24.

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TW: drugs :(


"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN MIND?" a man in a denim jumpsuit screams as a shirtless cowboy accidentally spills his whole drink on him. His cowboy hat is so tilted to the left it seems to be on the brink of falling.

Adam yanks Dawson away just in time. Dawson gives the cowboy the stink eye as they make their way through the crowd.

The room is brimming with people, mostly drunk or somewhat intoxicated. The rotating lights flash Dawson's eyes, intermittently blinding him. He doesn't know who thought it would be a good idea. He already wants to leave.

Adam smiles in amusement, "Having fun?"

Dawson shoots him a baffled look. "What?"

"I said, are you having fun?" the boy yells in his ear. Dawson can't help but fixate on how good he smells.

Dawson glances at the table to his right. By the looks of it, the party must have started hours ago. Half of the cups are full and the other half is either lying down or spread unceremoniously across the floor at their feet. Three men around the age of thirty are drinking from the keg. One of them– seemingly the youngest– locks eyes with him. Dawson shies away as he grabs one of the filled cups and immediately takes a sip.

He reaches out for Adam's hand, making their fingers intertwine. The boy gives him a soft smile, though his eyes say he wasn't expecting anyone to be holding his hand tonight, much less Dawson.

They spot a quiet corner to retreat to and get a break from the commotion of the party. Dawson's stare is still lingering on the crowd a few steps away. Their exuberance looks so liberating.

"You didn't have to hold my hand."

"Why not?"

"It–" he fumbles.

Just as he's about to elaborate, he feels a hand gently resting on his shoulder. The dismay on Adam's face tells him everything he needs to know.

He dreadfully turns around as he takes in the view of Hyppolite Jones, standing before them naked to the waist, exhibiting the most self-satisfied grin Dawson has ever seen. He's wearing red lipstick embellished by gems. His eyelids are masterfully painted gold, the shine spreading across his upper cheeks and temples. He's glowing, quite literally.

"You came," the boy says. Then, he cranes forward to get a good look at Adam. "With Hamilton."

"He–"

"I was visiting my family for the holidays," the words shoot out of Adam. "We bumped into each other last night."

"Right," Hyppolite smacks his shiny lips. "I almost forgot. Merry Christmas," he chimes the tiny bell hanging from his chocker.

"How festive," Dawson points out.

"I feel like I'm under-dressed for the occasion," Adam speaks out softly.

"This is a judgement-free space, Hamilton," Hyppolite's interest immediately shifts to Dawson. He smirks. "Come as you are."

Adam shrinks in his jacket. "I need to use the restroom. I'll be right back."

Dawson's apprehensive stare follows Adam out of the room. Hyppolite grins, "He's cute."

The comment is promptly ignored by Dawson, who chooses to veer the conversation elsewhere.

"Nice make-up, by the way."

"Thanks, I like your face, too," Hyppolite winks.

Dawson's lips stretch, pressing against each other. That is why he doesn't like small talk.

"Honestly, Evans, I didn't expect you to show up with Hamilton," Hyppolite gloats, leaning against the wall. He takes a sip without breaking eye contact. "I thought I wouldn't catch you dead in his company."

Dawson is visibly uncomfortable. "He's alright."

"Uh-uh," Hyppolite nods, shrugging off Dawson's words as if they mean nothing; as if his mind's already made up. "And did you two start hanging out before or after you found out he's horny for you?"

Dawson's eyebrows shoot up in indignation. He puts his drink down, growing irritated by every passing second.

In the meantime, Hyppolite pulls out a small glass fiask. He plays around with it for a second before shaking in front of Dawson. The white powder slides from one extremity to the other like a landslide. "Want some?"

Dawson's fingers are itchy. He jams both his hands into his pockets. "No, thanks."

Hyppolite elbows him. "Come on, it'll make you loosen up."

"I don't do drugs," Dawson utters. He's starting to lose the little patience he had left.

Hyppolite lets out a brisk laugh, "It's not a big deal. Everyone's doing it."

"I don't anymore," Dawson retorts.

Hyppolite doesn't seem taken aback in the slightest. He crosses his arms to his chest patiently waiting for Dawson to explain himself.

"I'm clean," the boy adds.

"My mom told me your parents sent you to Wharton for drug abuse."

"Will you shut your mouth, Jones?" Dawson grabs him, his fingers curling around his forearm into the tightest grip he's capable of. His whisper is a failed attempt at trying not to bark at him. How dare he? He doesn't know anything about him.

"Easy," Hyppolite squeals as Dawson reluctantly lets go of him. He adjusts his tissue-fine hair. "It's true, though. Isn't it?"

