hi, it's been a minute!
unedited and punctuation is all over the place. enjoy <3

AS PREDICTED, Wharton High is deserted, courtesy of the Christmas break. Maisie-Rae left earlier that same day with Abraham, whose moms picked them both up. Calliope was on her way to Aspen to meet her family in their humble ski chalet.

Milo left the day before. Dawson even got the pleasure of making the acquaintance of his unpleasant dad. At first, he tried to disregard the memories of all the stories he had been told. He wanted to be fair in his judgment, but there was no denying that Mr. O'Connor was, in fact, a rigid man, seemingly as rigorous as depicted in Milo's descriptions. Dawson managed to keep up a polite façade until the man raised his voice at Milo after he had, accidentally, interrupted him. Technically, Milo wasn't done talking when his father took the floor. However, the reproval in his voice was so shockingly violent neither had the courage to speak up.

Dawson disliked him.

However so, he had no chance but to let the boy go away with his father, trying not to let the image of Milo's mortified face stick into his mind. There was nothing he could do. Perhaps, Milo felt in a similar way about the situation.

The room felt oddly quiet without Milo and all his fretful unironical speeches about love and Calliope and friendship and Calliope.

Aside from him, three more people had decided to stay over for the holidays. Hamilton being one of them.

Dawson wasn't really surprised considering Maisie-Rae's warning, but he was determined to mind his own business, maybe book a few nights in San Francisco and enjoy Christmas time in the city. Needless to say, staying away from Adam wasn't always easy. Especially when the two were practically neighbors, and ended up involuntarily sharing their lonely hangout places, such as the library and the cloister. The gym was the only safe space where Dawson knew he'd never have to see Hamilton walk in with his stupid blue eyes and preppy satchel bag.

All in all, he isn't very sure why he doesn't want to see him, or if he doesn't want to see him, to begin with.

Lately, he's been feeling an inexplicable fascination grow inside him, the kind that's so absorbing it takes everything in you not to indulge. And he wants to. And maybe that's why he tries to steer away from him– and miserably fails to–, because he feels every single cell in his body scream when they're together, and his heart feels just a little bit lighter like it just got rid of the burden it was docked to. Then again, Adam never really gives him the time of day, which, so far, has only proven to be further encouragement for Dawson's interest to grow.

Maybe it's all in his head. He'll get over it. He just needs to steer clear for a while and he'll get over it. Yes, that's what he'll do.

"Evans!"

Dawson freezes. His breath catches in his throat even though it's not Adam's voice. For a second, his mind plays a trick on him.

"Oh, hey."

It's Hyppolite Jones.

He's sauntering towards him with his hands jammed into his pockets. His hair is, as usual, combed back and his smile is so white it's almost blinding. "Not going home for Christmas?"

"So it seems."

"Same," he shrugs with nonchalance. "My parents didn't even bother to ask."

Dawson scoffs. "No offense, but your parents are horrible."

"None taken," the boy smiles amusedly. "What about you? Why are you staying?"

"I don't celebrate Christmas."

Then, to Dawson's surprise, he lets out a frisky laugh, "Just when I thought you couldn't get more interesting."

Dawson casts him a confused glance.

"Look, I have this friend in Castro who's throwing a party on Christmas Eve. More like a small gathering, actually. You're welcome to come if you want."

Dawson squints skeptically. "What kind of party?"

"The kind with lots of alcohol and cool people," Hyppolite drawls. "Come on, I promise you'll love it."

Dawson hates parties. Not to mention, they're exactly the kind of situation he should be avoiding at all costs.

"You don't want to miss it. Plus, do you even have anything better to do?"

He definitely doesn't. The only thing on his schedule is some major overthinking. Surprisingly, the idea of spending the night with a bunch of strangers smoking pot and singing Christmas carols is more alluring than the idea of staying in his room and thinking about...

Dawson sighs. "I guess not."

"Sweet, I'll text you the address," he winks at him.

"Uh-hu."

"Later!" Hyppolite shouts as he runs down the hallway.

And he's alone again.

*

It's been exactly thirty-six hours and twenty-three minutes since Dawson last saw Adam.

He's OK. He's holding up just fine. He has only thought about him fifteen times.

