"Because it is cold outside." The light of the red flame reflected blurredly in Don Juan Dempsey's eyes. They had opened sluggishly and Samuel felt their gaze pass over his face and then fall away without really seeing him. When Don Juan's damp hand settled on Samuel's and moved it back to his cheek, he knew. There had been a time in his life where the sort of thing he was being offered had been familiar to him. "You are too out of it to even know who I am. I could be anyone. Do anything to you," he said quietly to him, but he let him keep his hand, that slowly warmed. He was not scolding him. His tone of voice remained flat—if there was anything to it, it was a hint of regret, for finding himself in this predicament.
He relaxed the grip on the other man's shoulder because his arm started to tire, and felt the weight of his body slump against his side like a wet sack of sand, devoid of any tension. Samuel tensed at the impact. He had come here to tend to his own vices in peace. The choice of venue was to keep that sort of thing away from the places where he conducted his regular life, so that his habits might remain unaffected. There was a balancing act to self-destructiveness, one that required close attention. Being confronted with Don Juan in this state was distracting him from his plans and it was, frankly, jarring. He knew well that years ago someone might have found Samuel Griffith in a similar state somewhere in Paris, or that he himself might have happened upon someone like Don Juan and taken advantage of the offered opportunity. He did not wish to ponder the nights he had spent in some godforsaken corner in Montparnasse as a younger man, sleeping and waking to swat away wandering hands from his legs.
Yet, just like in Paris many years ago, something in his heart forbade him to extricate himself from this séparée and leave Dempsey to his fate of, in the best case scenario, getting his pockets emptied and his watch taken. Merlin knew that Samuel Griffith was not the saviour of just any lost moth and nightingale he crossed paths with. Why was Dempsey of all people any different? At the dinner party they had not parted ways on friendly terms. Samuel felt certain that the other man despised him.
"I suppose I can stay around until you have sobered up enough to remember that you dislike me," he said dryly. He had something on him to speed up that process, but getting the dosage right was difficult. Too much and it would send a man who was too corrupted running straight for the next indulgence to escape the sickness.
Sam glanced towards Don Juan and it struck him for the first time that his willful features reminded him of someone—even more so now, that he was a bit older than in Montparnasse, and had sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He averted his eyes and extinguished the red flame and it was dark again.
He relaxed the grip on the other man's shoulder because his arm started to tire, and felt the weight of his body slump against his side like a wet sack of sand, devoid of any tension. Samuel tensed at the impact. He had come here to tend to his own vices in peace. The choice of venue was to keep that sort of thing away from the places where he conducted his regular life, so that his habits might remain unaffected. There was a balancing act to self-destructiveness, one that required close attention. Being confronted with Don Juan in this state was distracting him from his plans and it was, frankly, jarring. He knew well that years ago someone might have found Samuel Griffith in a similar state somewhere in Paris, or that he himself might have happened upon someone like Don Juan and taken advantage of the offered opportunity. He did not wish to ponder the nights he had spent in some godforsaken corner in Montparnasse as a younger man, sleeping and waking to swat away wandering hands from his legs.
Yet, just like in Paris many years ago, something in his heart forbade him to extricate himself from this séparée and leave Dempsey to his fate of, in the best case scenario, getting his pockets emptied and his watch taken. Merlin knew that Samuel Griffith was not the saviour of just any lost moth and nightingale he crossed paths with. Why was Dempsey of all people any different? At the dinner party they had not parted ways on friendly terms. Samuel felt certain that the other man despised him.
"I suppose I can stay around until you have sobered up enough to remember that you dislike me," he said dryly. He had something on him to speed up that process, but getting the dosage right was difficult. Too much and it would send a man who was too corrupted running straight for the next indulgence to escape the sickness.
Sam glanced towards Don Juan and it struck him for the first time that his willful features reminded him of someone—even more so now, that he was a bit older than in Montparnasse, and had sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He averted his eyes and extinguished the red flame and it was dark again.
