January, 1888 — Hudson's House, North Bartonburg

Don Juan splashed a handful of cold water on his face and stared himself down in the bathroom mirror, hoping he could shock himself to sobriety — or if not that, then at least to looking more the part. He ran his hands through his hair, cupped them in the sink again, and splashed. All he got for his trouble was wet. Hudson's request for him to cut back on his drug intake hadn't seemed like a big ask at the time, and he had agreed to it without any serious hesitation. He'd even done well with it, for a while... but in the last month he had discovered that the line between a little high and too high was difficult to gauge, and even harder to gauge once he'd taken something. The first hit was never a problem, and he never felt like the second hit would be either — but then muscle memory took over and reality got slippery, and he'd end up — not every time, but sometimes — coming to the realization suddenly that the night was practically over and he was long past out of his mind.

When that happened, he didn't go the Hudson's house. He didn't want to see the disappointment on Hudson's face when he got through the floo; didn't want to face the conversation that would inevitably occur the next morning. He knew what Hudson would say: he was worried. He cared. This was hard. He was scared. Don Juan didn't want to hear it — didn't want to be in this situation, didn't want to have put Hudson in this situation — so he didn't go. He promised himself he would do better next time, pay more attention to his limits, stop sooner — and then he took another hit, the take the edge off the guilt.

He gave up on the water and grabbed for the hand towel to dry his face off. He pressed it to his skin and leaned against the bathroom wall, then slowly sank down into a sitting position on the floor, hands still on his head. He had to go back tonight. He'd told Hudson he would. Normally there was no agreement — they saw each other all the time, so he knew Hudson would notice if he didn't come over, but there was no arrangement for him to come over, so when Don Juan saw Hudson again a day or two or three later he could brush it off and pretend that he'd been busy. Tonight Hudson had asked specifically, and Don Juan had said yes — as he sat on the bathroom floor with the towel covering his face, he suspected this had been Hudson's intention all along. A forcing function. Now he couldn't pretend he had never been planning to come back; now if he didn't come back they'd have the same conversation as if he did.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't still tempted to avoid it. Just stay here, catch another high, forget about it for a while. Face Hudson when he was sober.

"Ugh," he groaned into the towel. He was a bad person. A bad person contemplating doing bad things. He'd told Hudson he would come back. He'd told him probably no later than eleven. He didn't know what time it was now. He still had his pocket watch, but was afraid to look.

Twenty minutes later he stumbled through Hudson's floo — literally, and knocked the set of fireplace tools over with a clatter. He winced and grabbed on to the mantle to steady himself, and internally started equivocating. Not as bad as the last time, he insisted to himself. He had to come get me. He said I couldn't stand up. Tonight, Don Juan had gotten himself here through the floo and still had his shoes on. I'm fine, he told himself. He was fine. And he was here, when he hadn't wanted to be, and that had to count for something, didn't it?

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There was an anxiety prickling at the back of his neck lately that Dean had been trying to ignore. The problem was that the pattern was too clear, the signs too obvious for him to miss them and pretend that he wasn't seeing what he was seeing. He wasn't an idiot, well most of the time. Dempsey seemed to be able to turn him into one with little effort, but Dean hated to be made the fool.

Missed nights together, no word for a few days. If Dean didn't know better, (and he'd sunk to the bottom of a deep glass of whiskey) he would think Dempsey was growing bored of him. He'd asked too much, was getting too intense, or any host of other insecurities that he could have attributed to why he wasn't any good at long-term relationships. However, in recent months, especially after Christmas and New Years, Dean had thought they had been on the same page in that regard; were equally obsessed with one another and fine with it.

So there was only one other thing that would keep Don Juan (barring actual family obligations) from his bed. The request to cut back on the drugs seemed to be going fine. Dean didn't mind a little, the social aspect of it like he liked his whiskey, but it seemed that either Dempsey didn't know where the line was, or he had only said that to placate Dean in the moment and hadn't meant it. Neither option was good and if it was the later, then he really had misinterpreted the whole situation and he felt like a jackass.

It was well past the time Dempsey said he would arrive and so Dean figured him for another no-show. It was as disappointing as it was frustrating and more than worrisome. He could only wait up for so long and so he'd tucked his book on the side table next to the sofa, taken his glass to the kitchen and gone to bed. Closing the floo wasn't an option; he had promised Dempsey that this would always be somewhere he could land, even if he wasn't home, or it was late, whatever the reason and he meant that.

He hadn't been in bed for twenty minutes before he heard the crash downstairs. He hadn't been asleep, but it was still startling. It could only be Dempsey, but Dean was too annoyed at the moment to move. He was still torn between worry and frustration and didn't know what to do with himself.

