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homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm[UNI AU]
CAMBOY UNI AU
tell
me and i forget, teach me and i remember.
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
no subject
the notification for the money isn't lost on him - three thousand dollars that not only feels unearned, but also stirs something like guilt deep in his gut. regardless of who the faceless man is, he doesn't deserve his money, even if he desperately wants to keep it.
but professor fuller fumbles his phone, and tim knows then. he knows with a sudden, sharp stab of shock that the man he'd planned to meet must have been him. the man on the other side of the screen all this time, praising him, guiding him, encouraging him? had been professor fuller. the professor who, in classes, put up with his long-winded responses and his socratic jabs, willing to play devil's advocate as tim worked through a difficult policy or piece of legislature out loud at the class's expense.
a kind man. who knows he lives in staten island, who knows more about him now than tim is comfortable with, considering.
and yet, he knows he's safe here, too, even though things seem tipped and tilted in away they shouldn't be. the man on the other side of the screen, who coveted and desired him, is professor hawkins fuller.
he comes to a stop just in front of him as the man pauses to regard him and he breathes a little heavily, winded, breaths coming out in puffs. it's so cold - his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips bitten a berry color from the whip of the cool winter air, the mousy brown of his hair flopping over the rim of his dark glasses. ]
It was you.
[ he tries to keep his voice down but there's no hiding the excitability in him, even in situations that are meant to be uncomfortable. ]
Your phone - I heard it. I called him - it's - I'm -
[ a few days from now, tim will look back on this moment with such embarrassment and shame that he didn't realize hawkins fuller had been running from him, in a sense. escaping the reality that the little slip of a thing he'd planned to meet was never meant to be a student.
but he straightens a little, shivering, but seemingly otherwise unaffected by the cold with how determined he is. his voice lowers, and there's no doubt hawk will hear the similar notes from their one on one - the pitch shifter from his setup doing its job enough if you don't know what to look for: ]
I'm Skippy. Your boy.
[ a hand goes to his chest, as if the words aren't enough, as if the way he blinks up at the man with wide, eager eyes and a surprised little grin isn't it enough. ]
You - you have the right place. I just - I had no idea it would be you. Honest, I didn't, but I guess it's -
[ he goes quiet when someone passes by them, starkly and sheepishly aware of the city street around them. ]
I'm so relieved.
no subject
in fact: looking at his bright eyes, the maddening sweep of his hair hawkins wants to brush back from his forehead, and the reddened blotches on his cheeks from cold air kissing across his skin and exertion from dashing here to catch up - yeah, it's everything he imagined his boy would be and more. if they were just two strangers, truly, there's no doubt in his mind he'd make the most of the full 24 hours he'd initially scoffed at as blind optimism. and worse, he might have let himself fall under a spell he'd tamped down for decades, ever since he'd had to go to italy to escape from his father's rage and the an icy disappointment for his proclivities that cut to the bone deeper than any winter breeze.
tim somehow manages to see right through him anyway - pinning him down with his earnestness and clearly bulldozing right past every red flag imaginable, as if this could ever proceed the way it was meant to. and there's that blind optimism, the sweetness and naΓ―vetΓ© hawk's been slowly trying to coax him away from the last four months.
it doesn't change anything for him. it can't.
(not even when he pitches his voice low, melding the two personalities together forever and making him wonder how he could have ever missed it before: i'm skippy. your boy. fuck if that doesn't just send a white hot jolt straight through him, and it sure as hell isn't made of panic.)
tim shivers, bringing back to the stark reality of this. he can start with the easy way out.]
Christ, Tim - it's freezing out here. [he reaches for the peacoat tucked under his arm flapping it out once from where its been crumpled up in the rush to wrap it around his shoulders. the sincerity there is real, even if it's also a moment of deflection for him to steady himself.]
You'll catch your death like that.
[and then he tips his head as if the rest has just settled in, mouth quirking slightly in practiced confusion.]
Sorry, what? Who's Skippy?
[tim can't see the way his pulse is racing, eyes flickering behind his glasses to drink in every detail of his face. later, when the shock subsides, he'll think about how elated tim looked in this moment. he'll remember biting his tongue so he didn't press him on that declaration of relief. hawk glances off to the side, watching passerbys who seem preoccupied with their last minute christmas shopping or walking their dogs, grateful they haven't attracted any undue extra attention.]
Were you...meeting someone back there?
all aboard the gaslight express!
[ tim has little time to reach as hawk reaches for his coat, flaps it out, and reaches to drape it around him. he shuffles almost sheepishly closer to better aid the effort, and it takes a second for his mind to catch up - hawkins fuller, the man behind the screen, putting his coat around him like in some stupid romcom. so he accepts the coat, even awkwardly reaches to pull at his own lapels to tug it closer around him. it does nothing to calm the highspeed ticking of his heart. ]
Sorry, you were leaving and I didn't want to miss you.
[ there was no thought put into this, into the exit from the shop to this moment where he stands a little too close to hawk for the sake of polite society, but not so close to make anyone think twice.
he's about to open his mouth to speak again when hawk's face seems to change - the quirk of his lips, the faintest furrow of his brow over the glasses - he can barely see the blue of his eyes through the dark, reflective lenses. something even colder than the bitter air sinks deep into his belly and his eyes widen a little, breathing coming in quick, shallow breaths from the exertion of running the block or two.
he heard the phone ring - he saw hawk fumbling. he wasn't imagining it. he couldn't have - who else had been on the block when he came out of the shop?
tim glances around them once, back behind them and then leaning to one side to peer even up the street from hawk. no one but a few people who've exited shops or who are walking dogs. he turns his gaze back on hawk then, brow pinched, voice quieter. ]
Skippy. Your Skippy. I was supposed to meet -
[ wait, did he really get this wrong? his mind races, trying to put together all the pieces, trying to somehow stitch together everything to this moment. what had he gotten wrong? or had he simply been hoping the mysterious man behind the screen would always have been someone like hawkins fuller? had he truly created a fantasy now, and tied up the only person who has shown a modicum of care in it. ]
It was you. It had to be you. I saw you, missed the first message. But when you left, you were on your phone and -
[ tim looks stricken, like hawk reached out and struck him across the face instead of politely gathered him into his own coat. tim fumbles for a moment for his phone, fingers working too quickly and he opens the app, sees the myriad of messages they have sent.
if he's wrong, here...
but why would professor fuller lie? why would he do anything like that when everything up to now he has been nothing but honest, even when it had been harsh and difficult. when it had cost him a failing grade, even. a stern hand, but a gentle one. his hand drops to his side, phone in his palm and he looks up at the man then, the flush in his cheeks warming now to something furiously embarrassed, the pink even climbing to the tips of his ears.
his free hand rises to furiously push his hair out of his face, but with the wind, it just sweeps it up, feather light, and makes it a tousled mess atop his head. ]
I, um. Yeah. Sorry, I thought maybe - I just heard - I'm really tired after finals and all, that's all and got confused. I don't want to keep you.
toot toot bitch
kill it. now. don't you dare finish that thought.
hawk takes off his sunglasses again, wanting to wholly impart his "sincerity" to tim. his voice lowers too, and he leans in enough to show some discretion and avoid any passerby from overhearing on the off chance they care. thank god they still don't, because he's keenly aware that if it was anyone but strangers off campus...it might be a much different story.]
Is this - "Skippy" - a friend of yours? Have you met them before or was this -
[he points to tim's phone, then back to tim as if he's trying to piece together something, like some incompetent boomer trying to open a fucking pdf.]
An online date?
[he shakes his head, stepping back and putting up a hand as if in surrender.]
You know what - nevermind, it's really none of my business. I'm sure the last thing you want is me razzing you during your time off.
