Griffith was quiet long enough that Don Juan did close his eyes. The room smelled nice, between the clean steam and the oil that had spilled when the bottle shattered. Everything was warm. He lost track of what was happening, at least as any piece of it connected to a larger narrative arc. Griffith slipped one of his suspenders off, which required no reaction whatsoever from Don Juan. He did the other and Don Juan was obliged to lift his arm out of the bath long enough to get it free. Hands at his shirt buttons. He ought to do those himself, he thought, because Griffith had the wrong angle to reach the lower ones unless he was planning to get out of the bath... but he didn't translate the thought into action, just drifted back into the pervasive feeling of vague pleasant relaxation. He couldn't hold on to any thought more complex than this is nice for very long.

Griffith stood up abruptly. The sudden movement in a room whose timeline had seemed to be steadily lengthening was terribly disruptive. Don Juan sat back with a start and opened his eyes. Griffith was on his feet in front of him, a naked tower of flesh. Don Juan stared at his scars again. The fog in the room had dissipated. Had he been thinking logically he would have realized it was because the water was off and they'd left the door open the entire time, but in his current state he thought it was Griffith's scars that had chased it away. They had been on a cloud previously, and these things did not belong to clouds.

He didn't know what Griffith was doing when he walked away, until he moved enough for Don Juan to see what he was holding. He could see it clearly, he noted as a point of distant interest; his eyes weren't having trouble focusing now. Was he starting to come through? Was that why Griffith had that out? Don Juan couldn't remember how long ago they'd taken it last. It had just been the one dose since they'd both been forced sober, hadn't it? Or had they had already done this? Had he lost days here, in the anonymous Whitechapel address, pretending he was dozing on a cloud?

He shouldn't have more. He should stop. If Griffith returned with it already prepared in the dropper he thought he would probably open his mouth for it as muscle memory.

"What are you doing?" he asked, though he knew. He didn't know why this was the question that had come to him. If he wasn't going to take it he was going to have to leave, but the idea of getting himself out of here at the moment felt insurmountable. He rolled through his knees to a slightly different position, still sitting on the floor but closer to being able to stand. His trousers slipped off his waist and caught low on one hip. He'd forgotten he had his suspenders off. Most of his clothes, really. Had he been planning to stay? Had he planned anything?

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