hello beautiful people! here's a juicy double update for u as a xmas gift from me.
hope u enjoy!

*

dedicated to awexaray <3

*

LIKE EVERY SATURDAY morning, the school gym is completely empty. The kind of empty that makes each footstep echo in the still silence.

Dawson is not complaining, though. He could use some peace and quiet, finally, after everything that has been going on lately.

He feels exhausted, but it's not the kind of exhausted you can sleep on. Actually, he's not sure sleep would fix it. Maybe, he thinks, he needs to get used to feeling like that; like everything he's ever known is suddenly not right anymore and it takes everything in him to understand how it is possible for one person to fuck you up like that.

He hates him. He hates thinking about him and he hates the way he feels when he sees him wearing his stupid cable-knit turtlenecks. He hates the way his blue eyes bore into him, and he hates the way he choked on his breath when he touched him. But, most of all, he hates how he longs for his touch; how his words mark his heart like bruises he'll never be able to forget; how days are little bit duller when he doesn't see him wandering in the library looking like a lost visitor; like one of those people you ask for directions, but they say "I'm not from here, sorry."

Just like them, Adam is not from here. He's from a different place, one made of poetic ink stains and humid lined notebooks. He's from a galaxy of his own, where stars are high, and they dance to "My Way" with tears in their eyes. They dance like they're never gonna shine again, but they never burn out.

Dawson lays the foil on the table next to him, taking his helmet off. His forehead's damp with sweat so he slicks his hair back.

He hears footsteps behind him. They're timid and slightly hesitant.

He turns around to find Hamilton staring vacantly at him. Once again, he looks a little lost and Dawson feels a sharp stab of anxiety just by looking back at him.

Why is he here?

"Hi," Adam utters.

"Hey," Dawson casually jerks his chin up.

"Your skills are impressive," the boy says, and he sounds genuine.

"And your friend is real charming," Dawson comments, tearing his gaze away from him and settling it on the foil. His fingertips distractedly barely graze the blade.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Dennis. Big, tall, dumb," he explains.

Adam rolls his eyes. "I know who Dennis is."

"Why did he pick on you?" Dawson's lips are pressed thinly together, but he's still avoiding Adam's glance and it's taking everything in him to do so.

God knows he wants to look at him, for a while, too, but he hates how weak he feels, how vulnerable and exposed and it's not a good way to feel in front of your arch-nemesis.

"I think you know the answer," Hamilton shrugs into his oversized denim jacket. It doesn't fit him and it's worn out on the edges like it's his dad's and he's just now become the legitimate owner of it.

Dawson clicks his tongue. "Do you have to be so goddamn secretive all the time?"

"Do you have to ask so many questions all the time?" he fires back.

Dawson scoffs. "That's what people do in day-to-day interactions, Hamilton. Normal people, I mean."

"You're an asshole, you know that?"

"'Course I do, and I pride myself for that every day," Dawson ambles towards him, voice dripping in sarcasm, "You see, I wake up every morning asking myself 'how can I annoy the shit out of Hamilton today?' and somehow I always manage to succeed."

"So... you think about me every day?"

Piece of shit.

"That's not what I said," Dawson's voice is shaking and, despite his best efforts, he can't help it. True to his character, he decides to clear his throat and gift him with the most hypocritical smile of his repertoire. "You know, for someone who barely speaks you can be awfully confident, turtleneck."

Shit.

"What'd you call me?"

"Nothing. I– forget it." Dawson's cocky grin is gone. He's now trying to salvage the salvageable and whatever's left integer of his dignity, trying not to think about the fact that Hamilton has once again succeeded in making him look like a fool. He mumbles, "I have one more question for you."

"And what's that?"

"Why are you here?"

Hamilton is taking aback by the bluntness of his question and, for a split second, it is almost as if he doesn't have an answer. Almost.

"I came here to tell you that you don't have to fight my battles for me," he murmurs after a while.

"You're fucking welcome," Dawson scoffs.

"I'm serious, Evans," the boy insists, with somber eyes and frowning lips.

"So am I," he whines like a kid who's getting unfairly punished. "You can't let people push you around like that."

"You're two strikes away from getting expelled," Hamilton points out.

"What makes you think that's a deterrent for me?" he lets out a short laugh, but it soon dies out the moment it is met by Adam's reproving glare.

The smile drops off his lips. "Why do you worry so much about me?" Dawson adds after a few seconds.

Adam stares at him a little bit longer, as if he's still taking in his question, trying to make sense of it. Perhaps, wondering if he'll ever be able to answer him.

