January 25, 1895 — Hudson's House, Bartonburg

Twenty-six days since he'd been high on anything. Thirteen days since he'd realized what had happened. Thirty-eight hours since he'd last thrown up. It was time to go see Dean Hudson.

For the first two days of the new year he'd still been trying to get his hands on anything that could keep withdrawal at bay, but no matter what he tried he couldn't keep it down for long enough to feel the impact. On January fourth he'd come through the other side of the sickness after holing up in a room at Atlantis to avoid his family. Bad timing, because the fourth was a Saturday and that very evening he'd had another opportunity to get something; if he'd sobered up on a Monday he would've had a few solid days before he tried again, probably.

Point being, by the time the news hit the paper two weeks into January, he had a wealth of evidence to bring him to the right conclusion. Even so, he'd experimented. Because yes, the paper said everyone should go and get things undone, said it was experimental magic and it might have side effects, but from Don Juan's perspective it still seemed too good to be true. History had shown him that if there was a way to burn through it or get around it, he'd eventually be desperate enough to find it... so he'd gotten his hands on quite a bit of opium and he'd tried to get high, tried to trick himself into it by burying it in food or dissolving it into wine, mixed it with sleeping potions. He'd tried to just force it down and fight through the gag reflex. He'd tried everything he could think of, and all he got for his trouble was woozy and white-faced from how much fluid he'd lost.

It was important to be sure. He thought Dean would take him back, if he heard that was Don Juan was clean now. He didn't know if he'd do it a third time, if Don Juan still managed to run this one off the rails. And it was important to know that the magic was fool-proof, because even having been sober nearly a month and even knowing what would happen if he took it and even after spending more time vomiting this month than he had in any other year of his life, there was still an occasional itch in his brain and a tremor in his fingers... still the occasional urge to reach for something that would take him out of things for a minute. The magic had to be fool-proof because otherwise he was never going to stop. Wanting it wasn't enough.

Hudson's floo was unlocked, but the house was empty when Don Juan arrived. He hadn't expected that, but he wasn't discouraged. He hadn't written ahead, in case Dean said no — he knew this didn't make any sense unless you had all the facts, and there were things he didn't think he could convey on parchment. He needed a chance to make the case in person, and if he had to wait, then so be it. Hudson had said he could be patient, once; Don Juan was hoping to capitalize on that patience, so he couldn't begrudge a few hours.

He spent his time shamelessly exploring Hudson's house, reaquainting himself with the man he'd barely spoken to in over a year. He perused the new titles on the shelf in Hudson's study. He looked through Hudson's closet in search of the ugly orange scarf Don Juan had sent him once. He noticed the things that had changed; he relished the things that hadn't. Hudson's bed was made but it was obvious he slept on the same side of it as he always had. He told himself not to look in the nightstand for his cigarettes, not to pin his hopes too high. Eventually he looked anyway, and though he didn't find a perfectly staged case of his usual cigarettes, he did find scraps of parchment with his own handwriting on them. He didn't read the notes again, but he ran his hand through the scraps of paper with a wide smile on his face.

Finally he heard the noise of the floo. He had shed his outer layers within a few minutes of arriving and realized Dean might guess he was here before he actually saw him. He was so entirely bouyed by finding the letters that he didn't want to be cheated out of seeing Dean's expression when he realized Don Juan was here, so he practically ran back down the stairs to meet him.

"Hello-o," he said in a sing-song tone as he slid (literally; sock-footed on wood floor) into the parlor doorway.

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MJ made this <3

He and Hanna had sort of danced around one another all night. She seemed to be struggling with the the event, and Dean had tried to sweep in whenever he could to make things easier. They'd danced twice, which he'd known had probably raised eyebrows, but he knew it was tough on her and he just wanted to make it smoother for her. He knew he couldn't be what she needed, but he could provide a good distraction. Dean was good for that, if nothing else. He had failed at any attempt for a serious relationship and so this was as good as it was going to get for him. Hanna needed somebody who was going to be a good husband and he hadn't proven to be any good at being a serious partner for anyone. Plus he wasn't sure he could commit to the lifestyle she thought she wanted.

Still, at one point he'd whispered in her ear about what he could do to alleviate her stress and she had seemed keen enough so she had left the dance before him and they'd agreed to meet at his place an hour later. After keeping a close eye on his pocket watch, Dean had excused himself. It was late enough that he could reasonably make his way home anyway. Having something to look forward to helped.

After flooing home, he dithered in the sitting room for only a moment before the floo lit up green again. He had started to loosen his buttons, as was his routine upon coming home, but he had been looking forward to this and so as soon as she stepped out, he had his hands on her. Their lessons as she liked to call them, had been going well, he hadn't seduced her all of the way, but was at least giving her enough to enjoy. There was something delightfully devilish about teaching somebody all of this. He just hoped he wasn't setting her up for disappointment when she finally did marry.

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