[ it has to be the drug, the alcohol, that makes the sensation of the older man putting on his glasses so eerily intimate. he watches as if in slow motion as professor fuller takes up his glasses. when they're raised to his face, it's shameful the way he looks up at him (like icarus to a sun, he might have said once), letting his eyes flutter closed only when the feels the little ear pieces slide against his temples.
he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held once he feels the plastic against the bridge of his nose. it comes out low and slow, almost like a sigh, before his eyes flutter open again. he's shivering - the cold under his skin unnerving, and yet something blooms warm in his chest and causes a chill of gooseflesh to rise up on his arms, the back of his neck. his color improves as well - a tinge of something peachy in his cheeks. it's the drink and the drug on an empty stomach making him see this man in a different light, that's all. he'll feel differently in the morning. (he won't).
but like any good student he listens to his professor and reaches to wrap his arms round his neck, careful not to pull or tug at him, even as the man lifts him as though he weighs nothing. but the haul is exactly what he didn't need - the room spins and makes his head hurt, makes his eyes sore and he closes them almost immediately to the movement.
not as bad as before, but.
he's already settling his face against hawk's neck as he's warned. he presses his nose in against hawk's pulsepoint, the first place his woozy head landed and when he closes his eyes he can almost imagine the rhythmic beat of his heart falls perfectly in line with his strong stride. ]
Sorry I'm heavy.
[ because what grown-ass man wouldn't be heavy? but he protests little otherwise, getting placed gingerly into the car and taking off.
the car ride feels like a million years with his eyes closed. he keeps up some slurred conversation with the man to prove he's awaking still but otherwise, he wishes he could curl up and settle, could close his eyes and simply be warm and content that way. but he can't. before too long, they're stopped, and they patiently wait five minutes in the car in silence while the world outside seems to calm down.
he's able to stand this time, but of course, out of precaution, hawk carries him up the steps to the little walk-up.
everything inside and out feels expensive. deliberate and modern, clean lines with an old-world elegance. a man like hawkins fuller would live here, he thinks, but again it could be the drinks and more beyond then making everything seem so rosy hued and beautiful. but it's true - even when hawk sets him down on his feet to test his walking and guides him to the restroom, tim knows he will never see a place more rich and fanciful than this.
he tries hard for it not to show even in the restroom, where he's sat on the closed toilet seat and told to wait with that worried but charming looking on his face. so he waits, and out come a set of clothes, a wash cloth.
when tim shuts the door and looks in the mirror, he's horrified. it's hard at first to peel off the blazer, then his own t-shirt. (he'd had a jacket. at the shop. hadn't he? where did it go?) his body is otherwise unmarked, untouched, but he has to grip the counter when he turns to look side to side. it's the mark beneath his ear, the smallest burn of stubble on his jaw.
he washes his face in silence, scrubbing at those marks made by another man. his body has morphed into one that is not at all his own anymore - like the chubby, sweaty palms of that client have somehow heavy irremovable grease marks behind. his eyes are bloodshot, pupils still too wide, cheeks puffy, lips bitten red. he looks like he might as well have gone to a rager at this point.
its with a final sigh he puts on the offered clothing, surprised by the size of the shirt, the way the sweatpants fit but sit low on his hips regardless of what he tries with the drawstring. his clothes get folded and neatly say on the counter for later. he's exhausted by the time he's done and he opens the door to the bathroom, reaching for the door frame and leaning against it. there's enough of a lean that his shirt rides up, presenting a sliver of skin over his hip. tim doesn't notice - thinking only instead of whatever bed awaits him.
never mind that his hair has been wetted and slicked back, which in its own right just exposes the man's foul actions sooner, and yet. here they are. ]
I... I feel so much better. [ there's a faint sway when he steps out himself, only to momentarily reach for the door frame again just in case. ]
no subject
he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held once he feels the plastic against the bridge of his nose. it comes out low and slow, almost like a sigh, before his eyes flutter open again. he's shivering - the cold under his skin unnerving, and yet something blooms warm in his chest and causes a chill of gooseflesh to rise up on his arms, the back of his neck. his color improves as well - a tinge of something peachy in his cheeks. it's the drink and the drug on an empty stomach making him see this man in a different light, that's all. he'll feel differently in the morning. (he won't).
but like any good student he listens to his professor and reaches to wrap his arms round his neck, careful not to pull or tug at him, even as the man lifts him as though he weighs nothing. but the haul is exactly what he didn't need - the room spins and makes his head hurt, makes his eyes sore and he closes them almost immediately to the movement.
not as bad as before, but.
he's already settling his face against hawk's neck as he's warned. he presses his nose in against hawk's pulsepoint, the first place his woozy head landed and when he closes his eyes he can almost imagine the rhythmic beat of his heart falls perfectly in line with his strong stride. ]
Sorry I'm heavy.
[ because what grown-ass man wouldn't be heavy? but he protests little otherwise, getting placed gingerly into the car and taking off.
the car ride feels like a million years with his eyes closed. he keeps up some slurred conversation with the man to prove he's awaking still but otherwise, he wishes he could curl up and settle, could close his eyes and simply be warm and content that way. but he can't. before too long, they're stopped, and they patiently wait five minutes in the car in silence while the world outside seems to calm down.
he's able to stand this time, but of course, out of precaution, hawk carries him up the steps to the little walk-up.
everything inside and out feels expensive. deliberate and modern, clean lines with an old-world elegance. a man like hawkins fuller would live here, he thinks, but again it could be the drinks and more beyond then making everything seem so rosy hued and beautiful. but it's true - even when hawk sets him down on his feet to test his walking and guides him to the restroom, tim knows he will never see a place more rich and fanciful than this.
he tries hard for it not to show even in the restroom, where he's sat on the closed toilet seat and told to wait with that worried but charming looking on his face. so he waits, and out come a set of clothes, a wash cloth.
when tim shuts the door and looks in the mirror, he's horrified. it's hard at first to peel off the blazer, then his own t-shirt. (he'd had a jacket. at the shop. hadn't he? where did it go?) his body is otherwise unmarked, untouched, but he has to grip the counter when he turns to look side to side. it's the mark beneath his ear, the smallest burn of stubble on his jaw.
he washes his face in silence, scrubbing at those marks made by another man. his body has morphed into one that is not at all his own anymore - like the chubby, sweaty palms of that client have somehow heavy irremovable grease marks behind. his eyes are bloodshot, pupils still too wide, cheeks puffy, lips bitten red. he looks like he might as well have gone to a rager at this point.
its with a final sigh he puts on the offered clothing, surprised by the size of the shirt, the way the sweatpants fit but sit low on his hips regardless of what he tries with the drawstring. his clothes get folded and neatly say on the counter for later. he's exhausted by the time he's done and he opens the door to the bathroom, reaching for the door frame and leaning against it. there's enough of a lean that his shirt rides up, presenting a sliver of skin over his hip. tim doesn't notice - thinking only instead of whatever bed awaits him.
never mind that his hair has been wetted and slicked back, which in its own right just exposes the man's foul actions sooner, and yet. here they are. ]
I... I feel so much better. [ there's a faint sway when he steps out himself, only to momentarily reach for the door frame again just in case. ]
Um. I appreciate you caring for me.