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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ADAM BLANCHES AT the realization that he is, in fact, going to share a tent with Dawson Evans. His vacant stare lingers on him for five stunned seconds.
Dawson shoots him a perplexed look. "What?"
"Nothing," he mumbles. "Nevermind."
He drops his satchel on the chair and unceremoniously spreads a couple of things on the desk, among which his journal, his phone and his gloves.
Then, he turns his back on Dawson and starts, without prior notice, to undress slowly.
The cord turtleneck is the first item to go, followed by his long-sleeved shirt and then his pants drop, too. He kicks them off his slender ankles. The silence surrounding them is so heavy you could hear a feather touch the ground.
Dawson tries not to stare at Adam. He tries not to stare at his godly alabaster back, at his long neck, but there's skin everywhere, fuck, there's so much skin, and he feels like he might just die right here and right this second, if he so much as dares look away.
He knows he's not supposed to look at Hamilton like that, but his whole body is tingling in an unfamiliar way. He's hypnotized, completely subjugated by the sight of every single curve of every single muscle on his back and legs and...
This is fucking torture, he thinks, dragging his hand over his face.
Adam is back in the same pj pants he was wearing the night Dawson stayed over. His back is still bare and so is the rest of his upper-body, Dawson ascertains, when Adam turns around to fetch his shirt into his backpack.
"Do you mind?"
Dawson looks away, feeling a little light-headed, like he was just shaken out of his torpor. Shame makes his cheeks burn, as he nervously bites his bottom lip to cool off and calm his nerves. He thought he got rid of that habit for good.
Even without looking at him, from the corner of his eye he can see him slide in bed, while holding his journal and a pen. He bends his knees to use as escritoire and dives into his coveted lonely pastime.
"What exactly do you write in there all day long?" Dawson ventures, avoiding his gaze by staring at the ceiling.
"None of your business," Adam says, distracted by his journal. He speaks slowly, like he's done repeating himself.
"Fine," Dawson smirks "I know you'll let me read it one day, anyway."
"You believe that if it helps you sleep at night."
Dawson turns over, his back facing Hamilton's bed. He doesn't fall asleep, though. Not yet. He quietens down so he can relish the comfortable silence they're sharing. He listens to the sound of Adam's fingers running over the rough paper of his journal. Just for a brief sinful second, he imagines what it'd be like if they were touching his skin instead.
