[ tim simply can't help the way his eyes flutter to the careful unbuttoning of the shirt cuffs, the way professor fuller rolls them up to the crook of his elbow. he's seen this look dozens of times before, and yet in the close space between them now, the forced intimacy from their rough night together makes the whole thing feel different. he takes in a second longer - the muscles of his forearms, the broad hands he can remember on his skin. he tears his eyes away, back to his own hands once they fall back to his lap, missing his cross.
he barely manages to catch the shirt. the old debate team - the year worn out and faded. there's a sort of wry look on his face as he shakes it out and pulls it on over his head, letting even his glasses pop through the well-loved collar. the fabric itself is soft, but it's the smell. it makes his skin prickle again, but the scent of hawkins fuller won't leave his olfactory memory any time soon. it's rich and warm and safe. ]
Thanks.
[ and because professor fuller himself has drawn his attention to it, he reaches for the comforter then, tugging it up around his shoulders to cocoon himself in. he's exhausted, sick, sore, upset. sleep is exactly what he needs and yet even here he refuses to lie down.
soon, he'll get up, get back into his own clothes, and head back to the dorm. they'll pretend none of this happened, too. there will be no counselors, no follow up, just the quiet understanding that things will have been taken care of. it's not like he'll be able to see a counselor anyway, what with the return to staten island now so imminent. ]
Trust me, I know better than to talk to you about God. [ there's a look there - fiery disbelief that in any other chat they'd be having would have long since turned into the rolling of eyes. it's better for his stomach he doesn't do that. ]
And I don't know that I believe God is on this path with me, anyway. I don't know what to believe anymore. I feel troubled and pray every time I go to mass, but I wake up the next day with the same questions. More questions, even. My father would say it's God's way of punishing me - torturing me until I turn around and go back down the right path. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, et cetera. That poem is flawed, by the way.
[ he sighs, tugging the comforter around him again. he knows he'll have to answer the question eventually. that he'll have to come face to face with the reality that he will be leaving in a week and he's wholly unprepared for it. mentally, physically, financially. there's so much more to do still before he can go home. ]
But yeah, I feel like I am where I should be. [ it's quieter, less bite and conviction, less sarcastic remark. genuine, more than anything. ] That's what I meant - Romans, that is. The struggle is going to be worth whatever the outcome is. I can't afford to believe anything else.
[ he gives in to the temptation to fall back onto the bed, first leaning to his side, then rolling onto his back. he has all but wrapped himself in the blankets now, and no doubt he looks a sight with his wild bed-head and glasses peeking out from behind the expensive fabric. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling first, mulling the question over, then letting out a sigh. ]
It's obvious what's next.
[ the bus ride. home. his family. church.
his skin crawls. ]
I go home. There aren't any more extensions - I'd already asked for one and used it.
[ he grips the covers, closes his eyes in a long blink, then glances back at hawk. ]
I'll do some of my thesis reading. Last time I checked a few books out of the library and just kept them. Took the hit on the fines. Cheaper than buying them. I'll do that. Maybe try to write a few analyses. My father won't let me get a job - he needs help at the Church. They have a significant plot of land, a community garden.
[ his hands ache from the thought already. and he knows he'll have to hide his books, too, lest his father decide they're full of satanic speech. ]
Until then I need to get boxes. Find somewhere to store my stuff until I get back. Get a bus ticket. Study, if I can. Do my exams.
[ he has to feel better, surely, tomorrow? there's no way any of this can linger overlong. he doesn't have time for it. he needs to study, ace his exams, and secure a spot in his senior year. failing isn't an option. he cannot afford to return to school here, for so many reasons.
tim doesn't even look at his immediate needs - food, a shower, sleep. instead he's lying in professor fuller's bed feeling like half a human being, stripped bare and ripped open for the world to see. he's quiet for a long minute, letting his breathing even out a little, his heart to come back down to the pace of someone trying to relax. and then: ]
I'm not looking for the Divine. Signs. Miracles. I wasn't born for all of that anyway. I'm just trying to put one foot in front of the other, for now.
no subject
he barely manages to catch the shirt. the old debate team - the year worn out and faded. there's a sort of wry look on his face as he shakes it out and pulls it on over his head, letting even his glasses pop through the well-loved collar. the fabric itself is soft, but it's the smell. it makes his skin prickle again, but the scent of hawkins fuller won't leave his olfactory memory any time soon. it's rich and warm and safe. ]
Thanks.
[ and because professor fuller himself has drawn his attention to it, he reaches for the comforter then, tugging it up around his shoulders to cocoon himself in. he's exhausted, sick, sore, upset. sleep is exactly what he needs and yet even here he refuses to lie down.
soon, he'll get up, get back into his own clothes, and head back to the dorm. they'll pretend none of this happened, too. there will be no counselors, no follow up, just the quiet understanding that things will have been taken care of. it's not like he'll be able to see a counselor anyway, what with the return to staten island now so imminent. ]
Trust me, I know better than to talk to you about God. [ there's a look there - fiery disbelief that in any other chat they'd be having would have long since turned into the rolling of eyes. it's better for his stomach he doesn't do that. ]
And I don't know that I believe God is on this path with me, anyway. I don't know what to believe anymore. I feel troubled and pray every time I go to mass, but I wake up the next day with the same questions. More questions, even. My father would say it's God's way of punishing me - torturing me until I turn around and go back down the right path. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, et cetera. That poem is flawed, by the way.
[ he sighs, tugging the comforter around him again. he knows he'll have to answer the question eventually. that he'll have to come face to face with the reality that he will be leaving in a week and he's wholly unprepared for it. mentally, physically, financially. there's so much more to do still before he can go home. ]
But yeah, I feel like I am where I should be. [ it's quieter, less bite and conviction, less sarcastic remark. genuine, more than anything. ] That's what I meant - Romans, that is. The struggle is going to be worth whatever the outcome is. I can't afford to believe anything else.
[ he gives in to the temptation to fall back onto the bed, first leaning to his side, then rolling onto his back. he has all but wrapped himself in the blankets now, and no doubt he looks a sight with his wild bed-head and glasses peeking out from behind the expensive fabric. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling first, mulling the question over, then letting out a sigh. ]
It's obvious what's next.
[ the bus ride. home. his family. church.
his skin crawls. ]
I go home. There aren't any more extensions - I'd already asked for one and used it.
[ he grips the covers, closes his eyes in a long blink, then glances back at hawk. ]
I'll do some of my thesis reading. Last time I checked a few books out of the library and just kept them. Took the hit on the fines. Cheaper than buying them. I'll do that. Maybe try to write a few analyses. My father won't let me get a job - he needs help at the Church. They have a significant plot of land, a community garden.
[ his hands ache from the thought already. and he knows he'll have to hide his books, too, lest his father decide they're full of satanic speech. ]
Until then I need to get boxes. Find somewhere to store my stuff until I get back. Get a bus ticket. Study, if I can. Do my exams.
[ he has to feel better, surely, tomorrow? there's no way any of this can linger overlong. he doesn't have time for it. he needs to study, ace his exams, and secure a spot in his senior year. failing isn't an option. he cannot afford to return to school here, for so many reasons.
tim doesn't even look at his immediate needs - food, a shower, sleep. instead he's lying in professor fuller's bed feeling like half a human being, stripped bare and ripped open for the world to see. he's quiet for a long minute, letting his breathing even out a little, his heart to come back down to the pace of someone trying to relax. and then: ]
I'm not looking for the Divine. Signs. Miracles. I wasn't born for all of that anyway. I'm just trying to put one foot in front of the other, for now.