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july 12th

Maebe wanted to walk downstairs and throw something hard at his head.

I guess what I'm trying to say is

He knew exactly what she was trying to say. He knew EXACTLY. He HAD to. She'd never been angry with Dawson like this before, and it was a cauterizing anger, so she refused to let it go.

She wrote out her answer a dozen times, and each time she deleted it before sending. I want to know if you want me to wait for you. I want to know if you care. I want to know if I even stand a chance. I want to know if you really believe I should give up.

I want to know, I want to know, I want to know.

I don't know how to say this

This was harder, and more painful than she could handle. Dawson had once told her that she should always be honest with him. Did he realize then, that honesty would be the last thing he'd ever want to hear?

She tried, one final time, to tell him what mattered without making it all about what she wanted.

but you know I want to be with you, and if you said the word I wouldn't go on this date. or any dates. I guess I just wanted to give you
one last veto.
just in case.

But she failed, because it was always about her.

Always.

july 12th

He knew it was like pulling teeth, and Syn loved it. Her purring satisfaction made him feel disgusted with himself. And then, even that pleasure began to sour at his hesitation, his trembles.

< Even when given all of this on a silver platter, you won't act. >

"S'not right," he mumbled as he began to text.

u dont have to u know
i dont have a damn right to tell u u cant do something if ur interested

And he didn't. He'd just told Rep that very night that her body and what happened to it was none of their damn business. It was supposed to be hers. Her choice. Hers. To want to give him one last veto, one last chance at control...He shouldn't want to take it. He shouldn't. He Shouldn't.

Syn's three voices hissed something in their little Greeky language: Of all animals, the boil is the most unmanageable.

july 12th

She'd already gotten up out of the bed after her last text. She was shimmying into the long, gold sequinned dress she'd chosen for the night when she heard her phone buzz. She looked at herself in the mirror instead of answering it.

Gold. She'd chosen it specifically. Not white, or pink, like she'd usually have gone for. She wasn't trying to manipulate Mary into thinking she was something that she was not. This dress, and everything else she wore that night were chosen for her. She wanted to feel like she was worth something. Like solid gold.

Or at the very least, she wanted to make believe she felt that way, for once.

When she picked up her phone again, her expression crumbled with emotion. Why did he have to be so sweet, even when he was being a complete and utter moron?

She knew why. It was the same reason he would always seem sweet, to her.

I know. I know I don't have to do this. But you're worth trying for. Even if I fail.

july 12th

Press the glass, press the glass, press the glass until it cracks. It wasn't failure, it was...He didn't know. His fault? It felt appropriate. Your fault for letting it happen, your fault for bleeding. Dawson wondered if she might think the same, deep, deep down.

He felt a lump in his throat at the words, I take it that's your answer, then. Even when he chose not to choose, he still ******** it up. Incredible. ********. He ran a hand through his hair again and wondered if she was already on her way now, if she had taken people's suggestions or gone with her own style. The idea was strangely terrifying: that things were still moving before he could put his thoughts together.

He forcibly colored over the white out.

ill be honest
part of me doesnt want u to go

He realized he really didn't. For good reasons or for less noble ones. For both, probably. His heart thumped.

n thats not right i have no right to think so
bc thats selfishn bc u dont have a reason to tell him no unless u dont like him or soethin

Maybe she wouldn't. It was such a juvenile thought to hope for, but nothing remotely adultlike was in control right now. It was just scribbles and shaky hands and a disappearing chin as he tried to hold it in.

what i think dont matter, he wrote, and it was painfully, tearfully true.

july 12th

Part of me doesn't want you to go.

Maebe dropped the phone in favor of covering her mouth with her hands. "Please," She whispered, muffled through her fingertips. "Oh, please please please please Dawson." She'd gone from hopeful, to angry, to hopeful all over again, but this time was different. This time was so much more dangerous. Because part of him didn't want her to go.

She unzipped her dress, even as the rest of his DMs came in. She needed to see him, to hear him say that out loud. It wasn't a profession of love, or even affection, but for her, it was enough. It was everything.

And then he began to talk himself down off of the ledge he'd stood on, and she crumpled against her phone, laying down on her stomach beside it. "No, no no no no no don't backtrack, stop it, you idiot." Her fingers flew as she tried to tell him, without stopping to think for even one second, about what she was writing.

What you think always matters.
Has always mattered, to me.
I do like him, Dawson. But I'm not in love with him. I'm in love with you.

