[ hawk stays thoughtfully quiet, and tim can feel the word beautiful hanging on the air between them. it doesn't feel wrong, and he isn't apologetic for it but tim knows he walks a delicate line. they went so quickly from being an image on a screen merged with teacher and student, to whatever heated thing they've had lately, to this. he likes it, and if he can do all the right things to have another night like this, even if it's only one, he'll do his best.
he reaches for the milk again, fingers pressing around the glass and turning it a little and busying himself with one of the halves of breadstick again, taking a bite and chewing to make the silence make sense. it doesn't, and then something changes in the man's face. the smile? it's different. open and fond and warm and tim finds his skin prickling with heat, but not in a needy, wanting sort of way.
tim cannot help the thought that hawk truly is beautiful, but most beautiful like that. he feels startled, meeting his eyes and not quite hearing everything he says at first - tim breathing out a little huff of something similar to a nervous laugh, his face flushing hot and pink.
i'd only want to hear it from you anyway.
maybe that's how hawkins fuller woos everyone he takes to dinner, but tim doesn't care. it's so intimate and honest in a way he's never seen the other man and he knows he'll carry that with him like a brand through the end of whatever this is they have. he doesn't care if he ever gets to touch him, kiss him, hold him - he has that. it's likely more than most can say, if he had to guess. ]
I...
[ but hawk calls him an angel and he blinks, hands fumbling around the bread, elbows rising back up to the table, fingers fumbling nervously with the chain of his crucifix.
but there it is, laid plain and simple before him: skippy. he breathes out again. ]
That's really kind of you. But I'm definitely not an angel, not by a long stretch. But that's... it's one of the nicest things I think anyone has said to me, really.
[ it sounds so pathetic when he says it like that, but it's true. he sits up a little straighter in his seat, and it's with an earnest sort of intensity that he reaches for hawk's hand, catching only two fingers to give the faintest squeeze. no one can see here, no one will know who they are or what they're doing. he keeps it brief, even if every part of him wants to hold on for the rest of the night and imagine that picture perfect scene again. the two of them, the starlit night, and whatever this romantic hum around them has become.
it isn't fair to fall in love with hawkins fuller. it isn't fair to feel so strongly, so fully about one person the way he does the man across from him. he has no doubt that it isn't the same for hawk - that their lives are so different, priorities wildly opposite, and yet tim allows the tiniest seed of hope to take root.
he releases the man's fingers, sheepish, making it look as though he was simply reaching for more bread to dip into the oil.
i am not worthy to receive you - he idly thinks. of god, or hawk, he doesn't know. ]
Don't you remember? Icarus. He built the most beautiful wings to fly as high as he could. All the tales are different, but in this one, Icarus flew as far and as high as he could to find greatness for himself, to find purpose. The gods, they were furious. They threatened his family and swore he would never find love.
[ he shrugs a little, his eyes keeping with hawk's, trying to commit every moment of this to memory. ]
The gods turned the fires of the sun on him and his wings began to melt. Icarus fell for days, and just before he was destined to hit the ground, a sunbeam caught him. The gods had roiled the fires of the sun to spite Icarus, but it was the god Apollo, who had loved him for his flight, that saved him. Angry that the gods called on his power to harm him, he carried Icarus into the sky, to the Moon and wrote their names together in the dust.
[ it sounds childish, when he says it, and he can tell his face must be as red as the wine. ah, the wine. he sips at it - a little too deeply, draining a fair amount from nerves alone before he clears his throat. ]
no subject
he reaches for the milk again, fingers pressing around the glass and turning it a little and busying himself with one of the halves of breadstick again, taking a bite and chewing to make the silence make sense. it doesn't, and then something changes in the man's face. the smile? it's different. open and fond and warm and tim finds his skin prickling with heat, but not in a needy, wanting sort of way.
tim cannot help the thought that hawk truly is beautiful, but most beautiful like that. he feels startled, meeting his eyes and not quite hearing everything he says at first - tim breathing out a little huff of something similar to a nervous laugh, his face flushing hot and pink.
i'd only want to hear it from you anyway.
maybe that's how hawkins fuller woos everyone he takes to dinner, but tim doesn't care. it's so intimate and honest in a way he's never seen the other man and he knows he'll carry that with him like a brand through the end of whatever this is they have. he doesn't care if he ever gets to touch him, kiss him, hold him - he has that. it's likely more than most can say, if he had to guess. ]
I...
[ but hawk calls him an angel and he blinks, hands fumbling around the bread, elbows rising back up to the table, fingers fumbling nervously with the chain of his crucifix.
but there it is, laid plain and simple before him: skippy. he breathes out again. ]
That's really kind of you. But I'm definitely not an angel, not by a long stretch. But that's... it's one of the nicest things I think anyone has said to me, really.
[ it sounds so pathetic when he says it like that, but it's true. he sits up a little straighter in his seat, and it's with an earnest sort of intensity that he reaches for hawk's hand, catching only two fingers to give the faintest squeeze. no one can see here, no one will know who they are or what they're doing. he keeps it brief, even if every part of him wants to hold on for the rest of the night and imagine that picture perfect scene again. the two of them, the starlit night, and whatever this romantic hum around them has become.
it isn't fair to fall in love with hawkins fuller. it isn't fair to feel so strongly, so fully about one person the way he does the man across from him. he has no doubt that it isn't the same for hawk - that their lives are so different, priorities wildly opposite, and yet tim allows the tiniest seed of hope to take root.
he releases the man's fingers, sheepish, making it look as though he was simply reaching for more bread to dip into the oil.
i am not worthy to receive you - he idly thinks. of god, or hawk, he doesn't know. ]
Don't you remember? Icarus. He built the most beautiful wings to fly as high as he could. All the tales are different, but in this one, Icarus flew as far and as high as he could to find greatness for himself, to find purpose. The gods, they were furious. They threatened his family and swore he would never find love.
[ he shrugs a little, his eyes keeping with hawk's, trying to commit every moment of this to memory. ]
The gods turned the fires of the sun on him and his wings began to melt. Icarus fell for days, and just before he was destined to hit the ground, a sunbeam caught him. The gods had roiled the fires of the sun to spite Icarus, but it was the god Apollo, who had loved him for his flight, that saved him. Angry that the gods called on his power to harm him, he carried Icarus into the sky, to the Moon and wrote their names together in the dust.
[ it sounds childish, when he says it, and he can tell his face must be as red as the wine. ah, the wine. he sips at it - a little too deeply, draining a fair amount from nerves alone before he clears his throat. ]
It feels more apt, really. Than angel wings.