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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Dawson cannot fathom the idea of Hamilton standing in his living room. He's been trying to process the situation for several minutes now. Instead, Adam's blue eyes are focused on the Christmas frenzy of Mission district happening on the other side of the big window.
"What do you think about the place?" Dawson asks in a pinched voice. He feels as if they ran out of all their conversation topics and he regrettably has to resort to small talk.
Adam turns to face him. His eyes wander around the room for a couple seconds before he finally settles his gaze back on Dawson.
"I like it," he says. "Bit sparse, though."
"It's just for a few nights. Figured it wouldn't matter that much," Dawson shrugs. "Plus, I needed a change of scenery."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm under the impression you only rented this place to be alone."
"Well, I'm not alone, am I?" Dawson points out, leaning against the wall with his usual confident poise.
Adam rolls his eyes, but his lips are overtly upturned. "Sharp observation."
Dawson gives him a cocky grin. "Thank you."
They lapse into a lyrical silence. Even during that brief interlude, Adam's pleading eyes tug on Dawson's heartstrings, restless. The symphony is fickle.
"So..." he breathes.
Dawson runs his frantic fingers through his hair, gaze settling on the pavement below his feet. "So."
"About what happened..." Adam tiptoes on grounds he'd rather not tread.
"What about it?"
"What does it mean?"
"What do you want it to mean?"
He asks that with his voice dripping in childlike naivety, mildly quivering in fear that Adam's answer might disappoint him. As if the very fact the boy went all the way to San Francisco for him wasn't already the answer he should be clinging to; as if it wasn't obvious to everybody else.
"I'm serious, Evans," Adam reproaches, crossing his arms tight to his chest.
"So am I."
"You kissed me."
For a split second, Dawson wishes that Adam's voice wasn't contaminated by distress; that the thought of their kiss thrilled him half as bad as it thrilled Dawson. "Why do you sound so freaked out?"
"I'm not, I'm just trying to process—"
"Process what?" the words shoot out of him.
"This," he mumbles.
There's something inherently off about Adam's body language. Sure, he was never the most sociable kid. He was always rather introverted and his behavior provided a pretty good summary of the content of the book, with a few exceptions. But now the boy looks uncomfortable, almost frightened, with his back against the wall and his eyes welling with a feeling that Dawson cannot discern.
