DAWSON'S FOREHEAD IS dripping in sweat as he removes the mask with one hand. His blonde hair is glued to his temples like a second skin. He slicks it back and carefully lays the foil on the table next to him.

Fencing is one of the things that Dawson can't live without. It's his lifeblood. And, like all things he is absolutely great at, he'll never miss a chance to let other people know just how good he is.

Milo is not a fencer, but he said he didn't mind walking Dawson to his training and ended up staying throughout the entire session for no apparent reason. Now he's handing Dawson a bottle of water and gifting him with his signature bashful smile.

"Good job today," his personal trainer congratulates him. His name is Mr. Berger. He's French, but Dawson doesn't bother letting him know he fluently speaks his language. He's amused by the way Mr. Berger pronounces the word lunge. As well as any other word of the English vocabulary.

Dawson nods his head once. "See you on Thursday," he drawls before sauntering towards the exit door with Milo on his tail.

"I don't know much about fencing," the ginger-haired boy gasps while trying to keep up with Dawson's pace. "but you looked like a pro back there!"

"You didn't have to wait for me."

"Did it bother you?" Milo scratches the nape of his neck nervously.

"No, just thought you might have something better to do with your day," Dawson explains as he takes a quick deviation. Milo looks baffled until he realizes his friend is heading towards the emergency door and is about to push it open.

"What-- what are you doing?" he runs after Dawson. "We're not supposed to use emergency doors if it's not an emergency."

"Shortcut back to the dorm," Dawson beams at Milo, pleased that the alarm didn't go off.

"There are cameras and--" Milo tries to object, but Dawson is already ten feet ahead of him.

He doesn't turn around as he says, "You comin' or what?"

And Milo doesn't hesitate to follow him, grunting a couple of fidgety "Fuck!" and obsessively looking at the walls of the surrounding buildings in search of video security systems that could catch him red-handed. The high unkempt grass scratches his bare legs.

With Dawson Evans, breaking the rules just comes with the territory and Milo is reluctantly starting to accept that the only way he'll ever be able to bond with Dawson Evans is to play by his rules, no matter how risky or reckless. And he's going to have to juggle all this whilst also trying not to get suspended or, worse, expelled. Throughout his entire school career, he never once got detention and has no intention to start now. However, he needs Dawson to respect him enough to help him win Calliope over. She seems to like him, so maybe he can give him a few tips?

Milo feels stupid as he thinks that, but greed obscures his rationality. Hence, Dawson Evans will help him win Calliope over. Senior year is his very last chance and woe if he lets it slip away!

By the time they reach the main building, the sun has almost set below the horizon and the sky is tinged in shades of pink and blood orange.

The hallways are mostly empty, with the exception of a few people chatting by the open doors. Despite the fact that Dawson is still wearing his fencing suit and mask under his arm, he still manages to draw all attention to him. He and Milo are halfway through the hallway of the female dorms when a high-pitched voice cries out, "Hey, new guy!"

Dawson rolls his eyes, What now?

He turns around slowly, regretting the moment he decided to leave his room that day.

What truly annoyed Dawson the most about Wharton High was how everyone just stroke up a conversation with him even though they didn't know him at all. Back at his former high school in New York City people didn't talk to you. No one said hello to you, even if you had partied together the night before. Everyone minded their own business and Dawson just liked it better like that.

A tiny blonde girl is marching towards the two of them, staring right at Dawson. He holds her gaze with confidence.

He can't help but think she's quite pretty, but that's nothing new here. Apparently, money can make you attractive.

She folds her arms, giving him a flirty smile. "Dawson, right?"

Dawson nods distractedly. Something else has caught his eye. As a matter of fact, both of his eyes have already darted to the black-haired boy who's sneakily knocking at the second to last door of the corridor. He's wearing an Oxford blue ribbed turtleneck sweater, dark gray slacks and a pair of midnight blue Chuck Taylor All-Stars.

