dedicated to the birthday girls @awexaray and @indigosstories <3 i love you both so much
the song mentioned later in the chapter is a classical piece (piano solo) called "I Giorni" by Ludovico Einaudi
IT'S NOT LIKE THEM to spend their free Saturday at school. Most of the time, Dawson insists on staying and ends up getting outnumbered by the rest of the group. Surprisingly, he became less and less resistant over the weeks. After all, the city of San Francisco is way more appealing than the depressing four walls of his dorm room. It's colorful and lively yet Dawson can't help but compare it to New York City, his city. The loud, chaotic, frenzied New York City. Lots of things happening all at once, lots of stimuli. San Francisco to him was too calm, too exuberant, and just too different.
The whole group is sitting at the cafeteria on a fine Saturday afternoon, talking about anything that comes to mind, and right now, very much to Dawson's dismay, Adam is the main topic of the conversation.
Needless to say, he's been trying to change the topic five times already and he's not sure whether someone is sabotaging each of his attempts or his friends are simply not perceptive enough.
"I don't get what you're trying to say," Cal squints, a strand of hair rebelling out of her hairdo. She unconsciously hurries to put it behind her ear.
"Dawson didn't have to stand up for him the way he did," Abe drawls, exhausted from repeating himself. "I mean, what he did was cool but he really went in heavy with Dennis and I'm saying I don't know if I would have done the same."
He looks at Dawson. "Kudos to you. I'm just not that brave."
Maisie-Rae squeezes Dawson's knee under the table in solidarity, then retracts her hand.
Dawson doesn't care that Abraham is used to hanging on to the sidelines for the dear life. He couldn't care less. His thoughts are elsewhere.
His unresponsiveness catches Milo's attention. He gives him a quizzical look, tilting his head to the side like a puppy, eyes asking "What's the matter?".
Dawson has the blank stare of someone who's just given up trying to get them to talk about Milo's fat cat learning how to turn on the TV by sitting on the remote.
"Adam is his friend," Cal crosses her arms to her chest indignantly, "Would you not go in heavy if that meant helping a friend out of a shitty situation?"
"Oh, but Hamilton is not Dawson's friend," Maisie-Rae pauses. Dawson holds his breath. She gives him a meaningful look. "He's the bane of his existence."
"You're so dramatic," Cal says dismissing her with her hand.
Maisie laughs. Milo slurps the last drops of his malt from the rattling straw, eyes fixed on Cal.
"I'll miss you guys so much over Christmas," Cal whines, placing her hand on her heart. "What are your plans? My family and I are going to Aspen to ski."
Abe is munching on a few milkshake-dipped fries. "My moms are throwing a Christmas dinner with some friends and family. It's gonna be big. They've been planning it since Halloween."
"Knowing your moms, they're probably still fighting over what dessert to serve," Milo teases grinning.
"Nah, they're making my favorite," he pauses as to create suspense. "The cherry cheesecake."
Maisie-Rae makes a gag sound and Dawson chuckles.
Cal pouts playfully at him. "Aren't you their sweet baby boy?"
Milo squeezes his cheek.
"Hey, hey," he rebels, squirming away from Milo's pinches. "and fuck you, guys. You know, I've got feelings."
"What are you doing for Christmas, Milo?" Cal inquires, genuine interest lighting up her eyes. "Is your dad picking you up?"
He nods mournfully. "Jack's coming home from college. He's leaving again after New Year's. Mom said we ought to spend some time together."
Dawson furrows his eyebrows. "Who's Jack?"
"My brother."
"Ah," he nods, the memory of Milo's backstory awakening. Being an only child, he never knew what it meant to have to fight to be your father's favorite son. However, he— just like Milo— never got the approval of his parents, no matter how hard he tried to get it. At first, it seemed a mere quest for attention, trying to stand out so they would notice him. It began with small acts of juvenile misconduct until he realized that was never going to work. He tried to be the top of his class. Didn't work either.
He longed for that denied approval for so many years, he eventually just decided to stop seeking it. One day he woke up and he realized he had stopped caring. Or so he thought.