"I guess you look like you need someone to worry about you."

"I don't," Dawson deadpans.

What makes him think he needs someone? He doesn't. He's never needed anyone to care or worry about him. He was always good enough at the job. It was scary to think of relying on somebody like that. He'd rather let himself down than let someone else have the power to do it. It was a safe way to make sure he would never have someone else to blame for the stinging disappointment.

"OK," he utters after a few seconds of silence. He turns on his heel and starts marching towards the door.

"Where you goin'?" Dawson's voice echoes between the tall walls and fades away.

"To study. Maybe you should do the same," Adam suggests giving him a sarcastic look. "I wouldn't want you to hand in a poorly written essay on Monday."

"Fuck off," Dawson sniggers.

Adam almost smirks. "Please, don't punch anyone while I'm not here."

Dawson nods once. "I'll try."

"Good."

"Good."

"And don't think that the fact you defended me means that we're friends now," Hamilton warns him, glowering.

Dawson doesn't want to be his friend.

He and Hamilton can never be friends. They would rip each other apart within seconds.

They can only not hate each other, but even that would require some effort Dawson's not sure he's willing to make.

He just shrugs. "Wouldn't dare."

"Good."

"Good."

"I'll go now," Adam announces, with a hint of hesitation in his silky voice.

"Do you need to be shown out?"

"You're being an asshole again," the boy points out.

Dawson smirks. "Hey, I'm not perfect."

"Bye, Evans."

Hamilton doesn't wait for Dawson to reply before hurrying out of the room.

And, as always, the image of Adam's blue eyes lingers in his mind like the last word of a book he just read. Only this time, he doesn't fight it. This time he holds on to it as if he might never see them again.

And he simply cannot bear the idea of not seeing Adam's eyes again. After all, he's become accustomed to their company. He's used to seeing them study him, follow him down the abyss of his mind, learning things about him he didn't know about himself; exposing him in his vulnerability; reading his thoughts like they're inked letters on paper and he's the careless owner of a journal left unattended.

He thinks, maybe, someday he will become accustomed to the way Adam makes him feel when he's around, too.

Maybe, someday, he won't loathe him for the way his skin itches to touch him and his eyes won't haunt him like the aftereffect of a vivid dream he couldn't make sense of.

*

It's Sunday and, although Dawson would have loved to stay in his room and listen to overtly depressing music, he was not lucky enough to have this opportunity.

His roommate and the others dragged him Halloween-costume shopping. He's now leaning against the wall in a way-too-crowded store that smells like armpits, staring hopelessly at Abe as he gives Cal advice on the "Madonna in the 80s" look she's trying on.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying," Abe drawls. "The leather pants are a bit tight."

"I think what Abraham is trying to say is that you look more like Sandy from Grease than Madonna," Maisie-Rae intervenes in a quick attempt to save Abe from being annihilated by Calliope's murderous glare.

"Not what I meant," he argues, but Maisie-Rae is faster to stick her elbow in his ribcage. He gasps out of breath.

"Jesus Christ, what's the matter with you?" he whines.

Calliope ignores him and her gaze softens when it settles on Milo, who's on the point of hyperventilating. "What do you think?"

Everyone's eyes are on him, including Dawson's.

"You look nice," he manages to say.

"Thank you, Milo," she beams, before chortling in the direction of the bored golden-haired boy. "Dawson?"

"I like the tulle skirt better," he says staring at his phone and praying for divine intervention.

"Oh... you're right. I should probably ditch the pants," she puffs hurrying back inside the changing room.

"You've got to be shitting me," Abe huffs in indignation, "That's literally what I said!"

"No, Abraham," Calliope's head peeks out from the twitched curtain, "you said your legs look chunky in those pants."

"I said thick," he argues defensively.

"In what world does that make it any better?" Maisie-Rae snarls.

"In mine it does," Abe protests, but he is met by Maisie's reproving eyes. "Hey, Milo? I need some help over here, man."

Milo scratches his head unsure what stance to take.

"What are you gonna wear, Dawson?" Maisie-Rae chirps, abruptly changing the topic. "You're the only one left without a costume."

"Vampire," he utters.

"Like low-key vampire or full-on Dracula?" Calliope asks through the curtains.

"Low-key. I'm not wearing a cloak."

"You got fangs?" Milo jumps in.

Dawson nods.

"Done," Calliope announces, emerging from the changing room after the longest time, back in her regular clothes.

"Finally," Abe gushes.

