Don Juan had been downstairs and entirely diverted by the way the beam of light from the fireplace smeared, blurred, and then snapped back precisely when he focused and unfocused his eyes. The fire was on its last legs, sputtering and cracking and putting out neither much light nor much heat by now, but that was fine. In the gentle embrace of the drug Don Juan didn't feel cold, and he didn't need light. He could feel his way to anywhere he needed to go... and given the ecstasy of any friction on his palms he would have likely done that even if the light had been good. Griffith had gone, and Don Juan had forgotten he was supposed to be there in the first place until he heard distantly the noise of running water.
It took several seconds to connect the sensory input to an explanation. Drawing a bath. Griffith had mentioned one before. Don Juan recalled distantly that he had been concerned Griffith would drown himself. The evidence that had lead him to that conclusion was even more distant than the idea itself, and also seemed unimportant. Perhaps he ought to go up towards the bath, he thought. He peeled himself up off the floor and drifted that direction. There was something about the steps he only half-remembered, so he had to go slow on them, testing each one with the tips of his toes.
He made it to the doorway and Griffith, sitting at the edge of the bath, looked at him with such warmth. It was only a moment and only in his eyes, but it wasn't the first time Don Juan had noticed it. Always just a little snatch and then it went away again, always inexplicable, always while they were high. There was something there, but once again it was difficult to interrogate it in his current state of mind. Relieved; the word drifted up through his thoughts, framed like a question. Griffith was relieved to see him, then masked it... possibly it had nothing to do with Don Juan at all, just at seeing another person. Perhaps he was desperately lonely, starving for any kind of company, and that feeling like all others was closer to the surface when he was high, but didn't want to admit it — particularly not to someone he disdained.
There were stars glittering over the floor. Don Juan looked at them in wonder before Griffith revealed that they were actually broken glass. Yes, of course — he'd seen the bottle shatter on the tile. He'd heard the crash. Griffith's foot was bleeding. "Dead men don't bleed," he said, though on reflection he didn't know if that was factually accurate.
He took a step out into the field of stars. He moved his foot the same way he had on the stairs, testing it before sliding his weight down. He had once seen a street performer in Turkey walk on hot coals, and afterwards someone had told him the trick was to move like this, to edge in slowly and flip the coals so that the cooler sides were up before stepping down. He didn't know if that was true but the fact had accomplished its purpose; he'd thought the other man was knowledgeable and suave and he had happily followed him back to bed four drinks later. He tried it now with the glass-and-stars, sometimes picking through them to clear tile and sometimes not, and on the other side he'd see whether it worked or whether he was left bleeding and burnt for his trouble. He didn't mind either way; nothing hurt when he was high like this. Just a different kind of feeling.
He reached the tub and looked down at the water, and for a brief moment was lost in the turbulent surface of it, transported to a sailboat caught in the waves. He'd never been seasick before. Probably he had his father's interest in sailing as a hobby to thank for that; early exposure to being separated from solid ground. Or perhaps he had just always been comfortable with the idea of being adrift.
"You'll turn the water pink," he pointed out, almost chiding.
It took several seconds to connect the sensory input to an explanation. Drawing a bath. Griffith had mentioned one before. Don Juan recalled distantly that he had been concerned Griffith would drown himself. The evidence that had lead him to that conclusion was even more distant than the idea itself, and also seemed unimportant. Perhaps he ought to go up towards the bath, he thought. He peeled himself up off the floor and drifted that direction. There was something about the steps he only half-remembered, so he had to go slow on them, testing each one with the tips of his toes.
He made it to the doorway and Griffith, sitting at the edge of the bath, looked at him with such warmth. It was only a moment and only in his eyes, but it wasn't the first time Don Juan had noticed it. Always just a little snatch and then it went away again, always inexplicable, always while they were high. There was something there, but once again it was difficult to interrogate it in his current state of mind. Relieved; the word drifted up through his thoughts, framed like a question. Griffith was relieved to see him, then masked it... possibly it had nothing to do with Don Juan at all, just at seeing another person. Perhaps he was desperately lonely, starving for any kind of company, and that feeling like all others was closer to the surface when he was high, but didn't want to admit it — particularly not to someone he disdained.
There were stars glittering over the floor. Don Juan looked at them in wonder before Griffith revealed that they were actually broken glass. Yes, of course — he'd seen the bottle shatter on the tile. He'd heard the crash. Griffith's foot was bleeding. "Dead men don't bleed," he said, though on reflection he didn't know if that was factually accurate.
He took a step out into the field of stars. He moved his foot the same way he had on the stairs, testing it before sliding his weight down. He had once seen a street performer in Turkey walk on hot coals, and afterwards someone had told him the trick was to move like this, to edge in slowly and flip the coals so that the cooler sides were up before stepping down. He didn't know if that was true but the fact had accomplished its purpose; he'd thought the other man was knowledgeable and suave and he had happily followed him back to bed four drinks later. He tried it now with the glass-and-stars, sometimes picking through them to clear tile and sometimes not, and on the other side he'd see whether it worked or whether he was left bleeding and burnt for his trouble. He didn't mind either way; nothing hurt when he was high like this. Just a different kind of feeling.
He reached the tub and looked down at the water, and for a brief moment was lost in the turbulent surface of it, transported to a sailboat caught in the waves. He'd never been seasick before. Probably he had his father's interest in sailing as a hobby to thank for that; early exposure to being separated from solid ground. Or perhaps he had just always been comfortable with the idea of being adrift.
"You'll turn the water pink," he pointed out, almost chiding.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3