of course he didn't. just like tim had no idea the man behind the screen was hawkins fuller, professor at georgetown. he knows he should accept it for the honest confession it is, and yet tim still can't help but wonder if it had been a different, pretty-faced student - would fuller have slept with him? would they have spent the day in a fierce battle of wills? a man and his boy?
tim thinks it might have been easier to deal with all of this if they had. a fuck and go, where the hotel room door shuts behind them and closes all of this up into one dingy, dark place.
but that's not what they did, and instead tim stands in the middle of hawk's office feeling a little foolish, a little angry, a little hurt. mostly at himself, really, than anything else. that he let himself crack like this under the pressure when he's done so well for the past few years. no one would know that timothy david laughlin, work-a-holic, eager beaver, model student - was struggling. ]
I get it, yeah.
[ but professor fuller closes the distance between them again, just outside the edge of propriety and tim finds he's holding his breath against the intensity of the older man. he's half expecting a raised voice, unearned sternness, or a critique. but there's another command and it is like he was all but born to do everything this man tells him as his eyes track up almost immediately, a little surprised, no doubt that it shows in the faint flush creeping up his neck, to his jaw.
tim wants to close his eyes the moment he sees the man's hand move, imagine the touch he'd felt on his cheek that day in the cold morning air. it's stupid, how much he craves even the smallest hint of affection, and stranger so that he desires it from this man of all people.
instead, he's offered a kerchief, and at first tim doesn't quite know what to do or think of it, stunned instead by the man's words. he glances at the kerchief, but then like a boy realizing his mistake and being caught, his eyes snap back up to hawk and he swallows hard. he's quiet at first - uncomfortable and unsure at first if he truly wants to answer, to reveal one more card in his hand. and yet: ]
I trust you.
[ it's quiet, and the most calm he's sounded throughout this whole conversation. like that little crack he'd discovered in his chest has healed, and the warmth pouring from it feels less like endless despair and fury and more like hope. he reaches for the kerchief, the fabric rich and soft beneath his finger tips and though he knows he should turn away and clear the tear streaks from his face, he can't.
instead, he keeps his eyes on hawk, as he'd been so gently told to do as he removes his glasses and wipes sheepishly at his eyes, the bridge of his nose. only when he's sure the tears have been swept away does he put his glasses back on, then delicately fold the kerchief, and his eyes raise once again to meet the striking blue of fuller's.
(he will think a great deal about how the skin of his cheek bone will smell like the man's cologne - or the way the bridge of his nose will be blushed red from the press of the soft fabric, and the faint scratch of the stitching in that delicate HF. embarrassing). ]
I never stopped trusting you. I'd do whatever you told me to do. [ he offers the kerchief back between them, then, and gives a faint, sheepish smile.
something has changed between them even here, but tim's shoulders feel lighter, his chest more open, his heart slowing. he feels more embarrassed for his outburst now than furiously desperate, but to have said all of it out loud to someone who he knows will keep it as private and safe as it was meant to be in the first place is strangely freeing. no one else here knows his story. and no one ever will. he sighs a little, pinching his lips to one side, his nose wrinkling up, almost admitting to the awkwardness of it all now that they've waded through it. ]
Sorry. [ he says finally, shrugging one shoulder and tearing his eyes away, anywhere but the blue of those eyes. ] I didn't mean to unload on you - that wasn't fair. I really didn't. Break was just really lonely here, and then I guess everything else caught up to me.
[ he looks down now at the snacks from before, the smorgasbord of things he'd offered for him to take to eat on the way to lonigan's class. the clock on the wall in hawk's office tells him that he won't make it - five minutes to run across the other side of the campus isn't worth it, anyway. he shouldn't take the snacks since he's not going to class, and yet he can't help the way he knows how empty his stomach will feel later. and so he reaches for at least the package of energy bites - whatever the hell those are.
he worries the edge of the wrapper between his fingers for a moment before he looks back up at hawk, earnest and sincere, his shoulders shrugging in a way that matches the delicate crinkle of his nose. ]
But, um. Thank you. For not judging me - not unfairly, anyway. And listening. I can... I should get out of your hair.
