unedited + wrote this at the beach sooooo pls forgive any typos
shoutout to @thesaddestsmile for the comment spam! <3
*
"DAWSON, CAN I TALK to you for a second?"
Dawson brakes and turns on his heel. Thornbury's frantically running the eraser over the blackboard and has his back still turned on Dawson.
"Hope I didn't make you uncomfortable earlier," he smiles fatherly at him, "we have a policy here at Wharton High that encourages appraisal in class when a student excels like you just did."
"I liked the theme," Dawson downplays, shrugging his shoulders.
"You know, you remind me of someone," he continues. "I'm sure you had the pleasure to get acquainted with Holden Caufield, too."
Dawson nods lightly, unsure what to say back to that. He never really compared himself to a fictional character before.
What is with English Literature professors and their kink for comparing everything in life to books?
"Your world view reminds me of his," he concludes, as if he's feeling pressured to cut it short. "I'm looking forward to reading more of your essays."
"Thanks, Mr. Thornbury," Dawson says in a whisper, following the teacher with his eyes as he sits at his desk.
Thornbury dismisses him with a slight head nod as his hand reaches for a book that's lying right next to a pencil sharpener. It's the Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger.
Dawson's lips twitch into a smirk. Eventually, he starts heading towards the door, but he's once again stopped by the teacher's voice. "And, Dawson?"
Thornbury's eyes are glued to the pages of the book he's reading. "Behave."
*
Mrs. Wang has been purposefully ignoring Dawson's attempts at showing off his tattoo for over five days now and he's desperate to get the first strike out of three that'll get him out of Wharton High.
What happened to her maniacal attachment to school rules? And what about the dress code?
Dawson grunts, rolling face-up on his bed. Milo is out mingling, or networking, or whatever people do in elite schools.
Needless to say, he would rather stab himself in the eye than talk about the weather with some stranger with a pocket full of business cards.
He just wants to sleep and get some rest. His last fencing training with Mr. Berger really took a toll on him. But no, instead he's got to attend detention with turtleneck. For the longest 90 minutes of his miserable existence.
OK, he's definitely being over-dramatic about this. But, thing is, he's in a horrible, horrible mood. And chances are that that won't change anytime soon.
He's frustrated because Wharton High teachers are getting used to his insolence, meaning they don't get mad anymore, meaning he will never escape from that place.
Dawson made a list of all the reasons why he wants to leave and Hamilton's name is in over five points out of ten. Followed by the pungent stench of high-end cologne that lingers in the corridors. Dawson recoils from the mere thought of it.
And, of course, as luck would have it, his favorite person at school happens to be a huge fan of cologne. However, Dawson can't deny that the one Adam wears on a daily basis smells quite nice compared to the rest.
Sitting next to him in Philosophy gives his nostrils some relief, while significantly putting his nerves to the test.
As a matter of fact, Hamilton is being an actual pain in the ass lately and there's only so much Dawson can tolerate before losing it.
All he wants now is to be alone in his room and listen to depressing music.
And, unfortunately, Maisie-Rae gets there just in time to change that.
She knocks once before cautiously opening the door. Her black bob sneaks into the room before Dawson can even think about answering. "Hey, Evans," she greets him cheerfully.
"Hey," he replies dryly.
She bites her bottom lip, torturing it with her teeth. She always does that when she's nervous about something and Dawson is observant enough to notice. "I didn't see you at lunch."
"I wasn't there," he provides with a grin.
She waggles her eyebrows. "No, shit."
"Can I help you with something, Maisie-Rae?"
"Actually, no," she prances towards the bed then sits on it with a lazy bounce. "I'm only here to remind you that you have detention in 10 minutes."
In response, Dawson violently grunts into a pillow, squeezing it so hard against his face that Maisie-Rae thinks he might be trying to smother himself.
And, full disclosure, he may or may not have considered that more than a couple of times.
"Plus, Milo looked like he wanted to be alone with Cal..." she trails off.
Dawson waggles his eyebrows in surprise, "Oh yeah?"
She replies with a little nod. "And I knew I'd find you here, trying to skip detention. I knew you'd be in need of a little encouragement."
"You truly are the fairy godmother I never knew I needed," but his tone of voice suggests the opposite.
"This has gotta be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Maisie-Rae chuckles. She's starting to catch on Dawson's personality, but that comes as no surprise, she was always a fast learner. Quite clever, even. And that's perhaps one of the reasons why Dawson isn't tired of her yet.
He thinks stupidity might be the least endearing dress any person could wear. Of course, some people are just born with it and it's not like they can zip out of it. Thankfully, none of Milo's friends has yet come across as a complete witless imbecile, which is quite a relief to Dawson.
