WEEK ONE AT Wharton High is coming to an end and Dawson has already earned himself two weeks of detention. Technically it was supposed to be one, but Hamilton can't shut up for the life of him, hence the extension.

He is not looking forward to spending every night with Adam Hamilton.

But, if anything, his plan seems to be proceeding smoothly. At this rate, he might get expelled in less than a month and finally go back to his life in New York City.

What life, though? Mary-Ann cursed him out of her house and his parents definitely don't want him back yet. And it's not like he's dying to see them again either. He can't help but think that maybe his life in New York City isn't as utopic as he pictures it in his head, now that it's out of reach; now that he lives almost 3000 miles away from the place he used to call home.

Shockingly, he's not hating the company of Maisie-Rae, Calliope, Milo, and Abraham. They're bearable when taken in small doses. Even funny, at times.

There are some things, though, that he absolutely cannot tolerate, despite his best efforts to try and silently endure. For starters, having to share a room. Surprisingly, the problem is not that Milo is his roommate, but rather that he has a roommate in the first place. Dawson needs his personal space to be strictly personal. And, unexpectedly, moving from his Manhattan penthouse with view on Central Park to a shared dorm room that stinks like weed 24/7 isn't quite as easy as he expected. The transition is truly taking a toll on him.

He's aware of the fact that Milo is not even the worst-case scenario. There are terrible people out there, obnoxious, abhorrent individuals with very little care for personal hygiene. Deep down, Dawson enjoys Milo's company, he barely even talks and is quite tidy and mindful of other people's need for privacy, but these are not the only reasons.

He feels the irresistible need to protect him, in a way. And the worst part is, he can't even help it. It's a mechanism he cannot curb. It's like Milo's insecurities are able to trigger something absolutely uncanny inside of Dawson, a sense of brotherhood he didn't know he had, namely the willingness to take him under his wing and be his mentor. Whatever the fuck that even means.

Dawson doesn't even need to worry about his bed being invaded for sexual entertainment purposes or about finding used condoms in the bathroom. Because to be quite frank, it's not like he sees that happening anytime soon for Milo.

Besides, if Milo even thinks about breathing on his bed, he's as good as dead.

All things considered, Dawson's still trying hard to keep positive. After all, it's only for a few more weeks, or days, optimistically speaking. Maybe then he'll finally be able to get back to his fresh linen bedsheets and private ensuite bathroom.

As of now, the best thing he can do is take a steaming hot shower and hope that Milo won't need to take a leak in the midst of his stream of consciousness. The shower curtain is awfully see-through and the door lock isn't exactly bulletproof, thus Dawson can only hope that Milo was taught good manners and specifically to knock before entering the bathroom– or any room for the matter.

Twenty long minutes later, he walks out of the bathroom with a spongy towel wrapped around his hips, only to find Abe and Milo amiably facetiming. His attempt to sneak away unnoticed fails miserably the second the woman on the phone notices him tiptoeing in the background.

Abe's head jerks towards him so quickly Dawson is afraid his neckbone might have actually snapped. "Daws, my man!" he exclaims, coming up beside him. He's holding his phone up and making sure that they're both in the frame. "These are my moms. Moms, this is Dawson, Milo's new roommate."

"Can this wait? I'm freaking naked," Dawson mutters through gritted teeth, but Abraham ignores him.

Two women are staring at him in expectancy, with puzzled eyes and a tender smile painted on their lips. They're probably in their fifties, even though their trendy hairstyles and posh apparel make them both look way younger. "Nice to meet you," he finally says with a smile that was as brittle as it was quick.

"It's nice to meet you, too, Dawson. I'm Meghan and this is my wife Catherine," one of the two women beams. Her voice is sparkling and vibrant, despite being mediated by the phone. "Do you like Wharton High so far?"

Dawson is about to let them know just how much, when he catches sight of Milo, who is standing in front of him and repeatedly nodding like a shaking head car toy. Dawson replies with a skeptical glance, but doesn't question him on the spot.

"Love it!" he exclaims with confidence, sarcasm dripping heavily from his voice, and Abe's moms seem instantly relieved by the fantastic news.

"That's so good to hear," Catherine intervenes. "Abraham always wanted to attend that school, ever since he was a little bean–"

"Mooooooom!" Abe whines. "Do you really have to call me a bean in front of my friends?" He walks off with the phone and out of the room, too ashamed and engaged in the complaint to even say goodbye.

"You said that about love broccoli, too." is all Dawson can hear Catherine say before the door shuts closed.

Dawson turns to Milo in a mix of confusion and amusement. The ginger-haired boy is already looking back. "I'd like to meet your parents when I'm fully clothed if that's possible." he teases, but Milo is not having it.

His frown grows even bigger than before. "Doubt that's ever going to happen," he murmurs, settling his gaze on the ground below his feet.

"And why is that?" Dawson rubs his hair, his confused eyes still fixated on Milo.

