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sorry it took forever to get this out! but the time has finally come xx unedited per usual

dedicated to @upsidedowhn and @enoument ! thank you for all the comment spams, you guys are the best <3

*


YIKES.

It's been thirty minutes since Dawson's safety has been threatened by Hamilton's rabid persona and he still hasn't recovered. He can still feel Adam's fingertips pressing on his skin hard enough to hurt. Every five minutes, Dawson glances at his wrist to make sure there are no bruises marking it.

One thing's for sure, though: Hamilton seriously needs to take a chill pill.

"What's your problem?" is what Dawson replied, with his voice shaking in disquiet, as he tried to pass it off as annoyance. Thankfully, that was enough for Hamilton to let go of his wrist, turning his back on him again.

This time, for good.

And that's when Dawson could finally breathe normally again; his cheeks turned back to their natural complexion; his palms soon weren't sweaty anymore; his heartbeat steadied itself.

Now, as he's distractedly alphabetizing books, while pretending to be unaffected by their heated conversation, he can't stop thinking about Adam's neck tattoo. And he's trying really hard not to let it slip his mind, repeating it obsessively in hopes of learning it by heart.

CAPTIVUS EX REGE FACTUM
CAPTIVUS EX REGE FACTUM
CAPTIVUS EX REGE FACTUM

As a matter of fact, he's so absorbed in his own thoughts that he doesn't notice Adam has already left and that the first day of detention is over.

He drags his feet back to the dorm, pouting like a kid who lost at a playground game. Luckily, he doesn't have to pretend to be in a good mood— not that he'd be expected to anyway— because Milo is already fast asleep on his bed.

Despite the early morning training, the long six hours of classes and his 90-minute shared detention, Dawson doesn't feel tired enough to hit the sack yet. And that's why he decides to write a few lines of his essay for Mr. Thornbury. He hastily grabs his laptop trying to be as quiet as possible and starts typing in the complete darkness of his room. His eyes burn from the light of the screen, or maybe he's just exhausted.

Either way, the essay isn't going to write itself and he has the feeling it might take more than a mediocre essay to top Adam fucking Hamilton in Honors English II.

He baptizes it with the name American Fallacy and feels instantly delighted by how good it sounds.

The drawback of adrenaline starts kicking in before he's through the first page. His eyelids are fluttering closed and he can feel himself losing focus. He shuts his laptop closed and heads towards his bed, already savoring the softness and comfort of the mattress.

It's been a long day for Dawson, yet he finds himself struggling to fall asleep. Even in the sheer darkness of his bedroom, he can see Adam's enraged face as he mutters "don't fucking touch me again" and it sounds like a threat; it sounds like Dawson might just have crossed a line.

The last thing he wants is for Hamilton to annoy him in his sleep too. That's the only sacred time he doesn't have to deal with people's bullshit.

"Having trouble falling asleep?"

"Uh-huh."

Dawson can hear Milo's bedsheets rustling as he turns to face him. "Me too," the boy chirps.

Silence fills the air between them and Dawson lets out a little sigh. He's hoping to nip the incoming "pillow-talk" in the bud, but Milo clearly has other plans.

"Can I ask you a question?" Milo insists, his voice is shaky. It kind of gives the idea he was not keen on voicing his thoughts and he regretted doing it halfway through the sentence.

Dawson is still facing the ceiling with his head propped up against his hands firmly clasped behind the nape of his neck. "Sure."

"It's stupid, really. It's OK if you don't feel comfortable telling me..." Milo babbles.

"Just ask me."

Dawson's peremptory tone makes Milo fret before he finally finds the courage to speak up.

"Have you ever been in love?"

Initially, Dawson is taken aback by how personal that question is. However, something tells him that that particular question is really not about him. It seems like a desperate attempt to open a dialogue between them.

People call it bonding, although Dawson was never a fan. Getting close to others hugely complicates things and he's not a fan of complications either.

"I haven't," he answers bluntly and Milo catches his breath.

"I wouldn't know, actually," Dawson adds after a few seconds.

