hi i love each and every one of you <3

*

THREE WEEKS WENT BY and not without their difficult moments.

For one, Dawson literally struggled to stay away from Adam. And not because he was dying to be in his company, but rather because the odds turned out to be anything but in his favor.

Besides the times of forced proximity that made silent interaction inevitable, like detention at the library and philosophy class, their paths crossed more than a couple times a day in the most unusual circumstances.

Right after Dawson's fencing training early in the morning, or in the empty corridors at lunchtime, when everyone had already run towards the cloister in a mass exodus.

Of course, every single one of those accidental encounters came to Dawson with a side of shame from giving the impression of not being able to stay away from him, after being explicitly asked to.

Then again, Dawson doesn't know why he cares so much about what Hamilton thinks. He wasn't following him, even though everything seemed to suggest the opposite.

Hamilton never commented on the awkward circumstance in which they ended up being in each other's presence without meaning to. He would either ignore Dawson completely or briefly glance at him with his lips pressed together in disdain.

It was evident that their newborn acquaintance had already reached a breaking point. They dislike each other and that's all there is to that. Although, to be fair, Dawson doesn't dislike him more than he dislikes any other human being, whereas Adam seemed to brew a truly genuine, undoubtedly targeted hatred.

Besides the times when Adam spoke up about it, Dawson easily noticed it in the little daily things. Like, for example, when his forearm brushed against Adam's in class. The boy almost shivered at his touch, immediately retreating into his own personal space. That's how much Adam despises him.

Dawson stopped seeking a reaction, because, for once in his life, he was terrified of receiving the wrong one. He realized he didn't want just any reaction, much less getting barked at for an unintended ephemeral touch.

"Don't fucking touch me again," he had demanded. And Dawson remembered the fury sparking up his blue eyes. And he wasn't quite sure he wanted to witness anything like it again.

As a matter of fact, he was doing his very best not to perpetrate the behaviors that triggered Adam's scorn towards him.

Before he could realize it, he wasn't being as much of a tease anymore, not with his eyes, nor with his words. He was minding his own business, ignoring Hamilton right back, just like he so vehemently asked.

And randomly meeting every day in the hallways or in the garden was not being a very helpful coincidence in giving the impression he actually wasn't interested in annoying him any more than he already had.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Abraham's voice was far too loud for Dawson to keep focusing on his thoughts.

"Mh?"

"I've been calling you for over a minute," Abe confesses, lighting up a cigarette. Then offers the pack to Dawson, with concerned eyes, "Want one?"

Dawson shakes his head in response. Milo is also staring at him with a preoccupied frown.

"Isn't today your last day of detention?" Abe enquires.

"Yeah."

"So you've got a free weekend?" Milo gushes in a thrilling voice.

"I guess," Dawson stands up and shrugs, gifting them a nonchalant smile.

"I honestly thought you'd be more excited about it," Abe flicks the ash in an empty Campbell's can, "I mean, you hate Adam's guts."

Does he?

Yes. Yes, he does. And that makes complete sense.

He complained so much about having detention with Hamilton with everyone that people are probably just as eager for detention to end as he is, so that he'll finally stop whining about it.

"We were planning a trip to Frisco tomorrow," Milo intercedes, speaking, per usual, fast and quietly, "you can join us if you want, I mean, if you don't have any other plan."

"Sure," Dawson grabs his burgundy hoodie with his free hand, whilst holding his notebook and textbook in the other.

"I have Philosophy in 5 minutes," he adds, before rushing out of the room.

Milo smiles enthusiastically. "Oh, cool, I'll see you later," he hurries to say, stretching out his neck and finally yelling a loud, long BYEEE.

But he's already nowhere in sight, out of the room and on his way to make Mrs. Remington's day a little bit worse.

*

For the second time this week, Dawson is perfectly on time to class, swinging back and forth on his chair with his usual confident poise. Besides him and his notebook, the only other person in the room is— surprise, surprise!— Calliope Jennings.