In his defense, reading Hamilton's copy of Othello didn't really help keep his mind off the boy. Running his fingertips across the pages of the book was an almost unearthly experience. When he closed his eyes he was free to imagine he was touching Adam's diaphanous skin instead. He often wondered what touching his face would feel like; if he would ever have the privilege to find out.

In a fit of sheer impulsivity, Dawson decides to pack a bag and actually manages to go through with it. It's a simple duffel bag that can fit enough clothes for a week, plus toiletries and other essentials. His eyes wander around the room in search of anything else he may need until they settle on the book on his nightstand. He hesitates, unsure what to do with it.

He finally grabs a post-it note and scribbles a hasty message– staining the side of his hand with ink more than the paper itself, one of the many pleasures that come with being left-handed– then sticks it to the cover of the book and leaves the room in a hurry. On the way out of the building, he lays the book face-up on the ground on Adam's doorstep.

Out of breath, he catches the last bus of the day. Mission District's to be the terminus. His head falls back against the velvety seat, as he lets his eyelids flutter closed. He cannot take back what he wrote on that note.

All he can do is wait.

*

It's December 23rd and Mission Street is crawling with people running from store to store to secure all indispensable Christmas decorations. Soft stockings, reindeer-covered tablecloths, red wrapping paper and last-minute gifts for family members they had forgotten about.

Dawson stares at them in a mix of fascination and bewilderment from the window of the apartment he rented. The place is cozy, definitely better than he expected considering the short notice and the high season. Not to mention, it is a spacious upgrade from Wharton High dorms. He's not a fan of the hustle and bustle but, in a way, it reminds him of home. He's learning to love it and its intrusive companionship during those hours of loneliness.

Around 6 pm, he decides on taking a shower and getting dressed. Thirty minutes later, he's slipping into his shoes and winter jacket. Ten minutes later, he's standing in front of Dog-Eared Books library, eyes scanning the sidewalks of Valencia Street, gleaming in anticipation and fear.

The inside of the bookstore is what you would call an organized mess, haunted by only a few loyal customers strolling around in search of their new favorite book. A tiny girl is standing at the very bottom of the shop, reading a book with a funky orange cover, and half of her face is sunk into a cornflower blue wool scarf.

Dawson starts browsing for books. After all, no one in their right minds would enter a bookstore to just stand in the middle of it, looking like a lost visitor stepping into Grand Central for the first time. Most of the books are dusty, some are slightly bent and yellow. He pulls out the last copy of 'The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson' from the shelf.

"I found this in a book outside my room."

His heart constricts into his chest and, for a second, he finds himself unable to breathe.

Adam's hesitant voice continues, "I'm not sure it was for me."

Dawson turns around. The first thing his eyes visualize is Hamilton's hand, holding the post-it note he left for him right before he took off. Then he focuses on the boy, on his flushed cheeks from the cold, on his pitch-black hair messier than ever, and on the bluest turtleneck sweater that seems to match his eyes just about perfectly, and Dawson's voice gets trapped into his throat. His lips part to speak but no sound comes out.

Adam's brows raise in bemusement.

Dawson clears his throat. "Well, you were confident enough to take a bus and come here."

"Maybe, I was just hopeful," Adam shrugs.

Dawson's lips twitch into a half-smirk.

Doubt seems to originate from his reaction. Adam's eyes widen in a mix of total panic and badly-concealed anxiety.

"Please, tell me I haven't just made a complete fool out of myself," the boy frets. Dawson looks at him perplexed. "It was for me, right?"

"It was for you."

A few people walk out of the bookstore, leaving them alone with the unbothered owner and the girl with the wool scarf, who is still as unaware of her surroundings as she was a couple of minutes ago. She's still engrossed in the reading to the point of isolation. 'Dancing with Myself' by Billy Idol is softly playing in the background.

"So," Adam glances around distractedly, then settles his gaze back on Dawson, "why are we here?"

"What do you mean?" Dawson shuts the book closed, resting it on top of a random pile in front of him. Adam's eyes furtively shoot down to see what book he was holding. Dawson notices but refrains from smiling, even though his face hurts doing so.

"We could have met in the library," he argues feebly. "Didn't have to go all the way to the city."

"And where's the fun in that?" Dawson grins, leaning with his shoulder against the wall.

