The muscles in his back tensed. The steam dissipated and revealed the ruin of this room. Water covered the floor, interspersed with broken glass. Water condensed on the ceiling and dropped down on them. It ran down the walls. Samuel felt awake again. The fight he fought with himself got pushed back and deeper into him, and he felt the buzzing settling under his skin. Don Juan knelt on the floor. His suspenders hung in the water, and his trousers were soaked, and his cut feet were streaked with red. Where his arms hung into the bath, they were white and clean, and the rest of him was sticky and dirty from rolling on the floor, from the violence of this night. It was strangely appealing. He thought that it suited him better than the evening wear he wore at the dinner.
Despite Don Juan being less exposed, Samuel felt that his own bare and cleansed body lorded over him a dignity Don Juan had not recovered. "You look a mess," he said to him, not without appreciation.
"There are always more secrets. The trouble with a secret life is that it is very frequently a secret from the person who lives it," he said. It was a quote, whose author eluded him. With a sudden movement, he bent down to Don Juan and grasped his face with both of his hands, coming closer and pulling him upwards to him. It could become a kiss, this sudden burst of energy and motion; maybe that was the source of the impulse, but it got redirected to something else; they locked eyes and Samuel sharpened his mind to a knifepoint and pierced the veil. Images flooded by, unsorted. He was not looking for anything specific this time, just took in whatever came up. He pushed forcefully and drew back quickly—he was messing with Don Juan. Toying with him, perhaps cruelly. "And," he asked, inches from his face, "did you feel that?"
Despite Don Juan being less exposed, Samuel felt that his own bare and cleansed body lorded over him a dignity Don Juan had not recovered. "You look a mess," he said to him, not without appreciation.
"There are always more secrets. The trouble with a secret life is that it is very frequently a secret from the person who lives it," he said. It was a quote, whose author eluded him. With a sudden movement, he bent down to Don Juan and grasped his face with both of his hands, coming closer and pulling him upwards to him. It could become a kiss, this sudden burst of energy and motion; maybe that was the source of the impulse, but it got redirected to something else; they locked eyes and Samuel sharpened his mind to a knifepoint and pierced the veil. Images flooded by, unsorted. He was not looking for anything specific this time, just took in whatever came up. He pushed forcefully and drew back quickly—he was messing with Don Juan. Toying with him, perhaps cruelly. "And," he asked, inches from his face, "did you feel that?"
