[that's one of the things that has risen on the long list of what he admires about tim laughlin in as much as it is something they'll desperately need to work on coaxing him out of before the time he hits the ground in the capitol. the rabbit could never survive in a den of lions and tigers and bears - oh my - but it wouldn't survive the serpent-tongues that could take even the largest of creatures with gnashing teeth down in a simple flick either. in this context his honesty isn't a bad thing, even if it's betrayed by the beautiful rising flush along his body, and he realizes belatedly that another shirt should have been offered to him sometime ago and that he himself never got around to putting on something more comfortable last night. first things first then - slowly he unbuttons the cuffs at his wrist, rolling them upward across his forearms and just past his elbows as he listens intently to tim's explanation.
of course it wasn't meant to hurt or alarm him, but if his student thinks he hasn't been paying attention and doesn't know how to read an entire book between the lines - he's got another thing coming. or more accurately: it's an unfairly easy glimpse into the environment that has shaped this passionate boy, no lines to read between at all, printed plain as day as if in compliment to look homeward, angel.
staten island has never been on his list of visits from childhood until now, only remembering the vague recollection of the picturesque, primary coloured cyclone and a good old fashioned hot dog from coney island across the way. new yorkers were a mixed bag according to his father, frowning upon any child whose exuberance was not as tempered as his son's, and even then he'd wondered what they'd been doing there at all if reservation was the name of the game. but now he knows about the conservative lean the areas sport - often well-meaning, large families who work hard and don't know what they don't know. but they don't have the fortitude to get the fuck out and see the rest of the world for what it is, confused and offering guilting platitudes to those like tim who would spread their wings and eagerly fly away.
thank christ it isn't anything as dastardly as abuse or neglect - though he's not sure that's entirely accurate either. going back to a place like that means hiding who tim is at his core, more than just his sexual preference or the job he's forced into to make ends meet. it's stifling his creativity, his voracious search for truth and justice in a world designed to shirk it as much as possible. staying there means finding some dead end job to just get by, go through the motions day in and day out without real meaning or substance to his greater purpose. not that hawk would ever recommend that higher purpose has anything to do with god or religion, and he can't help the way his expression turns a little critical at that - a furrow of his brows, the slight pull of his mouth into a thinner line.
christians, catholics, jesuits - doesn't really matter. every last one hypocrites one way or another, hiding behind a shield in pursuit of the same damn thing they all are, only with a insufferable crock of self righteousness to prop themselves up with in the process. that, or it's the symbolism and the signs, the necessary excuses to live life beyond what they think they're limited to following laws written by modern hands and not some holy spirit. but he's not about to get into a theology lecture - it's something he knows is important to tim, who has drawn from it before, who has left office hours at a sprint because he'll be late catching the bus for masses at st. joseph's across town. but it's that same piety that's torturing him, probably is at the root of why he continues to hunch in on himself when he thinks about the things he's deemed himself a failure for, or somehow less than.
all of that is bullshit, so far as he's concerned. why would a benevolent god punish people for love? why would a god who forgives all sins overlook one? and why the hell would a place meant for sinners not celebrate the behaviour that landed them there in the first place?
(he hadn't lasted long with his own youthful foray into the world of religion with that attitude. another early disappointment in the books at the fuller household.)
his gaze follows tim's hands - reaching for something on his chest in a motion that should be mundane, but has hawk swallowing thickly anyway before he drags them back up slowly to his face and keeps them there. right, the shirt.
he pushes up from the chair, stepping over to his tall dresser against the wall and rifling through one of the bottom drawers for another faded tee, this one from the old debate team. standing, he tosses it to tim.]
Catch. You look cold again.
[he doesn't take the chair again, instead letting out a sigh and putting both hands on his hips.]
Look, I don't know about God and what he's got to do with this, but you're barking up the wrong tree with that anyway. Public servants, Putin, populism - I've got you covered there. I only lasted a few weeks in Jesuit school for good reason.
[a wry smile, blink and he might miss it before it drops into something serious again.]
But Tim, you're not going to hear agreement from me if you're looking for a reason to turn back. If you want to believe in signs and miracles and the pre-ordained. And I know that's not what you want.
[hawk takes a step forward, towards the bed, hands falling to his side as he looks down at tim sitting there, looking up at him with those big brown eyes and mussed hair. jesus.]
You're right where you belong. That's all there is to it.
And two years from now, when you're walking through those hallowed halls in your best suit - I want you to think back on this moment, right now, and take a minute to celebrate.