"You don't know if you've ever been in love before?" Milo sounds surprised. As if being in love is the most natural thing in the world for him and cannot wrap his mind around the idea of someone not feeling the same way about it.

"If I have, then I don't really get what all the fuss is about," Dawson admits with a little shrug.

"Well, it's easy,"

Dawson scoffs, "Is it?"

"Yep," Milo can't wait to share his expertise in the field with his new friend and let him know all the symptoms you can experience while falling in love.

"First sign is when you find yourself thinking about them a lot," he explains enthusiastically. "Multiple times a day and in the most random situations."

"What if you hate that person? You still think about them, but that doesn't mean you're in love with them."

Milo chortles. "Touché."

"Is that all?" Dawson teases.

"Butterflies."

"Wait, is that a real thing?"

"Yes," a quick whisper escapes Milo's lips and Dawson dare not to dig any deeper. He knows who the boy is thinking about. He knows who's giving Milo butterflies.

"And, every time that person is near, your heart starts beating like a hammer in your chest and your breath gets shallow and your hands get sweaty..."

Dawson gulps hard.

His stomach almost makes a backward flip and he curses under his breath. Then, he lapses into a fazed silence.

"Are you OK?" Milo asks after a few seconds.

"Yeah... just can't relate," he feigns a smile, although he knows the boy can't see him.

"I know it sounds awful from my description, but it's actually a pretty nice feeling," Milo justifies as if he's trying to convince him that he should give love a shot.

He should be hired for Valentine's Day chocolate commercials. Dawson thinks, trying to suppress a fit of laughter.

"Do you feel like that about Calliope?" he finally asks, although he already knows the answer and that's so typical of him. Every time the conversation starts drifting in a direction that makes him comfortable, he just jumps ship.

Milo murmurs, "Is it that obvious?"

"Not to her."

"Do you think I should step forward? You know, make a move," Milo's voice is strained. It's probably not the first time he has this conversation and definitely not the last.

"Sure."

Truth is, Dawson doesn't know what he's doing. He's never had to give advice to anybody but himself. For all he knows, he could be the worst advisor and he almost wants to warn Milo not to take his words too literally but refrains from doing it.

Against all odds, he's quite enjoying their late-night conversation. He likes how Milo wants to be his mentee, although he has no experience to offer to him.

How can he, with his arid heart, teach anything about love to a hopelessly-in-love boy who has the courage to willingly put himself through all that day after day?

Because, maybe, that's what love is about. Courage. And Dawson was never quite brave enough to allow himself to feel anything other than nothing. The one time in his life he could smell heartbreak coming, he just decided he wasn't going to risk it.

He was going to pretend not to have a heart because, after all, you can't break something you don't have in the first place.

"But what if she rejects me?" Milo continues. "I mean, you saw her. She's a 10... and I'm barely a 6."

To Dawson, Milo is easily a solid 7, but that's beyond the point. Hence why he decides to take a different approach:

Denial.

"There's no such thing as tens or fours or sevens, Milo" he patiently explains, running his hand through his hair. "I think it's pretty subjective."

Milo grins. "Spoken like a true 10."

Dawson laughs and Milo follows until the cheerful sound has died out and they're both just lying there in silence.

"Do you like her?" Milo asks and Dawson almost jumps before the red-haired boy has the chance to finish voicing the dreaded question.

"Who?"

"Cal."

Dawson smirks, "You said you'd only ask me one question."

"I thought... I was..." Milo fumbles in confusion.

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," Dawson quickly reassures him. The last thing he wants is for Milo to get hot and bothered over that.

"Oh," the boy seems to be able to breathe again, "well, do you?"

"No."

"Cool," Milo says, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, but Dawson can feel him smiling through the wall of darkness dividing them.

He snorts, "Yeah, cool."

Once again, silence follows, only this time it is interrupted by a soft snoring sound coming from Milo's bed and Dawson could swear he's heard a little 'night, whispered as loud as the buzz of a bee right before the boy fell asleep.

