your girl is in need of some loving.
i just said goodbye for a whole year to my boyfriend of 5 years and a half
it's sad girl hours for real

smol warning: use of soft drugs

DAWSON DIDN'T REPLY to that.

He and Adam stared into each other's eyes for a few seconds before embarrassment came creeping in and forced them to look away.

Hamilton's words, however morbid and gruesome, were truthful. Death was lonely. For everyone. What struck Dawson the most, however, was the tone Adam used to rebuke him. Cold and clinical. He was curt and glassy-eyed. As if to say: "I know better."

But, instead, he says, "I'm done here," then, without further ado, immediately heads out of the library.

"Well, I can't say it was fun," Dawson jests with a little shrug.

Adam's right eyebrow shoots up skeptically.

He's not much of a talker. And it's almost as if he picks out his words with the parsimony of someone who's taking pictures with a disposable camera and has just one film left to shoot on.

He only speaks when it's necessary. Everything else, he speaks with his eyes, with his lips, with his movements. It's mesmerizing and, at the same time, terribly frustrating to Dawson.

He hates Adam's silence. He wants words. He needs them. And it's such a desperate need, it's taking everything in him not to beg him to talk.

Please, say something. Anything. I can't stand the silence.

It'd be easier if he could read his every move and assign a word to each one, like a sign language, a secret one that only they can understand.

Dawson hates not being able to know what's on Adam's mind when he looks at him. If he could walk inside his mind and take a quick peek, perhaps he'd be able to listen to his thoughts and fathom the mystery named Adam Hamilton. Perhaps, then he'd finally be able to understand.

Adam glances at him one last time and it's a look that Dawson has never seen him wear.

By the end of their shared time in detention, Hamilton didn't seem eager to leave, like Dawson had predicted. As a matter of fact, he was acting in an unusual way, standing midway between Dawson and the door, with his unreadable eyes boring into him as if he expected him to know, as if he expected him to understand and Dawson just wanted to scream at his face, I'm sorry, I can't understand you!

He doesn't run off or shy away. He effortlessly bears the weight of Dawson's intrigued gaze, no hint of shame or disquiet in his fierce blue eyes.

He doesn't look eager, nor relieved. He looks like he'd very much like to stay a little bit longer, maybe help Dawson collect his things, talk about something grimmer than death. Or maybe not. Maybe, he's just debating whether he should be polite and say goodbye or just walk out. But why should he? They're not friends. Ever since they met the first day in class, they exchanged no more than ten words without insulting each other.

What do you want? The longer he lingers on the doorstep, the more Dawson wants to ask him. Eventually, he refrains from doing so in fear of angering him or startling him like a wild animal you've just crossed paths with and you're not too sure about how you should act to prevent it from having a nasty sudden reaction.

Hamilton gives him a slight head nod, right before stepping into the dimly lit hallways with his saggy satchel hanging across his body.

"Wait," Dawson shouts. The boy's cerulean orbs widen in expectancy. "Why were you late to Philosophy class?"

Adam's lips almost twitch into a smile. "None of your damn business."

Dawson lets out a short snicker. Figures.

And so Hamilton disappears into the darkness of Wharton High, leaving Dawson behind as he collects his stuff, that he unceremoniously stacks into the front pocket of his hoodie. He ponders over how Adam nearly smiled at him, pleased with himself for catching sight of it.

He can't help but wonder if, in their secret language, that could mean: "Why don't we call a truce?".

*

As the rain gives way to the warm, mid-September sun, the muddy San Francisco seems to come back to life and just in time for Dawson's first visit.

This is no ordinary Saturday. It's the first weekend since Dawson's arrival at Wharton High that he's not forced to spend at school, tidying up the dusty shelves of a library perpetually untouched by the sunlight.

Maisie-Rae convinced everyone to stop in Alamo Square for a quick break. It's a small park, situated on top of a hill. From a few spots, you can admire the famous Painted Ladies, which are nothing but a bunch of houses colored in different shades of pastel hues.

Nevertheless, Dawson is quite enjoying the view and the company. Not to mention, he can finally smell something fresher than cologne and it's like he just woke up from a coma and he's breathing for the first time.

Milo made some tuna sandwiches and tartines, while Calliope packed a couple fizzy drinks and saltines and even managed to buy some beers at a little bar in Union Square, using her fake ID from Ohio. Maisie-Rae brought some strawberries that Abraham wolfed down ahead of time.

They're now sitting in a circle on the damp grass, their backpacks turned into functional cushions, laughing about Milo's accurate imitations of Donald Trump and passing around a lit-up joint.

Abe cackles. "Man, I lost my head in San Francisco," he takes a long drag and coughs. His sinewy fingers hold the joint bounder-style.

"Pretty sure the song was called I Left My Heart in San Francisco," Milo corrects him, munching on a crumpet. Maisie-Rae starts humming the song with her eyes closed, swinging her upper body left and right while Calliope chuckles at the scene.

