[ it would be better for both of them if the feeling of hawkins fuller's fingertips sliding from the little mark beneath his ear, to the hollow of his throat, up to the curve of his jaw didn't feel like a brand against his skin. it would better for both of them if tim could forget the ripple of chills that climbed up his spine at the simple, low utterance of good boy. but it sends a shockwave through him, one that makes his jaw slacken just slightly against the touch and a soft breath fall from his lips.
while he knows the message went to the account on hawk's phone, a tiny part of him could never truly put together the pieces of the domineering man who guided him to the most intense peaks or who would give him solid, firm instruction with all the praise to follow a job well done. it's as vividly quaking as he'd imagined it would be, pinned down by the cool blue of his eyes, the firm set of his brow, the low and steady gravel of his voice. how many times had he closed his eyes after such written praise and imagined what the man might look like?
it had always been hawkins fuller, somehow. the realization will hit him later that, in all of his fantasies and wild wonderings, the image would have always had the outline of a friendly, challenging professor with an intellect to match his prowess at the front of the lecture hall. all that dominating force and confidence turned down and in a different direction when the lights are on and there isn't a computer screen between them.
before tim can truly come back to his thoughts, he feels the slide of hands and the easy sway as he's carried from the office to the bedroom. it takes effort to release him when his back hits the bed, to not burrow into the warmth of his neck or chest and beg him to wait a moment longer. he doesn't pull the covers up this time, doesn't snuggle in against the warmth of those comforters and sheets - he merely rests his head against the pillows and sighs again, eyes fluttering closed as hawk gives him yet another order. don't move.
he doesn't. instead, he merely presses one hand over his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, at the sticky damp on his forehead. he focuses on the scent of the sheets again - the musky aftershave, the clean linens, everything to remind him he's nowhere but this apartment. there is no church, there is no pizzeria, there is no dorm room. just this place, just this man, and just his own stupid, foolish, drugged out mind.
it helps with the tears - the burning behind them, the way his throat had gone thick and swollen with the thought of everything that had happened. but being held and carried and cared for does something to soothe the confusion and hurt and disbelief. (trauma, he'll read later. trauma).
but he obediently sits up, drinks deeply from the glass offered to him and goes through every motion until there's just the dark, the feeling of fingers brushing his hair back, and the cool press of the cloth against his skin. it's like heaven, the faint burn from fingers still cooler than his skin, and the prickling chill of the cloth. again, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan tumbles from his lips beyond his control. ]
It's better.
[ he doesn't feel like he'll melt into oblivion at this rate - he doesn't feel like something perches, waiting in the corner to eat him alive if he makes the wrong turn. the room has stopped spinning, his heart rate calming, and he's sure he'll be able to get some sleep. it's foolish how he craves more, still. craves reaching for the same hand, gripping fingers or crossing the distance between the chair and the edge of the bed too make some kind of connection. to be sure that when he wakes he isn't left alone again to face whatever lies in the swirl of maddening colors behind his eyelids. ]
M'sorry.
[ a whisper for a whisper, tim's head turning just so to peer at the man in the dim light of the room. ]
I won't get up again.
[ he's not sure he'll be able to, anyway, with the strong pull of sleep making his limbs feel heavy, his eyes even heavier. he doesn't bother with the top sheet, and instead finds himself shifting to get comfortable again, turning slightly onto one hip.
he's not sure how much time has passed when his eyes flutter open again so briefly, but the washcloth has gone lukewarm against his skin. he turns completely onto his side, which angles him against the edge of the bed, nearer and nearer to the comfort and warmth of hawk in the chair so nearby. the cloth itself peels its way free, but tim doesn't notice. with his eyes closed and curled in on himself, sleep overcomes him.
he doesn't dream this time, but he doesn't sleep easily - shifting even moments after he drifts off, body wracked with discomfort. he won't realize that in all of this, he's only sought out the man in the chair, and by no conscious thought of his own as he tosses and turns, does his head fall off the bead, cheek sleepily finding the bend of hawk's knee where he finally settles and stills, drifting, finally, into a deep sleep.
by the time the sun begins to peek between the blinds and curtains in the room, tim has made a mess of the bedclothes - comforter disheveled, sheets tangled around his ankles. even the sweats loaned to him have shifted enough to reveal the calvin klein waistband just straddling the jut of hip bones. he barely registers anything at first as he begins to slowly drift back into hazy consciousness.
he feels like he's been hit by a bus.
