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He forgot what day it was. He remembered what he did for the most part: grabbing Oliver his sweets and dropping them off, getting a s**t ton himself, managing to grab more food and booze for himself. Dawson forgot the moments in between—where he asked himself how he could feel in the dark when he talked to people enough, where he could be openly friendly enough that he could bring someone back if he just let it go, where he felt strangely lonely in his basement room when he was just a text away from bothering someone, where worry dogged his heels because he just didn't know why. Maybe it was just the fact that Valentine's Day had passed. Maybe he had used up his smiles answering the anonymous messages the night before and just didn't feel up to it beyond his usual Twitter antics.

But he did remember one thing: people (or at least one person) had expressed interest in him finding someone, so he guessed it was time to fish.

In the comfort of his pillow and blanket fort, Dawson trolled random contacts with compliments and barely spelled words of encouragement. Why not? Not everyone was going to wake up happy after the holiday; maybe a drunk message from a stranger would be welcome. Sounded legit. He wasn't aware of his mistake when he hit one particular number.

Said bulging sack was a bag full of sweets, but details.

There was a scrambling within at the sound as Dawson drunkenly attempted to fix himself and his room for his lady friend. It....didn't seem to want to agree. But he had a large amount of chocolate and other assorted candy, and he also still had a s**t ton of beer. Was this the smell and set up of of a win-win situation? Hell yeah.

Eventually he made his way over, and the door freaked open. It was immediately obvious how much he had drank by his flushed his skin was, the slightly out of it look in his eyes, the wild thatch his hair had become, and the fact that his hat was barely sitting atop it.

"Heeeeeello, misssssssswhat're ye doin' here?"

Blink. Still slightly grinning.

"Aww hey, Chris," he greeted enthusiastically. "Lissen, man, I got....Well, somebidy gettin' over hurr soonish like. Whassup?"

Dawson's room was and always would be some sort of clutter, but it was far worse than usual. He had been nesting and lounging around, and his laziness showed by the empty cans forgotten by the trash bag, discarded bags of snacks, and still half eaten food sitting on both the shelf and the sheets. Chris could count six cans out in the open without sifting around for even more that were hidden.

At first he was happy to comply; Chris was ways a good face to see, even if it was currently frowning and making noises at him that were mildly disheartening. But then it started to slowly hit him, and his doofy smile began to fade.

"Hold....Hoooold up, what..." He touched his newly snug cap. "Yer here....n' ya didn' check in....hooooold it, where ya been, Chris?" Dawson asked. "Ya didn' like text me'r nuthin' fer...where...?"

"It mighta...It migh' wha'?" Dawson hovered around, just out of the way as Chris worked. He scratched under his cap. "So...So yer not jest scarpin' the hospital, yerrrr makin' yerself..."

Blink. Pause. Blink. Slightly more clarity.

"Chris, yer tellin' me ye not only ran off 'fore ye were done r'cov'rin'," Dawson said very slowly, "ye ran straight inta danger with yer cuz. That righ'?"

"And," Dawson continued in a dangerously low voice as he stepped and swayed forward, his finger jabbing in the air where Chris' chest should have been, "ya didn' text yer ol' fren'' Dawson 'cuz he don' d'serve t'know wurr his frens been up to, tha' also righ', bruhther?"

For a moment Chris met with considerable resistance in spite of their different levels of power. Dawson was a heavy set fellow, and when he was really stubborn he could be near impossible to move. A familiar glare surfaced, coupled with a soft growl.

And then he was pushed onto the pillow fort. Several more cans were expelled from the depths of those blankets, and an open bag of cracklins partially spilled out from the disturbance. He sat there sprawled out, then seemed to deflate.

"Yeeeeup. 'Course it wus." His smile wasn't convincing. Dawson tugged as his cap again. "Sure. Believe ya. Y'know wha' yer doin'. Erry day yer textin' me, Dawson you alive bro?, Dawson hey s'it still good here?, Dawson buddy tell me somethin' good I cain't r'member, n' I wuz there." He thumped his chest. "Buddy holly, I sure wus! Like a good got-damn fren'. 'Cuz I cain't e'en begin t'think've what happened t'ya out there, Chris, it ********' broke my heart thinkin' you got left out there. Ain't nobody tell me anythin' 'til Chelsea come up n' say sumthin' happened, whole week later. N' then ya come back, n' Gawd but I wus happy, bruhther," he said in a more hushed tone, closer to cracking. He really had drunk a lot.

"But then." Louder. "Then he leaves his bed with his crazy cuz, no message, no hollerin' 'bout freedom bro freedom 'r nuthin', then he walks hisself inta a got-damn mission 'fore anyone say he good, does got-damn knows whut got-damn knows where, doesin' say a werd, doesin' think gee this prolly ain't a good idear maybe I should tell one've mah fren's wur'm at, just thinks man I need me sum new s**t after alla that, I ain't got enough on my plate already, I gotta go look fer summore."

Louder. But nawwwwwwwwwww." The smile left completely. He fished around for the half-empty six pack he saw laying around nearby. "I'm jest makin' a ********' big deal outta nuthin'. 'Course I am. Dawson Grace don' know wuh' he's sayin'. Tha's why nobody never tells him nuthin', y'know, he'd just scratch his big ol' head n' go huwaaaah?" Found it. He yanked the can out of the casing.

His hand grasped nothing. His fingers curled in over that space and then out again, while another soft growl-like noise left him.

Dawson pushed himself up to his feet unsteadily, tossing his head so his hair got out of his eyes. "Yeah, that was real ********' dumbass a'ya," he agreed with a scowl. "You get too mucha that n' yer brain, ye ask yer frens fer help, not...not gallavan'in' 'round some ******** thrust his palm out.

"Now s'my turn t'make some dumbass choices. Gimme the beer, Chris."