He felt how Don Juan balked at the callousness of his reminder. Yes, Don Juan in the throes of withdrawal could not be expected to control himself. But when he asked for that last dose, he was already flying on more than double the usual, bedded on pleasure. He was taken care of. That last request had been casually and intentionally self-destructive, with no need to drive it — perhaps it even was a provocation towards Samuel, to demonstrate he would stay true to his words even if it meant destroying Don Juan — or go back on his promise and do the right thing and say no. Either way, Don Juan did not care about either of them and shirked all responsibility onto Samuel. Sam knew that and he recognized it from elsewhere and it had made him viciously angry. Now he thought, looking at his face, that he did care about him. He felt a twisted sense of belonging and ownership. And he thought that he was no more cruel to him than he would be to himself.

"Fuck you," the man muttered as he dropped the first dose of the antidote under his tongue. Samuel smiled at that, and then his world split into pain.

"Don't — I can't —" he heard his voice like from far away, overwhelmed by anguish. His hands clung to Don Juan's drenched shirt and his arms contracted, every muscle in his body contracted and drew him into himself, pulling the other man downwards as he fell to his side and his head hit the floor where he curled and twitched. His stomach burned up all the way through his throat to his nostrils like fire. Sweat pearled down his back and neck and bit into his scars. His heart slowed and accelerated in unsteady increments and his vision started greying.

"You have to give me more. Three," he managed to get out.

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