I won't. Tell, I mean. Regardless. No one will know this happened.
[ if he sounds hurt? it's because he is.
even the slightest implication that professor fuller may think he will run around and publish this news across the front page of the hoya stings. revealing the man's past-times and late night proclivities will also expose him, and at what cost? that, and tim has morals, has a conscience. no matter how furious, no matter how degrading someone could be to him? blackmail doesn't run through the fabric of who he is.
so tim does exactly what professor hawkins expects of him - stands still, listens, obeys. what else can he do now, with every word leaving his mouth being shot down or turned against him.
Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.
at this point? tim doesn't know what he wants now. doesn't know what to make of the man standing before him in the shaded light of the little, enclosed park, smelling like cigarettes and waffling between something distant and cold to the warm, considerate man he has known in class. ]
Understood, yeah. Nothing has changed.
[ the fight has gone out of him now - the will to buck up and press back at the edges of every one of the man's defenses dissolved. the utter scientist he can be in a debate has fizzled out: there are no loose threads, no fallacies, no twists or turns or wildly unique conventions he can invoke. there are facts, there is reality. there is no grey area between where he can exist. he is the man's student, and professor fuller is his teacher.
(but all he can feel like now is tim laughlin, the failure. the boy who no one truly knows on campus, the boy who is called when his notes or study sessions are needed, the boy who teachers praise and laud but who barely spare a glance beyond his passing grades. the boy who has nothing to his name but a sex-working site, a meal card, a handful of worn handmedown and charity clothes, and a bag full of items from strange men all over the country who will never know him like this).
he releases a breath through his nose, nods his head, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pre-empting the steps he needs to take to turn around. he wants to be able to leave first. to turn his back on the guilt, shame, and disgust he can feel oozing off of him and into the ice and slush at their feet. ]
This conversation never happened.
[ he takes a step back, but when he feels the warmth of the man's palm on his cheek he goes board still. his eyes widen and he wills them not to burn, but there's no doubt that this close, professor fuller can see the shine in them.
it's nothing personal.
how is it that three words can hurt far more than anything else that has been said in all of this? how is it that the carefully crafted thoughts and ideas about what this truly boils down to have been wrecked and decimated in one icy breath, puffed between them on a little cloud.
it was business.
all of this had been business to him.
whatever stupid, lofty, romantic ideas he'd had about what today could be, and what this man might be shatter as easily as the ice atop the little fountain behind them.
skippy, he says. skippy, the boy he is not in this moment but the boy that hawkins fuller actually sought. the boy with the mystery and wonder and intrigue. the boy who listened without question, who called his name and begged for more. the boy who does not have tim laughlin's face. who does not have tim laughlin's pathetic idealism. who does not have hopes and dreams for something more when fucking through a screen on a late school night.
now? he truly does understand. ]
Right. [ he doesn't mean to sound uncertain, doesn't mean to sound shaken the awy he does but his voice comes out hoarse, not fully formed. ]
Of course.
[ he clears his throat, lingers a little overlong against the warmth of the man's palm. how sad is it that this is the most physical contact he's had all year? that the touch is so tender he almost dares to lean his cheek into it, to soak up the last vestiges of kindness that this man would extend to the faceless boy called skippy, but not to tim laughlin.
he backs away, idly rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand, fingers pink with cold. ]
Merry Christmas, Professor.
[ it's later that day, several hours after their meeting, that hawk will get a notification from onlyfans. two, in fact:
🔥❌ 💳 600 TIP REFUNDED ✅ 🔥❌ 💳 2,400 TIP REFUNDED ✅ ]
no subject
[ if he sounds hurt? it's because he is.
even the slightest implication that professor fuller may think he will run around and publish this news across the front page of the hoya stings. revealing the man's past-times and late night proclivities will also expose him, and at what cost? that, and tim has morals, has a conscience. no matter how furious, no matter how degrading someone could be to him? blackmail doesn't run through the fabric of who he is.
so tim does exactly what professor hawkins expects of him - stands still, listens, obeys. what else can he do now, with every word leaving his mouth being shot down or turned against him.
Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.
at this point? tim doesn't know what he wants now. doesn't know what to make of the man standing before him in the shaded light of the little, enclosed park, smelling like cigarettes and waffling between something distant and cold to the warm, considerate man he has known in class. ]
Understood, yeah. Nothing has changed.
[ the fight has gone out of him now - the will to buck up and press back at the edges of every one of the man's defenses dissolved. the utter scientist he can be in a debate has fizzled out: there are no loose threads, no fallacies, no twists or turns or wildly unique conventions he can invoke. there are facts, there is reality. there is no grey area between where he can exist. he is the man's student, and professor fuller is his teacher.
(but all he can feel like now is tim laughlin, the failure. the boy who no one truly knows on campus, the boy who is called when his notes or study sessions are needed, the boy who teachers praise and laud but who barely spare a glance beyond his passing grades. the boy who has nothing to his name but a sex-working site, a meal card, a handful of worn handmedown and charity clothes, and a bag full of items from strange men all over the country who will never know him like this).
he releases a breath through his nose, nods his head, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pre-empting the steps he needs to take to turn around. he wants to be able to leave first. to turn his back on the guilt, shame, and disgust he can feel oozing off of him and into the ice and slush at their feet. ]
This conversation never happened.
[ he takes a step back, but when he feels the warmth of the man's palm on his cheek he goes board still. his eyes widen and he wills them not to burn, but there's no doubt that this close, professor fuller can see the shine in them.
it's nothing personal.
how is it that three words can hurt far more than anything else that has been said in all of this? how is it that the carefully crafted thoughts and ideas about what this truly boils down to have been wrecked and decimated in one icy breath, puffed between them on a little cloud.
it was business.
all of this had been business to him.
whatever stupid, lofty, romantic ideas he'd had about what today could be, and what this man might be shatter as easily as the ice atop the little fountain behind them.
skippy, he says. skippy, the boy he is not in this moment but the boy that hawkins fuller actually sought. the boy with the mystery and wonder and intrigue. the boy who listened without question, who called his name and begged for more. the boy who does not have tim laughlin's face. who does not have tim laughlin's pathetic idealism. who does not have hopes and dreams for something more when fucking through a screen on a late school night.
now? he truly does understand. ]
Right. [ he doesn't mean to sound uncertain, doesn't mean to sound shaken the awy he does but his voice comes out hoarse, not fully formed. ]
Of course.
[ he clears his throat, lingers a little overlong against the warmth of the man's palm. how sad is it that this is the most physical contact he's had all year? that the touch is so tender he almost dares to lean his cheek into it, to soak up the last vestiges of kindness that this man would extend to the faceless boy called skippy, but not to tim laughlin.
he backs away, idly rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand, fingers pink with cold. ]
Merry Christmas, Professor.
[ it's later that day, several hours after their meeting, that hawk will get a notification from onlyfans. two, in fact:
🔥❌ 💳 600 TIP REFUNDED ✅
🔥❌ 💳 2,400 TIP REFUNDED ✅ ]