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Hudson wasn't waiting for him in the parlor, arms crossed and brow furrowed in disappointment, so that was something. Don Juan stayed where he was for a long moment, quiet, and didn't hear him elsewhere in the house. Already asleep? That was good news for him if so; the more time elapsed between now and the conversation the longer he had to sober up. Maybe he could even be a little vague about what time he'd come in, earn himself some credit there. Of course, for that to work he had to get upstairs and into the bed next to Hudson without waking him, which was quite the challenge. He could have collapsed on the couch or somewhere else with less ado, but if he slept anywhere other than Hudson's bed he'd have to explain why the next morning, and there was no possible reason except the truth.

He stooped and carefully collected the fireplace instruments, hanging them back on their stand as gently as possible and cringing at every clink. His hands were sooty when he was done — should he wash them? The sink would make noise, but he couldn't crawl into Hudson's sheets leaving dirty hand prints as he went. He decided to risk it, heading towards the kitchen since it was closer than the lavatory. On his way in his foot caught one of the chairs, which clattered — he froze again, wincing, then restarted when the house remained quiet. Two near-misses and luck still seemed to be on his side; Don Juan felt bolstered by this small victory, less illicit somehow than when he'd arrived. The universe was looking out for him, maybe, rewarding him for having followed through and come back like he'd said he would instead of slinking off to the embrace of more drugs. I'm fine, I'm doing fine.

He washed his hands. He took his shoes off before he went up the stairs, still trying to be silent, but misremembered which stair it was that creaked and hit it heavily on the way up. Oh well — still quiet, he was fine, he was doing fine. Finally he made it to Hudson's bedroom door and twisted the knob with no small degree of relief... but on stumbling into the room he saw Hudson look at him, and it was clear that luck hadn't been on his side after all.

"Oh," he said, eyebrows raised in surprise. He looked as caught as he felt. "You're still up."

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MJ made this <3

Each noise had him wincing a little. At least he knew for sure it was Dempsey stomping around down there and not someone breaking in. "You have all of the stealth of an erumpet." Dean managed as Dempsey finally came into the room. The the joke fell flat mostly because he almost added when you're high. His emotions had settled on frustrated (and against his better judgement, still worried), so all he could do was quirk an eyebrow.

He didn't know what else to say that wouldn't give away his insecurities, the ones that kept clawing their way up and he kept having to shove down with as much vigor as he could. "You alright?" It was a stupid question. Though Dean hadn't seen Dempsey this high in a while, he knew the signs by now. He was hoping to open up the conversation Don Juan was likely trying to avoid, judging by comments like, you're still up.

What was the most disappointing was that Dean was now too frustrated and Dempsey was too high for there to be any quality time spent together. It would just be circling around one another and avoiding the obvious. Dean dragged a hand through his hair, "Never mind." He didn't want to be lied to right now, on top of everything. "I'm going to sleep, you're welcome to stay." Of course, always, but he still didn't know what to do or what to say. It wouldn't be productive and he didn't want to be seen pouting. It might have just been easier if Dempsey hadn't come at all, so Dean could pretend not to know.

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Don Juan had been expecting Hudson to be angry, so the joke left him wary more than anything else. He didn't answer the question right away either, instead giving Hudson what he presumed was a shrewd glance (to an outside perspective, it looked more like squinting). Hudson said never mind and Don Juan thought ah, there it is, vindicated in the assumption he'd had walking in the room. He was gratified to be proven right; he didn't want Hudson angry at him, but at least he could be sure of where matters stood if Hudson was saying the sorts of things Don Juan had expected him to say. This was better, easier, than trying to have a genuine conversation; at least now he could use some of the things he'd already dreamed up while he'd been on the lavatory floor an hour ago, catastrophizing.

"I came back," he pointed out, tone defensive. "Like I said I would. Do you want me to stay?"

What a relief it would be if he said no! Avoiding the conversation tonight, and giving Don Juan something to be rightfully irritated about when they eventually did have to dredge it up and discuss it.

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MJ made this <3

The deep sigh was unavoidable. Of course he wanted Don Juan's company, but he'd rather it not be like this. "Yeah, you did." I hardly counted, right? Dean had just hoped it was assumed that in a normal state of mined was a given and not hours after the agreed upon time. He wasn't sure he could keep doing this if Dempsey was going to start spiraling again.

"You fucking know the answer to that, do what you want with it." Dean snapped; he couldn't help it. For fuck's sake, could he make it any fucking clearer? He wasn't going to get any sleep either way now. At least if Dempsey left he could stew in his own anger and be pissed off in peace and not try to hide it. The decision to go or stay wasn't something Dean was going to make for Don Juan. Dean had said he could here for a safe place to land and he meant it, didn't want it to change, but after the conversation about cutting back, he'd dared to hope that it wouldn't be this bad anymore.

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Don Juan didn't like this. Hudson was angry, obviously, but apparently not willing to have the conversation Don Juan had been dreading. That was even worse, because until they did it would just hang over his head. If they were going to do this Don Juan might as well have stayed out; he could have at least had distractions handy.

