For the next thirty minutes Don Juan was little more than a collection of feelings. He was mortified. He had trouble focusing his eyes long enough to follow what Hudson was doing about the mess. He was starting to sink towards the floor, gradually losing his balance, when Hudson scooped him up. Hudson was warm. Don Juan tucked his head in towards his chest and tried to stabilize himself, with Hudson as a center of gravity. He was terribly worried about vomiting again. Hudson was efficient in stripping him — Don Juan barely had time to realize what was happening before it was done, much less help with any given piece of clothing — but his hands were gentle.

The bed was soft. The sheets were clean and crisp. Hudson brushed his hair back. Don Juan was overcome. His eyelids fluttered. He moved his tongue in his mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to form words. "Hudson," he said, but he forced his eyes open and discovered Hudson was already gone.

He lay his head on the pillow and waited for feeling to come back to his extremities. His mouth was painfully dry. After some minutes, he worked up the wherewithal to crawl out of the bed. He slipped something on over his bottom half — something from Hudson's dirty laundry, because he couldn't focus on drawers or wardrobes at the moment. They didn't quite fit, but they didn't really need to. He stumbled slowly towards the bathroom, then back towards the room with the light under the door.

"Hey," he said, leaning on the doorway without coming inside. "I needed water. And I wanted you."

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