[hawk offers a conspiratorial smirk, again ignoring the churning in his gut and the uncontrollable urge radiating through his fingers to brush down his hair from the mop it's turned into, strands swaying lightly in the chilly air around them. tim's expression is nothing short of crushed, eyes wide and glassy from both the icy atmosphere and the cold rebuff from hawk, maybe, and what he wouldn't do to smooth away the furrow of his brows with a soft brush of thumb, a kiss to the temple. a muscle in his jaw flexes tightly again, even as he offers a playful nudge to the shoulder of his student in understanding.]
We're all a little worn out. Don't worry about it.
[his eyes soften again as he desperately tries to suppressing the crushing sensation that feels like it's squeezing around his chest, the very real moment sinking in that he's letting down Skippy - Tim - his boy the most gentle way he possibly can and escaping from this whole fucking mess. this lesson should have been hard earned years ago, and somehow he still - ]
Enjoy your break, Laughlin.
[he turns to get back on the path of the sidewalk, stopping again like he can't quite help himself before angling his head to the side and calling over his shoulder.]
Be safe, okay?
no subject
maybe a life in politics isn't for him.
suddenly, he feels the uncomfortable itch that he should go to confession.
even though he knows hawk has removed his glasses, he can't quite make himself look up. he keeps his eyes on his cold fingers, one hand still gripped tightly around the lapel of his coat to keep it seated properly on his shoulders. the other still gripping his phone at his side. he huffs, gives a shrug of one shoulder, and tries to brush it all off. ]
Ah, yeah, it was nothing. Just - tinder, you know? Crazy world we live in. Got stood up, I guess. No surprise there.
[ the playful nudge rocks him on his feet and he glances up then, seeing the softening of the man's eyes and he feels so incredibly small. so incredibly stupid, and it takes all his energy to even offer the barest quirk of his lips.
worn out. tired. stressed. embarrassed. defeated.
confused. still so confused. he was sure. ]
Oh, right. You as well. Happy Holidays.
[ he stays rooted in his place at first, letting the cold settle into his bones and watch as hawk walks away.
be safe, okay?
and he almost turns then to walk away. almost concedes and folds, laying his cards face down on the table. but his phone burns hot in his hand, feels impossibly heavy. he turns it in his palm and looks at the messages, the money sent.
he's not sure why this whole thing sits wrong with him, why he feels both ashamed and guilty, but also... what? disappointed? surprised? angry?
wait.
angry. betrayed. the numbers don't add, no matter how he tries to make them work. the equations fail every time and it's why his thumb presses the little phone icon again on the app, but this time? he lets it ring. it takes a few seconds, and hawk is further up the sidewalk now, but he won't give him the satisfaction of running after him if he hears it.
one second. two.
the ring. the phone ringing loud and clear, and where tim felt icy shame and disgust at himself there's now warmth. ]
Professor Fuller!
[ a shout, loud enough the man can hear and so that it will draw attention, if need be. remember, hawk, tim can be clever, maybe a little stupid. maybe a little naive. maybe a little idealistic. but he's sharp. and he stands on the pavement where he'd been left shivering and confused, now with his jaw set, brow furrowed in a triumphant recognition. ]
Did you remember to fill up your tank? To, what? Two-hundred or so?
no subject
but of course tim wouldn't let it go - a wind-up toy chasing after its prize on an unreachable string. of course he'd keep calling, trying to find out why the change of heart, what he'd done wrong, if there was a miscommunication. of course he'd blindly try and still make it work, even when it's spelled out clear as day in black and white. frankly, if it was anyone else, he'd think they'd be fucking delighted to have scored three grand without having to lie on their back or waste a few hours small talking a stranger. if it was anyone else they'd be long gone, but not tim. god, he can just imagine the principled stand - the idea that it wasn't earned that has him frantically trying to salvage the botched meeting.
because hawk can't think about what it would mean if skippy, tim, was really actually there out of some fucked up sense that he wanted it for the sake of connection. isn't that what they all say? part of the act, because the loneliness on the screen usually only goes one way, and the other is laughing all the way to the bank. but not tim.
he's just about made it to the corner of o street where he can turn off and get to his car, out of tim's line of sight, when his name is shouted loud and clear across the way. and it's with a tone that makes his stomach plummet, that draws the look of a few passerby wondering what the need for the disturbance is. hawk offers tight smiles to them, as if to say - what can you do? kids these days, before steeling his shoulders and turning around with a stony expression. there is no mistaking the look on his face because it's the same look hawk has watched bloom to life on his face at the end of a successful debate or the realization of some complex political intrigue in one of their class' many example scenarios. a look hawk has delighted to be at the other end of, encouraged to flourish. he dips his head down again, aviators tucked into his inner pocket, and finally does himself the favour of binning the espresso in his hand that he wasn't going to finish anyway as he walks back over slowly and carefully to tim.]
I did mention I was going out of town.
[his voice is low, a little bit of that rough gravel to it as if to counteract the interruption tim made to everyone else around them. but his eyes have hardened, fixed on tim with a mixture of - pride, strangely, that he figured it out anyway, and resolute conviction that this cannot go anywhere else.]
Look, whatever you thought was going to happen today - it's not. It can't.
[his head tilts again, eyes dropping down to where tim is still shivering, coat still only draped over his shoulders before he snaps them back up to meet his gaze and take on the firm tone he does when his student is edging too far into la la land.]
Go back to your dorm, see some friends, forget about your "date", and we'll see each other over break. To discuss your thesis.
[so much goes unsaid. to discuss your thesis - because that's the only kind of relationship we have and are going to keep having with each other.]
no subject
the ringtone follows hawk as he makes the slow walk back toward him, but tim hears nothing but static for a moment, coupled with the rush of his blood thumping in his ears and in his chest. it's stopped by the time they're close enough to speak, and his own phone has been deposited back into the pocket of his slim jeans, ignored. ]
You did. But not for at least twenty-four hours.
[ like chess, he moves his pieces, putting hawk into an unspoken check.
quiet, low to match professor fuller's, but there's an intensity burning in his eyes that he knows will belie his utter cool. it's white-hot in comparison to the cold, stony thing making up the older man's face. gone is the warmth and the affection he'd seen moments before, a mentor overlooking his pupil, a man showing concern and care for another human being and replaced instead with high walls, a stony tower. ]
Why?
[ it's not soft, not hurt - direct and simple. not unlike the amount of times professor fuller himself has pried tim to dig deeper, to extrapolate more where there had seemingly appeared to be nothing. ]
We're both consenting adults. It's to be kept utterly private. Besides, you've submitted payment at this rate without the offer of goods in return. But it isn't about the money, I don't think. Not for either of us.
[ it had been, at the outset. everything tim has done on that little site had been originally for the goal of making money. and in many ways, it still is with all others but the man standing across from him now. somehow, in the blip of a message and the face connected with it? all of that has changed. ]
Trying to lie to me, too. I know that I am... naive, maybe. Idealistic. Those are your words, mind you. I'd hoped by now that you have learned that I'm not an idiot. Convincing me that I'd made all of this up somehow, that I was just making wild conjectures.
[ a sigh and he shifts his weight finally, inching closer still, and his voice does begin to come back up to its normal timbre, hitching with the passion the other man has no doubt seen in classes when tim gets carried away in the heat of a good debate. ]
Before all of this, I'd never imagined you'd be the type to even look at me. To pass a second glance. But now that I know it's been you this whole time - which, I didn't know, by the way. I wasn't trying to trick you. Never. I'm glad it's you. All of this - if you want this - we can draw whatever rules or lines you want.
[ he lets out a breath, shaking his head. ] And if not, you need to take your money back either way. I don't have friends back at the dorm, nor do I even have a date now. But I'll go, but only if you take it back. I don't want hush money. Whatever we do or don't do, there's nothing to hush.
no subject
You aren't seriously asking me that, are you? You know exactly why.
