He was too indulgent to get rid of the letters. Don Juan knew it was the sensible thing to do. He knew keeping them wasn't doing him any favors. He knew pulling them out and rereading them late at night, trying to memorize that one critical phrase in every language, was self-destructive... but like so many other things that wrecked his insides, he couldn't simply stop.

Dean Hudson wanted to be stupid about this. This left Don Juan in the most unfortunate position of having to be the responsible party, between the two of them. It wasn't a mantle he wore well. He was never cut out for being responsible, which was why he had so far failed to respond to Hudson's last letter. He knew what he ought to say, but couldn't bring himself to say it.

He was looking for distractions when he went to the party today. He didn't have the ability to be particularly choosy about where he spent his time these days; his pool of society invitations had shrunk significantly since his exile in Spain. When he was invited, like today, he was more often present as a curiosity for the other guests than as one of their members. Don Juan the infamous; here to regale with tales of his iniquity. He didn't mind the role. Acting blase about everything that had happened to him over the past two years was the best method he had found of coping with it all; having an audience for whom to pretend confidant nonchalance was a boon for him. So he was looking for that, for a chance to lose himself in the overblown persona society had created for him — instead he found Hudson.

"Excuse me," he said to his conversation partner, abruptly. "I need a cigarette."

He met Hudson's eyes, a regrettable accident, and fled to the patio.

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