16 December, 1894 — Samuel's Lab, Whitechapel
When he left the Orchid there was a slush of dirty half-melted snow lingering in all the seams of the street but he was already past the point of feeling the cold. He felt feverish if anything. There was a tingling itch from the base of his spine all the way up to the roots of his hair. He looked pale but felt flushed. He walked with his coat unbuttoned and gave no thought to where he was going, because for now it was good enough to be putting space between him and the Orchid while he replayed everything that had happened there in his head.
It had been impossible to think in that moment with Griffith's hands pulling his hips towards him, impossible to access anything except the panic that flooded the top of his mind. From the detached position of his high those seconds seemed like a dark pit; he felt sure there were other thoughts or feelings or reactions he'd had in the moment but he couldn't pierce through enough to see them clearly. Perhaps he never would. The rest of the evening's interaction floated through his mind in disjointed pieces, taking on more or less significance as his moods changed and twisted.
(He was feeling a lot, at the moment. A lot, very suddenly, and very briefly. The mood swings might have been a side effect of the opium. Griffith had warned him about mixing his poisons. Don Juan never took warnings to heart until it was too late).
He had found the edge of the Thames. He watched the water flow as he walked along it and wondered whether it was cold enough that he would die of hypothermia before he drowned, were he to throw himself in. Drowning was supposed to be a terrible way to die.
You'll have to tell me to leave, Griffith had said, and in the end Don Juan had. When Griffith had first said it Don Juan had thought he'd never muster up the willpower. He wondered whether Griffith agreed with that sentiment. Had he been surprised when Don Juan said stop? Was he capable of being surprised by anything Don Juan did at this point, after he'd been inside his mind, after they'd gone to bed together? The two weren't related but in this case Don Juan almost felt the sex gave Griffith more of a right to judge his actions than anything he'd seen via legilimency, because he had known and felt the empty pit in Don Juan's soul that had invited the sex, the fundamental problem with himself that he had been desperately trying to fix. Griffith perhaps knew him better than anyone by now — and this had been the outcome of that knowledge, tonight at the Orchid. This was how someone who truly understood him thought he deserved to be treated. Or thought he wanted to be treated — he had said something like that, too. Something else to be ashamed of. You can pretend you don't enjoy it.
He turned away from the river and down a street rife with dark alleyways. He hadn't brought anything nice with him tonight, no fancy accessories or golden pocket watches, so he probably didn't make a very appealing target for a mugging. More's the pity. It wouldn't have hurt to be hit right now, he didn't think, and after the past week it would have been almost a relief to have such a cut and dry picture of morality to place himself in. Just a victim of a crime, and nothing more complex than that.
Griffith had asked if Hudson was waiting for him, then on hearing Don Juan's no he'd returned I was waiting. The parallel had been lost on him at the time as he'd been too focused on the drug Griffith had just produced, but it had certainly been intentional. That was a dizzying statement. Don Juan could make nothing of it, but it left him buzzing between the ears.
He was in Whitechapel. For all that he'd started wandering thoughtlessly, this seemed an inevitable destination. Don Juan had never approached the shuttered laboratory from the street but he knew the address well enough, having told it so often to the floo. It wasn't difficult to find. The windows were dark, at least to a casual glance, and the front door was locked. He opened it with a spell, heedless of any street traffic that might have been around to notice, and slipped inside.
He went through the place until he came across Griffith, then stopped where he was while the pair of them held a long, silent look. There was a question in the air that Don Juan wasn't sure he could answer in words. The question was why he was here — the answer was slippery but might have been something like: because there's nowhere else to be.
After a long moment, what he eventually said wasn't an answer at all but another question: "Do you want me to leave?"
It had been impossible to think in that moment with Griffith's hands pulling his hips towards him, impossible to access anything except the panic that flooded the top of his mind. From the detached position of his high those seconds seemed like a dark pit; he felt sure there were other thoughts or feelings or reactions he'd had in the moment but he couldn't pierce through enough to see them clearly. Perhaps he never would. The rest of the evening's interaction floated through his mind in disjointed pieces, taking on more or less significance as his moods changed and twisted.
(He was feeling a lot, at the moment. A lot, very suddenly, and very briefly. The mood swings might have been a side effect of the opium. Griffith had warned him about mixing his poisons. Don Juan never took warnings to heart until it was too late).
He had found the edge of the Thames. He watched the water flow as he walked along it and wondered whether it was cold enough that he would die of hypothermia before he drowned, were he to throw himself in. Drowning was supposed to be a terrible way to die.
You'll have to tell me to leave, Griffith had said, and in the end Don Juan had. When Griffith had first said it Don Juan had thought he'd never muster up the willpower. He wondered whether Griffith agreed with that sentiment. Had he been surprised when Don Juan said stop? Was he capable of being surprised by anything Don Juan did at this point, after he'd been inside his mind, after they'd gone to bed together? The two weren't related but in this case Don Juan almost felt the sex gave Griffith more of a right to judge his actions than anything he'd seen via legilimency, because he had known and felt the empty pit in Don Juan's soul that had invited the sex, the fundamental problem with himself that he had been desperately trying to fix. Griffith perhaps knew him better than anyone by now — and this had been the outcome of that knowledge, tonight at the Orchid. This was how someone who truly understood him thought he deserved to be treated. Or thought he wanted to be treated — he had said something like that, too. Something else to be ashamed of. You can pretend you don't enjoy it.
He turned away from the river and down a street rife with dark alleyways. He hadn't brought anything nice with him tonight, no fancy accessories or golden pocket watches, so he probably didn't make a very appealing target for a mugging. More's the pity. It wouldn't have hurt to be hit right now, he didn't think, and after the past week it would have been almost a relief to have such a cut and dry picture of morality to place himself in. Just a victim of a crime, and nothing more complex than that.
Griffith had asked if Hudson was waiting for him, then on hearing Don Juan's no he'd returned I was waiting. The parallel had been lost on him at the time as he'd been too focused on the drug Griffith had just produced, but it had certainly been intentional. That was a dizzying statement. Don Juan could make nothing of it, but it left him buzzing between the ears.
He was in Whitechapel. For all that he'd started wandering thoughtlessly, this seemed an inevitable destination. Don Juan had never approached the shuttered laboratory from the street but he knew the address well enough, having told it so often to the floo. It wasn't difficult to find. The windows were dark, at least to a casual glance, and the front door was locked. He opened it with a spell, heedless of any street traffic that might have been around to notice, and slipped inside.
He went through the place until he came across Griffith, then stopped where he was while the pair of them held a long, silent look. There was a question in the air that Don Juan wasn't sure he could answer in words. The question was why he was here — the answer was slippery but might have been something like: because there's nowhere else to be.
After a long moment, what he eventually said wasn't an answer at all but another question: "Do you want me to leave?"
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3