no subject
of course he didn't. just like tim had no idea the man behind the screen was hawkins fuller, professor at georgetown. he knows he should accept it for the honest confession it is, and yet tim still can't help but wonder if it had been a different, pretty-faced student - would fuller have slept with him? would they have spent the day in a fierce battle of wills? a man and his boy?
tim thinks it might have been easier to deal with all of this if they had. a fuck and go, where the hotel room door shuts behind them and closes all of this up into one dingy, dark place.
but that's not what they did, and instead tim stands in the middle of hawk's office feeling a little foolish, a little angry, a little hurt. mostly at himself, really, than anything else. that he let himself crack like this under the pressure when he's done so well for the past few years. no one would know that timothy david laughlin, work-a-holic, eager beaver, model student - was struggling. ]
I get it, yeah.
[ but professor fuller closes the distance between them again, just outside the edge of propriety and tim finds he's holding his breath against the intensity of the older man. he's half expecting a raised voice, unearned sternness, or a critique. but there's another command and it is like he was all but born to do everything this man tells him as his eyes track up almost immediately, a little surprised, no doubt that it shows in the faint flush creeping up his neck, to his jaw.
tim wants to close his eyes the moment he sees the man's hand move, imagine the touch he'd felt on his cheek that day in the cold morning air. it's stupid, how much he craves even the smallest hint of affection, and stranger so that he desires it from this man of all people.
instead, he's offered a kerchief, and at first tim doesn't quite know what to do or think of it, stunned instead by the man's words. he glances at the kerchief, but then like a boy realizing his mistake and being caught, his eyes snap back up to hawk and he swallows hard. he's quiet at first - uncomfortable and unsure at first if he truly wants to answer, to reveal one more card in his hand. and yet: ]
I trust you.
[ it's quiet, and the most calm he's sounded throughout this whole conversation. like that little crack he'd discovered in his chest has healed, and the warmth pouring from it feels less like endless despair and fury and more like hope. he reaches for the kerchief, the fabric rich and soft beneath his finger tips and though he knows he should turn away and clear the tear streaks from his face, he can't.
instead, he keeps his eyes on hawk, as he'd been so gently told to do as he removes his glasses and wipes sheepishly at his eyes, the bridge of his nose. only when he's sure the tears have been swept away does he put his glasses back on, then delicately fold the kerchief, and his eyes raise once again to meet the striking blue of fuller's.
(he will think a great deal about how the skin of his cheek bone will smell like the man's cologne - or the way the bridge of his nose will be blushed red from the press of the soft fabric, and the faint scratch of the stitching in that delicate HF. embarrassing). ]
I never stopped trusting you. I'd do whatever you told me to do. [ he offers the kerchief back between them, then, and gives a faint, sheepish smile.
something has changed between them even here, but tim's shoulders feel lighter, his chest more open, his heart slowing. he feels more embarrassed for his outburst now than furiously desperate, but to have said all of it out loud to someone who he knows will keep it as private and safe as it was meant to be in the first place is strangely freeing. no one else here knows his story. and no one ever will. he sighs a little, pinching his lips to one side, his nose wrinkling up, almost admitting to the awkwardness of it all now that they've waded through it. ]
Sorry. [ he says finally, shrugging one shoulder and tearing his eyes away, anywhere but the blue of those eyes. ] I didn't mean to unload on you - that wasn't fair. I really didn't. Break was just really lonely here, and then I guess everything else caught up to me.
[ he looks down now at the snacks from before, the smorgasbord of things he'd offered for him to take to eat on the way to lonigan's class. the clock on the wall in hawk's office tells him that he won't make it - five minutes to run across the other side of the campus isn't worth it, anyway. he shouldn't take the snacks since he's not going to class, and yet he can't help the way he knows how empty his stomach will feel later. and so he reaches for at least the package of energy bites - whatever the hell those are.
he worries the edge of the wrapper between his fingers for a moment before he looks back up at hawk, earnest and sincere, his shoulders shrugging in a way that matches the delicate crinkle of his nose. ]
But, um. Thank you. For not judging me - not unfairly, anyway. And listening. I can... I should get out of your hair.