slowly, almost feline in the way he stretches, he begins to emerge from sleep, hazy and dizzy, stomach cramping in a way that tells him its otherwise empty and sick all at once. at first, he expects to hear the noises in the suite kitchen outside of his bedroom door. andy from the lacrosse team always turns music on way too loud first thing in the morning, and nick down the hall thunders around with the weight of a thousand soldiers.
but it's quiet.
eerily quiet. save for the breathing of another person in the room.
another person.
his heart rate ticks up slowly, slowly, and when he opens his eyes he blinks against the light. the after shave. the soft, downy sheets. the chair. the bed. the pizzeria. the man. the bus ride to campus and the polisci building. professor fuller
he shoots up, which is his first mistake.
the world spins around him for the swiftness of it and the way his stomach revolts takes the air out of his chest. his glasses are somewhere, and yet when he looks up he sees the man himself, dozing in the chair beside the bed. so close, so real, and as much as he'd like to think all of last night was a fucking awful nightmare?
it's not.
he's sore all over, exhausted. a hangover so bad he's sure he'll swear off drinking for the rest of his life.
but he has to go. he has to get to the bathroom, what with the way his whole body is warning him. the watering of his mouth, the faint stipple of sweat at his brow, the heaving breaths that never seem to fill his lungs with enough air.
it's stupid, the way he fumbles. the way he disentangles his legs from the sheets and toes out of bed. he must look like drunk bambi, what with the way he stumbles past the man in the chair and heads for the bathroom.
there's a tshirt on the floor by the toilet, tossed aside, which he thinks may be odd for someone like professor fuller. a pair of jeans that look like his own and a tshirt that looks like his own dumped behind the door haphazardly, but he doesn't have much time at all to put two and two together before he wretches.
it's not elegant. and nothing comes out. but his body heaves as though it may expel everything from the night before with only the flexion of muscles and a desperate attempt to purge whatever horrid thing is flowing through his blood.
it leaves him with arms folded on the counter top after, fingers white with tension as he presses against its surface, his head buried into the crook of an elbow as he makes every sad attempt to catch his breath. ]
Shit...
[ nothing makes sense. he has puzzle pieces from the day before, with jagged edges that don't fit together enough to make one, cohesive picture. his head pounds behind his eyes, his body aches, his throat feels dry, and his heart won't stop rabbiting in his chest with the panic. he swallows hard around a lump as another dry heave threatens, but dissipates instead into a hollowness that just might be worse. ]
no subject
while he knows the message went to the account on hawk's phone, a tiny part of him could never truly put together the pieces of the domineering man who guided him to the most intense peaks or who would give him solid, firm instruction with all the praise to follow a job well done. it's as vividly quaking as he'd imagined it would be, pinned down by the cool blue of his eyes, the firm set of his brow, the low and steady gravel of his voice. how many times had he closed his eyes after such written praise and imagined what the man might look like?
it had always been hawkins fuller, somehow. the realization will hit him later that, in all of his fantasies and wild wonderings, the image would have always had the outline of a friendly, challenging professor with an intellect to match his prowess at the front of the lecture hall. all that dominating force and confidence turned down and in a different direction when the lights are on and there isn't a computer screen between them.
before tim can truly come back to his thoughts, he feels the slide of hands and the easy sway as he's carried from the office to the bedroom. it takes effort to release him when his back hits the bed, to not burrow into the warmth of his neck or chest and beg him to wait a moment longer. he doesn't pull the covers up this time, doesn't snuggle in against the warmth of those comforters and sheets - he merely rests his head against the pillows and sighs again, eyes fluttering closed as hawk gives him yet another order. don't move.
he doesn't. instead, he merely presses one hand over his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, at the sticky damp on his forehead. he focuses on the scent of the sheets again - the musky aftershave, the clean linens, everything to remind him he's nowhere but this apartment. there is no church, there is no pizzeria, there is no dorm room. just this place, just this man, and just his own stupid, foolish, drugged out mind.
it helps with the tears - the burning behind them, the way his throat had gone thick and swollen with the thought of everything that had happened. but being held and carried and cared for does something to soothe the confusion and hurt and disbelief. (trauma, he'll read later. trauma).
but he obediently sits up, drinks deeply from the glass offered to him and goes through every motion until there's just the dark, the feeling of fingers brushing his hair back, and the cool press of the cloth against his skin. it's like heaven, the faint burn from fingers still cooler than his skin, and the prickling chill of the cloth. again, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan tumbles from his lips beyond his control. ]
It's better.
