No, it didn't, evidently (evidently was the perfect word choice: he was overwhelmed by the evidence of it). It might have been quite obvious to everyone including those involved that the sensible, logical thing was to move on, but it turned out it wasn't that easy to sweep mistakes under the rug. But even having recognized this, he still didn't know what to do about it. In the case of Adriana Spaans he couldn't do anything about it, not anymore. He wasn't sure he had many more options with any of the other women in his past. Elfrieda could hardly risk being seen with him now if she wanted to ever recover some semblance of a normal life, or keep her husband out of jail. And Hudson — was Hudson really much different? He might not have to worry about having his reputation ruined or having a jealous husband storm in, but that didn't mean being close to Don Juan was a low-risk affair. He'd hurt Hudson before; if he stayed, he was sure to do it again.

He shifted in the chair. He wanted to move to the sofa where the other man was and beg him to take him back, to give him another chance. He wanted to leave the country. He wanted to lock himself in his room until he could write something worthwhile; a masterpiece, an apology, art that could convey everything he couldn't say and make amends for everything he'd never done. He wanted to go to the sort of place where no one recognized anyone and get high. He wanted to go back to Lough Corrib and wade into the muddy bank and sit there all night, until he couldn't feel anything past the cold. He wanted someone to hold him. He wanted to feel as though he deserved to be held.

The problem was that he'd figured it all out too late. He had a role now, a place in the story of society which he fit into without much trouble: a worthless rake. If only he'd known that when he set out on his tour after Hogwarts. He might not have tried to seduce Adriana, or he might not have done it so sincerely. She had been so young, so bright — she could have met anyone, but then she'd met him. If he had worn the same veneer of smug disdain he brought to parties now then she would have known there was nothing in him worth derailing her life over; she would have let him pass her by, or she would have been foolish but not with her heart, and after he left she would have recovered. It was only the fact that it had been sweet, once, that doomed her. The same with Hudson, the same with Elfrieda — he had cared about them too earnestly and too honestly, and now they were stuck with the scars of it. (He had been dishonest with Valencia; maybe there was still hope for her.)

It dawned on him distantly that Hudson hadn't returned his question. He probably didn't have to; he knew the answer. Don Juan had loved him once, but there was no evidence of it in recent years. Every decision he'd made regarding Hudson was a selfish one, even if they appeared not to be. Summoning him tonight, knowing he would drop everything to come tend to Don Juan's needs. Keeping him from doing more in the fireworks room on New Year's Eve in order to protect Don Juan's ego, which couldn't stand another dose of guilt. Responding to his letters with snide remarks and trite wit, even when Hudson was being painfully sincere. When was the last time Don Juan had loved him? It hadn't survived the binge he'd indulged in after Hudson had asked him to leave; he'd taken his love and fed it to the opium.

"I should go," he said. His voice shook slightly as he put his still-untouched drink down on the end table and started to unfold himself from the armchair.

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