[his lips press into a thin line as tim....well, accuses him of doing exactly what he did, which is try to lie his way out of it first. and why the hell shouldn't he? it would have been better for them both if tim had stayed there, nose buried in his book and just waited for a man that was never going to walk through that door. if hawk hadn't bypassed all his own carefully constructed speed bumps and ignored every single red flag - well he wouldn't be in this sticky of a situation. he's got nobody to blame but himself, even if he isn't going to blame himself for having needs or preferences or interacting on only fans safely and discreetly like he has. all of this comes down to an awful mistake, an overstep he should have had his head on straight to know to politely decline in the first place.]
Jesus, Laughlin. Call it a Christmas present for our friend Skippy and leave it alone. It's not about the money - and it's not about the goods either.
[he breathes out a noise harshly through his nose, reaching out to grab one of tim's arms and drag him further into a small side area with a few benches and decorative plants strung up with christmas lights. and then he dips into the pocket that doesn't have his phone, tugging out the same pack of half empty cigarettes and forcefully shoving one into his mouth in clear frustration while fishing around for his gold lighter. he murmurs around it, cigarette bouncing up and down between his lips as he cups his hands and ignites it, annoyed he's had to pull one out this early in the first place. he's usually a little more regimented than that.]
Yeah, I lied. Not because I think you're an idiot or wanted you to feel crazy, but do you really think I want both of us to be stuck in the situation we're in now?
[he exhales over his shoulder, away from the determination on tim's face that's practically taunting him to come up with a better excuse for any of this. but then he says the one thing that makes hawk nearly double take in disbelief, following it up with what may as well be a gut punch with each utterance. tim is glad it's him. tim thinks he's - what, undesirable? he remembers skippy saying it was more believable than hawk might think about a lack of interest, but he couldn't really imagine anyone doing what he did most nights really struggling with a body and sense of humour and captivating as that. or maybe this is just further proof how far he's slipped, how much of a fucking idiot he is now for falling susceptible to this in the first place. he takes another long pull, exhaling hard and shaking his head as if to dispel every element of tim's argument by gesture alone.]
Listen to me, Tim. You're a good kid. You've got a promising future in Washington, and you're the best student in my class, okay? But that's all you can be. A student. And I don't fuck my students.
[a pause to let that sink in, the most obvious root of the matter that he frankly can't believe he has to impart at all.]
Especially when I don't know what they're up to outside of class. And I definitely don't want them knowing what I'm up to either. No one's saying anything about hush money. But I'm willing to bet it means a whole lot more to you than it does to me, so I'm not taking no for an answer.
[his gaze has softened again, unintentionally, clear blue shifting back and forth across his face even as they grow glassy from the cold and the smoke billowing up from the cigarette still in his hand.]
Tell me you understand all of it.
[he doesn't mean to give it to him in the husky note of an order, but it seems that's something that seeps into both hawk's regular life and his online proclivities anyway.]
no subject
You tried to gaslight me into thinking I'd been mistaken. I get why, I guess. Whatever situation this is can be delicate and sensitive, but there's nothing wrong with any of it. Not if it's what you want, and not if it's what I want.
[ but he can see the rationale - he is the man's student. a current student, in fact, and with that comes a lot of hangups, a lot of red tape and caution signs. ]
But you could have just said that from the start.
[ especially when i don't know what they're up to outside class
something in that makes tim's blood run cold, makes some of the warmth drain from his face. he's told no one he knows what he does. literally no one has found out how he makes ends meet, how he manages to put himself through school. his family thinks its all on campus work and financial aid and scholarships. his acquaintances just think he's on a full ride.
but something in the way professor fuller says it, makes it feel dirty, what he does. implies that maybe he might not be trustworthy because of that, that him doing what he does might be one of the reasons he can't, beyond it just being a student-teacher problem.
he has a right to think that.
it's a fair judgement. tim accepted a long, long time ago that he will have to answer to all of this later, when he dies and is faced with the questions of his life. purgatory, he figured, at the beginning. but maybe it's changed, now that he's seen professor fuller, knows the kind of things he wants and does, and still wants it now. yeah, those kinds of sins lead to nowhere good. ]
I don't - this is an anomaly. You and me, here. I don't do these things with people. I stay in my dorm, eat when I am able to, do my homework, do my research and I only do... the rest when I have to. It's not -
[ fun? enjoyable? exciting?
no, it's none of that. not with anyone else. ]
You were different. Or - I thought you were.
[ tim takes a half step back, self conscious and feeling the steam beginning to run its way out of his body. but he keeps himself upright, both hands gripping to the strap of his bag like a lifeline. ]
I don't want your money for all this. I don't care what you think it means to me - it's not right to take it. I don't want your money. I wanted -
[ he sucks in a little breath and shakes his head, though he stills when he's given the order. it makes the hairs on his arm stand up, makes a prickle rise up his nape, and he knows he shouldn't feel that way, but he does. ]
I understand all of it. I understand you're afraid your job might be affected if you fuck me. But it isn't really about that. It's me, of course. If I had been any other face I guess it might have ended differently but yes, I understand, sir.
[ the sir comes out on habit alone, and he doesn't even realize he's said it.
he understands that if he were some other brown-eyed, brown-haired pretty face that this man would have taken him to some hotel room, tucked him away for the day, and treated his boy to everything they have been deprived on camera. the touch, the connection, the murmured words in hair and ears, the hands on his body, around his cock, and -
he takes another half step back, boots dragging on the concrete path. ]
Is there anything else, Professor? I don't want to make you late. DC traffic, remember?
no subject
Yeah, I'm sure I could have done a lot of things differently. Like never taking a meetup this close to campus and logging this morning.
There are things about me you don't understand -
[things about me you don't understand, skippy - is what he almost says, before vehemently shaking his head as if to clear the compulsion away by physical force.]
And things I don't ever want anyone within ten feet of Georgetown to ever know. And I realize it's 2023 and there's nothing wrong with anything that may have been discussed between us before all this, but it's not exactly the kind of thing I want plastered in the school bulletin, you get me?
[not that he's accusing tim or suspecting he'd do that, but considering how badly he's apparently already fucked up communicating to him in the way his student jumps to explain his schedule and almost....justify? what it is he's been doing? hawk knows this is all going south faster the nosedive of a plane without landing gear. he runs across his mouth before putting both hands on his hips and leaning in again, voice low with a little more sympathy interjected. this is hard on them both, not just him. if it was anyone else he'd have long since hardened up and shuttered any chance of empathy or any further opportunity for them to make this worse, and he definitely wouldn't have allowed himself to stick his foot in his mouth.]
I'm not judging you, Tim. This doesn't change anything between me and you when it comes to my classroom or my office hours, okay?
Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.
[it doesn't fully register that tim is taking this to mean his actual face is the problem, that hawk is turning him down out of some sense of preference other than what should be a very clear boundary of ethics and professionalism. there's a part of hawk too that can't fathom why tim would be relieved to fuck him either, money or not. it wouldn't be a crime for a 33 year old bachelor and a 20-something to get together in another context, sure. and like he said - if he'd been any other face, hawk would probably have him in his car on the way to get bent in half by now.
but he's not. so this is what has to happen.
even if hearing i understand, sir makes a ripple of heat all the way from the back of his neck shiver down his spine. it makes him straighten up slightly to his full height, taking a step closer, biting back a good boy.]
Then it's settled. You're keeping the money and we're pretending this conversation never happened.
[but there's something so utterly disappointed in tim's voice and the way he looks somehow smaller and trying to pull in on himself that makes hawk hesitate and do yet another foolish thing. add it to a long fucking tally of fuck-ups from today, he supposes. his hand extends, cupping tim's cheek gently and tipping it up to look at him. it's invasive, inappropriate, and he's going to regret knowing precisely what the feel of the soft skin on his pinked cheek feels like under his fingertips.]
