Dawson is- most people who don't know him would say- as straight as they come. And senior year away from home promises to be a big year for him: no parents in sight, a whole new set of friends, he just seems to have it all. Not to mention that all t...
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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.