Mrs. Remington walks in alongside everyone else on the exact ring of the bell and immediately looks at Dawson, greeting him with a skeptical raised brow. He responds with a wry smile, mocking her for her sour, uptight attitude.

"To what do we owe the punctuality, Mr. Evans?" she asks without sparing him a glance as she organizes her papers.

"I hadn't anythin' better to do."

Maisie-Rae sits at her usual place in front of Dawson. By now, he knows the shape of her body by heart. The creases on the nape of her neck, the exact width of her shoulders, her slender elbows. He named every single mole on the skin covering the inside of her arm, as if they were stars in a constellation. Philosophy bores him. Or maybe he's just too intent on being undisciplined to pay attention to Remington's lectures.

Hamilton is late to class.

For reasons beyond his understanding, Dawson is instantly intrigued by the occurrence of such an unusual event. So much, he starts playing a guessing game with himself, trying to come up with reasonable causes behind the boy's serious shortcoming. After all, Philosophy is Adam's favorite subject, or so Dawson presumes. The possibilities are endless.

Maybe he's sick. It rained for a few days and Hamilton is basically a stray cat, always romping about, stealthy and discreet, almost too discreet for anybody to notice his whereabouts.

Dawson did.

Or, maybe, he's with that girl from the other day. The one whose bedroom door he crossed with unveiled secrecy right after his eyes met Dawson's, almost advertising that something shady was about to go down in that very room. Maybe, Dawson thinks, he decided to stay the night and accidentally lost track of time in the morning.

Dawson has a genuinely hard time trying to picture Hamilton with a girl. He's just too grumpy, too petulant. No girl would ever put up with his whole brooding and, more often than not, cranky act.

That's why Dawson scratches that possibility off the list. Hamilton is just not the type to have sex and not set an alarm for the following morning. And show up late to class. Actually, the mere thought of Hamilton having sex makes Dawson's stomach tie in a tight knot.

People like Hamilton don't have sex. They're too busy being sad and mysterious and writing God-knows-what in their ungracefully ink-stained Moleskines.

He probably thinks of Hegel's triads while jerking off. No, he's not the type who's into Hegel. He's probably into Nihilism. Nothing makes sense, life has no meaning, we're all doomed. Nietzsche, take the wheel!

Maybe, he's just willingly skipping class.

Strangely, the idea doesn't sit well with Dawson, whose eyes start to restlessly inspect every entrance to the class in expectancy and he doesn't know why they're doing it and he doesn't know how to stop it either.

Perhaps, he just hopes to read the truth in Adam's eyes. Why were you late?

Hamilton walks through the door with his head low, facing the ground. He's wearing a cerulean turtleneck. His cheeks are flushed. He's been running.

To Dawson's surprise, no one minds him a single glance. Mrs. Remington and he exchange a short complicit look and Dawson almost protests, but ultimately decides to keep quiet and ignore him as everyone else did, despite the fact that he really can't.

His thoughts are focused on him, his eyes— his arms, even!— look for him against Dawson's will.

In the meantime, Remington has written the word DEATH on the blackboard and clasped her hands together, waiting for Adam to settle down on his desk.

"This is the first of this year's themed lectures. Miss Jennings, would you please explain to the rest of the class, and to the new students, what a themed lecture consists of?" Her eyes linger on Dawson as she pronounces the words "new students" with a voice veiled by spite.

Calliope looks like she's just been crowned Prom Queen.

"Every week one student will extract a theme from the bowl," she explains, pointing at the alleged bowl, which looks more like an emptied out ceramic cactus vase. "The extracted theme will be the focus of the next themed lecture. During these lectures, the class will cover multiple philosophers' ideas, cross-analyzing the topic through the centuries and the different schools of thought."

"Who decides whose turn it is to extract?" Dawson asks, leaning back against his chair.

"The class will vote for the one who made the most valid points during the debate," she clarifies exhibiting her million-dollar smile.

