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After constant texts just to be sure this was a good time--even though, quite honestly, there was no such thing as a "good time" for this kind of discussion he wanted to have, Dawson managed to shuffle his schedule around enough to get him the time to get food and visit. He technically could have gotten it all ahead of time, but getting Horace anything other than the freshest of the fresh seemed like a crime, both in consideration of his tumultuous few weeks and of how the infirmary food probably was.

After spending a little over an hour shopping off island and yet another text flung Horace's way just to be extra sure he knew, Dawson lumbered over to the infirmary and let himself in. He brought with him the heady scents of fresh bread, spices, smoke, and cooked beans that made several heads turn as he looked for Horace's door.

"Incomin'!" was Horace's last warning before he opened the door with bags of food that seemed to insinuate he was going to get a buffet rather than a sample platter.

"Righ' here, man," he answered with a slap to his belly and a grin. "Yer lookin' at a one man army, heh. But I guess you can eat some too."

If he noted Horace's stilted smile, it didn't show. He had more than enough cheer for two people.

There wasn't nearly enough room to stack the food on his little desk, so Dawson piled the bags onto an available chair. He started to list them out as he picked through them. "Yer stomach better be ready for some heaven, 'cause I got the good Looziana s**t, brother. Watcha feel like startin' with? I got crawfish poboys, red pepper boudin, gator boudin, cracklins—well that ain' a meal s'much a snack really—beignets, a t'go bowl a' shrimp gumbo, aaaaand," he pat a rectangular box decorated with the Mardi Gras colors of purple, yellow, and green, "a'course, king cake! Any a'that pique yer tastebuds?"

"Yeah, I did." Even for all of Dawson's casual approach, he couldn't hide the somber edge to those words.

Digging out the gumbo, he produced two plastic spoons, napkins, and accompanying paper bowls, and set them down by Horace. Dawson would have been perfectly fine standing, but it felt weird when his friend was bed ridden, so he cleared the chair and brought it over. "So, it's rice, roux, bell pepper, onion, garlic, celery, filé powder—uh, grounded susassasasfras leaves, the hell tha' word is—shrimp a'course, n' some bits a'sausage," he listed out as he ladled it into the bowls and passed one to Horace. "Just in case yer allergic r' somethin'."

Bringing up America had caused a small tremor in him. Dawson's buoyant aura became more hesitant, more worried. He was afraid to hear the truth even though he desperately needed to, because one side had been bad enough. Having all of the pieces of the story meant having all of its weight too...but maybe that would also mean taking the burden off Horace's shoulders too.

"We, uh...we do this how you wanna," Dawson said after a moment, the bowl in his hands but the food untouched, which said something; normally he would have been digging in with gusto by now. "I ain' here t'defend Meri; ya'll's fight ain' mine. M'here 'cause you didn' mind tellin' me what's been up, so. Yer lead, bro."

"Amen t'that, brother." And that was the last time Dawson spoke for a while.

I checked. I read his twitter account like a jealous boyfriend.

Horace was in Death, of course he found out everything that he could. At least he armed himself with knowledge. He didn't ignore or avoid s**t like Dawson had, he didn't choose to remain oblivious. (Twitter was for fun. Twitter was for idle chatter and stupid jokes.)

—like I'm a child who knew nothing or I'm a monster for believing—

Horace loved this man. He investigated to the full extent what he was able and then confronted Jan with it, and it hurt because that was the right thing to do and it still hadn't worked. Dawson couldn't possibly understand what sort of burden that must have been, watching the recording, reading the DMs, entangling himself in something so much bigger, and still somehow keep moving forward. God knew Dawson was barely doing the same with what he knew from America.

And he faced the same struggle again as Horace continued. The same issue of how to busy his hands without appearing disinterested (holding the bowl of food he quietly ate from, though it was quickly losing taste), how to process these pieces of the story, how to fit them to America's narrative, how to comprehend the magnitude of what he had missed. It was a little easier the second time: he had a framework and forewarning, and Horace's take was rife with stops that let him catch up. He didn't, couldn't say a word, but he was not a very subtle man. It was easy to see the turmoil of concern and sympathy on his freckled face, the way his eyes seemed to sink as Horace described the more gruesome parts, the way his bottom lip tucked in slightly as he bit it from the inside while glancing at the bandages around his friend's hand.

Helpless. That was how he had felt when he'd been told Chris had been lost for a week in some frozen wasteland, when America had devolved into angry tears, and how he felt now. These were not are's but had been's and was' and then's, the untouchable past he couldn't stop or change now. And even knowing everything he was allowed to be told, Dawson felt uncomfortable around what gray areas remained: Horace's semibreve versus Jan's show of concern, for one. For another, the way America's group had handled it all, is it rescue the hostage or punish the kidnapper as Syn had put it. (But he's not a child, remember?) Knowing as much as he did and still not sure how to respond, how to set the course straight again, how to fix something that was more broken than he ever thought should be allowed. Helpless.

