Don Juan's whole body tightened. That was it, then. Don Juan wasn't enough; Hudson couldn't keep doing this. It had always been heading to this conclusion. Part of him had known it from the very beginning, and he'd even said it to Dean once: I want to believe this doesn't end with me hurting you. He'd always known it, though. Maybe that was why he tried all of the gestures and notes and things, this time around — preemptively trying to make up for the hurt he would cause when he left, giving Hudson something pleasant to look back on. A weekend in Paris, sailing at the Sanditon, teasing him endlessly about the orange scarf he'd never worn. See Hudson, look — it wasn't all bad.

It hurt to keep looking at him. Don Juan shifted his eyes up to the ceiling and took a shaky breath. He'd get through this, eventually. People had left him before. Dean had left him before. In the end it was always the same: just him and all the things that never changed.

"I would like," he started, going slow through the words to keep his voice from breaking. "For you to kiss me goodbye this time."

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