[ it would have been advantageous of himself to grab his glasses as he tumbled out of bed. that would have made the trek here easier, but with the way his vision delays and swims as he turns his head, he's not sure clarity behind the lenses would have helped much. a small part of him wishes he had just tossed himself back onto the bed and waited out the sweats, the dreams - stayed awake staring at the ceiling himself instead of waking this man.
he's obviously tired, if the rough edges of his voice tell him anything. (he'll think about this voice later, when he's alone in his dorm room and on the mend, it will shake him to his very core). but for now, he's opening his own mouth to apologize again when that hand presses against his forehead and he sighs, leaning into the touch once again for the sheer coolness of his palm comparatively.
he doesn't realize the way his eyes nearly flutter closed, either, at the sheer comfort. it's so different from the hands of the man at the pizzeria. so different from any other touch he's been offered by any adult in his life. with it comes compassion, care. nothing more, nothing less. ]
It's okay. You - you should sleep. I can stay here for a minute. Just have this headache -
[ and worse. the dream. the haunting dream that makes his stomach twist, but there's nothing in it to really do anything about. he won't throw up, even if he feels like he might be able to. he's not even sure he can cry anymore - the heat has all but baked the tears out of him. ]
It's your bed. I don't want... [ he can't help but reach for hawk's hand then, idly grabbing and reaching, only catching a forefinger and middle finger to stop him from moving his hand away from his forehead. it's cooler than his own skin. ]
Just don't leave me in there. Or wherever. Not alone. I feel... I feel crazy right now. I can't think... I can't... - move without - my skin crawls because I still think of -
[ feel him there. see the fiery eyes of the pastor. the hateful slander of the church. and he can't help but wonder if, in the dream, he'd have been met with hawk's disapproval. he deserves it from him, doesn't he? more than anyone else.
it's this that makes him let go of hawk's hand, his own fingers falling back to a place atop his knees. needing help to do the simplest things, to simply survive? it feels ludicrous and it just adds another layer to the beginning burn of shame that is starting to well up. a camboy who made a bad deal and ends up on the front step of his professor's home?
that'll make wild headlines.
he closes his eyes tight, tries desperately again to take in a deep, slow breath. maybe, just maybe he can use the technique from before. it's not as effective here, not without the brace of the palms on his cheeks and the insistent instructions. he picks at the knee of the sweats, fingers trembling.]
Even when I close my eyes. I just - I'll... I'll stay in here with you. If... if you're staying here.
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[ it would have been advantageous of himself to grab his glasses as he tumbled out of bed. that would have made the trek here easier, but with the way his vision delays and swims as he turns his head, he's not sure clarity behind the lenses would have helped much. a small part of him wishes he had just tossed himself back onto the bed and waited out the sweats, the dreams - stayed awake staring at the ceiling himself instead of waking this man.
he's obviously tired, if the rough edges of his voice tell him anything. (he'll think about this voice later, when he's alone in his dorm room and on the mend, it will shake him to his very core). but for now, he's opening his own mouth to apologize again when that hand presses against his forehead and he sighs, leaning into the touch once again for the sheer coolness of his palm comparatively.
he doesn't realize the way his eyes nearly flutter closed, either, at the sheer comfort. it's so different from the hands of the man at the pizzeria. so different from any other touch he's been offered by any adult in his life. with it comes compassion, care. nothing more, nothing less. ]
It's okay. You - you should sleep. I can stay here for a minute. Just have this headache -
[ and worse. the dream. the haunting dream that makes his stomach twist, but there's nothing in it to really do anything about. he won't throw up, even if he feels like he might be able to. he's not even sure he can cry anymore - the heat has all but baked the tears out of him. ]
It's your bed. I don't want... [ he can't help but reach for hawk's hand then, idly grabbing and reaching, only catching a forefinger and middle finger to stop him from moving his hand away from his forehead. it's cooler than his own skin. ]
Just don't leave me in there. Or wherever. Not alone. I feel... I feel crazy right now. I can't think... I can't... - move without - my skin crawls because I still think of -
[ feel him there. see the fiery eyes of the pastor. the hateful slander of the church. and he can't help but wonder if, in the dream, he'd have been met with hawk's disapproval. he deserves it from him, doesn't he? more than anyone else.
it's this that makes him let go of hawk's hand, his own fingers falling back to a place atop his knees. needing help to do the simplest things, to simply survive? it feels ludicrous and it just adds another layer to the beginning burn of shame that is starting to well up. a camboy who made a bad deal and ends up on the front step of his professor's home?
that'll make wild headlines.
he closes his eyes tight, tries desperately again to take in a deep, slow breath. maybe, just maybe he can use the technique from before. it's not as effective here, not without the brace of the palms on his cheeks and the insistent instructions. he picks at the knee of the sweats, fingers trembling.]
Even when I close my eyes. I just - I'll... I'll stay in here with you. If... if you're staying here.