"Well, I don't want to if you're going to pout," he complained. To be honest he had been expecting a little credit for having dragged himself back here, because he hadn't wanted to and he hadn't had to, but Dean didn't seem to be giving him any at all. He was acting like Don Juan was being purposefully hurtful, which just wasn't fair. Yes, he'd made a mistake, and he'd blown through the time he'd said he'd be back — but he was here, and he was in better condition than he had been the night Hudson had to clean him up and tuck him into bed. He was fine, comparatively.

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MJ made this <3

"Fine," He couldn't sit anymore, the emotions scratching at the surface that he didn't know how to express, but he was full of something akin to rage and it wouldn't simmer. His hands clenched into fists at his side to hide the shaking but he didn't move from beside the bed. He was angry and disappointed because he'd thought they'd had an understanding. Dempsey wanted accolades for coming back, as if that was enough. Dean felt like this good thing he had was slipping through his fingers and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He'd been earnest and vulnerable and laid it all out on the table and it wasn't good enough.

Now he was just pissed.

He hadn't planned to say anything else, but it bubbled up before he could stop himself. "I have every fucking right to pout," Dean spat back. "You made a fool out of me." There was so much more he wanted to say, but couldn't bring himself to. Dempsey wouldn't remember anyway. There was no point in pouring out his soul anymore when it would fall on deaf ears. He just wanted to come before the drugs. "So if that's your choice make it, but I won't make it for you." He wasn't sure he could do this again. If Dempsey couldn't stick to cutting back for more than a couple months this was going to be pointless.

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This conversation was going off the rails; Don Juan had been expecting disappointment, concern — the same things he'd gotten last time, in other words. Dean was angry, he could tell. He could feel it in the air, how the room seemed to crackle. He could see it in the veins on his arms. Not irritated, not annoyed, not frustrated, but actually angry — if this had been anyone else, anywhere else, Don Juan might have squared up to defend himself from an incoming blow. He recognized the emotion roiling off of Hudson, but he didn't know how to diffuse it — or at least, he couldn't think how right now.

"You're being melodramatic," he said, in response to the remark about being made to look foolish, because if that applied to either of them wasn't it Don Juan? He'd dragged himself over here, in no fit state to do much of anything, ready to submit to being berated if need be. Hudson had passed a quite night at home without him; maybe he was put out, but it wasn't like he'd been embarrassed. It couldn't have hurt his pride, not the same way that being here right now hurt Don Juan's.

"Look, I wanted to see you," he continued — his (rather lame) attempt at an olive branch. "I just — got carried away. It was a mistake."

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MJ made this <3

"If you wanted to, you would have." Dean said through clenched teeth. "It's that simple." It should be that simple anyway. He didn't want to be placated right now with weak excuses and not-quite-apologies.

"What happens next time? Are we just going to do this again? Avoid the conversation that I thought we had an understanding on?" Dean shook his head, feeling some of the anger fading into the hopelessness he'd tried to replace it with. That frustrated him almost as much, the miserable tone in his voice. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, unable to look at Don Juan.

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The way Hudson said it's that simple raised the hair on the back of his neck, but before he could muster the venom to respond something in Hudson's demeanor had shifted; the anger fading and being replaced with distance. He might not have moved and his posture might not have changed, but Don Juan could practically feel him shrinking away, becoming inaccessible. An expression of panic flitted over Don Juan's face, which was fine since Hudson apparently couldn't stand to look at him.

"Hudson," he said. His tone had turned on a dime and now his voice was quiet, contrite, pleading. "Dean. I know. I know. I fucked up tonight and that's not fair to you. But I'm not avoiding," he said, making his way tentatively into the room — progress slow both because he wanted to gauge Dean's reaction as he went, and stop if he started to flinch back, and because he was trying so so hard to walk in a straight line. "I came back tonight, alright?" Unstated, but obvious: on the other nights, he hadn't. They may never have actually talked about where Don Juan had disappeared to those nights when he didn't come back, but he assumed Hudson had to know — which meant he had to see that tonight was progress, actually, even if only a minuscule amount of it. He hadn't disappeared for days; he'd disappeared for hours, and then he'd come back. Hudson had to see — "I'm trying," he insisted plaintively.

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MJ made this <3

Dean shook his head, holding one hand up slightly to stop any forward progress Don Juan was making in his direction. He couldn't get too close, otherwise Dean knew he would cave under those puppy dog eyes and mollifying statements. This meant more than Dempsey was trying let it, trying to brush it under the rug like it was nothing. A mistake. It was a choice and Dean knew that.