Skippy...I'm sorry. It's nothing personal.
no subject
[ if he sounds hurt? it's because he is.
even the slightest implication that professor fuller may think he will run around and publish this news across the front page of the hoya stings. revealing the man's past-times and late night proclivities will also expose him, and at what cost? that, and tim has morals, has a conscience. no matter how furious, no matter how degrading someone could be to him? blackmail doesn't run through the fabric of who he is.
so tim does exactly what professor hawkins expects of him - stands still, listens, obeys. what else can he do now, with every word leaving his mouth being shot down or turned against him.
Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.
at this point? tim doesn't know what he wants now. doesn't know what to make of the man standing before him in the shaded light of the little, enclosed park, smelling like cigarettes and waffling between something distant and cold to the warm, considerate man he has known in class. ]
Understood, yeah. Nothing has changed.
[ the fight has gone out of him now - the will to buck up and press back at the edges of every one of the man's defenses dissolved. the utter scientist he can be in a debate has fizzled out: there are no loose threads, no fallacies, no twists or turns or wildly unique conventions he can invoke. there are facts, there is reality. there is no grey area between where he can exist. he is the man's student, and professor fuller is his teacher.
(but all he can feel like now is tim laughlin, the failure. the boy who no one truly knows on campus, the boy who is called when his notes or study sessions are needed, the boy who teachers praise and laud but who barely spare a glance beyond his passing grades. the boy who has nothing to his name but a sex-working site, a meal card, a handful of worn handmedown and charity clothes, and a bag full of items from strange men all over the country who will never know him like this).
he releases a breath through his nose, nods his head, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pre-empting the steps he needs to take to turn around. he wants to be able to leave first. to turn his back on the guilt, shame, and disgust he can feel oozing off of him and into the ice and slush at their feet. ]
This conversation never happened.
[ he takes a step back, but when he feels the warmth of the man's palm on his cheek he goes board still. his eyes widen and he wills them not to burn, but there's no doubt that this close, professor fuller can see the shine in them.
it's nothing personal.
how is it that three words can hurt far more than anything else that has been said in all of this? how is it that the carefully crafted thoughts and ideas about what this truly boils down to have been wrecked and decimated in one icy breath, puffed between them on a little cloud.
it was business.
all of this had been business to him.
whatever stupid, lofty, romantic ideas he'd had about what today could be, and what this man might be shatter as easily as the ice atop the little fountain behind them.
skippy, he says. skippy, the boy he is not in this moment but the boy that hawkins fuller actually sought. the boy with the mystery and wonder and intrigue. the boy who listened without question, who called his name and begged for more. the boy who does not have tim laughlin's face. who does not have tim laughlin's pathetic idealism. who does not have hopes and dreams for something more when fucking through a screen on a late school night.
now? he truly does understand. ]
Right. [ he doesn't mean to sound uncertain, doesn't mean to sound shaken the awy he does but his voice comes out hoarse, not fully formed. ]
Of course.
[ he clears his throat, lingers a little overlong against the warmth of the man's palm. how sad is it that this is the most physical contact he's had all year? that the touch is so tender he almost dares to lean his cheek into it, to soak up the last vestiges of kindness that this man would extend to the faceless boy called skippy, but not to tim laughlin.
he backs away, idly rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand, fingers pink with cold. ]
Merry Christmas, Professor.
[ it's later that day, several hours after their meeting, that hawk will get a notification from onlyfans. two, in fact:
π₯β π³ 600 TIP REFUNDED β
π₯β π³ 2,400 TIP REFUNDED β ]
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π₯ π³ 2,400 SENT β
[the first thing hawk does when he gets home is pour himself a stiff drink. the second is to delete that goddamn app off his phone. and the third - is to shake his head and swear when he sees the notifications that both his payments have been refunded. so fourth: he resends both, waiting for the payment to finalize before deactivating his account and logging out of the burner email for...probably ever. and then he reclines back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and swirling the whiskey in his glass as he tries not to think about the wounded look on tim laughlin's face - the glassy eyes, the slight tremor of his lips, and absolutely not the way for the briefest moment he'd shifted closer into hawk's palm as if he couldn't get enough of such a small gesture of contact. this whole thing was just a complete fuck-up - indicative that it was tim's likely first time doing anything in person, and certainly hawk's for getting too damn invested.
look where it got him.
there's another lie to add to his tally, because hawk doesn't end up driving out of town later that day. in fact, he mostly stays home drinking himself to sleep and catching up on lost sleep until the smith's christmas eve party, in which leonard makes a scene and lucy regales them all with her recent trip to italy. hawk invites her to dinner in that nefarious time between actual christmas and new years, then books it out of foggy bottom for one night in alexandria for a quick, empty fuck that meets his modus operandi but leaves him no more satisfied. there are plenty of times on the drive back that he thinks about starting another account, finding someone else to occupy his evenings with and get some form of human connection - but it always goes back to tim. skippy.
he can't let himself miss the routine he'd fallen into. won't.
and if he thought the semester might start off on a decent note, that's apparently a lost cause too. he expects there to be some lingering awkwardness maybe the first few days with tim - a lack of response here, an avoidance as he shuffles past hawk's desk there - but what he didn't expect was an utterly listless tim who's fallen from star pupil to occasional contributor. gone is his fiery questioning of every scenario, his dogged desire to solve each problem that arises in their discussions. there's no more debates, and hawk knows some of the other students are noticing the lack of banter flowing between them, engaging others with their vivaciousness.
but he knows it's really bad when it gets brought up at the first faculty department meeting by a well-meaning mrs. kerr, which triggers a few others to speculate if something happened during break. trouble at home? the lack of presence is noticed to a degree hawk can't remember happening with any other student, and he's put on the spot when dave lonigan, the department chair, turns to him and asks if he knows, seeing as he's had him two semesters in a row now. which makes him partly regret all the praise he'd piled on before, seeing as its left in his hands to have a gentle chat with him for the sake of checking in.
we've been anonymously sexting for months and in a frustrating twist of fate i've rejected his offer to fuck in person probably isn't going to fly.
it's his last period on thursday, and as students file out after receiving their graded first essays of the semester, hawk calls out as one particular blur of brown knitwear tries to beeline for the door.]
Laughlin - before you go, I need a minute.
[his gaze shifts around the class, to the few students still pushing through the doors to the lecture hall and packing up their laptop bags on the way out. hawk clears his throat and stands, gesturing towards the door.]
It's about your thesis. We can chat in my office.
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returning to the dorms felt like nothing short of a prison - the halls eerily quiet, the lights off, not even a student greeter at the door. just the beep of his badged key and the squeak of the glass door shutting behind him. only a few students remained during the holiday, and most that had didn't even live in his building. so tim perched in his room, coming out only for his sparingly few meals per day, and tried his best to busy himself with reading.
even jumping on cam hadn't been on his mind, though he did it in an attempt to make up some more money to pay for his books, his meal card next semester. he'd even made a call home to wish them a merry christmas - his mother had been happy to hear from him, but his father refused to come onto the phone, as usual. there would be no help from staten island.
and so christmas dinner for tim laughlin had been a cup of ramen, a stained copy of locke's second treatise of government for his thesis, and a glass of water. he heralds in the new year much the same way. it's lonely. and maybe it was lonely before and he'd simply had the tools with which to ignore it - the fantasy. the idealistic, stupid dreams of a boy who can barely survive college, let alone the real world.
he reads the same passage of locke twenty times before he finally throws it across the room.
the isolation of break has settled into his bones, however, and even the bustle of the start of the semester does little to shake it off. arthur ribs him for being boring, mary voices quiet concern but doesn't bother to ask any real questions, and a few members of faculty give him looks. even professor fuller doesn't press him like he used to, and he does his best to keep his head down and take diligent notes for later. he answers when called on, turns assignments in on time, fills the air when his professors look for answers from a dead-eyed class, but otherwise, tim laughlin keeps to himself.
it's no different today, either. professor fuller's class is interesting, engaging, and maybe at some point in the past he'd have piped up to question his flow chart on political and manufacturing consent, but he simply doodles the notes down in his notebook, brow furrowed as he marks questions for himself in the margins. the very same questions he'd have allowed space for in the discussion. instead, he'll spend time in the library later.
he's just gotten his bag packed and started for the door when he hears his name. he pauses for a moment, turning to look at professor fuller, and he cannot help the strange tightness that rises up into his chest. it makes it a little hard to breathe, really, and he has no doubt the apprehension shows on his face.
a few students pass him, glancing back curiously of course. timothy laughlin is never asked to stay after class - not in this way. his hands flex around the strap of his bag and he lets out a little breath before approaching the man who stands, gesturing at the door. ]
I have another class in an hour, and I need to try to head back to the dorm for lunch.
