[ something has changed on the air between them. that cold, december day is long past them and something else has grown into its place. gone is the strained professionalism, the don't-ask-don't-tell ignorance they played about the circumstances of their original meeting. maybe it's just the remaining effects of the drug in his system or the aggressive hangover-induced brain fog but the air feels heavy.
their eyes meet and tim can feel the tiniest bit of heat bloom low in his belly. it's not enough to notice - not with the embarrassment piled on top of it flushing his throat, his chest, his cheeks. the shame and embarrassment alone can be as good a fall guy for the imperceptible shift.
yes, he remembers. maybe to their detriment. maybe it would be better if he hadn't, and yet when hawk speaks again? the low, firm tone of his voice sends a spark shooting down his spine.
good boy.
he hadn't imagined it. maybe bringing up the phrasing he'd been asked - no, told - to use the night before had been a way to make sure tim hadn't imagined it all. that the apparent ghb didn't make up some feverous fantasy and produced the imagined sound of professor fuller's voice saying those words exactly. they're not typed on a screen now - there's no deleting or unsending that can happen once the sound reaches his ears. ]
Then I promise, too. I'll stop blaming myself for this, sir.
[ the sir comes so easily - any student would address their professor politely, formally, and yet there's a dip in his voice when he says it that matches the even rumble of the other man's, a soft, pliant echo to the heavy note of praise.
but the tension breaks just as soon after with professor fuller sliding back in his chair, opening up that space between them again. tim's shoulder's slacken, his heart slows and he has no doubt that the flush has only crept its way further down his chest, just blooming at the top of his pecs. it's embarrassing that his shame and fluster presents itself so physically. there's only hiding when he has clothes on, and even then once the very tips of his ears alight, he's done for.
it keeps tim very, very honest.
honest enough that he doesn't quite anticipate the pointed, question. blindsided, really, is the best way to describe it. from the electrical tension between them, to the easy conversational tone of a mentor and his student, to this. it's not rude, crass, harsh, mean. the tone itself is very much the same, but it's the calculated way tim realizes he's been caught.
a rabbit, unsuspecting of the panther that has laid in wait beneath the brush. moving with calculated slowness, making his body still and careful and small until near enough that the rabbit may not even escape.
his eyes widen, his mind goes blank. somehow the memory of the sweaty, grabby man from the night before is far less traumatic and horrifying in the face of returning home now. he has tried very hard to make light of it - like he goes home often - but professor fuller wouldn't know the difference. or so he thought.
god, he's a terrible liar.
tim's fingers flex, he shifts a little to adjust the angle of one of his legs beneath him. he suddenly wishes he had more clothes he could hide behind, he could burrow into. the vitality that had crept back up beneath his skin and into the brown of his eyes remains, but there's a hard swallow that accompanies it. the rabbit, tail flicking nervously, ears back, pupils blown wide - trying to decide whether running is the best option or accepting the swift, painful death may be.
(the rabbit will always run, won't he? always try and dodge and weave and hope that the brush or other obstacle will be too great for the panther to overcome. it's no use here). ]
I'm not running.
[ and he isn't really. running would be denying the bus ticket home. it would be living on the streets or begging one of his acquaintances for a couch to stay on. starving just to avoid the four walls of his small house in staten island. doing everything but returning. but his duty and pragmatism always outweighs those options.
it's foolish. he can play pretend, keep his mouth shut, smile and nod when he has to. he grew up in it, after all. ]
It's just better for me if I don't go back there. If I don't have to. I've managed it every semester so far. I went back my first Christmas, but I hadn't built up -
[ a huff and he looks away then, a wry sort of pull at the corner of his lips. not a smile, not a grin - just darkly bemused. ] I didn't have the client base to make it make sense, then. But it did for a while - I was able to make it work.
[ he shrugs a shoulder, quiet for a moment as he sorts his thoughts. ]
I want to be here. Yes, of course it's for the pursuit of knowledge - to learn as much as I can before I don't have the open doors and avenues to ask all the questions I have. I know I won't be able to stand in the real world and parse apart arguments at the word-level, dig into the etymologies of our political terms and how we somehow lost our roots in the past three hundred years. That's not realistic.
[ and there's a smile, albeit one that is a touch sad and does not reach his eyes. ]
But I won't stand a chance if I go back there. We live in the south end - near the old farm colony site. Six people in a two bedroom walkup. There's one library in walking distance, and there's one bus that gets you to the ferry. No one there believes in knowledge. Believes in truth or justice. They just believe in a God that is neither benevolent nor just. Who expels even those with the best intentions to Hell for the sake of their mere existence.
[ no one there believes that a man could love a man. that a heart could want many things. that a mind could grow and things can change and the world could be so much better that 60s wallpaper, moldy siding, a screaming preacher on a pulpit and hate employed in the name of righteousness. ]
God made all of us with a plan. And maybe being in D.C. isn't the plan for me. For all the obstacles that have stood in my way, you'd think I'd take it as some divine sign to turn back and be done with all of this. Like in Romans - I consider the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us.
There has to be more out there for me.
