[ tim wishes he could take a picture of hawk as he is right now - broad, handsome, relaxed, the sun warming him and turning the strong features of his face to gold. that coupled with the dim of the restaurant, the soft ambience and the anonymity of the whole thing feels something akin to sacred. the last time he felt so truly entranced and peaceful like this had been at church - the chapel windows all stained glass and painting a corporeal heaven across the skin on the back of his hands.
he chooses not to reach for his phone, knowing it won't be received well at all, but he tries very, very hard to commit the image to memory.
it's easy to play make-believe, to imagine that when the waiter brings the milk, the wine, the starters, that this odd smorgasbord is something they entertain once a week together. a quaint little restaurant, a romantic date just the two of them. they'll talk and finish their meal and drive home together, or perhaps drive to one of the outlooks they'd passed and kiss beneath the stars before driving home to kiss some more and make stars of their own.
tim knows this will never be any of that. he knows that they will never be anything more than student and teacher, no matter how they choose to toe the line. but for this next hour, he's willing to believe that hawk is the very god apollo seated next to him, infinite and divine with the fire of the sun in his hair, and he icarus, flying up high to the moon and yearning for his favor.
would that his wings could not melt, just this once. ]
It's not a habit - [ he huffs a little, ears burning red with a sheepish embarrassment as he reaches to tug the glass toward him almost a little defensively. ] I think my parents worried that I would grow up weak. Said it would make me taller, help me work the land better. I just enjoy it, now. You'll have to tell me if you think I'd make the cut for their poster boy. I can't be sure myself.
[ but hawk pours from the bottle, their glasses generously filling with a wash of deep red wine. how apt. their table laid with bread, their glasses with wine, and tim truly believes he could forgo all other churches should this be what his masses look like from now forward.
he takes up his glass opposite hawk, his cheeks burning as he listens to the little toast made. hawk's italian is accented beautifully, not at all open and round like the american attempt at the cheers itself. their glasses clink and he can do nothing but blink, wide-eyed over the rim at hawk, a fire simmering low in his belly. ]
To our date. Salute.
[ oh, there is so much he doesn't know. it's silly, that he keeps his eyes on hawk's as he drinks from the glass, taking from it the same generous sip as the other man. it's sharp and sweet on his tongue, burning at the back of his throat but this, at least, he's used to. he knows nothing about wine, and while this one is at least sweeter than most, it still isn't quite something he'd pick on his own. his nose crinkles faintly at the burn, but he says nothing.
he will drink ever drop before the night is over, so as not to look ungrateful. he sets the glass aside and snags a breadstick for himself, pulling it into halves before his eyes flicker up at hawk again. he takes one bite, chewing and swallowing before he reaches to sip at his milk. it's silly how comforting a cold glass of milk can be, and when he looks back to hawk, there's an easy contentment in his expression.
he fidgets momentarily with the glass, fingers drumming against it before his elbows finally come up to the table, his chin perching on his hands. ]
I have the best view, by the way. [ there's a little one-shouldered shrug. calling back to hawk's comment. bravely, he decides he'll speak again. hawk has sad kind and flattering things to him, but tim cannot truly recall any time he'd given the man a compliment. ] You there, with the sun and the painting against the wall back there. Well. It's just you, really. You're - handsome. [ he clears his throat a little, mouth pulling to one side, his hands dropping to toy with the stem of his wine glass. ]
Beautiful, really. I - I know most men don't like to hear that, but I mean it. I do, Hawk.
[ the name. it feels so special to say out loud. he takes a sip of his wine before he has to put his foot in his mouth. ]
no subject
he chooses not to reach for his phone, knowing it won't be received well at all, but he tries very, very hard to commit the image to memory.
it's easy to play make-believe, to imagine that when the waiter brings the milk, the wine, the starters, that this odd smorgasbord is something they entertain once a week together. a quaint little restaurant, a romantic date just the two of them. they'll talk and finish their meal and drive home together, or perhaps drive to one of the outlooks they'd passed and kiss beneath the stars before driving home to kiss some more and make stars of their own.
tim knows this will never be any of that. he knows that they will never be anything more than student and teacher, no matter how they choose to toe the line. but for this next hour, he's willing to believe that hawk is the very god apollo seated next to him, infinite and divine with the fire of the sun in his hair, and he icarus, flying up high to the moon and yearning for his favor.
would that his wings could not melt, just this once. ]
It's not a habit - [ he huffs a little, ears burning red with a sheepish embarrassment as he reaches to tug the glass toward him almost a little defensively. ] I think my parents worried that I would grow up weak. Said it would make me taller, help me work the land better. I just enjoy it, now. You'll have to tell me if you think I'd make the cut for their poster boy. I can't be sure myself.
[ but hawk pours from the bottle, their glasses generously filling with a wash of deep red wine. how apt. their table laid with bread, their glasses with wine, and tim truly believes he could forgo all other churches should this be what his masses look like from now forward.
he takes up his glass opposite hawk, his cheeks burning as he listens to the little toast made. hawk's italian is accented beautifully, not at all open and round like the american attempt at the cheers itself. their glasses clink and he can do nothing but blink, wide-eyed over the rim at hawk, a fire simmering low in his belly. ]
To our date. Salute.
[ oh, there is so much he doesn't know. it's silly, that he keeps his eyes on hawk's as he drinks from the glass, taking from it the same generous sip as the other man. it's sharp and sweet on his tongue, burning at the back of his throat but this, at least, he's used to. he knows nothing about wine, and while this one is at least sweeter than most, it still isn't quite something he'd pick on his own. his nose crinkles faintly at the burn, but he says nothing.
he will drink ever drop before the night is over, so as not to look ungrateful. he sets the glass aside and snags a breadstick for himself, pulling it into halves before his eyes flicker up at hawk again. he takes one bite, chewing and swallowing before he reaches to sip at his milk. it's silly how comforting a cold glass of milk can be, and when he looks back to hawk, there's an easy contentment in his expression.
he fidgets momentarily with the glass, fingers drumming against it before his elbows finally come up to the table, his chin perching on his hands. ]
I have the best view, by the way. [ there's a little one-shouldered shrug. calling back to hawk's comment. bravely, he decides he'll speak again. hawk has sad kind and flattering things to him, but tim cannot truly recall any time he'd given the man a compliment. ] You there, with the sun and the painting against the wall back there. Well. It's just you, really. You're - handsome. [ he clears his throat a little, mouth pulling to one side, his hands dropping to toy with the stem of his wine glass. ]
Beautiful, really. I - I know most men don't like to hear that, but I mean it. I do, Hawk.
[ the name. it feels so special to say out loud. he takes a sip of his wine before he has to put his foot in his mouth. ]