"And who chooses who made the most valid points?" he rubs his chin.

After all, you've got to know the rules of the game if you want to win. And it's not so much a matter of winning for the sake of it, as further proving to Hamilton that he's just that much better than he is; that his reign is over; that he can't throw the word mediocrity around like that; that he has seen nothing yet.

"Well, the class gathers up and we decide all together," Cal stares at Dawson as if she's trying to decipher his intention; to understand where exactly he's going with it.

He waggles his eyebrows. "Based on what criteria?" he scoffs. "Whether you agree or not with said points?"

Calliope purses her lips. She's done talking.

"That sounds quite arbitrary," Dawson objects, playing with his pen.

"That's democracy for you," Hamilton mutters.

Dawson smirks.

"Thank you, Miss Jennings," Remington nods approvingly, ignoring Dawson's attempt at contesting for the fun of it. "I took the liberty to choose this week's theme myself."

It almost sounds like she's about to apologize, only, she isn't.

She draws seven lines stemming from the theme-word on the blackboard. Above the line that lies the farthest left, she writes Spinoza.

"According to Spinoza, fearing death enslaves man. He believed men can only be free when they think of death least of all things," Remington explains underlining the philosopher's name twice, then starts taking note of each notion right underneath.

The class listens in religious silence.

Even Dawson finds himself paying attention to Mrs. Remington's every word, in a mix of genuine fascination and mere collection of information to use later to back up his arguments.

Half an hour later, the blackboard is hosting a gigantic concept map, summing up all the most relevant theories mentioned so far. Aristotle, Plato, Epicurus, Spinoza, Schopenhauer.

The debate is about to begin.

"The question I want to ask you today is," Mrs. Remington pauses, taking a deep breath for the sake of suspense, "do you think men should be afraid of death?"

She walks across the rows of desks holding the book open into her bony arms. "And, more specifically, what are the consequences that fearing death has on man?"

Hamilton quietly raises his hand. Dawson scoffs and raises his. Mrs. Remington squints her eyes, trying to understand his intentions, but ultimately decides to leave the floor to Dawson, who smugly beams at Adam before standing up and majestically clearing his throat.

"I think fearing death makes one more preoccupied with what comes next. To me, that implies that, in a way, fearing death pushes one to seize the day," he explains, gesticulating and capturing the audience's attention with his shimmering charisma. "I think one needs to be scared of death, or they wouldn't live at all."

The girls from the first row of desks nod approvingly, eyes glossed in fascination. There's a high chance that Dawson's words have nothing to do with their enthusiasm, but he doesn't care as long as they vote for him. He has to win the debate.

Adam is visibly unimpressed.

"Mr. Hamilton, would you like to add something? Perhaps, you have a different view on the matter?" Remington encourages.

Dawson sits back into his chair, but not before he has taken a good look around, trying to detect any signs of support on the faces of his classmates.

"I believe Evans' analysis to be quite approximative and fairly defective," he says in a casual voice.

Dawson clenches his jaw so tight he can feel his teeth grinding. His expression is stolid.

"Fear of death is... petrifying," Hamilton breathes, "It does the exact opposite of pushing one to seize the day. Rather, it hinders one's every attempt at living."

"According to Epicurus, the fear of death is the one thing that holds people back from truly accomplishing a life of blissful contentment. A life free from pain," he continues.

Then, he finally looks back into Dawson's eyes, which have been boring into him from the second he opened his mouth to contradict him in front of everyone. "We are so focused on fearing death that we forget to acknowledge life."

*

The last hour of detention with Hamilton is like a godsend to Dawson. Especially since turtleneck won the debate earlier, further proving his point of Dawson only being a blowhard. And a mediocre one at that.

He's so ashamed of himself he can't even speak. But it's not exactly like their time together has ever been breeding ground for heartfelt conversations, hence why the silence comes as no surprise to either of them.

Maybe, Adam did deserve the landslide victory he got.