It takes everything in him to answer Dawson's question without bursting into tears. The signs are all there: glossy eyes, trembling bottom lip, flushed cheeks, fidgety hands. "I'm the least favorite son. My brother is the prodigy kid, the football star who got a full scholarship for frigging Yale while I can't even pass my SATs."

Dawson half cringes at the word frigging, but doesn't let it show.

"And if that wasn't enough, my dad and I... we don't really get along," he sputters. "He's the reason I stuttered until the age of twelve."

"That sucks," Dawson whispers. His voice is crackly. He definitely knows a thing or two about awful parents.

Full disclosure, he could be the goddamn poster child of the consequences of bad parenting.

Milo sighs, "Yeah... it frigging sucks."

"It doesn't frigging suck, Milo," Dawson corrects him, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a white tee from his closet. Then, as he walks into the bathroom, he adds, "It just fucking sucks."

"That's what I said," Milo complains, leaning forward scared that his voice won't reach Dawson's ears.

It takes Dawson a couple of seconds to get dressed and then finally emerges from the bathroom fully clothed and exhibiting his usual inscrutable expression. He's rubbing his sodden hair with a small towel with his initials sewn in gold as he walks towards Milo, who is still on the verge of tears. "Then why don't you just say it right?"

Milo squints, "You mean why I don't swear?"

"Well, yes."

"The more you use a curse word the less impactful it becomes," he explains rationally. "then what am I going to use when I'm really mad?"

Dawson shrugs, "Are you not mad right now?"

"Kinda," he mumbles and his voice is barely audible. It's as if he knows where his new friend is going with that.

"Then say it," Dawson leans against the desk, crossing his arms to his chest and shooting Milo a defiant look.

"What?" the boy scratches his neck, nervously making his leg bounce up and down.

"Fuck," Dawson chimes, "It's easy, just say it."

Milo winces, but manages to utter a meteoric "Fuck."

"Louder," Dawson instigates, his mouth twitches into a grin for half a second before he deadpans again.

"Fuck!" Milo groans and shoots up, "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" he screams with his fists clenched, ungraciously stomping on the ground with his feet like a meat pounder.

"Are we interrupting something?"

Maisie-Rae and Calliope are standing at the door, hugging their notebooks and they're staring at Milo with disconcerted eyes.

"Cal, shit, no! I was just— we were— shit!" Milo stammers right before a pencils rolls under his shoe and almost catapults him facefirst into the pavement.

Thankfully, Dawson is there to grab a hold of him before he makes a complete fool of himself. Fencer's reflexes.

"Erm— Dawson?" Maisie-Rae's thin voice cuts in. The boy's eyes dart on her and she has to blink twice before she can continue to speak. "I met Mrs. Remington and she said Mrs. Wang is waiting for you at the library... for detention."

And, as the rest of them settles down in the room for their study group, Dawson knows he doesn't have much of a choice but to abide by the punishment he was given. And make sure he's on his absolute worst behavior.

The hallways are packed. The voices of the people surrounding him are so loud, he would kill for some good old peace and quiet, but he knows he just has to suck it up.

Besides, Adam Hamilton is not exactly the definition of a chatterbox. Crazy as it sounds, he might actually go without speaking for hours, which, at the moment, sounds like a dream to Dawson.

He takes a left turn and finds himself jostled a few steps back by someone else's body. The boy is noticeably shorter than him, but well-built and his hair is combed to the side giving him a posh look and Dawson swears he's seen him before. He just doesn't know where. "I'm sorry," he beams patting Dawson's back before hurrying away.

Dawson is doubly annoyed. He can't recall if he knows the guy or not– his face isn't memorable– and absolutely loathes physical contact. But mystery boy is gone already, thus Dawson can't do much about any of the two things.

He doesn't like other people's hands on him. It's that simple.

*

THE LIBRARY IS about to close. There's a dozen students left who are collecting their things and preparing to leave. But not Dawson. He can't leave, because he's forced to spend ninety long minutes in the company of the lovely Mrs. Wang who, so far, has proved to be anything but agreeable.

In fact, she's staring at him in disdain, possibly hoping to kill him with her death stare. Dawson's not intimidated, not quite, but he's hating every second of it.

Adam runs in the library, five minutes late and breathless, at best. He's gasping like he's just completed the New York City marathon. He doesn't even spare Dawson a glance as he sits next to him at Mrs. Wang's desk.

"You're late, Mr. Hamilton," Wang deadpans, tapping a blank piece of paper with her pen.

"Yes, I know. I'm very sorry, I was studying and lost track of time," he stammers, visibly blanching.

Dawson fights the urge to roll his eyes a full 360 degrees.

Mrs. Wang inquisitive gaze settles back on Dawson. Her attention is drawn by the Saturn tattoo he has on his forearm. She doesn't seem to like it one bit.

"Mr. Evans, are you blind?" she asks after taking a deep breath in. She looks like she's this close to losing it.

"No," Dawson sputters reluctantly.

It doesn't take Dawson more than a couple of seconds to understand where she's going with this. It doesn't take him more than a couple of seconds to ascertain that she's out for blood. "And, tell me, are you dyslexic, by any chance?"