[ it's absent that his hand reaches for his chest, fingers drifting along the line of his sternum. ah. his cross. he'd taken it off before his date. it sits on his bedside table in his dorm room, on the worn cover a library book - look homeward, angel. ]
no subject
their eyes meet and tim can feel the tiniest bit of heat bloom low in his belly. it's not enough to notice - not with the embarrassment piled on top of it flushing his throat, his chest, his cheeks. the shame and embarrassment alone can be as good a fall guy for the imperceptible shift.
yes, he remembers. maybe to their detriment. maybe it would be better if he hadn't, and yet when hawk speaks again? the low, firm tone of his voice sends a spark shooting down his spine.
good boy.
he hadn't imagined it. maybe bringing up the phrasing he'd been asked - no, told - to use the night before had been a way to make sure tim hadn't imagined it all. that the apparent ghb didn't make up some feverous fantasy and produced the imagined sound of professor fuller's voice saying those words exactly. they're not typed on a screen now - there's no deleting or unsending that can happen once the sound reaches his ears. ]
Then I promise, too. I'll stop blaming myself for this, sir.
[ the sir comes so easily - any student would address their professor politely, formally, and yet there's a dip in his voice when he says it that matches the even rumble of the other man's, a soft, pliant echo to the heavy note of praise.
but the tension breaks just as soon after with professor fuller sliding back in his chair, opening up that space between them again. tim's shoulder's slacken, his heart slows and he has no doubt that the flush has only crept its way further down his chest, just blooming at the top of his pecs. it's embarrassing that his shame and fluster presents itself so physically. there's only hiding when he has clothes on, and even then once the very tips of his ears alight, he's done for.
it keeps tim very, very honest.
honest enough that he doesn't quite anticipate the pointed, question. blindsided, really, is the best way to describe it. from the electrical tension between them, to the easy conversational tone of a mentor and his student, to this. it's not rude, crass, harsh, mean. the tone itself is very much the same, but it's the calculated way tim realizes he's been caught.
a rabbit, unsuspecting of the panther that has laid in wait beneath the brush. moving with calculated slowness, making his body still and careful and small until near enough that the rabbit may not even escape.
his eyes widen, his mind goes blank. somehow the memory of the sweaty, grabby man from the night before is far less traumatic and horrifying in the face of returning home now. he has tried very hard to make light of it - like he goes home often - but professor fuller wouldn't know the difference. or so he thought.
god, he's a terrible liar.
tim's fingers flex, he shifts a little to adjust the angle of one of his legs beneath him. he suddenly wishes he had more clothes he could hide behind, he could burrow into. the vitality that had crept back up beneath his skin and into the brown of his eyes remains, but there's a hard swallow that accompanies it. the rabbit, tail flicking nervously, ears back, pupils blown wide - trying to decide whether running is the best option or accepting the swift, painful death may be.
(the rabbit will always run, won't he? always try and dodge and weave and hope that the brush or other obstacle will be too great for the panther to overcome. it's no use here). ]
I'm not running.
[ and he isn't really. running would be denying the bus ticket home. it would be living on the streets or begging one of his acquaintances for a couch to stay on. starving just to avoid the four walls of his small house in staten island. doing everything but returning. but his duty and pragmatism always outweighs those options.
it's foolish. he can play pretend, keep his mouth shut, smile and nod when he has to. he grew up in it, after all. ]
It's just better for me if I don't go back there. If I don't have to. I've managed it every semester so far. I went back my first Christmas, but I hadn't built up -
[ a huff and he looks away then, a wry sort of pull at the corner of his lips. not a smile, not a grin - just darkly bemused. ] I didn't have the client base to make it make sense, then. But it did for a while - I was able to make it work.
[ he shrugs a shoulder, quiet for a moment as he sorts his thoughts. ]
I want to be here. Yes, of course it's for the pursuit of knowledge - to learn as much as I can before I don't have the open doors and avenues to ask all the questions I have. I know I won't be able to stand in the real world and parse apart arguments at the word-level, dig into the etymologies of our political terms and how we somehow lost our roots in the past three hundred years. That's not realistic.
[ and there's a smile, albeit one that is a touch sad and does not reach his eyes. ]
But I won't stand a chance if I go back there. We live in the south end - near the old farm colony site. Six people in a two bedroom walkup. There's one library in walking distance, and there's one bus that gets you to the ferry. No one there believes in knowledge. Believes in truth or justice. They just believe in a God that is neither benevolent nor just. Who expels even those with the best intentions to Hell for the sake of their mere existence.
[ no one there believes that a man could love a man. that a heart could want many things. that a mind could grow and things can change and the world could be so much better that 60s wallpaper, moldy siding, a screaming preacher on a pulpit and hate employed in the name of righteousness. ]
God made all of us with a plan. And maybe being in D.C. isn't the plan for me. For all the obstacles that have stood in my way, you'd think I'd take it as some divine sign to turn back and be done with all of this. Like in Romans - I consider the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us.
There has to be more out there for me.
[ it's absent that his hand reaches for his chest, fingers drifting along the line of his sternum. ah. his cross. he'd taken it off before his date. it sits on his bedside table in his dorm room, on the worn cover a library book - look homeward, angel. ]