March, 1888 — Hudson's House, Bartonburg
No, no, no. The refrain had been repeating in his head for what felt like an eternity, though the subject of his agitation changed. He had been lying stationary in the bed but still felt like he was reeling, and from time to time his stomach lurched and he had the urge to vomit and he thought no, no, no, please don't be so embarrassing — as if it were not humiliating enough just to be in this position in the first place. Hudson was here, somewhere — Don Juan had been mostly insensible but he had caught snatches of his voice muttering indistinctly, in languages Don Juan was too far gone to recognize, and caught undercurrents of his scent here and there. Although he couldn't make out any of Hudson's words, he knew he was anxious, and disappointed, and angry — he didn't need to be near him to know that. He'd been making good on his promise from January, with some bumps along the road, but now — no, no, no.
In the sober light of the morning after their last conversation Don Juan had promised Hudson he'd never stay more than an hour at that sort of party. Two weeks later he'd shown up reeling again, after only ninety minutes of socializing with those sorts of friends but where things had gone harder than intended. New promise: only one per night, whether it was a pill or a puff of smoke or sip of a potion or something else. Then a week later, when that too had proved insufficient: okay, I'm done; no more. I'll stop. Nothing but alcohol in his system from then on out, and he'd stuck to it. Until Hudson left town.
You're no fun any more, Dempsey, his friends had said when he turned down a vial of something unspecified. It wasn't the first time this criticism had been leveled at him since he'd stopped indulging in the things they did, but this time hit a little harder. On other nights if they all got into something, he could slip away, back to Dean's, which was where he wanted to be anyway. But Hudson was gone for two more days, so tonight he had nothing to run away to, and nothing to distract him from the judgemental way they looked at him, or the way they kept poking fun at his expense. He was drunk, and Hudson was gone... and eventually he'd agreed. One little vial; what harm could it do? Hudson was never going to know. One vial, nothing else, and Don Juan would be sober again long before he came back, and on the other side of whatever withdrawal followed.
(He'd never had to contend with withdrawal before this year; not seriously, anyway. When he felt discomfort setting in, he usually just reached for something else — never let himself stay entirely sober long enough for it to set in. But now that he was trying he was running into it every time he slipped up. It wasn't pleasant).
The way his friends had laughed after he took it alerted him to the fact that he'd bitten off more than he bargained for, but he still didn't realize how much until the substance hit him fifteen minutes later. He'd lost the whole rest of that night, and most of the next day. At some point he must have taken other things, too, kept readily supplied by friends who still thought this was fun. At some point he'd staggered into Hudson's empty house — thinking Hudson was already home, or knowing that this was the safest place to come down even if he wasn't? — and curled up on the floor, still clutching a satchel of pills his friends had pressed into his hands on the way out (for an easier comedown).
He'd been following through on his promises, he'd been trying the way he told Hudson he would, and now — no, no, no.
The other thing was that he felt like he was dying. He was sweating enough for it to stand out on his brow and mat his hair. He kept shaking. Everything hurt. His muscles could have fallen off at any moment and he wouldn't have been surprised. His insides kept seizing in unexpected ways, and suddenly he'd think I can't breathe, I'm going to die or my heart stopped, this is it or just the common refrain: no, no, no. He wanted something to soften it, anything that would numb him. He'd asked for it — begged — but if Hudson was listening he wasn't caving. You don't understand, this hasn't ever happened to you, he had thought — or said — or screamed. It was hard to remember which. This isn't about your feelings, just fucking give me something.
Time passed and things cycled and Don Juan regretted his agitation, and wondered if he'd said it out loud, and thought no, no, no. Please no.
He'd told Dean once that he'd gladly spend the rest of his life rewarding him for his patience, while he worked through this — but this was a spoiled promise now, because either he was going to die before he could make good on it, or there was no coming back from this.
M - drug use/withdrawal
In the sober light of the morning after their last conversation Don Juan had promised Hudson he'd never stay more than an hour at that sort of party. Two weeks later he'd shown up reeling again, after only ninety minutes of socializing with those sorts of friends but where things had gone harder than intended. New promise: only one per night, whether it was a pill or a puff of smoke or sip of a potion or something else. Then a week later, when that too had proved insufficient: okay, I'm done; no more. I'll stop. Nothing but alcohol in his system from then on out, and he'd stuck to it. Until Hudson left town.
You're no fun any more, Dempsey, his friends had said when he turned down a vial of something unspecified. It wasn't the first time this criticism had been leveled at him since he'd stopped indulging in the things they did, but this time hit a little harder. On other nights if they all got into something, he could slip away, back to Dean's, which was where he wanted to be anyway. But Hudson was gone for two more days, so tonight he had nothing to run away to, and nothing to distract him from the judgemental way they looked at him, or the way they kept poking fun at his expense. He was drunk, and Hudson was gone... and eventually he'd agreed. One little vial; what harm could it do? Hudson was never going to know. One vial, nothing else, and Don Juan would be sober again long before he came back, and on the other side of whatever withdrawal followed.
(He'd never had to contend with withdrawal before this year; not seriously, anyway. When he felt discomfort setting in, he usually just reached for something else — never let himself stay entirely sober long enough for it to set in. But now that he was trying he was running into it every time he slipped up. It wasn't pleasant).
The way his friends had laughed after he took it alerted him to the fact that he'd bitten off more than he bargained for, but he still didn't realize how much until the substance hit him fifteen minutes later. He'd lost the whole rest of that night, and most of the next day. At some point he must have taken other things, too, kept readily supplied by friends who still thought this was fun. At some point he'd staggered into Hudson's empty house — thinking Hudson was already home, or knowing that this was the safest place to come down even if he wasn't? — and curled up on the floor, still clutching a satchel of pills his friends had pressed into his hands on the way out (for an easier comedown).
He'd been following through on his promises, he'd been trying the way he told Hudson he would, and now — no, no, no.
The other thing was that he felt like he was dying. He was sweating enough for it to stand out on his brow and mat his hair. He kept shaking. Everything hurt. His muscles could have fallen off at any moment and he wouldn't have been surprised. His insides kept seizing in unexpected ways, and suddenly he'd think I can't breathe, I'm going to die or my heart stopped, this is it or just the common refrain: no, no, no. He wanted something to soften it, anything that would numb him. He'd asked for it — begged — but if Hudson was listening he wasn't caving. You don't understand, this hasn't ever happened to you, he had thought — or said — or screamed. It was hard to remember which. This isn't about your feelings, just fucking give me something.
Time passed and things cycled and Don Juan regretted his agitation, and wondered if he'd said it out loud, and thought no, no, no. Please no.
He'd told Dean once that he'd gladly spend the rest of his life rewarding him for his patience, while he worked through this — but this was a spoiled promise now, because either he was going to die before he could make good on it, or there was no coming back from this.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3
![[Image: Dean-Sig-New.png]](https://i.ibb.co/b12dTvC/Dean-Sig-New.png)