Dawson sighed audibly through his nose and eventually set his gumbo aside, tempted to bury his face in his hands until the noise in his head became quiet again. Don't cry. Just like with America, don't you dare cry. His heart ached and his throat constricted with the abject sorrow of their stories, and it was a weight he could barely stand as a bystander and friend; his feet and hands were caught underneath it, lacking the energy to move and tap and fiddle like they usually did. He couldn't do this. He couldn't not cry and also not talk, he couldn't stand the silence or its building pressure.

His breaths grew uneven and his eyes glassier. "I-I'm so sawry." Sniffling. "Horace, m's-so ********' s-s-sawry—" He just couldn't, he couldn't handle both parts of the story and stay calm. Dawson reached out to grab the nearest available hand, forgot they were eating, and cradled it between his as a tear started to fall, and he burned with embarrassment as a second joined it and more threatened to follow. He wanted to say more—needed to—he needed to address so much more, but right now he was trembling and clutching at Horace with a look in his watery eyes that begged forgiveness for not being strong enough to steady him when he needed it.

Why? Why anything at all at this point? Because it was wrong, all of it, just innately, profanely wrong. It wasn't his fault directly, no, but maybe indirectly it was: through inaction, ignorance, and idiocy. By crying, he of course made it worse, so Dawson quickly turned the knobs on the water works after the initial surge of emotion and let Horace be free of his grasp for a few moments. He wiped at his face hastily, trying to remove every shred of evidence. Nothing could stop his ruddy face, though, red in shame and utter emotion.

Deep breath. "Sawry. One step a-atta time," he said in a thick voice, sniffling. "That o-okay?" That was all he could manage without falling to pieces, just portions. He wanted to take Horace's hand again like he had with America, but maybe that was showing too much weakness in the wake of his brief breakdown.

Dawson opened his mouth and closed it several times, swallowing. Soft noises died in his throat. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Horace Nokoni," he said mournfully, "what kinda two bit rat b*****d made you believe you wasn' 'nuff inna first place? What Momma n' Poppa raised you thinkin' yer not a whole n' wonnerful person on yer own?"

Love, God, freaking love. Dawson wiped a hand down his face and rumbled another sigh, showcasing his own frustration with himself when faced with his own ineptitude. One thing at a time, he reminded himself, just the one.

"Well...well, ******** life then." There it was, there was the spark of anger missing when he'd comforted America. he repeated more emphatically as he sniffed, focusing on Horace's face. "Shove its lemons up its got-damn shiyet-spittin' ayass 'til its spittin' blood's justus bitter, Horace, 'cause yes yew are. Yes yew ********' are worth it, y'hear me?" His reddened eyes were bright again, but it was hard to tell if it was the unshed tears peeking out or just a side-effect of his emotions.

Dawson reached out for his injured hand and took it by the wrist, surprisingly gentle despite his thickening, rough accent. His volume didn't rise so much as the intensity behind the words. "Yew don' hafta gimme a daymn thing t'prove y'are, unnerstand? This man carved ya like a piece a'wood n' took yer finger n' cawled it love, but I'm telling yew right ********' here n' now tha' me, yer friends, the ones Ah know been' visi'in', the fellows that ********' cover yer a** ferm Twitter bastards, the ones who been supportin' ya all this time, don' need a pound a'flesh from yew t'prove they cayre 'bout someone impor'an. 'Cause tha's watcha are, Horace, whether ye see it r' nawt. Yew exist, g-got-dammit," he said tightly, "that matters, yew don' hafta ********' pay fer it."

xxThe Semblance of Unity

It was different, yet another unfathomable philosophy the island had introduced him to. But the way the edge crept into Horace's voice made his insides tighten with dread, because Dawson's first thought was that he had somehow done it wrong. Again. He had been lucky with Maebe, whose tastes also felt questionable to him, because she had stayed patient while she explained to him why his narrow mindset made him come across badly despite his good intentions. Apparently he hadn't cemented that wisdom into his head yet. Instead he had cried and ranted and cursed in some misguided bid to fix the problem like he predictably would, but the noise wasn't helping anything at all.

"I believe ya," he said in a rusty voice. The anger was gone like the last of a fire crushed underboot. Horace was retreating into a shell and all he could think was pleasepleasedon'tplease. "I-I do. I don' think anyone e'er..." Don't force your opinion down his throat again, it doesn't matter. "I-I'm sawry fer goin' off like that, man. It's yer choices n' yer life. I just--" His gaze dropped as the censorship began, culling what shouldn't be repeated, what didn't bear any point in saying at all. He swallowed thickly and raised his eyes again. "You are enough, man. Tha's all I really wanted t'say with all this. One day I hope y'think so too."

If he hadn't considered Horace a good friend, he would have made an excuse and fled. As it was, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, adjusted his hat because he could, and took back his bowl of gumbo he had honestly forgotten about until then.

"Thanks fer tellin' me, though," he added quietly between spoonfuls. "Fer trustin' me. I mean it. I don'...Sometimes I'm a hammer n' buzzsaw when all a person wants s'a ear n' an arm. I'm tryin' t'be better 'bout it, honest. This s**t's...complicated, I guess s'the word, but I know you'll get through it. Yer tough jerky." The food was cold now, but he supposed it was the least he deserved.

"You wan' me t'take over talkin' fer a bit?" he offered, adding with a weak smile, "Cain't have you losin' yer pretty voice before y'get out, y'know."