Sure, his view was completely different from Dawson's on the matter. And, sure, they're rivals or, as Milo likes to call them, sworn, arch, mortal enemies. But his words really hit home. They allowed Dawson to see things from a different perspective, and embrace it, instead of rotting away in the company of his own.

Maybe, death is all you can see when it's standing right before you. Maybe, it's not see-through. Maybe, one becomes blind to life, and all the possibilities that come along with it, too scared it'll all get ripped off their hands before they get a chance to seize it.

He still fucking hates him, but he can respect him. That much he knows.

If he didn't respect him, could Hamilton even be considered his nemesis? Probably not. And he most definitely wouldn't get that much attention from Dawson.

Every self-respecting villain, in order to earn the title of "arch-enemy", has to be considered a threat by the protagonist. He has to match wits with him; be on his level. Where's the fun in competing against someone who's not even playing?

Dawsons jams his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, staring down at his feet. He's brooding. He paces around the room, passing between the rows of old books slanting wearily against one another. He stops a few feet away from Hamilton. He's finishing alphabetizing the Z shelf.

His eyes look up at Adam. "Have you ever thought about how you're gonna die?"

Dawson's question disrupts Adam's committed work of reordering. His hand is resting on the spine of a book by Émile Zola called Germinal that he has just placed on a shelf with extreme care. He doesn't look at Dawson. He just keeps quiet and perfectly still.

Dawson tilts his head to the side. "I'm sure you did. Everyone does."

Hamilton seems to ignore his question, as well as the rest of the things Dawson is saying. After all, he did ask him to stay away. Did their interaction during the debate not count? Dawson is not sure.

The one thing he's sure of is that he really wants to speak out his thoughts instead of just drowning them out, and Adam is the only person around to listen.

"I did. I do," Dawson corrects himself. His lips twitch into a subtle grin that fades away faster than it appeared.

He leans against the shelves packed with books, their edges prod his half-bent back, "I always think I'm gonna die alone, of some... incurable illness."

Adam continues to do his job, aloof and distant. Almost as if he's standing inside a bubble where all he can hear is muffled and garbled sounds.

His head turns to Dawson. His violent gaze makes Dawson heave a sigh of discomfort.

It's an odd feeling, stripping himself of his defenses like that. Standing in front of his nemesis exposed in all of his naked vulnerability. Confessing such a private thought to Adam... what was he thinking? Was he going crazy? Maybe. But he's never talked to anyone like that. He's never felt the need to discuss the things that made his heart weep with anyone. He's always taken full responsibility for it.

He thought that people only shared their personal problems and thoughts with others to find relief from the weight of carrying them all by themselves. It was a mere act of selfishness they called intimacy. As if sharing meant getting rid of. As if the other person was then supposed to take care of everything for them.

Dawson never cared for other people's problems, much less for their thoughts and he never once thought he would someday be sharing his with a perfect stranger, much less with Adam Hamilton.

And trust is then expected to stem from intimacy, as a consequence of it. But Dawson doesn't trust people. He doesn't want to trust people, because all people ever did with his trust was dispose of it as you do with worthless waste.

Adam is staring at him with dubious eyes. What does he want?

Dawson's breath is unsteady, shallow. He wants to say something to rescue his dignity, but he doesn't know what. When did Hamilton's eyes become so blue? And why does that matter now?

He grunts, annoyed with himself and annoyed with Adam for being, once again, the unaware cause of his distress.

Oh, for fuck's sake, say something already!

He clears his throat. "I'm terrified of dying. And I'm scared that no one will care enough to be around when I do. And, you're right, it can be petrifying."

Adams beams pitifully at Dawson. Two dimples show on the sides of his cheeks, right by the corners of his lips. Dawson always had a talent for spotting the most unnoticeable details.

"No point in being scared of dying alone," he finally murmurs. "We all do."

*

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

HELLO MY LOVES !!!!!!

oh, how i've missed you and it definitely hasn't been that long.

i'm so curious to hear your