Deep down, some hidden part of him still wants to see his dad look at him in pride, and to have his mom hold him, meaning every second of that embrace. Most of all, he wants them to apologize for always making him feel like he deserved less than what he got; like he was not entitled to any form of love; like he was— in their words— the biggest disappointment of their lives. It was no secret he was always the enfant terrible no adult had the patience to put up with but, most of the time, he was just Dawson.
Milo looks overtly uncomfortable. "Are you going home for Christmas, Dawson?"
"No," he answers dryly.
"Why not?" Abe blurts out.
Cal gives him a little push. "Jesus, Abe. Mind your own business."
"It's OK," Dawson shrugs, crossing his feet over the empty chair beside him. "I've never celebrated Christmas."
"What?" Abraham is appalled by Dawson's confession. "How?"
"My parents were never home," he explains with an impassive face. "Tokyo, Paris, Antigua... you name it."
"And they left you home alone?" Milo's eyes widen to twice their original size. "In New York City?"
"I had my nanny," he responds nonchalantly under the shocked stares of his friends. "No big deal."
"Unacceptable," Abe slams his palm against the table. "I can't believe this. No wonder you're so snarky and grumpy all the time."
"Thanks, bud," Dawson laughs. "I love you, too."
"Of course, you do," Abe cracks a smile. "I'm awesome."
"Are you leaving, too?" Dawson turns to face Maisie-Rae who has been awfully silent during the entire conversation.
She shakes her head. "My parents left me at the supermarket, remember?" she jokes but her voice is dripping in melancholy.
He pinches his lips together, unsure of what to say.
"You guys are both welcome to join us for Christmas. You know my moms like you, Maisie," Abe turns to face Dawson, "they think you're a bit weird but overall they like you, too."
"Thank you, Abraham, but I think I'll stay here," Dawson politely declines.
"Suit yourself," he mumbles. "What about you, Maisie?"
She hesitates at first like she's still not completely confident she'd be able to fit in. Smiling, she chirps, "Sure, why not."
"Great, I'll call my moms," he stands up, phone already in his hand, and hurries out of the cafeteria, in search of quieter places to talk.
"Well, it's been real." Dawson announces, standing up. "But I have an essay to write."
Dawson is hoping against hope that leaving his friends alone together as many times as possible will result in some sort of epiphany for Cal, or in a burst of courage for Milo, or maybe both.
Maisie-Rae follows suit, glancing at Dawson in understanding of the situation. She hops on her feet to keep up.
"You know, Adam stays here every year for Christmas," she gasps, a little out of breath once they've reached the empty hallways.
"Oh yeah?" Dawson asks, feigning indifference.
She nods, trying not to smile. "So, tell me, how long are you going to keep pretending you don't care?"
He comes to a halt rolling his eyes. Before he can say anything to deny the bold shot fired by Maisie-Rae, she cuts through the silence. "You're not the same Dawson you were on the first day here," she blurts out. "Man, you were a brat. You still are sometimes."
"Your point?"
"You're not the same, and I think he knows. Everyone can tell you've changed," she explains patiently. "Whatever he said to you in the past, whatever fight you've had... I'm pretty sure he no longer means it."
"Are you talking about the 'I hate you', the 'stay away from me' or the 'don't fucking touch me again'?" he points his finger up. "That's my personal favorite, by the way."
"You really have a way of getting on people's nerves," she says, and it almost sounds like a compliment. That is, if her death stare left any room for doubt.
He grins. "Eighteen years of experience."
Maisie-Rae scowls. "Just think about what I said, alright?"
What she doesn't know, however, is that thinking is all he has been doing. He's been thinking relentlessly about his new friends, his new life at Wharton, his family and their decision to push him away and even— it pains him to admit it— about Adam.
His words haunt him to this very day. He's not one to forget easily. He remembers every word, and the tone used to speak them, the fire in his blue eyes and the way his eyebrows slightly twitched when he cursed at him. He remembers what he was wearing, that he had his hair combed back and he looked a bit dandier than his usual messy self.
He thought about it the most when he was alone in his room. He would lie upside-down on his bed and mull over it, trying to fathom why there was such a huge distance between his feelings and his actions and how he could minimize it, shrink it to the point where people would finally be able to see the real him.