He decides to call it a night too, but not before he's reminded of the one thing that waged a cold war between Hamilton and him: his neck tattoo. And Dawson is determined to find out what that means.

If he's going to have to fight, he at least needs to have a weapon in hand. Well, that's what he tells himself anyway.

He stretches out his arm and reaches for his phone, lazily typing into the search bar captivus ex rege factum.

It takes him a while to put all the pieces together in a way that makes sense since Dawson has never once in his life taken a Latin class. But, when he finally does; when he finally manages to translate Hamilton's tattoo, the satisfaction is immense. And so is the bewilderment.

Captivus ex rege factum.



A king made into a prisoner.

*

DAWSON SPENT HIS first weekend at Wharton High,

a) writing Thornbury's essay;

b) giving Hamilton the silence treatment during detention.

It is also important to highlight how Adam didn't once spare him a glance, whereas Dawson couldn't help but shoot him several murderous looks throughout their forced evening gatherings.

They didn't say "hello" nor "goodbye" to each other, they only opened their mouth to breathe and, most importantly, Dawson didn't touch him once, not even a little, not even by accident.

Of course, it's not like the thought even crossed his mind, but, for some inexplicable reason, after two days Adam's words still echoed in his head and they were this close to driving him nuts.

"Don't fucking touch me again."

What a freaking whack-job. Who wears turtleneck sweaters in September just to hide a tattoo?

No one cares about his stupid tattoo anyway.

And if that weren't enough, they were also forced to sit next to each other at Philosophy and Dawson dreaded every single minute of it.

He also quit making sarcastic comments. It was no fun with him, anyway.

On Monday, Dawson handed in his paper about the American Dream. Thornbury beamed as the essay slid into his hands. Oddly, he didn't look quite as surprised as Dawson expected. It was almost like he knew Dawson would do it. Call it teacher sixth sense.

As he walked back to his desk with his hands jammed into the front pocket of his hoodie, his eyes briefly met Hamilton's. He grinned wryly, but Adam instantly shied away like a deer flashed by high-beam headlights and their mute interaction was over before it even began.

Thursday came and so did the graded papers.

Dawson knew he nailed it the moment Thornbury stepped into the classroom and furtively smiled at him. But nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the sheer pleasure he felt when he saw a bold red A+ on the top right corner of his essay. And, just below the mark, there's a small scribbled annotation that reads "Don't make me regret this".

"Great job, Dawson," Calliope congratulates him. "I got a B+. Definitely could have done better."

But Dawson doesn't hear that over the sound of the class in turmoil. Not to mention, he's been trying to read Hamilton's stolid expression for the past five minutes. "Uh-huh," he nods distractedly.

All he's interested in knowing is if he did better than Hamilton.

"Settle down, everyone," Thurnbury's voice has the power to instantly make everyone go quiet and just listen.

"Now that I have your attention, I want you to know that all your papers exceeded my expectations. I can consider myself satisfied with the content and critical reasoning I found in every single one of them," Thornbury continues. "But there's only one of you who did an outstanding job and that is why I chose to reward him."

Dramatic pause.

"It's you, Dawson."

The class starts clapping in unison, but the cheering ceases almost instantly as everyone realizes in astonishment that the best mark was, in fact, given to Dawson and not to Adam. Their eyes fly from Hamilton to him like frenzied darts. No one saw it coming.

Needless to say, Dawson is wallowing in pleasure, but-- being the good sport that he is-- he's also trying really hard to hide it. Or maybe he's just saving it for later. Either way, he feels like he just might have won the first battle.

As a matter of fact, Adam has been glaring at him ever since his name left the teacher's lips.

But, when Dawson allows their eyes to meet again, Adam is no longer glowering. A challenging glint is sparking up his fierce blue eyes.

Dawson grins with confidence as he slouches back into his chair.

Checkmate, king.

*

HIIII LOVES!!!!!

I'm so sorry I know this chapter was super meh, but I promise great things are coming!

will Dawson and Adam ever get over their communication problems? find out in the next chapter!

if you liked it, please don't forget to vote and comment because that's literally the highlight of my day

ok bye ily!

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