[ a quiet, but polite warning. a note that he cannot stay long, whatever this is. he's out of meals for the week, having been unable to quite cover the cost of the extended meal plan on top of his text books. so ramen or a peanut butter sandwich it is for lunch. it beats nothing.
he falls into line beside professor fuller, though makes certain there is a measured distance between them still. ]
I turned my outline in late, I apologize. It got away from me - had a lot of reading frontloaded in this semester that I tried to get done. I understand if you can't accept it past the deadline.
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[of course tim doesn't look thrilled to have been summoned, and he supposes it's doubled by the fact that hawk is the one to have initiated it and that others seem curious about the abnormal circumstances. but hawk ignores them, waiting to fall into place behind tim and lock up the classroom once its emptied out. unfortunately for tim, the comments about lunch back at the dorm fly over his head in the sense that he assumes tim plans to simply eat food at the dorm while attempting to catch up, not that the food in his dorm room is all he has left. if he did, it would have him wonder uncomfortably just how hard up he is for cash - and what that means he's willing to do to get more of it. especially now that he's not getting an extra five-hundred bucks a week from hawk.
an uncomfortable silence envelops them on the walk to his office, even though he prefers to bring everything up with the added privacy of a closed door and no one likely to interrupt unless craig happens to saunter down the hallway and off to the right from the sociology wing. hawk's got a whole corner to himself at the opposite end, and it's not the first time tim has been here by any means, but he can guess with confidence it'll definitely be the most awkward. he holds open the door for his student, waving a hand to usher him inside before closing it behind them and heading towards the solid mahogany desk in front of a wall of books and dc trinkets, gifts from dean smith and accolades from his own time at the university.
he presses his hands together, elbows on the desk and leans forward to listen to tim's apology.]
It's alright. I'm not worried about the outline, and I'll accept it, on one condition.
[his eyes try to seek out what this might be, if he'd gone and fucked it all up with his mistake. is this all his fault?]
You haven't been yourself in class lately. Quiet. Keeping to yourself.
You were - mentioned at our recent department faculty meeting, actually. Everyone's under the impression you've been out of character.
[his lips purse slightly, fingers flexing against each other.]
I imagine I'm the last person you want to hear this from, but are you alright?
[his hands part, palms going flat against the shiny, lacquered surface as he leans in and drops his voice.]
Is this - because of what happened over break?
[what happened between us? is the unspoken implication.]
Talk to me.
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he gives a sheepish nod to some of his other professors in the political science wing as he follows hawk to that corner office he knows well. he's stopped in here many times between classes - most of the time to ask questions about a point in class, or to have him look at a paper before turning it in. other times, simply because he's enjoyed talking to him - needing company in the bustle of the busy day and using a current political event as fodder for that.
but he looks at the door in dread today, stepping inside once he's ushered in and settles in the chair across from the man's desk. he gathers his bag into his lap so as not to remove it from round his torso, but also to have something to hold onto. ]
A condition?
[ he tilts his head, brow furrowing faintly in genuine curiousity. it fades as professor fuller continues to speak and he swallows hard, fingers curling against the worn, near dilapidated faux leather of his satchel. ]
Oh. I'm fine, really.
[ the faculty meet, tim knows that, but how he came to be the topic of one of their department meetings, he doesn't know. he shifts uncomfortably in the chair, wishing suddenly that his answer would be enough, that he could be released so he could get out into the quad and catch his breath. it's so hard to breathe lately. ]
It's not - nothing happened over break. [ good boy, he can almost hear, as though the faceless man might praise him for sticking well to the narrative they built on the snowy sidewalks near the coffee shop. this conversation didn't happen. he lets out a little breath and glances down at his hands, fidgeting before he glances back up, watching as hawk leans in over the fine wood of his desk.
this office once felt a safe haven - shelves of books, old awards hanging on the wall, photographs from older days at georgetown - a place where he has sat cross-legged in this very chair and argued vehemently some point that professor fuller entertained simply out of kindness. he can see that now, zoomed out on everything - how the man puts up with him. how so many people and faculty smile and nod and let him talk himself in circles.
was he always wasting his breath? ]
The break was just a little long, that's all. Difficult, I guess. Sleep schedule is a little messed up, and I got behind on my research. [ he shrugs one shoulder, glancing up at the man and giving a half, small smile. ]
I'm just really trying to focus, take good notes, make sure I take everything in. I... I have a habit of interrupting classes when I shouldn't. I'm not the one with the degree, after all. It may give others the opportunity to... to participate more. That's all.
[ he wants to bolt. never has he felt nervous energy like this in his life, and yet right here, across from hawkins fuller, he feels as though the chair itself is made of lighting. like all that energy is dumping somewhere and it has nowhere to go but into the bends of his ankles, his knees. ]
Really, I'm fine. I'll... I'll make a better effort to speak up in class. Please apologize to them for me. I wasn't trying to be rude. I - ...really should be going.
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i'm fine was the answer he'd been dreading, but predicted in some way. brushing it off, pretending all was well. and he supposes there's no one to blame but himself - considering he did insist they both pretend that nothing at all happened over break. and tim follows suit, enough that it prompts that good boy in his own mind, too, and hawk glances away for a brief moment to wet his lips and will away the inappropriate intrusion.]
You've got a heavy course load this semester, I get it. I'm not trying to add to that.
[he tilts his head slightly, trying to get tim to meet his gaze and see the honest to god compassion in his gaze. it's not any different than he ever was in this context before, because hawkins fuller had always been a teacher first, and frankly a damn good one. one who cares about his students, who would have noticed this change in tim without the faculty meeting or if that disastrous meetup have never happened at all. it's not like he stopped caring from then until now - it's just...complicated. but he has no idea his words have turned tim upside down, the cause for his heartache and retreating back into a shell he didn't know existed.]
If your last essay was anything to go by, you've been taking excellent notes. But try and give yourself a break - get some rest this weekend if you can. Work yourself to the bone and you'll burn out.
[god, everything seems like it's a step too far now, doesn't it? his eyes widen for a moment, hoping tim knows he means work as in simply school work. so he barrels ahead.]
And by the way, you're never interrupting. Those interruptions happen to be the highlight of most of my classes. You got almost half the students involved that day you brought up McCarthyism two months ago, remember that? Last few weeks and I haven't heard a peep from you, even when I brought up Vietnam. Feels a little like I've been left hanging.
[it feels like he's going in a circle again - like tim is reading something between the lines that isn't there. it makes hawk's shoulders sag a little in disappointment, leaning back in his chair and watching tim's desperation to leave.]
Look - none of this is a criticism. We're just concerned about a student that's made a lasting impression on his professors, is all.
Like I said, try and get some rest.
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fuller mentions his paper and his eyes pop up at that, his brow dipping again, his lips pulling. ]
The topic was boring. I copied my notes nearly verbatim and it got me an A.
