Page 92 of Should the Sky Fall

In the end, it’s Dawson who feels like he’s being pushed to his limits. He’s not sure if it’s Kieran’s words from this morning, or Cal’s insistent questions about the past, or if it’s the whole fucked up situation Dawson so stupidly put himself in, but he suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to run. From Cal, from all of this. Not because he’s afraid, but because he’s…not. Because he can feel himself relaxing around Cal, relaxing into this fragile little bubble they started building around them. He’s only known this Cal for a couple of weeks, has been home with him for two days, but it’s like he’s known him longer. Like taking walks on the beach and watching movies on the sofa is something they’ve always done.

It’s not. It’s not real and it’s dangerous. And Dawson keeps forgetting that.

He forgets it again when they get back home and sit down to watchHow to Train Your Dragon.All three movies, because Cal gets hooked.

He forgets it again when he helps Cal with changing his bandages, even though he said he wouldn’t.

He forgets it when they stand next to each other as they brush their teeth, the scene so domestic and normal that it makes Dawson wish for things he had given up on a long time ago.

He desperately tries to remember it when they turn in for the night and instead of being on high alert, the only thing Dawson can think of is what a good day it’s been and how he wants more of them.

Chapter 15

There’sacrashingsoundas something shatters. He ignores it. It’s not important. There’s only one thing that matters.

A pained cry reaches his ears. He looks for the source, something inside him tearing open when he finds it. Dawson is on the floor, his body twisted to the side and his arm raised like a shield. There’s a hand-shaped bruise blooming on his forearm. He’s shaking terribly.

Someone is standing over him, a man. His fists are clenched tight, his knuckles smeared with blood. There are a few specks of red on his pristine white shirt, his face shrouded in darkness. He says something, the words sounding like static. There’s a threat in his voice, and it draws a sob out of Dawson. The man speaks again, getting a small nod in response.

Dawson scrambles to his feet and hurries away on unsteady legs. Now that his arm is out of the way, his face is on display. Tear-streaked and bloodied, one of his eyes swelling shut, his split lip dripping blood.

The man has moved, revealing the shards of glass littering the carpet where a table must’ve been before. In the kitchen, he turns the tap on, shoving his hand under it as if that could erase the violence and pain he caused. The water stops running, and he grabs a bottle of something amber in color, taking a swig and swaying on his feet. When he turns around, his face isn’t hidden anymore. His features are twisted into something ugly, a deranged smile on his lips.

That’s not the worst, though.

He knows that face.

It’s the same face he sees in the mirror.

Cal wakes with a start, a silent scream lodged in his throat. His heart is beating erratically, and his breath is coming out in stuttered gasps. If he didn’t know better, he’d think there’s something wrong with his lung again. He almost wishes there was. He could do something about an injured lung. These dreams, on the other hand…

The dream. He lifts his hands, checking them over frantically. No blood. Of course there isn’t. It was just a dream.

He turns to look at Dawson and finds him sleeping peacefully. Relief loosens his chest. Dawson is here, safe and sound, but his back is facing Cal, making it impossible to see his face. He needs to see Dawson’s face. He needs…

Cal reaches out, his hand spreading over Dawson’s back.

Dawson stirs, his back growing rigid under the touch. He flips over, scrambling away, looking like a spooked animal.

“What…what are you doing?” He’s clutching the duvet to his chest and watching Cal carefully.

Cal swallows, curling his fingers into his palm so as to avoid temptation and reach for Dawson again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I had a bad dream.”

Dawson is silent at first, watching him. He relaxes somewhat, propping himself up on his forearm. “What about?”

“You.” Dawson’s brows furrow. “But you weren’t—” Cal hesitates. He can’t tell him exactly what happened in the dream. He can’t tell him the man hurting him was wearing Cal’s face. “You were hurt. And scared. There was blood on your face.” Just describing it out loud makes him want to wrap Dawson in his arms and never let go.

“Oh,” Dawson breathes, gaze raking over Cal’s face. “It was just a dream. I’m fine.”

Cal forces a smile. “I thought we’re not allowed to use that word.”

Dawson huffs, lips twitching. “That was just you.”

“That’s not very fair,” Cal teases, the humor not quite hitting the mark.

He collapses onto his back, hands curled into fists on his chest. He stares up at the ceiling, the images flashing in front of him like it’s a large projector screen. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Just a dream,” he whispers to himself.

After a moment, he feels Dawson move, probably settling in for sleep after Cal woke him up so abruptly. He’s not sure he can get back to sleep himself, or if he even wants to.