Don Juan took the introduction of a second finger as a gesture of approval. He leaned in and ran his tongue across them both, his eagerness to please offset by the languidness the opium infused in his every action. The other man held his face, which fit the pattern of the interaction Don Juan presumed they were having. He lowered his own to meet Don Juan's eyes, which didn't. He rarely came face to face with these sorts of people, in these sorts of places. This wasn't an intimate situation. They had nothing to say to each other, and no need to exchange tender kisses. Seduction was unnecessary. Don Juan, eyes still glazed, blinked at the other man in confusion.

"No," he admitted. He had nowhere to go, not in a moment like this. He lived at his parents' house, but he wouldn't go there while he was this inebriated. He had a fairly regular room at the club, Atlantis, and he had stumbled there in a stupor some nights to sleep things off, but he couldn't bring company to a room at a gentleman's club. More often he followed other people to their homes, their rooms, their beds, whether or not he was actually sleeping with them.

"You can get a room on credit," he suggested sluggishly. Which inn, brothel, or boarding house he didn't especially mind. He had not fully grasped the reasons why they couldn't just stay here — Don Juan was already on his knees — but trusted that the man had a reason. "I'll pay it when I'm sober."

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