Dawson clenches his jaw and looks away.

"I bet you didn't even do this shit back then, did you?" Hyppolite jests, dabbling with the fiask.

By now, he's dropped all pretenses of politeness and seems to be focused on the sole objective of dishing the latest dirt on his target. Only the target is Dawson himself.

"Did you get kicked out of school or something?" he insists. "My mom said you ODd."

For the first time in months, Dawson doesn't have the upper hand. He's a victim of his past again, unable to deny– to say anything, really– and make things right. Things were not right back then. Things were a big fucking mess and they kept getting worse and worse. It was like hitting rock bottom except it never was. He fell again and again until he was too tired to get up anymore and confused how he got there to begin with.

His parents didn't know. Not at the beginning, at least. Though it became increasingly obvious that he was not himself anymore and the disease only festered through their indifference and their vacant stares. It only became important once it was clear to everybody else that Dawson Evans was an addict.

One day even his own body gave up on him and nothing was ever the same.

Now, months later, hearing the word overdose slip out of a stranger's mouth with such ease sounds like blasphemy.

"I'm leaving," he mutters.

"Evans, wait," Hyppolite pleads as he steps in the way of Dawson walking out on him. "Look, everyone has their dirty little secrets."

"Do you keep a scrapbook of 'em?"

"I deserved that," Hyppolite shrugs.

"Get out of my way, Jones."

"Listen, why do you think my parents sent me to Wharton, for academic excellence? Bullshit!" Hyppolite exclaims dramatically. Both his hands are placed on Dawson's forearms, pushing him back as he tries to buy time and heal the waters his vicious envy has poisoned.

"I don't care."

"They caught me having sex with the neighbor."

Dawson manages to shrug Hyppolite's hands off of his body. "Good for you."

"He was a man."

"No shit, Jones," he almost shouts out of exasperation.

Hyppolite hushes.

"Let me put this into perspective for you," Dawson gnarls. "You chose to tell me all about how you lost your parents' respect, and didn't extend the same courtesy to me. Now, if you don't mind, you're in my way and I need to find Adam."

The boy looks hurt at first, outraged, even. It's almost as if he did not see the rejection coming and he's trying to keep it together. Then, all of a sudden, his face relaxes again. He quickly composes himself as he steps away. His bold eyes are boring into him, though he looks much calmer.

"You know, I don't get why the whole school is so obsessed with you, Evans," he confesses as if he's just come to that disappointing realization. "I think you're the biggest fraud to ever step into Wharton."

"Bite me."

Dawson jostles his way towards the bathroom, down a smoky hallway. He slams the door open. The walls are plastered with glossy red tiles. A majestic glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling. The sinks are made of mirrored steel.

Hamilton's not there. He's alone.

He leans back against the wall, slowly sliding down to the floor. He hugs his knees to his chest as he zones out.

You're the biggest fraud to ever step into Wharton.

The doors open again. A short man in a Santa suit makes his way into the bathroom. Dawson catches his attention right away.

"Are you OK, man?"

Dawson nods, running his hand through his hair in distress.

"Hey, look, I have some crystal to spare for the night," he pulls out something from his leather boot. "Want some?"

He nods again.

"Well, it's your lucky day," the man's words are muffled and distant, although he's standing right in front of him. "'Tis the season to be jolly and Santa's coming to town. There you go."

Dawson feels a tingly sensation on the back of his hand, on the side where the thumb meets his slender wrist.

"Consume responsibly, or don't. I need to take a leak."

The man in the Santa suit enters one of the stalls, leaving him once again alone with his thoughts.

Dawson glowers at that sinful indulgence like he's already committed the crime. His fingers are itchy again. And maybe he is just a fraud. Maybe he is the biggest imposter the world has ever seen. He is not better than any of this and never will be. He is nothing but the miserable aftertaste of his hunger for acceptance; the backburned upshot of a fire he could not put out in a better way. There is so much anger inside him he just wants to scream.

He sticks his finger into the powder with haste and skill.

He looks up and into the mirrored sink.

At the door, a familiar pair of blue eyes stares back in disbelief.

*

AUTHOR'S NOTE
hiya! I know this was a bit of a shorter chapter than usual, however next one will have a bit of a time jump so it made sense to wrap it up like this.

Also major update: Finally I have changed jobs and I'm doing a lot of better in terms of stress and time management. You can expect regular updates, let's say once a month until the completion of the story.

Thanks to everyone who's sticking with Dawson and Adam despite the long wait.

Love you!

Ellie x


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