Oh no. Wait, she told herself. She didn't - she couldn't just blurt it out like that, and over twitter messages, no less -

"Christ, what the ******** did I just do." She shuddered out, staring in equal parts horror and excitement. She was about to lose him, forever, if she didn't think fast. Make it unimportant, Maebe, she told herself. Don't leave it there. Say something. Say something.

So what you think, matters.

july 12th

It was his turn to put the phone down.

Dawson got up and began to circle his room, unsure why he needed to move but knowing innately that he had to. His attention darted from color to color, from inside to outside—heated chest to drab walls to inky guilt to pictures of his family to the thorns in his throat to the little cross at his chest to the dreading thrill coursing through to the trembling and sweating hands. He paced and made circles and circles and circles, made artificial space in his dungeon of a room. Breathe. How? Hands above head, deep breath. There's a crack in the wall. Maybe that's been there all this time. He should go look at it anyway.

(He's afraid, he's afraid, he's afraid, he's afraid. He's Shaggy but worse: not just the monsters, but people as well, terrify him sometimes. And this, this—)

He didn't deviate from the circle but kept going for another handful of laps, trying to control his breathing and the bittersweet ache in his heart. Dawson had no idea of the panic going on the other end of the line. To him it all looked so casually executed. Purposeful. Even without making an effort, Maebe seemed almost perfect yet again. But she had to know he would be suffering from excitable anxiety, right? That if he didn't watch it, his breaths would grow shallow and rapid, his head lighter, his vision blurrier.

Dawson forced himself to abruptly turn back to the phone, grabbed it, and fell onto the beanbag with a whump. His heart was thudding like he had run a mile, and his heels kept bouncing with nervous energy.

i think u should do what u think would make for a better time. He managed it slowly and after a variety of different messages. It still didn't make sense to him as a sentence. Word salad constructed from a confused cafeteria worker.

The reply cemented his fear: A better time. Flat tone, dangerous eyes. His sentiment had been lost, if he even knew what it had been to begin with.

He had another small burst of panic and rolled onto his stomach, comforted by the pressure against the beanbag chair. He blinked and realized he had been crying for...when did this happen again? During the laps? Before? After? He wiped at his face and sniffled loudly, trying to force himself to focus. Odd how a body could feel hot and cold at the same time.

maybe thats the wrong words
i just want u to have a good time whatever u end up doing

july 12th

She felt like she was shutting down, piece by piece. It wasn't the first time she'd opened up too much, and regretted it. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

But she couldn't take it back, now. He knew. He knew, and still-

She'd snapped at him when she repeated his own words back to him, but she couldn't hold on to that anger long enough. She tried, so hard, to just hate him. But he wasn't leading her on, and he wasn't lying to her. He was just.

Is that really all you want?

But even as she wrote it, she knew it was. She knew it really, really was.

Dawson was never going to love her. Not like that. Never like that.

She no longer regretted having this conversation with him, now. Her eyes stung and her heart throbbed, but she had to keep telling herself the truth. She had to be reminded, until she finally believed it. She had to cut all those tight, golden threads of hope, one by one. Even if the ones remaining just got stronger every time one was cut away.

He just wanted her to be happy. But for now, she wanted him to think about his own desires. It would be easier than thinking about her own.

What about your happiness?

july 12th

She spent a long, long time just thinking about what she was looking at.

It wasn't as if his answer came as any surprise. Dawson always put others before himself. That was why she was in love with him. He was the most selfless, giving, honest, caring individual she'd ever met, and nothing about this response made a dent in that opinion. It was just - she'd never actually taken the time to think about how terrible that could be. If he was so busy giving everything up for other people, how in the hell would he even know what he wanted? How would he be able to recognize something that he desired, if he was so focused on making other people happy?

Dawson had no idea what he wanted. It wasn't that he didn't want her. He simply didn't know himself.

The realization scared her, because it tried to sew torn up threads of hope together, when the last thing she needed was to let that happen. If he didn't know himself, he would just continue along this way, at his own pace, until he did.

And when had Maebe ever been known to be patient?

I thought that asking you this was going to clear things up for me, but I realize now that it's just got me worried.
I don't know how I missed this but I guess the truth is, you aren't being entirely honest to yourself, about yourself, and. I've been there.
So you can't really answer this question for me right now.

She didn't hate him for not knowing who he was yet. It would be like hating herself. She just felt the sad weight of reality bearing down on her, reminding her that she may have just come too early in his life to be what he wanted. What he could want. And she didn't know if she was strong enough to wait and find out.

Maybe she was. She almost thrilled at the idea of finding out.