Your class. A few literature courses, a sociology. I considered an astronomy course, but you'd have to pay for the lab hours as well, so I ruled that out.
[ there's a hint of the boy he is - the faint spark of interest and intrigue, the hungry need to learn more and get his hands on any bit of information he can chew on. he'll always be voracious for knowledge. he's been curious since he was a boy, and deeply dedicated to the dogged pursuit of something bigger, better, greater. to know how the world chooses to work is to master it, isn't it?
there's no other chance for rebuttal as hawk speaks, holding his finger up and passing him the glass of water. he presses the cup between his palms for a moment, looks down at the ripples of light on the water before he brings it up for a sip. it helps, but the idea of putting anything in his system makes his stomach flip again. enough that he reaches to set the glass aside, slowly and carefully.
it's the squeeze of a hand around his arm that he misses now - how steadying it felt, how grounding. there's distance between them, and no matter how gentle or soft the man tries to become, tim feels the space between them open up like a void, cold and gaping. ]
It is not your fault.
[ something in tim's voice changes - it doesn't get stronger, but seems to dig heels in, instead. a gravel, a determination he doesn't have the energy for. ]
I made the decision. I decided to make the first post and message you. I wanted you to respond. Specifically you - or. Your account. And maybe I needed the money for this semester but I could have gotten it. Somehow.
[ he blows out a little huff, exhausted and determined to get his words out. ] I am not doing my best. Doing my best would have been accepting I couldn't afford the classes and going home. Instead I made a post. Let a stranger respond. A man I didn't know, but seemed harmless enough. That's on me.
[ he shakes his head again, but this time it makes his eyes squeeze shut, the room spinning a little alongside the lurch of his stomach. ]
I knew - I never expected - the $500 a week. It hurt, yeah. It's the difference in text books and meal plans. But I'm good at making the one daily meal plan stretch. I just - I really wanted to stay here for the summer. I had to have a deposit and then the bursar would set up a payment plan for the rest - I've done it my whole time here. They know I'm good for it.
[ he looks down at his hands again, then back up to hawk. ] It's not your fault, though. It might not have been you at that first meet up. It could have been anyone. It's on me. And even if we had - if you - [ a shake of his head. ] It simply doesn't change the fact that had you fucked me as you intended that day, I wouldn't have accepted any further monies from you, anyway. I just -
[ because i would have wanted it to mean more than cash and checks.
tim keeps the man's gaze, and there's a bit of life coming back into his own eyes, he's sure of it. he can tell by the way his face feels warm, the way he grips his hands in his lap, the way he feels ready to bite back at the faintest challenge and conviction in hawk's eyes.
but god, he's tired. so, so tired.
and he will never be able to resist any order this man gives him.
listen to me and promise me. ]
What that guy did to me... you would have never done. Not - not like that. I know you. I just wanted to stay on campus. That's not my reality anymore - I just refused to accept it. So...
[ and there's a moment where tim considers what to say next, his breath a little shaky as he remembers the way he'd been pawed at, kissed at, held. instead he was rescued by the man across from him now - all warmth and broad chest, all kindness and care. a demanding, domineering man who will accept nothing less than what he's asked for.
a part of tim wants hawkins fuller to know he remembers last night.
and maybe that's not playing fair here. not with this situation, not in this context. but there is an unspoken trust that comes with quiet demands and soft praise. a balance and a perfectly in-tune chord struck at every instance.
so he meets hawk's eyes again, expression resigned and resolute. ]
This will never happen to me again. [ not the pizzeria, not the grubby man, not the money nor the incentive to meet.
a part of him wonders if it means they will never meet like this again - raw at the edges and blown open by the stark reality of the world around them. ]
No one will touch me like that again.
[ there's a flex of a little muscle in his jaw, a tired sign of the defiant student hawk knows so well, even if he is buried under the crumpled, shameful pylon of the boy called tim laughlin. ]
But if I'm going to promise you something, sir. I need you to promise me something.