"You look like shit, by the way" she adds after a long pause. "Is there something I can do to alleviate your angst? The air's toxic in here."
"Abraham's pot," Dawson provides.
Maisie-Rae shoots him an apprehensive look.
Dawson sighs in resignation, "Can you get me out of here?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Evans," she gives him a sad smile. "Want me to walk you to detention?"
"I know how to get there," he drawls.
His reply leaves Maisie-Rae looking puzzled. In fact, she stares at him speechless as if she expected his answer to be yes. But Dawson's no people pleaser and mostly only does what he wants regardless of the consequences;
regardless of other people's expectations.
She takes a few seconds to collect herself before rephrasing her proposal. "What I meant is: do you want me to accompany you there?"
"Didn't know tuition at Wharton included a complimentary nanny," he teases her, standing up and taking his shirt off.
Maisie-Rae's breath catches in her throat
with a feeble gasp. "You always do that," she says, leering at his bare back.
Dawson grabs a clean tee from his closet. "Do what?" he asks, sounding anything but interested.
"Sarcasm."
"You make it so damn easy," he laughs, grabbing the door keys from the desk.
Maisie-Rae visibly rolls her eyes. "Hey, wait for me? I need to take a piss first."
"Charming."
Maisie-Rae scoffs, looking down at Dawson's choice of clothes. "Pearl Jam?"
"Yes. What about it?" he asks, his left eyebrow shoots up skeptically. He pulls at the hems of his tee to get a good look at the graphics and hopefully understand what the source of Maisie-Rae's amusement is.
"That's so 2010," she decrees with a dismissive hand gesture that doesn't really suit her.
"You're so 2010."
Maisie-Rae bursts into laughing. "Asshole," she shouts after shutting the bathroom door closed.
Dawson's lips twitch into half a smile and, for a split second, he just can't come up with a good reason to leave.
*
Three minutes into detention and Dawson's already wishing he was never born.
Mrs. Wang dumped him there with Hamilton, per usual, and the mere sound of his breathing is pissing him off.
Maybe, just maybe, he was expecting him to have some sort of reaction after he outperformed him in Honors English II. But Adam didn't say a word about it and that made Dawson even more frustrated.
He doesn't know why Hamilton has that effect on him. All he knows is that the contempt he feels is one hundred percent mutual.
Dawson learned to ignore the tense silence by pretending to be alone. But the sad truth is that he's not, and Hamilton persistently makes sure to remind him. That is, without speaking a word.
It's a stealthy game of looks, sharp enough to graze one's skin— carve it to the bone, even— yet, somehow, soothing enough to heal the throbbing wound.
Eventually, Dawson learned to ignore that too.
After all, he shouldn't be so surprised. In every self-respecting story there ought to be a villain and Adam's role might just be it. Although the boy doesn't do much except mope around and wear turtleneck sweaters and mope around as he wears turtleneck sweaters.
"Are you done with shelf E, yet?"
Dawson's eyes widen in surprise. For some reason, he finds himself holding his breath. Did he really just... talk?
"Almost," he croaks.
"I'll start with G, you take H," Adam
dictates between gritted teeth.
"If you don't mind, boss," Dawson smirks with his back still turned on Hamilton, "I think I'll take a break instead."
Dawson doesn't like conflict, but, for some reason, he just can't help it with Hamilton. He constantly strives to trigger a reaction.
He hates being treated with indifference, although that's precisely how he handles every human relationship.
He saunters in the direction of Mrs. Wang's desk with his hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans. He can feel the weight of Adam's scrutinizing gaze, but he doesn't care.
He's only putting on this show to get under his skin. No ulterior motives.
There are three chairs around the desk, but he instantly opts for the teacher's and casually puts both of his feet on the table, crossing his ankles. He then throws his head back, shutting his eyelids. He's fully aware he's being followed in his every move by a pair of resentful eyes that are still staring at him from across the dimly lit room.
They lapse into a deafening silence. The air dividing them is thick and their breathing is quiet, but deeper. It's like one of those November days when you're expecting rain to start falling any second. You see the clouds inceding like an army of soldiers marching on a battlefield. They're dark and menacing like black marble, the lightnings being its silky white veins. You know a thunderstorm is coming and the air becomes thicker and everything gets a little bit quieter.
Dawson's eyes are still closed, but he can feel Hamilton get back to work; he can feel his stealthy movements even with his eyelids shuttered.
Nevertheless, he decides to peak at him. You know, just in case that nutjob's out for revenge.