A lanky girl opens the door for him and Hamilton looks around once more in search of prying eyes and instantly meets Dawson's, but only for a split second before he disappears into the room.

"I'm Pamela, although no one really calls me that," Pamela continues, unaware of the little attention she's receiving. She giggles, "You could say I'm known as Pam the Herbalist."

Dawson gives her an absent-minded look, but it doesn't take him long to figure out the meaning of that epithet.

Her eyes are bloodshot.

"You know, word travels fast at Wharton High," she purrs, taking a step forward. "About time someone shook this place up a little."

Dawson's face is stolid. Completely unreadable. However, the people who really know him know how to read that as a sign of annoyance. Even though no one really knows him that well, because he simply doesn't let people close enough to.

"This is on the house," Pamela offers, patting a sachet on his chest. Dawson discreetly observes its contents. It's a thin square-shaped dose of something that looks awfully like LSD.

He politely declines, "Sorry, I don't do acid."

"I've got other stuff, too," she insists, carefully putting the sachet back into the back pocket of her jeans.

"In case you didn't notice," he leans in, propping his hand against the wall. Pamela holds her breath. "my body is a temple."

Her eyebrows waggle as she's about to respond, but Dawson's not done talking yet. He squints his eyes, pretending to meditate on some existential question.

"So, tell me, Pamela, figuratively speaking, why would I want to throw garbage into a fucking temple?"

She puckers her lips. "You're no fun."

"That's just sour grapes, if you ask me," he grins.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Pamela crosses her arms to her chest.

"Google it," he provides before walking off and leaving her flustered and half-cocked.

Milo follows him back to the dorm like a lost puppy and shuts the door behind him. Dawson is already undressing with his back turned on him. "What the fuck is wrong with people at this school?" he mumbles.

Sadly, his roommate doesn't seem to have the answer to his question. In fact, Milo just sits down on his bed with a disconsolate face and blurts out, "You know she's never gonna talk to you again."

Dawson slides into his long-sleeved Nirvana shirt, fixes his hair and smirks. "Good riddance."

*

Adam Hamilton only owns turtleneck sweaters.

That's the only rational conclusion Dawson could come to. And he knows he shouldn't stare at Hamilton, but he can't fucking help it when the boy exhibits a whole collection of turtleneck sweaters of different shades of blue in early September.

But then again, who is he to judge? He only owns eccentric summery shirts and rock bands t-shirts. And lots of grey sweatpants.

So when he walks into his Philosophy class at 9:10 sharp on the fourth day at Wharton High, Dawson is already wondering if the pattern of today's sweater will be cable-knit or ribbed.

Cable-knit.

"Nice sweater," Dawson grins as he opens the book on the desk.

No reply. Although, he does get a sour glance from Mrs. Remington, who has had it up to here with Dawson constantly interfering with the smooth carrying out of her lectures.

The tip of Hamilton's nose almost touches the surface of his desk as he scribbles something in a black leather Moleskine. And if his terrible, indecipherable calligraphy wasn't enough, it's not like he's making it easy for Dawson to further pry into his business. His back is practically turned on him, forbidding the undesired spectator to take part in that very private moment.

"You cold or something?" Dawson insists.

Still no reply. More scribbling. Dawson is ticking on the desk with his fingertips, licking his lips as he speculates about how to get under his skin.

"You know, I finally get it," Dawson continues, playing with his fountain pen. "You're like an emo... vampire, or something like that. Sunlight hurts and you don't talk to people you'll feed on when the night falls. Just in case you're considering feeding on me, I should probably warn you that my asshole-ry is contagious."

Adam, per usual, ignores him and continues to write whatever he's writing with a visible frown painted on his lips.

Dawson leans in, propping his forearm against the back of Adam's chair. "Mkay, so mope once if I'm right."

As predicted, Adam doesn't even flinch, still exhibiting the same pained expression as before.