He wondered if Adam could see past his façade and, if so, whether that meant he hated the real Dawson or just the mask he wore like a shield from the rest of the world.
Even then, after all that thinking, he couldn't find the answer he was looking for. Perhaps, there was no question to be answered to begin with. Perhaps, it was all about giving a name to the feeling that he got every time Adam was around. The same feeling that made his heart constrict into his chest at the mere sight of him and his palms sweat at the sound of his voice.
But, then again, why name it? All he knew was that there were no lips he'd rather be dreaming about other than his, even though it hurt him not to touch them, even though Adam had made it crystal clear that he'd have to keep his hands to himself.
Dreaming about him would have to do for now.
*
The music room is oddly quiet.
The last glimmers of sunlight of the day are seeping through the blinds painting the floor in a striped pattern of light and shadow. Dawson has never been here, thus he ventures cautiously into the fairly messy room. To his left, a few brass instruments are unceremoniously spread on the creaky wooden chairs. There are four electric guitars hanging on the walls and a contrabass protected by its rigid cover rests heavy against the majestic piano in the center of the room.
Dawson's fingertips graze its glossy surface, before opening the fallboard and sitting down on the stool like a schoolboy on his first piano lesson. He hasn't played in forever. It's been so long he is even doubting whether he can still play like he used to. After dedicating his entire life to learning how to master the instrument, what a joke that would be!
His mom always expected him to be the best at everything. There was no space for mediocrity or getting second place. Participating didn't really matter if it didn't come with a side of winning. He was raised competitive, even when it was not about competing at all. He competed against himself, strived to improve and he never got the chance to slack. Slacking is for losers, and he wasn't raised to be one.
He stares out of the window. He can't see much from where he's sitting, just the sky, tinted in a thousand different hues of pink fading into cornflower blue. His gaze lingers on it, but he isn't thinking about anything in particular. It's just another sunset, the end of another day. His fingers hesitate on the keyboard, unsure what to play, or maybe he's only trying to remember the first note of a music sheet. He always memorized the notes and the movements of his hands and his sharp memory never failed him. Not once. To him, playing an instrument was not that different from solving an equation. There was no involvement, no emotion other than the pleasure of getting it right.
As he plays Comptine d'un autre été, l'après-midi, he closes his eyes, letting his head fall back, swaying along to the gentle melody, but only for a few seconds before a loud thud makes him wince out of his sweet reverie.
He turns around hastily, only to find a flustered Adam Hamilton engaged in collecting every single scattered paper he's just clumsily dropped on the floor, all while mumbling confused apologies.
"I'm sorry," he fumbles, "Please, continue."
"Do you need help?"
"No, and I didn't mean to interrupt you. I only came here to leave these–" he stops, grabbing the last of what looks like a music sheet. Huffing vigorously, he finally stands up and fixes his glasses on his nose. "I didn't know you played the piano."
"You don't know many things about me," Dawson replies with a shrug. "Not saying you should, though."
Adam nods absent-mindedly.
"You can stay if you want," Dawson offers taking advantage of the silence. Then, he turns his back on him, placing his fingers back on the keys. "I don't mind."
"Try this one," the boy says, laying the sheets he was holding against the music stand. Dawson glances up at him in a mix of surprise and bewilderment. Adam's cheeks are flushed, his lips cold-burn red. He's wearing a thick knitted sweater that covers most of his neck. It's blue like his eyes.
Dawson's lips twitch but, before he can give in the temptation to smile, he manages to conceal it with amusement. "I don't remember saying I took special requests," he sneers.
Adam sits next to him on the stool.
Can you believe him? Dawson thinks, unaware that he is, in fact, lying even in his private thoughts, denying the fact that the mere brushing of their shoulders is enough to give him the worst case of goosebumps.
"Alright, then," he settles, taking a good look at the sheet. "I Giorni. What's that? I've never heard of it."
"You missed out," Adam smirks.
Dawson takes a deep breath. He's not used to playing in front of people. No. He's not used to playing in front of people whose opinion matters as much as Adam's does. He played in front of hundreds of people but they were nobodies, no more than taciturn spectators he knew nothing of. It was easy playing for them, pleasing them on the notes of Beethoven or Mozart. It was easy because it was like solving an equation. Simple, linear, logical. Only a matter of recalling the mechanism, the flow. Press the pedal, slide on the keys, don't linger unless you're supposed to, lift your foot, don't lose focus.