"Why do you have to go at all?" Dean truly didn't understand this whole addiction. Disappearing for days on end, losing control, what was it that Dempsey needed to escape so badly that this was what he felt like he had to do? Sure tonight it was only a few hours, tonight, not yesterday or the day before. "You only came back because I asked you to." If he hadn't made Don Juan agree to come back, he wouldn't be here right now and Dean knew that. They both knew that. It wasn't like Dean didn't want him to have a social life, Dean still had one, but he also had a job and a family and responsibilities. Maybe that was the difference. Dean actually had out outgrown the mentality of being a fresh graduate from Hogwarts. Had settled into his job and everything that came with it. He was only a month from his twenty-third birthday and he didn't exactly feel like an adult, but he was making a damn good go of it.

"Trying isn't nights in a row of leaving me here by myself so it sure as hell feels like you're avoiding me." Merlin he sounded like some sad housewife whose husband was having an affair and he hated it. Dean could only handle so much humiliation before he cracked.

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   Don Juan Dempsey

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Nothing Hudson was saying was wrong, but he wasn't seeing things from Don Juan's perspective, that was obvious. The emphasis was on all the wrong words. Yes, Don Juan had only come back because Dean asked him to, but he had come back, only because Dean had asked. He had never done things like this before, for anyone. He didn't tend to do anything that made him uncomfortable or that seemed unappealing if he could avoid it; he'd never tried to change his behavior at someone else's request before. He was trying something for Hudson's sake that he'd never previously attempted, and it was proving more difficult than he'd thought — but he was still trying, and he didn't know why Hudson didn't see that, or if he did why he didn't recognize it for the monumental thing it was.

And he'd warned him, hadn't he? He'd told him about marrying Adriana; he'd told him he walked away when things went bad. He'd told Hudson he had never known how to fix things. He still didn't, that much was clear. Hudson had held his hand up, keeping the room between them. Don Juan swayed slightly on his feet and despaired. He didn't know how to answer Dean's questions. He didn't know how to explain what happened when he started slipping, he didn't know how to explain why.

"I — when I stay out it's —" he started, fumbling for words. He wanted to make Hudson believe that Don Juan wasn't avoiding him, that he would never — but he didn't know how to say it, because there was a version of Dean that he was avoiding. This one: the one who kept him at arm's length, who refused to understand him, who treated him like an unfortunate and unsavory thing that had been dropped at his feet. The one that made him feel like a failure.

"You won't touch me," he said with a note of desperation. He was trying to convey what he'd just been ruminating on — the distance between them that was so hard to cope with — and he was distraught enough that he hadn't considered the other implications this sentence might have: either that he only came here in order to be touched... or that while Dean wouldn't, others would.

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MJ made this <3

Nothing. No answer, not even half of one. Dean sighed, everything else draining away as he filled with dread and resentment. He wasn't the one putting them in this position. He didn't think what he was asking was all that unreasonable.

Dean dropped his hands, but didn't move. "If you touch me, I'll give in and then we'll be back to square one and nothing will change." He knew himself well enough to know that. What he didn't know was how to explain that he didn't like his version of Don Juan; that this wasn't the man he'd fallen in love with and everything that came with that. He wasn't about to admit to all that when the man standing across from him was high and trying to justify it. He'd seen Don Juan do better, for those few months after he'd asked, up until recent weeks, it had been fine. What had changed? What wasn't working? Would this be how it went? Would it get better for a little while and then tank and they'd be here again, back to nothing? Dean wasn't sure he could do that; he knew he couldn't keep doing it. He couldn't watch Don Juan sink lower and lower and in good conscience enable the behavior or let it slide.

"I don't know what to do. I cannot see your side and you can't see mine, what do we do?" It seemed like a stupid question to ask when Don Juan wasn't in the right mind to answer it clearly, but Dean was stuck.

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Don Juan felt a flutter of hope at that response, for all that Dean surely hadn't meant it that way. It was a glimpse of light, though — that even when Hudson's walls were up, he still cared. Maybe the walls were up so high because he cared — just like Don Juan avoided him in these moments because it hurt too much to have this conversation.

Dean was asking what to do. Don Juan shifted his weight. "I try harder," he said, tentatively. "And you love me."

That was what he needed from Hudson, in the end; if he was here to come back to, Don Juan was sure he could make it. Eventually.

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Dean had thought he'd been transparent enough by now; but he had also been afraid of chasing Dempsey away with those sorts of big feelings. He'd been okay with the silent understanding that's what it was; which was also what made this that much harder. "I do." He admitted with a huff, shoulders drooping a little, finally looking over at Don Juan cautiously. This wasn't when he wanted to say it for Dempsey to hear. He'd muttered it here and there quietly in the dark when he knew Don Juan had been fast asleep just to get it out, but now it was out in the open.

"I want to love you through this, but it's harder than I thought it would be." He couldn't do a damn thing for Dempsey if he wasn't willing to make the change. Dempsey had to want it just as much, if not more than Dean did, for it to work.

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