Dean was on his feet in the same moment Don Juan was, which arrested Don Juan's progress towards the exit. He rocked from the balls of his feet to his heels and felt loosely frantic. "I don't know," he said with an agitated shrug. "Maybe there isn't a point. Maybe there's never been a point." Or maybe there simply wasn't a point that he would be willing to admit to. Writing the letter was purely selfish. He'd wanted company and hadn't spared even the barest thought for what he might be interrupting or derailing in order to get it. And Hudson had come running, despite not having had more than a passing conversation in two years. The last arguably sweet thing Don Juan had said to him had been about the Greek phrase in his letter, and Hudson had a damn tattoo. What was Don Juan supposed to say about it? How was he supposed to admit to his motivations tonight? He'd wanted Hudson to say something to make him feel better, he supposed, but how self- centered was that? He wasn't the one who had died. He didn't even know if he had a right to grieve her, given how little attention he had given her in the last decade.

"I want — something stronger," he said, half because it was true and half because he thought it would hurt Hudson enough that he wouldn't try to stop Don Juan leaving.

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