[but that still leaves the immediate questions: what does that mean for summer school? for next year?
he needs divine intervention, is what it means. or just a very stubborn hawkins fuller, pulling a few strings in the wings. he won't know.]
If the deadline was yesterday, what's the plan now?
[he asks it casually enough, overlooking the obvious fact that he'll need to try and keep down food, shower, rest, speak with a counselor, and get through the rest of exams next week.]
no subject
of course it wasn't meant to hurt or alarm him, but if his student thinks he hasn't been paying attention and doesn't know how to read an entire book between the lines - he's got another thing coming. or more accurately: it's an unfairly easy glimpse into the environment that has shaped this passionate boy, no lines to read between at all, printed plain as day as if in compliment to look homeward, angel.
staten island has never been on his list of visits from childhood until now, only remembering the vague recollection of the picturesque, primary coloured cyclone and a good old fashioned hot dog from coney island across the way. new yorkers were a mixed bag according to his father, frowning upon any child whose exuberance was not as tempered as his son's, and even then he'd wondered what they'd been doing there at all if reservation was the name of the game. but now he knows about the conservative lean the areas sport - often well-meaning, large families who work hard and don't know what they don't know. but they don't have the fortitude to get the fuck out and see the rest of the world for what it is, confused and offering guilting platitudes to those like tim who would spread their wings and eagerly fly away.
thank christ it isn't anything as dastardly as abuse or neglect - though he's not sure that's entirely accurate either. going back to a place like that means hiding who tim is at his core, more than just his sexual preference or the job he's forced into to make ends meet. it's stifling his creativity, his voracious search for truth and justice in a world designed to shirk it as much as possible. staying there means finding some dead end job to just get by, go through the motions day in and day out without real meaning or substance to his greater purpose. not that hawk would ever recommend that higher purpose has anything to do with god or religion, and he can't help the way his expression turns a little critical at that - a furrow of his brows, the slight pull of his mouth into a thinner line.
christians, catholics, jesuits - doesn't really matter. every last one hypocrites one way or another, hiding behind a shield in pursuit of the same damn thing they all are, only with a insufferable crock of self righteousness to prop themselves up with in the process. that, or it's the symbolism and the signs, the necessary excuses to live life beyond what they think they're limited to following laws written by modern hands and not some holy spirit. but he's not about to get into a theology lecture - it's something he knows is important to tim, who has drawn from it before, who has left office hours at a sprint because he'll be late catching the bus for masses at st. joseph's across town. but it's that same piety that's torturing him, probably is at the root of why he continues to hunch in on himself when he thinks about the things he's deemed himself a failure for, or somehow less than.
all of that is bullshit, so far as he's concerned. why would a benevolent god punish people for love? why would a god who forgives all sins overlook one? and why the hell would a place meant for sinners not celebrate the behaviour that landed them there in the first place?
(he hadn't lasted long with his own youthful foray into the world of religion with that attitude. another early disappointment in the books at the fuller household.)
his gaze follows tim's hands - reaching for something on his chest in a motion that should be mundane, but has hawk swallowing thickly anyway before he drags them back up slowly to his face and keeps them there. right, the shirt.
he pushes up from the chair, stepping over to his tall dresser against the wall and rifling through one of the bottom drawers for another faded tee, this one from the old debate team. standing, he tosses it to tim.]
Catch. You look cold again.
[he doesn't take the chair again, instead letting out a sigh and putting both hands on his hips.]
Look, I don't know about God and what he's got to do with this, but you're barking up the wrong tree with that anyway. Public servants, Putin, populism - I've got you covered there. I only lasted a few weeks in Jesuit school for good reason.
[a wry smile, blink and he might miss it before it drops into something serious again.]
But Tim, you're not going to hear agreement from me if you're looking for a reason to turn back. If you want to believe in signs and miracles and the pre-ordained. And I know that's not what you want.
[hawk takes a step forward, towards the bed, hands falling to his side as he looks down at tim sitting there, looking up at him with those big brown eyes and mussed hair. jesus.]
You're right where you belong. That's all there is to it.
And two years from now, when you're walking through those hallowed halls in your best suit - I want you to think back on this moment, right now, and take a minute to celebrate.
[but that still leaves the immediate questions: what does that mean for summer school? for next year?
he needs divine intervention, is what it means. or just a very stubborn hawkins fuller, pulling a few strings in the wings. he won't know.]
If the deadline was yesterday, what's the plan now?
[he asks it casually enough, overlooking the obvious fact that he'll need to try and keep down food, shower, rest, speak with a counselor, and get through the rest of exams next week.]