Every word of Griffith's response only made the picture he was painting more grim. Under the table — bloody hell. It was a portrait of someone with no shame, no dignity. Perhaps that had been accurate when he was in the clutches of the opium, but now he felt shame in spades. It was paralyzing. He stared at Griffith for a moment, wide-eyed and speechless. I should leave, he thought. This was not a safe place. Griffith had seen him vulnerable once and knew he could get him into that state again, if he pleased. It was there in his voice, buried under the smugness of his tone; an implicit threat. Maybe Griffith had no intention of ever acting on it, given that he'd (allegedly) stopped at his fingers in Don Juan's mouth... but there was no telling what Griffith wanted, in the end. He'd brought Don Juan here, a private location where they couldn't be interrupted, then forced him into withdrawal and made him beg for his next high. Don Juan had swallowed this concoction down with no real notion of what it was or what it would do... and Griffith had gone out of his way to mention this, to paint the picture of the scene in the opium den. Maybe he wasn't going to push things that direction, but he wanted Don Juan to know what had happened; he wanted him thinking about it. Laying down the foundation for their interaction tonight: I have all the power here; you only have what I've given you.
He should leave. He could go home, or to a friend. If whatever Griffith gave him affected him negatively, he could have someone call a healer. It might be an unpleasant night — even an unpleasant week — but at least he could be with someone he trusted. Griffith had said there was no apparition in this building, so Don Juan's eyes slid towards the fireplace and scanned the mantle for a collection of floo powder. He'd started carrying floo powder in an interior pocket for situations like this — ending up somewhere unexpected after getting too high — but he didn't know whether it was still there or whether he'd already depleted it, and he couldn't think of a way to check without alerting Griffith to what he was doing. Would Griffith try to stop him from leaving now? He'd offered it earlier, but that had been before Don Juan had begged to be hand-fed more drugs. Things might be different now.
While he was searching for an exit route Griffith suddenly rocked forward. Don Juan's eyes jumped to him and remained there, riveted. He knew what was happening, in the abstract — it was hitting him. Don Juan watched, fascinated. In spite of his growing misgivings about the situation there was a hunger in him to feel that way. His mouth was dry. (You have no fucking spine he thought. You need to leave.) The window for escape closed; Griffith was on his feet again and leaning against the fireplace, like he'd anticipated what Don Juan was thinking. Maybe he had. Don Juan wasn't sure he was capable of subtlety at the moment. He was trapped, in a web that was at least partially of his own making.
Five more minutes. He wanted it so badly.
He settled back into the chair, like it might shield him from Griffith's attention, having determined to stay. He looked at Griffith's feet so that he wouldn't have to see the man's expression. The estimate hadn't been far off. Drugs of the nonmagical variety usually took affect slowly and built as time went on — this was clearly not that. It hit as forcefully and suddenly as taking a spell to the chest. Everything seized up for a moment, then on the release it felt as though his body evaporated into mist; the muscle pains gone, the ache that had started in his back from whatever position he'd been slumped in at the opium den, any trace of discomfort. Mentally things smoothed as well. He looked up at Griffith's face and knew that he had decided the man was dangerous, but now the idea of Griffith posing any threat to him or trying to manipulate him felt almost amusing.
He let out a long, audible breath. He stretched out in the armchair, flexing his fingers and wiggling his toes inside his shoes. "Hooo, that's — nice," he breathed, taking a moment to consider his fingertips as they moved through the empty air.
He should leave. He could go home, or to a friend. If whatever Griffith gave him affected him negatively, he could have someone call a healer. It might be an unpleasant night — even an unpleasant week — but at least he could be with someone he trusted. Griffith had said there was no apparition in this building, so Don Juan's eyes slid towards the fireplace and scanned the mantle for a collection of floo powder. He'd started carrying floo powder in an interior pocket for situations like this — ending up somewhere unexpected after getting too high — but he didn't know whether it was still there or whether he'd already depleted it, and he couldn't think of a way to check without alerting Griffith to what he was doing. Would Griffith try to stop him from leaving now? He'd offered it earlier, but that had been before Don Juan had begged to be hand-fed more drugs. Things might be different now.
While he was searching for an exit route Griffith suddenly rocked forward. Don Juan's eyes jumped to him and remained there, riveted. He knew what was happening, in the abstract — it was hitting him. Don Juan watched, fascinated. In spite of his growing misgivings about the situation there was a hunger in him to feel that way. His mouth was dry. (You have no fucking spine he thought. You need to leave.) The window for escape closed; Griffith was on his feet again and leaning against the fireplace, like he'd anticipated what Don Juan was thinking. Maybe he had. Don Juan wasn't sure he was capable of subtlety at the moment. He was trapped, in a web that was at least partially of his own making.
Five more minutes. He wanted it so badly.
He settled back into the chair, like it might shield him from Griffith's attention, having determined to stay. He looked at Griffith's feet so that he wouldn't have to see the man's expression. The estimate hadn't been far off. Drugs of the nonmagical variety usually took affect slowly and built as time went on — this was clearly not that. It hit as forcefully and suddenly as taking a spell to the chest. Everything seized up for a moment, then on the release it felt as though his body evaporated into mist; the muscle pains gone, the ache that had started in his back from whatever position he'd been slumped in at the opium den, any trace of discomfort. Mentally things smoothed as well. He looked up at Griffith's face and knew that he had decided the man was dangerous, but now the idea of Griffith posing any threat to him or trying to manipulate him felt almost amusing.
He let out a long, audible breath. He stretched out in the armchair, flexing his fingers and wiggling his toes inside his shoes. "Hooo, that's — nice," he breathed, taking a moment to consider his fingertips as they moved through the empty air.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3