[ and the first tasks of a semester usually are simpler - a warmup for students coming back after a long stretch away. but the lack of challenge had been infuriating when he's already got so little to bump up against. his course load is no different this semester than last - he can handle the work, the stress, the pressure. but he can't handle everything else. ]
And I'm sorry if you felt I've left you hanging. I wasn't aware I had that sort of responsibility. None of the other students are expected to participate the way that I have - I just...
[ he shakes his head, taking in a slow, deep breath and trying to center himself again. professional. calm. polite. metered and measured and carefully doled out. ]
And Vietnam itself is too broad a topic to engage on in a fifty minute lecture. Why would I waste valuable time broaching that topic when I'd be the only one in the room speaking?
[ professional. calm. polite. he repeats it like a mantra as he takes another breath but something gets away from him when professor fuller insists again on getting rest. what is rest, when one's whole world depends on fundraising to make it to the next semester? every moment is a race, a dash to the finish just to try and make it, when so many of the students around him come from old money and the who-knows-who of academia. ]
And I'll admit I'm frankly surprised you didn't fail this paper as well. I made a point to be as neutral as I could be. No real creative thinking, no out of the box theorizing. Nothing that could be called naive or idealistic - Vietnam would be a bad topic. Too polarizing, especially now that we have technology to look back on our strategies and weaponization.
[ he shrugs again, shifting to the edge of his seat, his knee bouncing absently. he opens up his satchel and draws out his notebook from class, rifling through it until he peels out the essay he'd been handed back today. if hawk peeks, he can see tim's questions blotted in the margins - vietnam circled with bullet points underneath - the old tim written out in ink instead of spoken out loud.
he reaches to set the paper on professor fuller's desk. ]
Your syllabus for this was too vague. If you truly wanted my opinion, I'd have failed this assignment as well. I don't speak up in class because I don't see a need to - it isn't personal, professor. I want to talk about the world I want to see, and maybe that's not realistic. Maybe that's childish, but if this is what you want, then you should keep this.
[ he closes his notebook, his satchel, and rises. ]
I have to go. The shuttle doesn't come to my dorm after lunch, and I have to get back there and up the hill again. I can't be late.
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that doesn't mean he's going soft on his teaching, or that he's going to cut tim more of a break than anyone else - even if he wants to. hawk leans forward again when tim stands, chin tipping up to draw his attention and silently indicate not to leave - not yet.]
You know how much easier my job would be if every student participated like you? Class would be a hell of a lot more engaged.
[he offers a brief, but wry smile, a twinkle in the washed blue sparkling in his eye.]
Look, it's not about Vietnam. And you don't have any responsibility or obligation to me, god no - nor am I looking for you to change any of your opinions overnight. I may have...commented on your leanings in the past, but it's only because the reality of Washington is a whole other beast I have no doubt you'll be in the mouth of someday. I'm not doing you the disservice of letting you walk in like a lamb.
[which is what he feels like he's doing, in essence, by cutting him off from an extra $500 a week he probably desperately needs. hawk rubs at his jaw absently again, watching as tim stuffs his things back into his bag and disperses some of his jittery nerves, clearly ready to leave, even if hawk isn't ready to let him go. he leaves tim's paper on the desk, already knowing he's going to go through it again with a fine-tooth comb and wonder if he was too soft and just trying not to rock the boat. and if he did, then that means he's failed on some level and he won't fucking do that again.
hawk finally stands too, taking a step towards the door to try and block him off from leaving without some kind of resolution.]
Going up the Hill and back is a pretty long way for lunch. I've got some snacks here if it'll save you the trip.
[hawk has never felt the need to explain himself to anyone, to fill awkward silences instead of letting someone else stew in them to a point, but he's stalling in a way, trying to dig deeper into the root of the issue here. the thought of letting tim walk out that door without any resolution makes him feel a steadily growing knot in his chest. he jabs a thumb back towards the door in the direction of the main lobby, where helpful maps and pamphlets and student guides and the administration staff sit.]
Got a new secretary at the front desk this year, and I think she's trying to fatten me up with all this stuff.
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[ he can't help the way he's getting fired up over it, the way his shoulders hitch up, the way his hands loosen on his bag to gesture. he even backs up a half step when hawk blocks the door, and something about the closeness, the way the man cages him into his office loosens something in him. there's a fire in tim laughlin that he cannot control - a passion he has no gauge for. there's no spigot to turn it on and turn it off, and with it comes great advantages and even greater consequences. ]
I know that I world I want to see will never come to fruition. Honestly, it's better that it doesn't. Extremes on either end are bound to fail - strict dichotomies are already the heart of what's fracturing American politics. But if I go into all of this knowing that it's dark and terrible, and that I have to transmogrify the way I think to fit that mold the moment I fall into the orbit of someone with power, influence - then why am I even trying? I appreciate your concern and your watchful eye, Professor Fuller, and I am sorry that I have not engaged in your classes more this month.
[ he lets out a little breath, shakes his head, and looks back up at the man. there's a fire in tim's eyes, whether he realizes it or not. ]
I want to believe that there's good in people. Even if they don't believe that there's any good in me. Or if that good has a valuation, an expectation attached to it. Do you think that any of those faculty members would ask about me, care about me, if they knew?
[ the word knew sits heavy on the air between them, and color rises up into the high points of his cheeks. ]
I went to the chapel that day and prayed. For a solution, for something different, for anything to change. I have prayed my whole life for a path forward that's clearer, not easier. Forgive me, then, if I have been quiet. I'm doing everything I can to figure out where the ground falls beneath my feet. I've lost your respect, and no matter what either of us wanted then - I never wanted that.
[ it's almost childish to say it out loud - to look professor fuller in the eye and admit to the way he's all but idolized him in his time here. the way he has soaked up the attention and the care, the intellectual battles, the conversations had in this very same doorway.
he swallows hard and looks away then, to the old watch on his wrist. the glass face is dull and worn, the band soft, the clasp tarnished. everything about tim laughlin is well-loved items, handmedowns handled with care, and the careful curation of necessities. ]
My class is in half an hour. It's Dr. Lonigan's class - I can't be late or he won't let me in.
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and it's why listening to tim even now brings him a glimpse of that raw potential once more, reminds him it's still in there and hasn't been destroyed. well thank christ, because hawk isn't sure he'd be able to live with that fuck up. so he leans back slightly, something like pride blooming in his chest and in the small quirk of his lips upward as he listens to tim practically preaching about democracy and the failed state of a two-party political system.]
I'm not looking for an apology. No one is. But that -
[he points towards tim's chest, towards the way his entire body has been energized with this new fire, the whole of what's been missing for the past few weeks.]
- that's who we've been missing in our classes.
[because the faculty loves him, really. which makes the air feel like it's been sucked out of the room when tim poignantly asks if his goodness and perspective and worth is somehow attached to a purity contest and a question of morality. it makes his face fall, jaw flexing and lips pressing together in a firm line as his brows furrow. the sigh that comes out of him is deep-seated and already seemingly exhausted by what he has to say. of course he knows what tim is getting at. and the reality is: yes. there are assholes in this building probably sitting some forty feet from them who would judge tim laughlin for selling his body on the internet to make ends meet. and hawk doesn't think he needs to hear that from him - or that he's really looking for the answer. but there's one thing he can't abide by, so he stands to his full height and lowers his voice with the kind of conviction that's rare even in his classes, instead preferring to play the neutral and encouraging guide or the sardonic cynic, bringing everyone down to reality.]
There is good in people if you know where to look. Far and few between, and believe me when I say - you're one of the few. And the kind of good you're talking about, that I and other members of this faculty see in you?
That's priceless. Don't you forget it.
