[ it's the nausea more than the loss of balance that sends him reeling. it's impossible to deny the dryness of his mouth or the way his stomach twists deep in his gut at anything thought of moving, any thought of doing anything but just sitting still.
he takes the offered glasses, unfolds them, and slides them on. the world comes back into stark clarity, and even here in the dim light of the bedroom he can see that even professor fuller is tired. he knows he kept him up late, for one, but there's a little more added guilt to all of this. but he listens to the man instead, glancing down at his hands in his lap and trying to focus on his breathing as everything sort of melds itself into place.
it's hazy, but there's no forgetting the client. no forgetting the way professor fuller picked him up and carried him to the car, to the hospital. he doesn't remember much there, save for the hands on his cheeks and the breathing. ah, yes. the breathing he's not good at. the smell of the man's aftershave, the feeling of his heart beating in his throat. the warmth of him. and god.
good boy.
he picks at his thumb nail, all the nervous energy falling into his fingers as he sits there, recounting the whole night. it's better, really, that professor fuller doesn't know everything.
his hands still when the man reaches for him and tim's eyes raise suddenly, meeting the cool blue.
a hand on his throat. sliding to his jaw. the command all in the touch instead of in the words. he remembers that, too. but this is different. the gentle touch, the way his voice softens, the way hawk leans forward into his space just so. a man trying to get the information he wants - like he's afraid of startling a jumpy, skittish cat.
tim goes still at the question, staring across at him, his heart beat ticking faster in his ears. the warmth and color from before rise up into his cheeks, down the plane of his neck, a flush of embarrassment. he doesn't want to tell him. doesn't want to admit to anything, and yet what else could he possibly do to repay his kindness? there's nothing more to hide now, anyway. professor fuller knows more about him than anyone should, and while it should be liberating or comforting, it just makes tim sink in on himself a little more.
his lips pull to one side as he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. he mulls over what to say, how much to offer. his eyes drop back to the hand on his arm, strong and warm. manicured in a way that tells him professor fuller lives a physically quiet life. his own hands are picked at, nails back to the quick, some calluses from days working with his father as a boy. ]
School. [ he shrugs one shoulder, a little uncomfortably, voice sounding smaller than he means it to. more defeated, resigned. ] Summer classes. It was due today. But it's fine. I don't need them. I'm on schedule to graduate on time, so it doesn't really matter.
[ but they had been classes he's wanted to take since he'd started there, but couldn't fit in his schedule. (or couldn't afford to add another course). a literature course on anitheroes. a sociology course on culture. one of professor fuller's government courses. another on the poetry of elizabeth bishop.
he can always ask for the syllabi later and do the reading on his own, of course. ]
It would have signed me up, anyway. Secured my dorm. Didn't cover food or anything, but I felt like asking for more would -
[ a higher dollar amount would probably go unanswered. ]
I... I wasn't lying. About it being the first. I... I don't know. It was stupid. The first one was you, and that would have been -
[ fine. safe. good. exactly what he wanted. ]
I just thought maybe this one wouldn't... wouldn't be that bad. But it was. And just... just for stupid classes.
no subject
[ it's the nausea more than the loss of balance that sends him reeling. it's impossible to deny the dryness of his mouth or the way his stomach twists deep in his gut at anything thought of moving, any thought of doing anything but just sitting still.
he takes the offered glasses, unfolds them, and slides them on. the world comes back into stark clarity, and even here in the dim light of the bedroom he can see that even professor fuller is tired. he knows he kept him up late, for one, but there's a little more added guilt to all of this. but he listens to the man instead, glancing down at his hands in his lap and trying to focus on his breathing as everything sort of melds itself into place.
it's hazy, but there's no forgetting the client. no forgetting the way professor fuller picked him up and carried him to the car, to the hospital. he doesn't remember much there, save for the hands on his cheeks and the breathing. ah, yes. the breathing he's not good at. the smell of the man's aftershave, the feeling of his heart beating in his throat. the warmth of him. and god.
good boy.
he picks at his thumb nail, all the nervous energy falling into his fingers as he sits there, recounting the whole night. it's better, really, that professor fuller doesn't know everything.
his hands still when the man reaches for him and tim's eyes raise suddenly, meeting the cool blue.
a hand on his throat. sliding to his jaw. the command all in the touch instead of in the words. he remembers that, too. but this is different. the gentle touch, the way his voice softens, the way hawk leans forward into his space just so. a man trying to get the information he wants - like he's afraid of startling a jumpy, skittish cat.
tim goes still at the question, staring across at him, his heart beat ticking faster in his ears. the warmth and color from before rise up into his cheeks, down the plane of his neck, a flush of embarrassment. he doesn't want to tell him. doesn't want to admit to anything, and yet what else could he possibly do to repay his kindness? there's nothing more to hide now, anyway. professor fuller knows more about him than anyone should, and while it should be liberating or comforting, it just makes tim sink in on himself a little more.
his lips pull to one side as he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. he mulls over what to say, how much to offer. his eyes drop back to the hand on his arm, strong and warm. manicured in a way that tells him professor fuller lives a physically quiet life. his own hands are picked at, nails back to the quick, some calluses from days working with his father as a boy. ]
School. [ he shrugs one shoulder, a little uncomfortably, voice sounding smaller than he means it to. more defeated, resigned. ] Summer classes. It was due today. But it's fine. I don't need them. I'm on schedule to graduate on time, so it doesn't really matter.
[ but they had been classes he's wanted to take since he'd started there, but couldn't fit in his schedule. (or couldn't afford to add another course). a literature course on anitheroes. a sociology course on culture. one of professor fuller's government courses. another on the poetry of elizabeth bishop.
he can always ask for the syllabi later and do the reading on his own, of course. ]
It would have signed me up, anyway. Secured my dorm. Didn't cover food or anything, but I felt like asking for more would -
[ a higher dollar amount would probably go unanswered. ]
I... I wasn't lying. About it being the first. I... I don't know. It was stupid. The first one was you, and that would have been -
[ fine. safe. good. exactly what he wanted. ]
I just thought maybe this one wouldn't... wouldn't be that bad. But it was. And just... just for stupid classes.