only person he'd ever cared about enough to try and change, and it hadn't been enough. He was never going to find something like this again.
Maybe the other lifetimes had been better.
Don Juan drew in a long breath at Dean's apology. He pulled back, not because he wanted to but because he thought if he didn't do it now it would only become harder to separate from Dean later. He still had to put his fucking shoes on. He would have just left them behind and gone through the floo barefoot except that then Dean would have to decide what to do with them tomorrow, and that didn't feel fair.
"Let's don't," he said abruptly. He was already a mess and he was only going to be more of a mess if he let Dean continue on and forced himself to listen to it all and reciprocate. "The apologies, the regrets, everything. Let's skip it." It wasn't as though he didn't already know, anyway.