Because Don Juan wasn't worth it, that was why not. He couldn't say that to Hudson, though, who would argue the point, and that was an argument neither of them could win. He couldn't convince Hudson that he was fundamentally too broken to be worth the trouble any more than Hudson could convince him he deserved any of this.
Don Juan sighed and leaned down to kiss Hudson's ankle. "I won't pretend I don't have my own ideas about what to do with your energy," he said, lightly suggestive. "But you're allowed to do things for yourself. Even if you don't need them."
Don Juan wasn't going to be able to keep a placid expression if he had to continuously see Hudson battered and bloodied, that was true, but there were probably still ways forward here that weren't so extreme. If Hudson only did this occasionally then Don Juan could mark the dates and avoid coming over — or at least be better prepared if he did, with a glass of scotch and an assortment of bruise balms ready for Hudson's return. Don Juan was willing to compromise, but in this as in all things Hudson seemed resolute not to let him.
Hudson said he'd figure something else out, and he didn't even pretend to consider Don Juan's suggestive remark. A niggling worry started at the back of his brain. He knew it hadn't been a very serious suggestion given how slow and gentle their sex life had become — hardly a large energy expenditure — but it seemed conspicuous that Dean had sidestepped it rather than engaging. Don Juan still worried regularly that he was ruining sex and Dean was only pretending that he wasn't in order to placate him — treating him like a skittish animal one could not afford to startle. Now that anxiety loomed larger, magnified by every scrape on Hudson's body.
"It's because of me?" he asked. He'd sat down on the bed but hadn't laid down with Hudson yet. He didn't even know how to lay down with him when he was sore like this; he was wincing too often for Don Juan to feel it was safe to crawl into his arms. "You used to, you said. You started again because of me?"
Don Juan felt heat across the back of his neck at the admission, but he couldn't say much about it. He'd been just as destructive in the aftermath of their first breakup, just in different ways. He would never tell Hudson that for a while he had been the reason Don Juan got high — neither of them needed that guilt.
It was because of him. His baggage, anyway. Don Juan chewed his lower lip again while he worked out what to say in response to that. It was endearing that Dean wanted to protect him, but things weren't so simple. If he knew the whole story he could have easily picked out a figure to blame, but hurting Samuel Griffith wouldn't solve anything. It probably wouldn't even make Hudson feel any better. Don Juan knew that from experience.
"You could," he said softly. "You wouldn't even have to leave home." If Dean was looking for the person who had done the most damage to Don Juan's life, the person who had left him broken this way, he didn't need to look any further than the edge of the bed. "There's no one to blame for the choices I made except me."
The rigidity of this assertion left Don Juan feeling unsettled. He leaned back slightly, just enough to pull his head back from Hudson's hand. Hudson acted as though there was an ocean between what Don Juan had done while high and what others had done to him or with him, but that simply wasn't reality as Don Juan saw it. Sentiments like this just left Don Juan more anxious that someday when he realized that, when the version of Don Juan he had propped up in his mind collapsed, the only thing remaining to fill the gap would be these caricatures Dean demonized... and then on determining that was who Don Juan was, Dean would leave him again.
"If you think I'm not responsible for what I did while high then he isn't, either," Don Juan pointed out. Maybe this was news to Hudson. Maybe he'd been picturing someone sober on the other half of these scenes when he imagined what had happened to Don Juan, but Griffith was as much of an addict as he was. At the beginning of December he'd told Don Juan he'd kicked the habit, but if that were true none of what followed would have happened.
Don Juan shifted on the bed, sitting with legs loosely crossed and then pulling his knees up towards his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "You think it's different because you love me," he said. (Did Griffith have someone in this position, too? Someone trying to chase away his demons and holding his head in their hands and reassuring him that nothing was his fault?) "I made bad choices. I did bad things. Sometimes I was a bad person," he admitted, hugging his legs closer to his chest. "This is what I get for it. I get nights where I can't sleep and I get hands that shake and I get flashbacks. And I'm getting off easy, because I'm still alive," he continued. Dean still didn't know how close Don Juan had come to that not being the case, and if he was having so much trouble with what he did already know Don Juan couldn't imagine ever telling him.