[his gaze flickers down to the flush on tim's cheekbones, the way it singes up towards his ears and reminds him immediately and inconveniently of the fact that his whole body does the same under certain circumstances. it makes him think about that day outside the coffee shop again, tim shivering and looking utterly crushed. the kid is struggling with more than just his schoolwork, all these invisible expectations from a god that hawk doesn't believe exist, from the judgment and scorn he thinks he'd earn from his peers and his mentors. it's an overstep to give him the atheist playbook right now, but hawk looks up sharply when tim asks for forgiveness. what forgiveness does he need?
and why does he think hawk has lost respect for him?]
Hey, time out. You'll make it to Lonigan's just fine, but back up a minute.
[a step towards tim, and then another - one closer than he should. but he needs to meet his eyes, to make him understand. his voice is firm and insistent, with the kind of patience he's granted tim as he works through the more complex structures and concepts in their office hours before this whole mess started.]
Look at me.
[and he doesn't continue until tim complies, honeyed brown through those thick lenses so expressive and chin quivering ever so slightly from his ardent declarations moments before.]
You haven't lost my respect.
There's nothing you could do there that would ever make that happen. I don't know what God or Lonigan or anyone else thinks, but that's what you're hearing from me. Nothing has changed between us, do you understand?
Things won't be this difficult forever. That's hard to hear without the evidence - but it will change. Especially for someone like you who is constantly pushing himself to fly.
[icarus with the scalded wings.
the sudden flash of gold catches his attention, and hawk walks back to his desk to pull out some granola bars, chocolates, and some organic energy bites - whatever the fuck those are.]
These aren't winning any awards for the most balanced meal, but here. So you won't be late. I know Lonigan's a hardass about that.
no subject
he feels inexplicably tired, suddenly, even though the fight that he'd thought had run out of him is simply waiting, buzzing and jittering in his chest, making his heart pound heavy still. he opens his mouth to rebut something about goodness, something about a special something that tim supposedly has, but he closes it again. he doesn't believe whatever notion of goodness that is - no one with that kind of goodness turns his back on his family, tries to reconcile god with his life, does the kind of work that he does - but he could spend hours over that.
instead, he's drawn back out to professor fuller approaching, getting closer and closer, until he's all but forced to look up at him. it's a reflex, anyway, to obey him in this way. a command, even with the teacherly patience he's heard semester after semester. he blinks up at him, meeting his gaze, feeling strangely small now with the breadth and height of the man so close to him.
but he stares, silently up at him, shaken to the core by his words - you haven't lost my respect. ]
The way you spoke. Ah - before. [ at the park, in the cold, before christmas... ] Made it sound like you questioned... my free time. Like I was doing more than what you'd already expected to see from me. Worse, maybe.
[ especially when i don't know what they're up to outside of class.
tim shifts his weight, instinctively leaning onto one foot that creates a hint of space between them. but he can feel the heat of professor fuller from here, even smell the rich notes of his undoubtedly expensive aftershave, and he looks away from him then, down at his hands again, then back up because he knows he will be expected to speak to him face to face.
but professor fuller whisks away to this desk, drawing up snacks from somewhere, and tim at first stares for a moment at the pile of things on the lacquered top, then back up to him. tim takes a step toward the desk, closer to hawk. ]
I'm not that. I do what I have to do, and that day - before - was the only time. I know that what I have to do isn't right. That I should have just taken the scholarship I was given for SUNY and been satisfied with that - but I had to try. I want to be here, Professor Fuller. I want to do something good with all of this and I'm trying.
[ his jaw quivers, his throat swells with a hint of emotion but tim tries to suck in a deep breath, to temper the burning, dangerous, desperate little thing trying to crawl its way out from between his ribs. what would there be around his heart if not a lion, desperately clawing its way to the surface, unwilling to back down even when defeat seems imminent. ]
But I keep hearing what you said - over and over. When I saw it was you, I was glad. I trust you, probably more than I trust myself. And I get all of it - why you can't, why you don't want to - it's nothing about that. But I don't know how to reconcile the Tim Laughlin you knew before and the one who is here in front of you.
[ he huffs something like a desperate little noise, finally takes a step back, his hands coming to his hips. ]
I don't run around in my free time. I don't do anything more than what you've already seen. I don't have friends, I don't have family here, I barely survive just trying to pay my tuition every semester and just hope I get it in time to get seats in the classes I know I'll need or to get the right meal plan, or get the right books on time. I have nothing - but this school and these classes.
[ he runs a hand back through his hair, letting out a shaken breath and then furiously wipes at the corner of one eye beneath the dark rims of this glasses. how embarrassing. ]
I'm tired of pushing myself to fly when it never leads me anywhere good. I respect you a great deal, Professor Fuller. I... I want to do right by your classes and learn as much as I can from you while I'm still able to be here, but I'm just going to disappoint you. Because I am that same student, but I'm also the guy in the dark room with a camera who you can't trust.
[ his hands finally fall back to their sides.
there's no point in making lonigan's class. he won't be able to listen, to focus. he'll just have to be diligent in the future - not miss another so as not to drop his grade. ]
It's just the first time I've ever felt ashamed of it. For just trying to make it.
no subject
oh. of course.
of course timothy laughlin would worry that hawk thought him to be dishonest in some way, that he was disgusted by the idea of his outside activities. it's been a clear misunderstanding, and hawk shakes his head adamantly even as tim's voice escalates and wavers slightly between these raw, heartfelt confessions. if he felt like the air was sucked out of the room before, now it's downright suffocating. these emotions - aren't what he has ever signed up for. not to say that he hasn't offered a box of tissues to a student going through a mental breakdown, or having unexpectedly lost a family member, but this? this is a whole different ballgame, an intimacy created between them that frankly neither signed up for. something he's never navigated, and hopefully never fucking will long after tim graduates.
but for now, he's not going to let the boy just walk around thinking he's dirty because of it.]
Tim.
[he looks up from his desk, pushing the drawer shut before walking back towards him and slotting in close once more. it's almost too easy the way it feels right to be here, just shy of inappropriate. but they're long since past that now, aren't they? hawk tips his head, glancing downward at where tim's eyes are glassy behind his thick lenses.
it'd be a lie to say he didn't see something of himself in there, from once upon a time. a boy who liked pretty things, sensitive friends, grew too attached to them both and lost all of it, along with his father's respect and whatever foolishly optimistic future he thought he might have back then. instead he'd locked it all away and thrown away the key, barricading himself between easy charm and skin-deep connections. his own journey clawing to the surface was a solitary one too, lonely at times - but the difference between the two of them standing here in his office is that hawk refuses to let himself feel it. it would be much easier to tell tim he doesn't know what he's talking about, to give him a generic note of sympathy that he's struggling in matters both personal and professional, give him the snacks and send him off into that same cold and unforgiving world.
but he's not his father. he's not going to do that.]
That's not what I was implying. I needed you to know that I had no idea it was you the whole time - no reason to suspect. None of this was on purpose.
Do you get that?
[even knowing what he does now - it didn't make his mind wander or fall to the worst case scenarios. he doesn't think tim is whoring himself out, doesn't think he's running with disreputable crowds or letting himself fall down some immoral drain.]
I am sorry I made you feel that way. It wasn't the intention. And even if you can't reconcile both of those people - I can. That's why I said nothing has to change. Nothing is changed in the way I think of you.
[but then again, hawk's best skill is his ability to bifurcate the things he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to feel, and keep moving. it's why he refuses to let himself linger on the why you don't want to part, as if he hasn't already spent a few nights with his hand down his pants thinking about all the what ifs - what if he had thrown caution to the wind, what if he'd taken tim to some motel and decided to keep his boy all semester? he shakes his head slightly, partly to clear his head and mainly to refute tim's declarations yet again, leaning in without realizing.]
Eyes on me.
[another order, but this is the most important part.]
You have nothing to be ashamed of. You're doing the best you can. Surviving, the only way you know how. Nothing disappointing about a boy who wants more for himself and strives to make it happen. Quite frankly, there's nothing I respect more.
