"And," said Samuel, "is it destroying you yet?"

He leaned his warm forehead against the wooden spire that was part of the bed's footboard. Would it do any good to tell him that it was not too late? There was something about this kind of trite advice that Sam was contemptuous of. It might in fact be already too late for Don Juan, or he might have many years left where nothing too serious would happen to him. He was born wealthy and no one seemed to depend on him, Sam thought morosely. A type like that could keep going forever—long after his youth was all but faded. He would arrive in the prison of his failing, swollen flesh in steady tiny increments—but so might anybody, if they were unlucky.

Samuel's own body reminded him that he had done something to it, by dropping his heart rate. He started feeling a fog settle over him and he stood up, to make it scatter. It was better to stay on his feet, if he did not want the invigorating first effects to wear off too quickly.

He put his hands in his pockets and watched Don Juan do up the last of the buttons of Samuel's shirt, that he was now wearing.

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That was the question, wasn't it? Don Juan rubbed his fingers over the buttons on the shirt sleeves, debating whether to button them or roll them up to his elbows and ultimately accomplishing nothing except savoring the friction of the button against his fingertips. "I think..." he said eventually, in a plodding tone that implied he was coming to the conclusion gradually as he spoke it. "...opium isn't the only thing that's ruined me."

He had made some of his most infamous mistakes while he'd been sober, after all. Getting caught with Elfrieda Yaxley, or fleeing her husband's duel. Most of the missteps he'd made in Spain. The last real conversation he'd had with Dean Hudson. He didn't have to be high to hurt people, or to wreck his life — though he couldn't deny that it had done plenty of damage, too. And if he'd never started — well, maybe half of it would never have happened. If Hudson hadn't left him, the first time around.

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MJ made this <3

Samuel watched Don Juan mess with the buttons and fabric of his shirt. It looked just fine on him. A little long in the sleeves, since it was tailor made for Sam, who had long limbs. "Of course," he answered. "It is never that simple. Or else you would manage to stop."

If the black smoke was all that stood between Don Juan and a fulfilled life, he doubted they would be here today. Of course it was rooted deeper than that.

"Speaking of," he added and pulled the flask from his breast pocket, "I feel like more." He unscrewed the top and critically looked at the amount he had drawn up into the measuring dropper. From the periphery of his gaze, he was sharply aware of every movement occurring in the other man in the room. Her certainly had not planned for it -- what had gotten into motion here was far from over.

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   Don Juan Dempsey

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