[ promise your boy something.
it's almost quiet, plaintive in the way he says it, voice turning so that no one could overhear were this conversation happening in public. he sounds tired, still - he can hear it in his own voice, with the gravel at its edges. ]
That you'll never say what happened to me was your fault, ever again. Maybe the circumstances were my fault, but what... what that guy did - it wasn't my fault either. [ he blows out a low, slow breath. ]
no subject
[ there's a hint of the boy he is - the faint spark of interest and intrigue, the hungry need to learn more and get his hands on any bit of information he can chew on. he'll always be voracious for knowledge. he's been curious since he was a boy, and deeply dedicated to the dogged pursuit of something bigger, better, greater. to know how the world chooses to work is to master it, isn't it?
there's no other chance for rebuttal as hawk speaks, holding his finger up and passing him the glass of water. he presses the cup between his palms for a moment, looks down at the ripples of light on the water before he brings it up for a sip. it helps, but the idea of putting anything in his system makes his stomach flip again. enough that he reaches to set the glass aside, slowly and carefully.
it's the squeeze of a hand around his arm that he misses now - how steadying it felt, how grounding. there's distance between them, and no matter how gentle or soft the man tries to become, tim feels the space between them open up like a void, cold and gaping. ]
It is not your fault.
[ something in tim's voice changes - it doesn't get stronger, but seems to dig heels in, instead. a gravel, a determination he doesn't have the energy for. ]
I made the decision. I decided to make the first post and message you. I wanted you to respond. Specifically you - or. Your account. And maybe I needed the money for this semester but I could have gotten it. Somehow.
[ he blows out a little huff, exhausted and determined to get his words out. ] I am not doing my best. Doing my best would have been accepting I couldn't afford the classes and going home. Instead I made a post. Let a stranger respond. A man I didn't know, but seemed harmless enough. That's on me.
[ he shakes his head again, but this time it makes his eyes squeeze shut, the room spinning a little alongside the lurch of his stomach. ]
I knew - I never expected - the $500 a week. It hurt, yeah. It's the difference in text books and meal plans. But I'm good at making the one daily meal plan stretch. I just - I really wanted to stay here for the summer. I had to have a deposit and then the bursar would set up a payment plan for the rest - I've done it my whole time here. They know I'm good for it.
[ he looks down at his hands again, then back up to hawk. ] It's not your fault, though. It might not have been you at that first meet up. It could have been anyone. It's on me. And even if we had - if you - [ a shake of his head. ] It simply doesn't change the fact that had you fucked me as you intended that day, I wouldn't have accepted any further monies from you, anyway. I just -
[ because i would have wanted it to mean more than cash and checks.
tim keeps the man's gaze, and there's a bit of life coming back into his own eyes, he's sure of it. he can tell by the way his face feels warm, the way he grips his hands in his lap, the way he feels ready to bite back at the faintest challenge and conviction in hawk's eyes.
but god, he's tired. so, so tired.
and he will never be able to resist any order this man gives him.
listen to me and promise me. ]
What that guy did to me... you would have never done. Not - not like that. I know you. I just wanted to stay on campus. That's not my reality anymore - I just refused to accept it. So...
[ and there's a moment where tim considers what to say next, his breath a little shaky as he remembers the way he'd been pawed at, kissed at, held. instead he was rescued by the man across from him now - all warmth and broad chest, all kindness and care. a demanding, domineering man who will accept nothing less than what he's asked for.
a part of tim wants hawkins fuller to know he remembers last night.
and maybe that's not playing fair here. not with this situation, not in this context. but there is an unspoken trust that comes with quiet demands and soft praise. a balance and a perfectly in-tune chord struck at every instance.
so he meets hawk's eyes again, expression resigned and resolute. ]
This will never happen to me again. [ not the pizzeria, not the grubby man, not the money nor the incentive to meet.
a part of him wonders if it means they will never meet like this again - raw at the edges and blown open by the stark reality of the world around them. ]
No one will touch me like that again.
[ there's a flex of a little muscle in his jaw, a tired sign of the defiant student hawk knows so well, even if he is buried under the crumpled, shameful pylon of the boy called tim laughlin. ]
But if I'm going to promise you something, sir. I need you to promise me something.
[ promise your boy something.
it's almost quiet, plaintive in the way he says it, voice turning so that no one could overhear were this conversation happening in public. he sounds tired, still - he can hear it in his own voice, with the gravel at its edges. ]
That you'll never say what happened to me was your fault, ever again. Maybe the circumstances were my fault, but what... what that guy did - it wasn't my fault either. [ he blows out a low, slow breath. ]
Promise me, sir.