The drops fell on Don Juan's tongue. His eyes were dark with something; they were dark with surrender, Samuel recognized. The release of tension one held to fight, when the truth became evident that all choices lead to the same outcome. Wasn't that peaceful?
Samuel held Don Juan's head steady by placing his left thumb on his forehead and his fingers in his hair. He touched him gently this time; there was no need anymore to demonstrate anything by force. They were grooved in with this and in a perverse way Sam was thankful that he wasn't left to go through this round alone while watching over Don Juan's unconscious body—again. "I did not do anything to you in Montparnasse. Nothing happened between us," he said to him and let go of his head, feeling more sure of this memory than before. "I just sat around and listened to your delirious talking, until you came to." They had a few minutes until first signs, and he felt tired and weak still, but the knowledge of what was to come created a buzzing feeling in his stomach. It would not be as strong of course, it was a half dose—it would be pleasurable enough.
He was struck again, from the corner of his eye, by the mirror image of them. His own nude body and Don Juan's kneeling figure painted a scene no one would dare to represent on canvas and stand by. They seemed to be residing in a future, the two of them, that Samuel was still fighting with; or fighting himself from manifesting into reality. There was one more betrayal, one more desecration of himself and his convictions left for him. His heartbeat quickened. Was it from the substance? Perhaps it was caused by the different impulses that fought for dominance under his surface. He shifted his weight slightly and looked back down to Don Juan. They could go somewhere drier, to buy time. Samuel wished that somehow the arrival of the next wave would take the responsibility of this decision out of his hands.
Samuel held Don Juan's head steady by placing his left thumb on his forehead and his fingers in his hair. He touched him gently this time; there was no need anymore to demonstrate anything by force. They were grooved in with this and in a perverse way Sam was thankful that he wasn't left to go through this round alone while watching over Don Juan's unconscious body—again. "I did not do anything to you in Montparnasse. Nothing happened between us," he said to him and let go of his head, feeling more sure of this memory than before. "I just sat around and listened to your delirious talking, until you came to." They had a few minutes until first signs, and he felt tired and weak still, but the knowledge of what was to come created a buzzing feeling in his stomach. It would not be as strong of course, it was a half dose—it would be pleasurable enough.
He was struck again, from the corner of his eye, by the mirror image of them. His own nude body and Don Juan's kneeling figure painted a scene no one would dare to represent on canvas and stand by. They seemed to be residing in a future, the two of them, that Samuel was still fighting with; or fighting himself from manifesting into reality. There was one more betrayal, one more desecration of himself and his convictions left for him. His heartbeat quickened. Was it from the substance? Perhaps it was caused by the different impulses that fought for dominance under his surface. He shifted his weight slightly and looked back down to Don Juan. They could go somewhere drier, to buy time. Samuel wished that somehow the arrival of the next wave would take the responsibility of this decision out of his hands.
