Picturesque. Better word than domestic. Don Juan thought he was capable of being picturesque, at least for brief flashes here and there. Long enough to strike a pose and capture a moment. He understood aesthetic. He'd never really understood how to coexist with somebody.

He felt the glass slide out, and felt the cool air and the warm blood rush in to the gap it left behind. He was briefly dizzy with sensation, but Griffith was right; he was past the point of hurt. This was what he'd wanted, when he'd asked Griffith before to give him more. He'd been chasing after this feeling, not the disassociation that came after, and definitely not the numbness beyond that. He shivered and flexed his toes against Griffith's hand. "When I come down some, I need to go home," he commented. No more of this for him tonight. He shouldn't have had this dose; he should have been in withdrawal. He should have gone home already. It would have been the worst withdrawal of his life, probably, coming back from so much and coming down so quickly, but it probably wouldn't have killed him. He should have ridden out the night in a hospital, given his mother the scare of her life, and then sobered up when he finally came out the other side of the sickness in a few days. But he hadn't done that, he'd asked for another dose, enough to hold back the ocean. The next time he hit withdrawal it should be easier, if he came down slowly and gently and he didn't have any more in the meantime. If he could just stomach his way through one, maybe he could get clean after that. If anything was going to scare him sober, it would have to be tonight, wouldn't it?

He wasn't scared of anything, at the moment. He wasn't sure what choice he would make when he came down. It seemed like such an entirely distant prospect.

"You're wearing too many clothes for a bath," he pointed out, tapping a toe on Griffith's blood-stained trousers.

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