He starts playing, feeling his heart in his throat. He's breathless, a little lost and dazed by the closeness, and the melody is just beautiful and mesmerizing, and he's never felt anything like this before. He can barely keep his eyes on the sheet, knowing that Adam is sitting next to him, feeling his knee against his stiff thigh. His knuckles almost give in under the weight of the boy's awestruck stare.
Dawson pours his soul into playing I Giorni, his fingers melt with the keys as he becomes one with them. He is not the pianist anymore, he's the instrument, he's the voice of the tune, his fingers sing the notes out like he wrote them down on paper himself; like he wrote that song for only Adam to hear. Just once; like it's a masterpiece to be forgotten. He plays like he's never going to play again.
They stay like that until the end of the song. In the peaceful, blissful company of each other. Not needing to speak, because the music is already doing all the work.
After the last chord, they share a long stunned silence. The light is almost entirely gone.
Dawson turns to look at Adam, and faintly flinches when he finds him already looking back.
Oh, God. Those eyes.
He really fucking wants to kiss him right now, to an almost embarrassing extent.
Needless to say, he doesn't get the chance to, because Adam is faster to stand up from the stool. He fixes his creased clothes, avoiding his gaze.
Sometimes being with Adam is like approaching a wild deer in the woods. The animal stares at him in fascination for a few seconds, until the feeling of immediate danger takes over. That's when the fearful doe runs away, before Dawson can declare his harmlessness.
"I have to go," he murmurs.
"Where?" the question escapes Dawson's lips before he can prevent it.
Adam shoots him a reproving look.
"Let me guess," Dawson curls his lips playfully. "None of my damn business?"
Hamilton gives him a thin-lipped smile. He bashfully stares at the ground below his feet. "Someone's a quick study."
Dawson doesn't reply. He cocks his left eyebrow in anticipation.
"Anyways," the boy frets, crossing his arms to his chest. He holds the shoulder belt of his satchel bag into an anxious tight fist. "I'll see you later."
"Don't sound so disappointed," Dawson smirks. "I might actually think you don't like me."
"Bet," Adam scoffs before walking towards the door.
"Wait," Dawson calls out to him through the uncomfortable silence. "Why did you have this music sheet if you can't play?"
"Mr. Miller asked me to leave it here," Adam explains with a shrug. "He's the teacher for the extracurricular piano course."
"Then how did you know it was a good song?"
"I didn't," Adam confesses. "I just wanted you to play it."
"Sneaky," Dawson's eyebrows waggle suggestively.
"Clever," Adam corrects him.
"Guess it's a matter of perspective."
Adam cuts in, and the words almost seem to shoot out of him, "Did you like it?"
Dawson nods once, then grins amusedly. "Did you?"
Adam tilts his head to the side, a sly spark in his blue eyes. "Interpretation could be improved but, other than that, it was nice."
Dawson lets out a brief frisky laugh. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a real piece of work?"
"Just you."
"Well, I'll have you know it's really fucking hard to please you, Hamilton," Dawson snickers, turning away from him.
"Were you trying to?"
Dawson blanches. He stares at his fingers on the keyboard like he's searching for a formula. "What do you think?"
"Never a straight answer with you," Hamilton clicks his tongue and leaves the room without saying goodbye.
Dawson tugs his hood up over his head, then delicately closes the fallboard, crossing his arms over it and finally collapses on them in exasperation. He grunts against the sleeves of his hoodie.
He spends what's left of his otiose day humming I Giorni; wondering if he'll ever be able to sit next to Adam and not feel a single thing, just like he so masterfully pretended to, and, if not, how to not go crazy trying.
*
A/N:
guess who's back, back again
it's been a few days, sorry! been extra busy but i'm so happy to be writing this author's note. i missed it and i missed you
hope you liked this chapter. i know it was really simple and uneventful plot-wise, but it still mattered and i hope you can understand how.
thank you for reading and i'll see you soon <3