"Ha, I knew it!" Dawson slams his hand on the desk, absolutely unprepared for the reaction that followed.

"Would you shut the fuck up?" Adam snaps, almost shouting in exasperation.

Clearly, he underestimated the volume of his voice, because silence falls and every single pair of eyes is now directed at him. He pulls his hair and grunts in frustration.

The professor gasps, "Mr. Hamilton!"

Dawson is tittering as he slouches further onto his chair.

"You got yourself detention..." she barks, staring right at Dawson. Adam is already wallowing in pleasure.

"...both of you," she then adds pointing at the two boys sitting in the third row.

Dawson's smile instantly drops off his face. What? Together?

"You'll be helping Mrs. Wang at the library after school for a week," Remington proclaims like a judge hammering after sentencing someone to hard labor.

"This isn't fair!" Hamilton protests, but Mrs. Remington isn't fooling around. Dawson doubts she's even capable of that. She was probably born with that pout.

Doesn't Adam know he's treading dangerous grounds arguing with her? The boy doesn't seem fully aware of the fact that she got him by the balls. Metaphorically speaking.

"Two weeks then," Mrs. Remington mutters shutting the book closed.

Dawson can see Hamilton sigh as he slides down into his chair, almost disappearing below the level of his desk. He's done fighting it.

And, suddenly, Adam's selective mutism strikes again and for the rest of the class he doesn't say a word, even his breathing is purposefully quieter.

Obviously, the two of them don't exchange one single look and, by the time the lesson is over, Dawson– gripped with unbearable tedium– has noticed three more things about the boy sitting next to him.

First, the skin between his nostrils is pierced, meaning he has or had at some point in his life a piercing right there. Dawson tries to imagine him with a septum piercing and his mouth twitches into a subtle half grin.

The second thing he notices is that there is a minuscule, faint heart-shaped birthmark on his jaw. He almost feels bad for spotting it, because it's so small it almost feels like it did not want to be seen by a stranger. It's so small that most people would only be able to see it if they were standing an inch away from him.

However, Dawson's observational skills never fail to manifest in every circumstance and he knows, as his eyes catch sight of that blemish, that he'll never be able to unsee it.

That little heart-shaped birthmark is like one of the endless details of a painting he's just started studying. You let the artwork draw your attention through its peculiar and most evident features. For Adam, they were his eyes and his tall cheekbones and sharp jawline. You only allow yourself to focus on trivialities after you took in the full picture. Except the details are anything but trivial.

The details are what make the painting worth looking at.

Dawson knows he should stop staring at him, but he's being discreet and the more he notices about him the more he wants to find out. Plus, Mrs. Remington's class is not exactly the definition of entertaining.

His interest is temporarily quenched after he notices the third thing about him. A delicate, musky scent evaporates from the pores of his skin– the exposed parts of it– and utterly subjugates Dawson's senses.

He didn't smell like that yesterday. Or was Dawson not paying sufficient attention to detect it? Either way, each time Hamilton's hand brushes the hair off his face, a wave of perfume pervades the air around them and washes over Dawson.

He's growing tired of the weird effect Hamilton has on him, so he does what every little boy in kindergarten does at some point.

He teases.

And when the bell finally rings, Dawson doesn't think twice about taunting him.

"See ya later at detention, Hamilton," he grins.

Adam shoots him a murderous look and stomps out of the classroom, but he's not even halfway through the door when he decides to turn around and goes, "By the way, assholery is not a word. You know, just in case you were thinking of using it in Thornbury's paper."

Dawson's left eyebrow shoots up.

In a matter of seconds, his skepticism turns into amusement.

He waves amiably and grins, "Don't miss me too much."

*

A U T H O R ' S N O T E:

helloooooo beautiful people!!!! i hope you're enjoying the story so far. i'm honestly having so much fun writing it. don't forget to vote and leave a comment if you like it/if you have any thought you'd like to share with me. <3