Oh yeah. No doubt about it - you'd be the main attraction. Hard to follow up a specimen as perfect as that.
[much as he'd like his own polaroid of tim - bathed in sunlight, shadows cast across the strong curvature of his face - it can't happen now. he'll do the same thing and commit it to memory, the same way he buried deep every inch of his toned body and striking jawline, the nestle of curls between his thighs and the way his cock flushes pretty pink when he's at his neediest. that never went away, and neither will this. he'll lie at night thinking about how the precise shade of tim's hair has tinges of red to it in the sun, how the golden rays bring out the olive in his delicate irish skin. that there's a beauty mark just under his chin he never noticed before - too small to have caught on camera, tucked just against his jugular as if it were meant for lips to fix around and mark. hawkins fuller was here, he'd want to say, if he could. if this weren't something monumentally foolish already, as if that matters when he's so far gone for his boy.
it's hard not to keep circling back to the idea of what happens after. no one will ever replace him - that chair may as well have his initials stamped against the fading leather like the kerchief he'd lent tim with hf embroidered so many months ago, except it's the sweet curl of "tdl" etched against both the home that his office gives him away from home and his heart. when he graduates what does hawk have to look forward to?
will tim even remember moments like this?
there is something sacred about it, reverent in a way that hawk might allow himself to finally understand the beauty of breaking bread and drinking wine and laying themselves bare in honesty to a higher power - only instead of god, it's the desire they both have for one another. isn't that just another piece of devotion, in a way? his eyes don't leave from the way tim's lips wrap around the glass of red, tipping back and watching the vibrant display of emotions that are all too easy to read. their very own communion, amen to that.
wine probably isn't skippy's thing - or at least, this one isn't, and it should be a warning sign that hawk immediately considers what to try next time until he finds the right one. he'd try every last drop in this place to find the perfect fit, the one that wouldn't make his nose scrunch and force those long, dextrous fingers wrap around the milk instead, even if it's endearing to watch him take a sip all the same. hawk reaches for some bread and dips it in olive oil, dabbing it at the edge before taking a thoughtful bite.
and then tim goes and says that, and it has him quiet while he finishes chewing, swallowing, lifting his own wine glass to his lips in contemplation. it's not that he's unaware of his exceptional good looks by any means - the craigs and miss addisons and the twinks that gravitate to him in the bars outside of washington certainly give him a good idea about it. but coming from tim? it may as well have been uttered from heaven itself, an angel coming down to proclaim it like it really means something. he stares for a moment before his face shifts into a fond smile, open in a way he's never really shared with tim even in their little rendezvous and office hours.]
That's sweet, you know? Really sweet.
I'd only want to hear it from you anyway.
[there's a pause as he lets that sink in, glancing across the table with a sudden shift to the serious - an intensity that's not borne out of lust, but instead something that much more vulnerable to say aloud.]
You've got a pair of angel wings, Skippy. You're a good boy. Not just because of the paper, or the debating, or school - I mean it.
[it's the first time since abandoning him in the cold that he's used the nickname again. it feels more intimate that way - tim is his boy, sure, but skippy? does he even know where it's from?]
no subject
[much as he'd like his own polaroid of tim - bathed in sunlight, shadows cast across the strong curvature of his face - it can't happen now. he'll do the same thing and commit it to memory, the same way he buried deep every inch of his toned body and striking jawline, the nestle of curls between his thighs and the way his cock flushes pretty pink when he's at his neediest. that never went away, and neither will this. he'll lie at night thinking about how the precise shade of tim's hair has tinges of red to it in the sun, how the golden rays bring out the olive in his delicate irish skin. that there's a beauty mark just under his chin he never noticed before - too small to have caught on camera, tucked just against his jugular as if it were meant for lips to fix around and mark. hawkins fuller was here, he'd want to say, if he could. if this weren't something monumentally foolish already, as if that matters when he's so far gone for his boy.
it's hard not to keep circling back to the idea of what happens after. no one will ever replace him - that chair may as well have his initials stamped against the fading leather like the kerchief he'd lent tim with hf embroidered so many months ago, except it's the sweet curl of "tdl" etched against both the home that his office gives him away from home and his heart. when he graduates what does hawk have to look forward to?
will tim even remember moments like this?
there is something sacred about it, reverent in a way that hawk might allow himself to finally understand the beauty of breaking bread and drinking wine and laying themselves bare in honesty to a higher power - only instead of god, it's the desire they both have for one another. isn't that just another piece of devotion, in a way? his eyes don't leave from the way tim's lips wrap around the glass of red, tipping back and watching the vibrant display of emotions that are all too easy to read. their very own communion, amen to that.
wine probably isn't skippy's thing - or at least, this one isn't, and it should be a warning sign that hawk immediately considers what to try next time until he finds the right one. he'd try every last drop in this place to find the perfect fit, the one that wouldn't make his nose scrunch and force those long, dextrous fingers wrap around the milk instead, even if it's endearing to watch him take a sip all the same. hawk reaches for some bread and dips it in olive oil, dabbing it at the edge before taking a thoughtful bite.
and then tim goes and says that, and it has him quiet while he finishes chewing, swallowing, lifting his own wine glass to his lips in contemplation. it's not that he's unaware of his exceptional good looks by any means - the craigs and miss addisons and the twinks that gravitate to him in the bars outside of washington certainly give him a good idea about it. but coming from tim? it may as well have been uttered from heaven itself, an angel coming down to proclaim it like it really means something. he stares for a moment before his face shifts into a fond smile, open in a way he's never really shared with tim even in their little rendezvous and office hours.]
That's sweet, you know? Really sweet.
I'd only want to hear it from you anyway.
[there's a pause as he lets that sink in, glancing across the table with a sudden shift to the serious - an intensity that's not borne out of lust, but instead something that much more vulnerable to say aloud.]
You've got a pair of angel wings, Skippy. You're a good boy. Not just because of the paper, or the debating, or school - I mean it.
[it's the first time since abandoning him in the cold that he's used the nickname again. it feels more intimate that way - tim is his boy, sure, but skippy? does he even know where it's from?]