"You don't smoke?" Dawson asks her.

She shakes her head. "One of us has to be sober," she explains with a little shrug. "You know, just in case something happens."

Dawson gives her a puzzled look.

"We're underage," she reminds him in a whisper as if it's a secret shared by the two of them.

"I see," he nods and a wry smirk forms on his lips. "You're the mom friend."

"I'm not the mom friend!" she feigns chagrin.

He shrugs. "Whatever you say."

"Oh my God, quit making that face!"

"Yeah, Dawson, stop taunting mom," Abe snickers.

"You guys are the worst," she huffs, crossing her arms to her chest with a resigned face. Then her skeptical eyes settle on Dawson. "Why don't you smoke?"

"I'm not into it," he murmurs one second before Abraham voice chimes over his.

"Isn't that Hippolyte?" he asks in an indiscreetly high volume, drawing the bystander's attention.

Dawson has seen him before, even though he can't recall under what circumstances. He's got a million-dollar smile, perfectly combed hair– the kind you spend hours styling– and he's wearing a bottle-green polo with yellow stripes on the extremities of the collar and sleeves.

There's nothing natural about the way he looks. Everything seems to have been studied to create a character he desperately wanted to identify himself with.

If Dawson had to put a face to Wharton High, it would be Hippolyte posing for his yearbook picture. Of course, he hasn't seen it, but he can guess.

"Hey," Hippolyte greets them. "I was on my way to meet some friends."

"Hey, man," Milo beams at him like a kid, "have you met Dawson?"

"I don't think I've had the pleasure," he says. His inquisitive eyes immediately shift from Milo to Dawson, but they don't show any surprise. He doesn't look at him the way you look at someone you've never seen before. So, I do know you. "I'm Hippolyte."

"Yes, I gathered as much," Dawson smirks. "French?"

"On my mother's side," he explains with a single nod.

"We're sorry about what happened," Cal murmurs, holding out a paper bag with an open can of beer inside for him.

He takes it, looking as perplexed as ever. "What d'you mean?"

"Someone outed you," Milo reminds him in a long sigh.

They all lapse into a heavy-hearted silence and Dawson feels like a fish out of water. He feels like he's just involuntarily invaded Hippolyte's privacy, witnessing something he wasn't supposed to witness. He doesn't even know him, yet he already knows something extremely personal about the guy. Something no one was even supposed to know, but that, because of someone's lack of discretion, now everybody in school acknowledges as if it was any of their business.

Despite how uncomfortable Dawson feels, the thought of people prying into his life; going around pointing fingers as if it was a witch hunt and they were the Holy Inquisition still manages to sicken him.

Maisie-Rae seizes the opportunity to give her two cents. "I'm pan and I know how much it sucks that you didn't get to decide. It wasn't anyone else's place to tell."

Dawson's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Maisie-Rae glances at him, she knows very well that her revelation was absolutely unexpected to Dawson. Their eyes lock.

From day one, Dawson had this idea of Maisie-Rae as someone who never needs anyone's acceptance, as long as she has her own, but her gaze now tells a different story.

It tells the story of a girl who's afraid of abandonment; who doesn't want to be forgotten at the supermarket.

Maybe, her parents' forgetfulness— as she called it— did have ulterior motives. Maybe, it shall be called rejection, instead. And, maybe, Dawson got Maisie-Rae all wrong.

He feels the muscles of his face relax as the hint of a smile instantly paints on his lips. She looks away.

"That's alright, I guess," Hippolyte shrugs. "It's not like me being gay was a big fat secret anyway."

"It was unfair either way," Calliope insists.

"Not everyone feels like they can be themselves, though," he says and his eyes linger on Dawson one second too long. "At least it was me and not somebody else."

"Right," Maisie-Rae smiles ruefully. "Hopefully, it won't happen again."

"People at our school talk way too much," Abraham points out drawling the vowels of each word.

"They do," Hippolyte glances at his feet, "That's how I know that the news about my sexuality won't interest them much longer. They'll start seeking new scandals soon."

They all nod in agreement. Dawson hasn't spoken a word since the beginning of the conversation.

He stares at Hippolyte with the defeated eyes and the wounded pride of someone who was told something about himself that he was, to this day, still unaware of. And, in a way, he feels like he had the right to know before anyone else.

Dawson thought he didn't know who he was. But, maybe, deep down, he's always known. And, maybe, he doesn't feel like he can ever be different from the version of himself that he has crafted so beautifully in years of pretending. And, to his surprise, after years of pretending, he somehow managed to do the unthinkable.

He fooled himself.

But Hippolyte saw right through him. What did he see? Is he being paranoid? He's never been paranoid. His head is all over the place, his thoughts are a tangled mess. He just wants Hippolyte to leave so he can sleep in the blissfully ignorant bed he's made for himself.