"And I've got you," he added, softer. "I've got more than I deserve."
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Content WarningReferences to sexual assault
Dean said he'd never intentionally hurt someone. The back of Don Juan's neck went hot, but he wasn't going to argue with that. It would mean telling Hudson about one of the worst nights of his life, and clearly knowing more about what Don Juan had been through in December was the last thing Hudson needed. Even if he did tell Hudson everything, he would find a way to explain it away, to make Don Juan either a blameless victim in the equation or at least a sympathetic antihero. Hudson would say he wouldn't have done any of it if he hadn't been high already when Griffith assaulted him, and that was true. Hudson would say that anything was excusable after Griffith had tried to violate him in that way, and maybe that was true too. Neither changed what he'd done: intentionally degrading himself, adding to his expanding collection of trauma and baggage, for the express purpose of trying to hurt the other man.
He wasn't going to tell Hudson more about December. Hudson was right: he needed someone to stay, and maybe if Hudson knew the whole truth about him he wouldn't be so inclined to be here.
Don Juan edged one toe over towards Hudson's thigh, craving contact but still hesitant to initiate any touch in the shape that he was in.
"Let me go get something for that," he said, with a loose nod towards Hudson's bloody handkerchief. He offered Hudson a stained smile. "If I can't sleep I might as well be useful."
Don Juan would have argued the point further, except that Dean had him trapped. Given his reticence to do anything that could even possibly make Hudson hurt more he was hardly in a position to struggle out of the bed. He cuddled in bedsides Hudson, following his lead. His eyes were already closing; the matter was settled in his mind. Don Juan wasn't going to be able to sleep, but he could tell Hudson was tired, so he'd end up stuck here watching the shadows move across the ceiling and listening to Hudson's heavy breathing.
There were worse places to be stuck for a night.
He huffed to express that he was annoyed — that he wasn't being allowed to do anything productive or that Hudson had broken his wrist tonight or both — but then let the room lapse into silence.
Don Juan hadn't fallen properly asleep by the time Dean crept out of bed but he was dazed and drowsy enough that he'd lost his sense of time. He assumed it was morning and Dean was getting up for the day, until he heard him swear at someone downstairs. That was enough to properly wake him up — Dean surely wouldn't let someone find Don Juan in his bed, but that didn't mean Don Juan needed to make it harder for him. He snuck to the top of the stairs and strained to listen, to determine who it was and what sort of escape route he might need, if any.
The mediwitch. Dean had mentioned she was coming in the morning, but he'd forgotten while half-asleep. She was going through what she was leaving behind and how to use it. Don Juan went back to the bedroom. Hudson had said tonight was the last time. He'd promised, even though Don Juan had told him not to make promises like that. Now he was stocking up for next time. Don Juan had really never intended to force him to stop if he wanted to do it, but it bothered him that apparently Dean's solution was to lie about it.
Dean didn't think he could handle the truth of the situation. Why would he think that? Don Juan had shown himself fragile in every other way.
He wanted to pretend to be asleep when Hudson came back up, but now he was far too restless and didn't think he could manage it. He didn't want to leave, either, because he didn't want to fight — that, and he was dressed for bed, not for the day. That was fine if he was going to floo home but not if he needed to apparate to the Broomsticks. He didn't like to apparate such long distances in one go. So ultimately when Dean opened the door again Don Juan was just sitting on the bed, indecisive.
"Hi," he offered. It was probably too early for good morning, and he was very aware that neither of them had really slept.
He didn't believe Dean, but he tried not to show it. He didn't know whether Dean expected him to believe that or not, but there was a reason he'd said it; clearly neither of them wanted to talk about it. There wasn't anything to say. Don Juan wished he was the sort of person Dean felt he could be honest with, but clearly he hadn't earned that yet.
"I just woke up," he said, which was at best a half truth, but he suspected Dean would take it in the same vein; something that didn't bear talking about. He took the whiskey glass. "Heard you downstairs, maybe."