[ or maybe he should lie down. maybe he should go back to that bed, crawl into it and close his eyes so he can wake up to something else later. wake up to all of this being some wild, fucked up fever dream. but of course it isn't - he knows better. instead he focuses on the feeling of the man's palm at his shoulder, the warmth it spreads beneath his fingertips and he lets out a little shuddered breath.
what he doesn't expect, however, is the laugh.
at first, tim's head snaps up in a sad attempt to assess the laughter - the why. why would any of this be funny? why would anyone laugh about having someone throwing themselves at them and -
oh.
professor fuller's smile is fond and warm and there's the hand on his back again, and suddenly tim feels extremely small. relieved, but small. he didn't do anything to this man - which only means that the flashes of the pizzeria, the bald man (was his name mark?) are all real. it makes his stomach churn again, and with an exhale he nods a little. ]
I... I just didn't want - I would never - [ a breath, then a sigh. ] But you know that.
[ he reaches instinctively for the crook of his arm, carefully hooking his in the other man's, even letting his free hand fall on his forearm to steady himself further as they move out of the bathroom. there's no making up for how this all went down. no changing the past or changing the very picture they're painting.
this was never supposed to go this way.
a few steps in and he can tell already he shouldn't leave the bedroom. maybe it's the anxiety, the panic, the fatigue, the illness - but his vision seems to spot at the edges and his breathing tightens a little. the bed is right there and that is where he knows, for the moment, he should stay.
(he knows, really, he needs to go back to the dorm. he needs to get the hell out of this place and pretend none of this happened. but he also knows that hawkins fuller likely won't let him run off that easily). ]
Actually - can we... just stay here for a second?
[ there's a gesture toward the bed and the chair, where they'd both ended up the night before, and it's only with hawk's help he makes it back to the edge, sitting down slowly. could he walk on his own? sure. he's a little unsteady, but nothing like the sloshing, slurring mess from last night. it's more a mental instability right now than physical - the embodiment of panic, stress, fatigue.
he remembers now how comfortable the bed is, how warm it had been, and he knows too why one cheek had been slightly more pink than the other - from the pressure of sitting upon the knee of a man who doesn't want anything to do with him.
not in that way.
he sheepishly pulls himself further onto the bed, pulling his legs up to sit crosslegged, staring down at his hands in his lap. his head hurts, his body aches, and if this were any other day he'd think he'd have the flu. but no, that's not what this is at all. ]
I'm sorry. For all of this.
[ god, where does he even begin. he can't put the sequence of events in order, but he can tell that had he not ended up here, his evening could have ended up far, far worse. ]
But... I don't - I remember some of it. I just didn't want to... disrespect you. Not after all this.
[ a gesture to mean the care he's been given now, before this, and even before they'd both come to confront that situation they're both tied up in. he runs his hand back through his hair again, and reaches then for his glasses.
the lean is a bad idea though and he catches himself on the edge of the nightstand, closing his eyes and letting the nausea course through him. ]
no subject
[ or maybe he should lie down. maybe he should go back to that bed, crawl into it and close his eyes so he can wake up to something else later. wake up to all of this being some wild, fucked up fever dream. but of course it isn't - he knows better. instead he focuses on the feeling of the man's palm at his shoulder, the warmth it spreads beneath his fingertips and he lets out a little shuddered breath.
what he doesn't expect, however, is the laugh.
at first, tim's head snaps up in a sad attempt to assess the laughter - the why. why would any of this be funny? why would anyone laugh about having someone throwing themselves at them and -
oh.
professor fuller's smile is fond and warm and there's the hand on his back again, and suddenly tim feels extremely small. relieved, but small. he didn't do anything to this man - which only means that the flashes of the pizzeria, the bald man (was his name mark?) are all real. it makes his stomach churn again, and with an exhale he nods a little. ]
I... I just didn't want - I would never - [ a breath, then a sigh. ] But you know that.
[ he reaches instinctively for the crook of his arm, carefully hooking his in the other man's, even letting his free hand fall on his forearm to steady himself further as they move out of the bathroom. there's no making up for how this all went down. no changing the past or changing the very picture they're painting.
this was never supposed to go this way.
a few steps in and he can tell already he shouldn't leave the bedroom. maybe it's the anxiety, the panic, the fatigue, the illness - but his vision seems to spot at the edges and his breathing tightens a little. the bed is right there and that is where he knows, for the moment, he should stay.
(he knows, really, he needs to go back to the dorm. he needs to get the hell out of this place and pretend none of this happened. but he also knows that hawkins fuller likely won't let him run off that easily). ]
Actually - can we... just stay here for a second?
[ there's a gesture toward the bed and the chair, where they'd both ended up the night before, and it's only with hawk's help he makes it back to the edge, sitting down slowly. could he walk on his own? sure. he's a little unsteady, but nothing like the sloshing, slurring mess from last night. it's more a mental instability right now than physical - the embodiment of panic, stress, fatigue.
he remembers now how comfortable the bed is, how warm it had been, and he knows too why one cheek had been slightly more pink than the other - from the pressure of sitting upon the knee of a man who doesn't want anything to do with him.
not in that way.
he sheepishly pulls himself further onto the bed, pulling his legs up to sit crosslegged, staring down at his hands in his lap. his head hurts, his body aches, and if this were any other day he'd think he'd have the flu. but no, that's not what this is at all. ]
I'm sorry. For all of this.
[ god, where does he even begin. he can't put the sequence of events in order, but he can tell that had he not ended up here, his evening could have ended up far, far worse. ]
But... I don't - I remember some of it. I just didn't want to... disrespect you. Not after all this.
[ a gesture to mean the care he's been given now, before this, and even before they'd both come to confront that situation they're both tied up in. he runs his hand back through his hair again, and reaches then for his glasses.
the lean is a bad idea though and he catches himself on the edge of the nightstand, closing his eyes and letting the nausea course through him. ]