"I should go," the boy finally announces. "I'll see you at school."

And so he bids goodbye to the group and takes off without sparing Dawson a single glance. He leaves with his head held high, and with him, any chance for Dawson to fathom the meaning of his words and why they were so evidently directed at him.

Dawson hardly talks for the rest of the day.

*

The last Sunday of every month is family day at Wharton High. Parents, relatives, friends can come and visit you and, although they can't stay over, they're allowed to step foot into the building that Dawson has so deliciously renamed Wharton Penitentiary.

He's being a tad overdramatic, but that's how his coping mechanism works.

He, of course, was not informed about it, but he had no reason to be. His parents are not coming to visit. His mom called him three times ever since he landed in California and the length of all conversations totals to one and a half minute.

To be perfectly candid, he has every intention of locking himself into his dorm room and passing up on every possible encounter with his friends' families, especially Abraham's moms, who saw him naked to the waist on video call for the first time.

Milo doesn't look thrilled either, but for a fairly different reason. His dad is on his way there and he looks plain terrified. He's been pacing back and forth into the room for over an hour and, by now, he has successfully managed to give Dawson motion sickness.

Then, without any warning, he veers off towards the desk and starts spasmodically typing something on the keyboard.

"Are you OK?" Dawson shuts closed the astrophysics book he was trying to read.

"I'm trying to find a way to catch mono,"  Milo pants while scrolling down a WikiHow page.

Dawson sits up on the bed, "You're gonna need about a month for that."

Milo's head jerks towards him and his face is a mix between exasperation and curiosity.

"Been there, done that," Dawson explains with a little shrug.

Milo sighs in resignation and slouches on the swivel chair, "Somebody comin' to visit you this weekend?"

"Nope."

"Are you happy about it?" he tilts his head to the side, with the face of someone who's trying to decipher a Maths problem.

Dawson has got to appreciate the effort Milo has been making in the attempt to bond. He's freaking out, but he still wants to make sure that Dawson doesn't feel absolutely miserable.

It's a new feeling, uncharted territory. No one's ever cared that much about him. No one's ever shown such dedication to get to know him. Everyone who got close to him, eventually found the receipt to return him like he was a defective piece of furniture.

He's not used to people caring about him. And he is by no means used to caring about people.

Milo's phone chimes. Their heads both turn in unison.

He whimpers, "It's him."

"Is he here?"

Milo nods ominously and, once again, Dawson just wishes there was something he could do to protect him.

Whoever had the authority to decide whether to raise him in that family environment or not clearly fucked up.

"I should go," he says and hastily walks towards the door, staring at his feet as someone who is terrified of what awaits.

"Hey, Milo," Dawson calls.

The ginger boy immediately turns around, preoccupation shades his bright blue eyes, making them look somber.

"Good luck."

Milo gives him a thin-lipped smile, then drags his feet out of the door, leaving it fully open.

Dawson has gotten used to Milo leaving the door open by mistake every other day, hence why his reaction is immediate. He stands up from the bed, dusts off his favorite pair of sweatpants and saunters towards the door scratching his head. Last night, he fell asleep with his hair wet and they're extraordinarily messy this morning.

He casts a furtive glance at Hamilton's dorm room, down the corridor.

Besides Adam, two more people are standing right out of the door. A kid who looks about 4 years old and an older man. The kid has a sweet, round face and his shiny dark hair covers most of his forehead and part of his big blue eyes. Dawson wonders if Adam looked like that as a child.

The man is tall and dignified. His expression is ambiguous like the Mona Lisa. His smile is feeble, concealed by his overgrown, yet carefully groomed beard. His skin carries the first signs of aging like battle scars. He looks exhausted, but there's no place he'd rather be.

Dawson has never seen Hamilton so happy.

He bent forward so he could talk to his little brother face-to-face, while playfully ruffling up his hair. Then, suddenly, the kid throws his tiny arms around Adam's neck, hugging him as his big brother lifts him up with ease and infinite tenderness.

Dawson's heart almost judders into his chest. He feels both fascinated and desolate. Having secretly witnessed a new side of Adam manifesting itself intrigues him, but, at the same time, a foreign feeling slips in, painfully reminding him that he's never had anything like that in his entire life. And that he probably never will.

He's never known that kind of love, so pure and unconditional. No one's ever held him like that when he was a child.

He's so lost in thought that he doesn't realize he's not hiding behind the door frame anymore. He's standing in full sight.

His gaze is so focused on Adam and his family that he doesn't realize he's not alone anymore.

"What are you doing?"

*

A U T H O R ' S   N O T E

HELLO WONDERFUL HUMANS!!!!

i missed writing my babies during these past few weeks :(

i hope you enjoyed the chapter <3 if you did, please don't forget to vote and comment. as you know, comment spams are very appreciated.

love, el.