[ he doesn't feel like he'll melt into oblivion at this rate - he doesn't feel like something perches, waiting in the corner to eat him alive if he makes the wrong turn. the room has stopped spinning, his heart rate calming, and he's sure he'll be able to get some sleep. it's foolish how he craves more, still. craves reaching for the same hand, gripping fingers or crossing the distance between the chair and the edge of the bed too make some kind of connection. to be sure that when he wakes he isn't left alone again to face whatever lies in the swirl of maddening colors behind his eyelids. ]
M'sorry.
[ a whisper for a whisper, tim's head turning just so to peer at the man in the dim light of the room. ]
I won't get up again.
[ he's not sure he'll be able to, anyway, with the strong pull of sleep making his limbs feel heavy, his eyes even heavier. he doesn't bother with the top sheet, and instead finds himself shifting to get comfortable again, turning slightly onto one hip.
he's not sure how much time has passed when his eyes flutter open again so briefly, but the washcloth has gone lukewarm against his skin. he turns completely onto his side, which angles him against the edge of the bed, nearer and nearer to the comfort and warmth of hawk in the chair so nearby. the cloth itself peels its way free, but tim doesn't notice. with his eyes closed and curled in on himself, sleep overcomes him.
he doesn't dream this time, but he doesn't sleep easily - shifting even moments after he drifts off, body wracked with discomfort. he won't realize that in all of this, he's only sought out the man in the chair, and by no conscious thought of his own as he tosses and turns, does his head fall off the bead, cheek sleepily finding the bend of hawk's knee where he finally settles and stills, drifting, finally, into a deep sleep.
by the time the sun begins to peek between the blinds and curtains in the room, tim has made a mess of the bedclothes - comforter disheveled, sheets tangled around his ankles. even the sweats loaned to him have shifted enough to reveal the calvin klein waistband just straddling the jut of hip bones. he barely registers anything at first as he begins to slowly drift back into hazy consciousness.
he feels like he's been hit by a bus.
slowly, almost feline in the way he stretches, he begins to emerge from sleep, hazy and dizzy, stomach cramping in a way that tells him its otherwise empty and sick all at once. at first, he expects to hear the noises in the suite kitchen outside of his bedroom door. andy from the lacrosse team always turns music on way too loud first thing in the morning, and nick down the hall thunders around with the weight of a thousand soldiers.
but it's quiet.
eerily quiet. save for the breathing of another person in the room.
another person.
his heart rate ticks up slowly, slowly, and when he opens his eyes he blinks against the light. the after shave. the soft, downy sheets. the chair. the bed. the pizzeria. the man. the bus ride to campus and the polisci building. professor fuller
he shoots up, which is his first mistake.
the world spins around him for the swiftness of it and the way his stomach revolts takes the air out of his chest. his glasses are somewhere, and yet when he looks up he sees the man himself, dozing in the chair beside the bed. so close, so real, and as much as he'd like to think all of last night was a fucking awful nightmare?
it's not.
he's sore all over, exhausted. a hangover so bad he's sure he'll swear off drinking for the rest of his life.
but he has to go. he has to get to the bathroom, what with the way his whole body is warning him. the watering of his mouth, the faint stipple of sweat at his brow, the heaving breaths that never seem to fill his lungs with enough air.
it's stupid, the way he fumbles. the way he disentangles his legs from the sheets and toes out of bed. he must look like drunk bambi, what with the way he stumbles past the man in the chair and heads for the bathroom.
there's a tshirt on the floor by the toilet, tossed aside, which he thinks may be odd for someone like professor fuller. a pair of jeans that look like his own and a tshirt that looks like his own dumped behind the door haphazardly, but he doesn't have much time at all to put two and two together before he wretches.
it's not elegant. and nothing comes out. but his body heaves as though it may expel everything from the night before with only the flexion of muscles and a desperate attempt to purge whatever horrid thing is flowing through his blood.
it leaves him with arms folded on the counter top after, fingers white with tension as he presses against its surface, his head buried into the crook of an elbow as he makes every sad attempt to catch his breath. ]
Shit...
[ nothing makes sense. he has puzzle pieces from the day before, with jagged edges that don't fit together enough to make one, cohesive picture. his head pounds behind his eyes, his body aches, his throat feels dry, and his heart won't stop rabbiting in his chest with the panic. he swallows hard around a lump as another dry heave threatens, but dissipates instead into a hollowness that just might be worse. ]
Fuck.