Instead, what he sees is Adam standing in front of shelf G, holding a copy of "The Sorrows of Young Werther" by Goethe open in his right hand. He's sneakily wearing a pair of round glasses.
He starts reading in silence, completely unaware of being observed.
Glasses suit him. And so does the color blue. But Dawson dislikes him way too much to try and process that thought.
He dislikes him so much he is annoyed by the mere sound of his breathing. He dislikes him so much that he can't bring himself to ignore him; that even the way his stupid glasses perfectly sit on his symmetrical nose exasperate him; and his ridiculously blue eyes that take different shades of blue based on his mood and now Dawson knows that apathy is the ocean whereas rage is a starless night sky. And his jawline looks like it was sculpted by the hands of Michelangelo, but he dislikes him so much he can't look at his face without feeling his cheeks flush in anger.
Truth is, Dawson dislikes him because Hamilton did something that no other person— despite their best efforts— ever managed to do.
He made him feel weak.
"He kills himself in the end," Dawson shouts.
It doesn't take Adam long to figure out that he's talking about Werther, the main character.
His body gets suddenly rigid, frozen in indignation. The constipated look on his face says it all. He's trying really hard not to snap at him. What he doesn't quite know yet is that Dawson is determined to make it happen.
"Oh, wait," Dawson gasps, feigning a staggered expression. "I've just realized you probably didn't know that."
"You really have no sense of respect for others, do you?" Adam mutters under his breath.
Dawson's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He stands up from the chair, taking a few steps forward with diplomatic hands, "Easy there, Freud."
But it is not enough to calm Hamilton, who looks like he's about to give Dawson a piece of his mind.
And that's precisely what he does.
"You walk around acting like you own the place," he debuts, dropping all pretenses of politeness. His eyes are glossed with indignation. "you put your fucking feet on the table just because you can and look at people like you think you're so much better than every single one of them."
"Well, I am," Dawson grins.
Adam scoffs. "Don't flatter yourself, Evans," he hisses taking a final step forward until their heaving chests are only a couple inches away. "Arrogance is nothing but the pathetic disguise of mediocrity."
Dawson winces.
"Did you find that on Tumblr?" he manages to fire back.
Normally, an insult like that would have slid off his back, but not this time. This time it stang like a motherfucker.
He conceals the stinging with a sarcastic smirk. He'll be damned if he gives Hamiltom the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.
"I'm looking forward to the day when they finally kick you out of here," Adam spits out, squinting his eyes.
"Why, so you can be top of your class again?" Dawson teases.
"Let me clarify something for you, Evans," he must be mad, enraged even, because his eyes are blue like a starless night sky and, for a split second, Dawson gets a little lost in their boundless depth, "I don't care about you or what you do."
Dawson's left eyebrow skeptically shoots up. "You don't, do you?" he laughs, "Could have fooled me."
"And, quite frankly, you might be the most conceited, attention-seeking person I've ever met," Adam continues going off undisturbed, "You're so full of yourself it makes me nauseous."
"For claiming you don't care about me, you sure put a lot of thought into that," Dawson giggles.
"I don't think about you," Adam mutters, breaking eye contact.
"I did not say that, but that sounds like a lie, friend."
"I'm not your friend," Hamilton barks, fanning Dawson's lips with his breath.
"Right," Dawson casually runs his hand through his hair, "I mean, I'm no expert, but something tells me a friend wouldn't call you pathetic, mediocre or conceited."
"I guess that explains a thing or two about you, Hamilton." Dawson shrugs.
"You're an asshole," Adam snarls.
Dawson clicks his tongue, taking the final hit. This time, it feels like a punch in the guts. The last violent strike after taking one too many.
He purses his lips before flashing him his teeth. "You're one angry kid."
Silence follows. The only sound comes from their half-open mouths, in the form of shallow, accelerated breathing. Dawson is distracted by the vein pulsing on his neck from the adrenaline rush. His heart is beating so fast and hard, he's terrified of Hamilton hearing it from where he's standing.
"Anything else?" he whispers, looking straight into Adam's eyes.
"Stay away from me," Hamilton spits, decisively smacking the book he was holding into Dawson's chest.
Dawson scoffs, "Gladly."
*
A U T H O R ' S N O T E
*coffs*
HIIIIIIII
this was... intense
i have no idea how i can come up with dawson's sarcastic comebacks considering i normally start crying 0,2 seconds into a fight
for all of you who think dawson is a brat......... well, yes, he is.
for all of you who still ship dawson and adam you are the mvr <3333
if you loved the chapter please don't
forget to vote and leave a comment! comment spams are also v appreciated - u guys have been absolutely SPOILING me lately
ily and c u next chapter