"Maybe you can be Dawson's victim for Halloween," Maisie-Rae suggests, looking down at Abe's blood-stained doctor scrubs. "It's still better than your lazy costume choice."

"Said the girl with a black bob who's dressing up as Mia from Pulp Fiction."

"That's not lazy. It's convenient," she corrects him.

They leave the shop and are soon met by the chilly sea breeze of late October. Dawson glances out at the foggy bay. In the distance, Alcatraz island is barely visible.

Days are getting colder and shorter and even the occasional trips to the city are not something he looks forward to anymore. He jams his hands into the deep pockets of his jacket and follows the others as they advance into the heart of downtown San Francisco.

*

"And don't forget to finish reading Death in Venice by the end of the week."

"Will there be a surprise quiz on Monday?" Calliope chirps.

"That would take away the surprise, Calliope," he responds with such confidence most of the people in the class start nodding in agreement.

Cal pouts her lips like a child.

In the midst of the indistinct murmuring of everyone in the classroom, Adam stands up, wears his bag across his body and leaves quietly after receiving an approving glance from Thornbury. Dawson stares suspiciously at his back until he disappears out of the room, then his eyes immediately dart to the teacher who's already looking back.

The playfulness and friendliness fade away from his face the moment his smile drops off his lips. He's serious and stern.

Something fishy is going on and Dawson wants to find out the truth. He wants to understand how everyone seems so indifferent like they couldn't care less about the matter, yet no one seems to know what's up with the boy.

At the end of the class, after everyone's gone, Dawson gets intercepted by Thornbury's arm, sticking out to block his way.

"Let it go, Dawson," he deadpans. "Sometimes minding your own business is the most respectful thing you can do."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he gushes, so eager to defend himself he ends up calling his own bluff.

Thornbury sighs. "That boy has been through a lot. I hope you don't find my words indiscreet, but I don't think he deserves anything else to add up to that."

"We're friends."

Enemies.

"We hang out sometimes."

He can't bear the sight of me.

Dawson can tell how much Thornbury is struggling to believe him. He's no fool and maybe that's why he earned his respect so easily. Maybe that's why Dawson hates lying to his face like that.

"You have the same name as my brother," Thornbury says out of the blue. "You remind me of him in many ways."

At first, Dawson is taken aback by the sudden change of topic. He almost thanks Thornbury before a question escapes his lips. "Is that a good thing?"

"He was a very smart boy, incredibly charismatic. He didn't care much about impressing people, but couldn't help it," Thornbury narrates, blankly looking out the window.

"Guess you could say he was a bit of a rebel. Didn't like following rules very much. Or rules in general," he continues with his lips twitching into a half-smile.

"He was 17 when he died."

Dawson winces, "I'm sorry."

He knows he has no fault in it, but he feels like he should say sorry for bringing such a painful memory to surface. Even though, all he did to trigger Thornbury's reaction was exist.

"You don't have to be sorry," Thornbury reassures him.

"It's just what people say in situations like this."

He nods once, the grimace of someone who regrets opening up to the wrong person.

"If you and Adam really are friends, he'll be the one tell you in his own time," he speaks after a few seconds of silence.

But Dawson is still thinking about Thornbury's brother and his early departure and he somehow feels like he's missing something.

"What does your brother have to do with Hamilton?" he asks feigning naivety.

"Nothing," he pauses, "But it's got everything to do with you."

Dawson gulps. "Is this about to turn into a life lesson?" he blurts out impulsively.

"Only if you're willing to learn."

His answer is calm and collected, just like his whole persona. Dawson cannot find the strength to object.

"You have a second chance to do things right, Dawson," Thornbury says in a brotherly voice. For a second, he doesn't sound like his teacher anymore. He sounds and feels like family. "Please, don't let your life go to waste. You won't get a redo."

"Maybe I'm not the good guy you all think I am."

Thornbury puts his pen down on his desk, taking a deep breath.

"There are no good or bad guys, Dawson," he smiles like he knows he's going to get to him. "there are only people who are too afraid to do the right thing."

"Abraham Lincoln?"

"Peter Thornbury."

"I'll keep that in mind," Dawson gives him a thin-lipped smile.

Thornbury dismisses him with a single nod and a glance that looks less like a goodbye and more like an act of trust.

*

A/N:

hellooo! as you know, this is a double update. i'm just here to inform you that the next chapter is all about the halloween party and there will be some real tension between our two favorite bois heh

i'll leave you to read now

love,
ellie <3