"No."

Mrs. Wang's sharp, bitter voice is the only sound filling the whole room. "Then what's your excuse for not reading the code of conduct?

She grabs a book from the shelf, slams it on her desk and opens it in the exact spot signaled by the bookmark. She reads out loud, "It is prohibited to publicly display tattoos and piercings, was the student to have any. In such a case, the student shall take any measure necessary to cover and/or remove the aforementioned."

Dawson, of course, knew about that rule and just simply decided to disregard it. His informants let him know well in advance about her medieval distaste for any sort of detectable tattoo.

"Do you expect me to wear long-sleeved shirts in September to hide it?" he sasses, but the sarcasm only results in upsetting the librarian even more.

"You should have thought about it before you decided to mark yourself," she spats.

Dawson scoffs. Mark himself? What is this, Game of Thrones?

"Tomorrow I expect to see no tattoos. And a little bit more respect from you, Mr. Evans," she says dryly while hastily writing something on her piece of paper. "If that is not the case, I will sign and submit this formal reprimand. Three strikes and you're out of this school."

Dawson smirks. She has just given him the only piece of information he needed. Now he knows he needs to infringe the code of conduct three times and all misdemeanors ought to be bad enough to upset the teacher to the point of filling in a formal reprimand paper.

Piece of cake. He was born to be a pain in the ass. At least his talent will be put to good use for once.

"As for today, your job is to alphabetize the books of shelf A and B. You'll take a shelf each," she pauses. "Authors must be arranged by their last name, obviously."

"Detention will be over at 10 sharp and not one second earlier, have I been clear?"

Dawson shoots her a thumbs-up. He can see Hamilton nod out of the corner of his eye.

Mrs. Wang stands up, the same stern expression wrinkling her face. "Very well," she furrows her brows, "I'll leave you to it."

Having said that, she picks up her dusty purse and minces outside, her heels tapping rhythmically on the floor.

"What?" Dawson snaps, "She's just gonna leave us here?"

Hamilton ignores him, although annoyance is clearly painted all over his face and he seems to be trying to hold something in. 

"What if we don't do anything? I mean, I could just slouch on this chair the whole time and she wouldn't even know," Dawson pauses, glancing furtively at Adam. "That is, unless you're going to rat me out."

Dawson scoffs. "Then again, you know what they say," he smirks, "snitches get stitches."

Adam grunts as he stands up and walks in the direction of shelf B, fully intending to get to work. Dawson, on the other hand, is growing sick of his attitude. He thought he just wanted him to keep quiet, but turns out it's not quite as pleasant as he thought it would be. He's used to having it his way. After all, he's not asking for much. All he wants is a goddamn answer from the boy, a sound even, but, no. Silence is all he's bound to get.

Dawson rolls his eyes. "Oh, well, I guess being stuck here is enough of a punishment already," he starts sauntering in the direction of shelf A, until Adam and he have their backs turned on each other.

"Did you take a vow of silence, Hamilton?" he teases with a grin as he pulls Aesop's Tales from the heap of books on the desk beside him.

"No, you're just fucking annoying," Adam mutters.

Dawson smirks, "Tell me something I don't know."

They lapse into a long, tense silence only interrupted by the summer rain persistently ticking against the window. The library is immersed in the dim light of wall lamps, so feeble it is hard to read the authors' names running across the spine of those old books.

"I got one of yours," Adam murmurs, moving closer to Dawson, but just enough for his outstretched arm to be within his reach.

Dawson grabs the book without hesitation. It's The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen. He mindfully slips it into the shelf, right before he turns around leaning against the bookcase. "So... why are you so obsessed with turtlenecks?"

"And why are you so obsessed with me?" Hamilton fires back, causing Dawson to burst into a frisky laugh.

"Yeah, you wish," he adds once all the hilarity has died out.

Hamilton doesn't reply to that. Instead, he reluctantly goes back to his task and discards a couple of R's and E's from the shelf under Dawson's intrigued eyes.

Adam seems to be one of those people who like to take the high road, whereas Dawson can't really say the same about himself. As a matter of fact, he proudly identifies as a professional low-roader. 

Why be the bigger person when you can annoy someone who wronged you?

And, to make matters worse, Dawson's used to having everything his way and he's just not satisfied with the silence. He doesn't know why he wants to trigger a reaction so desperately, but ultimately decides to second his instincts.

And this is why he takes the low road and invades Adam's personal space by briskly pulling down the wooly fabric from his neck, partially uncovering something he was not expecting to find.

A tattoo.

CAPTIVUS EX REGE FACTUM

But it's only for a split second before Adam's hand shoots to Dawson's, grabbing a hold of his wrist and pressing so tightly it almost hampers the flow of his blood.

They exchange silent murderous looks for the longest time before Dawson starts noticing his sweaty palms and accelerated heartbeat. But that's totally normal, because he fucking hates the guy.

He whimpers.

Hamilton still hasn't retracted his hand.

"Don't fucking touch me again."

*

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

oooooooooooooOOOOOOOK

the tension is real guyz

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