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 Posted: Mon Jun 22, 2015 12:28 pm
It was hard not to talk to Maebe, not just because he had a thousand apologies and ten times that ideas to compensate for it, but because she had the best mix of healthyish relationship experience and ability to advise and not judge on something exactly like this.
Chance was next in line, but between keeping a lifestyle free of being tied down and having the weirdest of tastes on things, he doubted the guy could really understand beyond being an ear to vent to. Chris, s**t, he wasn't answering his phone still, and that was just another worry on the list. Horace was...Horace. He'd sympathize and then say something disparaging about Maebe, which was definitely not what he was looking for. America had to be crossed off for multiple reasons: recent break up, strange behavior, high chance of offering sex as a solution, scary Taym. Abbi would bitterly laugh and point out that at least someone was interested. Claude would tell him to suck it up probably, if he could even find her beyond their weekly spars. Chel...Maybe Chel. She had a boyfriend and he was a complete a*****e, but while Dawson didn't understand how it worked, it worked, right? But she'd most likely just give him something like sucks, bro, or otherwise just tell him it wasn't that big a deal. And anyway, she was also worried about Chris; Dawson wasn't going to whine at her about this when she was preoccupied with something more important.
It left him alone with his thoughts, and he hadn't considered them on his own in a very long time.
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Posted: Tue Jun 23, 2015 1:02 am
Nobody can tell him roses are a cliche, because Anne Marie Rose is more timeless than that. Art can't be a cliche. Art is an expression of the artist's heart, unique and beautiful in its own way—and God help him, but her parents were geniuses. It's not her fault that he can't always keep up, that there are weeks and sometimes months where he's not allowed to be near her, let alone touch her. One of her status could consort with whatever level of high school socialite she felt at whatever given time, and he is in no position to question it, only to be grateful when she looks his way. At least until prom draws near.
I love you. It's not enough to say it, words aren't promise enough for people like her who have heard plenty of iterations. So, he decides. Burn it, then, engrave it in his skin. Bastards didn't think he was serious, didn't think the backwater fat boy understood what "you have no chance" means. But that was what love was supposed to be about, right? Saying damn what they say, this is how I feel? Words are temporary, but ink is eternal, and that's how he's going to prove it.
(Maybe pain will wake the beast, maybe a needle against his skin will make the spark.)
You're like a dog in human form, she'd told him once, when he asked her why she never stayed for long. Docile. Safe. Always needin' attention. She made it sound like a bad thing, and he never quite understood why.
But dogs didn't get their sweetheart's name painted on their body, did they. Safe people didn't go rebelling behind their mother's back, steal a little extra cash to cover the expense. He could change. (He could try.)
But his dramatic entrance is denied. He's stuck off to the side of the dance floor, soda cup in trembling hands, wild hair finally tamed and greased back, chest burning with delayed gratification and aftershocks. His suit is uncomfortable. It's too hot in the gym. It's going to be worth it, it's going to be worth it. None of his friends know yet; it's a miracle he's kept his mouth shut for this long. But the longer the image in his head doesn't get to play out, the worse his nerves get. Feet tapping. Head scratching. Nails stray close to his mouth.
He sees her. Just goes for it at this point. ******** up. His hands move ahead of schedule, pop the buttons on his shirt too fast, fumbling, mumbling and then yelling when he couldn't hear himself because volume control was suddenly a foreign concept, abort, abort, there are friends watching, there is another guy with a matching corsage watching, she's watching as the shirt fires off the top button and lands a two point shot in a girl's cup, and the noise, the eyes, he doesn't remember what he's supposed to say or what he's already said—
And then she sees the tattoo on his newly hairy chest. There's a split second where their eyes meet, recognition lighting her expression. And then she starts to laugh. So do the rest of them. He joins soon after. It's absurd. All of it is. He ducked his head and laughs and shakes and clutches his poor shirt and sloshes his drink on the ground because he forgot he had been holding it, and their laughter turns into an uproar. He bows and pretends each mistake doesn't stab him in the chest. He has to own it, it's the only way he's survived his own incompetence: through the lens of comedy.
Later, when he's cleaned the floor and debated just smashing his face into it next a few times, she approaches. "You didn't really...?" He did. He sheepishly lets her look at the trio of roses and thorny vines connecting them around his collar bone, rubbed red from his clothes. He forces himself not to make a face as she touches his chest, marveling at the sight and the feeling. (And he'll be reminded again when Chel touches it, when Maebe does.)
"Why?" For her, of course. Anne Marie Rose. Three just like her name. Three just like I love you, and just as permanent. He realizes how corny it sounds now that he's said it out and laughs at himself.
She doesn't join this time.
"Dawson, I...Bless your heart." She seems mildly freaked out now, eying Jim with a mixture of incredulous eyes and polite Southern smiles. "I like you, you big sweetie," she reaches up and late his cheek hesitantly. "But don't you think this is a little crazy? I mean, a tattoo?" She exhales an awkward chuckle. Something in him starts to sink. He tries to explain himself, she cuts him off. It doesn't matter. It's stupid. It's not the first stupid thing this year either, and she's starting to get really ********' fed up.
He sighs and touches his hair, shrinks himself, drops his shoulders. She's right of course; he hadn't known what he was thinking. He'd just hoped...He'd thought love was...He'd thought...(Oh, bless your heart.)
She says something else, but not much gets through the static in his head and the music pounding through their ears. Robotically he waves her off back to her group, who watch him the way people watch zoo monkeys before turning away. They leave, and as his friends swarm in with a thousand questions of what the hell was that about, he's left with the thought that maybe he couldn't change, then. Maybe it was pointless to. Maybe he was meant to be boring and safe and on this lower plane of existence people leave when they grow up. A hobby horse until someone's ready to try a real stallion.
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