The girl with the wool scarf decides on buying the book and walks out silently.

Adam scoffs. "Why did you ask me to come to this place, Evans?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know..." Adam echoes.

"I don't know."

Silence falls upon them, but neither dare look away. Aside from the indistinct murmuring coming from outside and 'Easy Lover', Adam's light footsteps and Dawson's shallow breath are the only sounds vibrating through the electric air left to separate them.

"It's nice," he says right before tearing his blue eyes away from Dawson's. He turns in the direction of the Lost Generation shelf, brimming with such quality books and they're demanding the boy's undivided attention. "I like it."

"So do I."

When Adam finally faces Dawson again, he finds him reaching out with his hand just a few inches from his cheek. Adam's flustered face is enough to give Dawson a zealous jolt of pleasure.

That's when he knows.

Adam feels something, too.

Not just something. He feels it. Everything. All of it. The sinful joy and the heinous longing that comes with being in each other's presence, and the dizziness. Like being at sea, or drinking the fourth glass of wine even though you know you shouldn't, but you still drink, greedy and high on the feeling of being alive, in a triumph of assisted light-heartedness. And that's how he feels when they're together and it's enough to drive one mad. Yet, he cannot bring himself to think he could ever give up that feeling of boundless bliss, though it always brings along hours of insatiable torment.

But, right about now, he wants to scream. Scream like mad. He didn't dream of it. It was not the disappointing manifestation of his delusional hopes. Adam feels what he feels.

He can't even speak and, even if he could, he's not sure what he should say, or what the right thing to say is, to begin with.

"What are you doing?" the blue-eyed boy whispers agitatedly.

That's when he realizes his arm is still reaching out for the shelf behind Adam. His hand is still lingering on the spine of "A Farewell to Arms".

"Getting a book," he smirks, in a surge of boldness neither was able to anticipate.

"Then, take it."

Dawson nods and obeys, getting a hold of the book. He glances at the cover before showing it to Adam with a cheeky glint sparking up his eyes. "Aren't you gonna spoil the ending for me?"

"Come on, Evans," Adam scoffs. "You're not trying to tell me you've never read 'A Farewell to Arms', are you?"

Dawson raises both of his hands in the air. "Guilty as charged."

"Wait," Adam's eyes widen. "You haven't?"

Dawson shakes his head, growing more amused by second.

"I'm sorry, but all the respect I had for you is gone."

"Just like that?" Dawson pouts like a child.

"Just like that."

"I might buy it, then," Dawson waves the book in the air. "I don't know if I can live another day knowing you don't respect me anymore."

Adam tries to hide the smile springing on his face. "Good call."

Dawson nods again twice. Then he slowly saunters in the direction of the registers, where the owner is leafing through the pages of a graphic novel. He slides the book on the desk to attract his attention.

The old man glances up from the book. "Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"It'll be 9 dollars."

"There you go," Dawson smiles politely, handing him a 10-dollar bill.

The man looks at Adam, who's still browsing through the shelves, then his eyes settle back on Dawson. "Do you want me to wrap it up?"

Right in that moment, Dawson can feel his cheeks tinge in different hues of pink. "Oh, no. No. It's for me."

"I see," the old man nods once. "Happy holidays."

Dawson walks out the door, with Adam following suit. The boy immediately hurries to button up his coat under Dawson's scrutinizing gaze.

"Thanks for coming," he says after a long minute of shared panicked silence. He sticks the book under his arm and jams his hands into the slouchy pockets of his jacket, heading towards the crossroad. He plays nervously with the two quarters in his pocket.

"Listen, I–" Adam attempts at holding him back.

But Dawson cannot hear him over the sounds of the city, and of all the people bustling about, passing them by.

"Dawson!" he finally gushes .

Dawson turns around. Adam's arms are crossed in an attempt to warm up a little. His lips are pinched together, bruised from the cold.

"Mh?"

"Wanna take a walk?"

*

A/N:

hey guys

first of all, thank you for reading. your support blesses me to an extent i cannot express in words.

life has not been treating me well in the last few months. it's been pretty shit, actually. and with everything going on right now, i feel as hopeless as ever

on a good note, if you haven't loved this chapter, i'm sure you'll love the next one.

cheers and i'll see u soon <3