Griffith had already taken it, just like that. It was funny how quick it was when it happened to someone else, when it ended with the drop hitting the tongue. Every time Don Juan had taken it the action had been wrapped up in emotion, which made it seem to stretch both before and after the act itself. There wasn't much left, Griffith said. That should have been a data point Don Juan could use to determine something, how long they'd been here or how much he'd had since the last time he was sober or something, but the truth was he had no idea how much it had taken to push him to the brink of death, and only the vaguest sense of how much Griffith had started the evening with. Part of the information diet that left Griffith in control and Don Juan dependent on him. It could have been any time, any day. He wouldn't know it was time to leave until Griffith told him it was, and that would only happen after Griffith had stopped supplying him, slowly cut him off and managed his transition back towards something that wasn't sobriety but passed for it.
Griffith wasn't weaning him off it now. The dropper was already filled, poised just above his nose. He said Don Juan had a choice, said he would put him in his bed if he didn't want it. Don Juan looked at the liquid in the dropper and let the rest of his vision unfocus for a second. He shouldn't want it. He should have had some feeling about the other side of Griffith's offer, the phrasing of it — put you in my bed. The pronouns. He should have felt something about that. He could not grasp what; he noticed the absence of the reaction but couldn't conceptualize what was meant to be in the space it left. If Griffith was going to take advantage of him, he could have done it already. Sometimes when Griffith looked at him, he saw someone named Kazimir. His ephemera.
The liquid in the dropper warped the light. Don Juan was sitting in a puddle of cooling blood-tinged water wearing only half his clothes. It had never really been a question, had it? He wasn't going home like this. He wasn't going to Griffith's bed like this, either. He took the dose and sat back on his heels, looking up at Griffith and waiting for it to hit.
Griffith wasn't weaning him off it now. The dropper was already filled, poised just above his nose. He said Don Juan had a choice, said he would put him in his bed if he didn't want it. Don Juan looked at the liquid in the dropper and let the rest of his vision unfocus for a second. He shouldn't want it. He should have had some feeling about the other side of Griffith's offer, the phrasing of it — put you in my bed. The pronouns. He should have felt something about that. He could not grasp what; he noticed the absence of the reaction but couldn't conceptualize what was meant to be in the space it left. If Griffith was going to take advantage of him, he could have done it already. Sometimes when Griffith looked at him, he saw someone named Kazimir. His ephemera.
The liquid in the dropper warped the light. Don Juan was sitting in a puddle of cooling blood-tinged water wearing only half his clothes. It had never really been a question, had it? He wasn't going home like this. He wasn't going to Griffith's bed like this, either. He took the dose and sat back on his heels, looking up at Griffith and waiting for it to hit.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3