[hawk reaches up, fingers hesitating for the barest moment - wanting to swipe at the hint of a glistening tear track left behind along tim's nose. instead he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a kerchief with a navy HF monogrammed in the corner. his voice lowers, into that rich, graveled timbre of sincerity.]
I trust you - [skippy.]
Do you still trust me?
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of course he didn't. just like tim had no idea the man behind the screen was hawkins fuller, professor at georgetown. he knows he should accept it for the honest confession it is, and yet tim still can't help but wonder if it had been a different, pretty-faced student - would fuller have slept with him? would they have spent the day in a fierce battle of wills? a man and his boy?
tim thinks it might have been easier to deal with all of this if they had. a fuck and go, where the hotel room door shuts behind them and closes all of this up into one dingy, dark place.
but that's not what they did, and instead tim stands in the middle of hawk's office feeling a little foolish, a little angry, a little hurt. mostly at himself, really, than anything else. that he let himself crack like this under the pressure when he's done so well for the past few years. no one would know that timothy david laughlin, work-a-holic, eager beaver, model student - was struggling. ]
I get it, yeah.
[ but professor fuller closes the distance between them again, just outside the edge of propriety and tim finds he's holding his breath against the intensity of the older man. he's half expecting a raised voice, unearned sternness, or a critique. but there's another command and it is like he was all but born to do everything this man tells him as his eyes track up almost immediately, a little surprised, no doubt that it shows in the faint flush creeping up his neck, to his jaw.
tim wants to close his eyes the moment he sees the man's hand move, imagine the touch he'd felt on his cheek that day in the cold morning air. it's stupid, how much he craves even the smallest hint of affection, and stranger so that he desires it from this man of all people.
instead, he's offered a kerchief, and at first tim doesn't quite know what to do or think of it, stunned instead by the man's words. he glances at the kerchief, but then like a boy realizing his mistake and being caught, his eyes snap back up to hawk and he swallows hard. he's quiet at first - uncomfortable and unsure at first if he truly wants to answer, to reveal one more card in his hand. and yet: ]
I trust you.
[ it's quiet, and the most calm he's sounded throughout this whole conversation. like that little crack he'd discovered in his chest has healed, and the warmth pouring from it feels less like endless despair and fury and more like hope. he reaches for the kerchief, the fabric rich and soft beneath his finger tips and though he knows he should turn away and clear the tear streaks from his face, he can't.
instead, he keeps his eyes on hawk, as he'd been so gently told to do as he removes his glasses and wipes sheepishly at his eyes, the bridge of his nose. only when he's sure the tears have been swept away does he put his glasses back on, then delicately fold the kerchief, and his eyes raise once again to meet the striking blue of fuller's.
(he will think a great deal about how the skin of his cheek bone will smell like the man's cologne - or the way the bridge of his nose will be blushed red from the press of the soft fabric, and the faint scratch of the stitching in that delicate HF. embarrassing). ]
I never stopped trusting you. I'd do whatever you told me to do. [ he offers the kerchief back between them, then, and gives a faint, sheepish smile.
something has changed between them even here, but tim's shoulders feel lighter, his chest more open, his heart slowing. he feels more embarrassed for his outburst now than furiously desperate, but to have said all of it out loud to someone who he knows will keep it as private and safe as it was meant to be in the first place is strangely freeing. no one else here knows his story. and no one ever will. he sighs a little, pinching his lips to one side, his nose wrinkling up, almost admitting to the awkwardness of it all now that they've waded through it. ]
Sorry. [ he says finally, shrugging one shoulder and tearing his eyes away, anywhere but the blue of those eyes. ] I didn't mean to unload on you - that wasn't fair. I really didn't. Break was just really lonely here, and then I guess everything else caught up to me.
[ he looks down now at the snacks from before, the smorgasbord of things he'd offered for him to take to eat on the way to lonigan's class. the clock on the wall in hawk's office tells him that he won't make it - five minutes to run across the other side of the campus isn't worth it, anyway. he shouldn't take the snacks since he's not going to class, and yet he can't help the way he knows how empty his stomach will feel later. and so he reaches for at least the package of energy bites - whatever the hell those are.
he worries the edge of the wrapper between his fingers for a moment before he looks back up at hawk, earnest and sincere, his shoulders shrugging in a way that matches the delicate crinkle of his nose. ]
But, um. Thank you. For not judging me - not unfairly, anyway. And listening. I can... I should get out of your hair.
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his pulse has quickened, inexplicably, while tim's answer hangs in the balance and he's confronted up close by dark lashes against pretty pale skin. god, what he wouldn't give to touch him again, to give himself a reminder of just how soft and supple it was beneath his fingertips even when it was ravaged by the unforgiving cold. somehow it kicks up another notch as he watches tim wordlessly obey every single command, drinking in those three little words: i trust you. he nods, silently, and feels the tension in the room pop as if stabbed by a needle, slowly hissing into something more manageably comfortable. they're going to be alright.]
Good.
[he watches as tim wipes away his tears, putting as much approval as he can muster into the expression along with the softest of smiles - only if someone knows what to look for on the contours of his face, the slight differences in his mouth.
(there is a resolution that he will absolutely not run those words through his head later tonight: i'd do whatever you told me to. surely he knows the implication...?)]
You're alright.
[he looks down at the handkerchief, considering for a few moments before pressing his hand gently over tim's and pushing it back towards him. if his thumb brushes against the back of tim's fist clutched around the woven fabric, there's enough plausible deniability to pretend it's accidental. or just a force of habit.]
Keep it. Just in case things get caught up again.
[but he has a sneaking suspicion they won't - that he's managed to salvage this enough for them both, and he tries to suppress the small swooping sensation in his stomach. a few small steps back, and hawk sits back down with a creak of leather into his high-backed desk chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrests as he watches tim shake off some of the awkwardness and considering the mismatched feast in front of him. hawk follows his gaze to the clock with a mutter of ah, shit, before shaking his head.]
Starts in five, doesn't it? Listen - I'll put in a word with Lonigan. Tell him I kept you late to discuss your thesis. Which we should set a meeting for, by the way.
[it feels almost like business as usual, and he offers one last amused smile in response to to the way tim's nose scrunches.]
You don't have to thank me for doing the decent thing. And - just remember, my door is always open.
[the implication is that it's for anything - not just schoolwork. but vocalizing the idea that tim might still have those bouts of loneliness or struggling would just be rubbing it in at this point, so he's not going to press it any further. they've crossed a bridge today, and that was the best he could hope for. his gaze slips back down to the paper that's been left behind, and then the obnoxious orange from a bag of chips on his desk draws him back before he slides it across the surface towards tim's end.]
Hey - do me a favor and take some more of this with you. Seriously, it'll never get eaten otherwise.
[that, and he knows the boy probably needs it a hell of a lot more than he does.]
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this close, he can also see the faintest quirk of his lips, and it only serves to make tim's smile broaden just a little more, make a little more life come back into his eyes, like a flower offered water and sunlight for the first time after days of darkness. maybe he is icarus, tired and scalded by a sun he tried to reach. the sun warned him off, but it's the little kerchief that has his wings fluttering still in flight.
tim curls his hand around the fabric, but it's the press of hawk's broad, warm hand that startles him. it makes the little hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and his eyes flit up again to watch the man as he rounds back toward his desk.
the moment is broken between them, the distance made and the armistice met. it doesn't change that the flush that had crept up his neck before now easily works its ways to his cheeks - faint and pink, drawing out the little, faded freckles sunkissed into his cheeks from a warmer than usual fall on campus. (it feels like the back of his hand is on fire itself - the wax of his wings dripping, dripping, dripping and scalding him). ]
Thank you.
[ he huffs a little, shaking his head as he carefully raises the flap of his satchel and slides the kerchief in alongside the energy bites. ]
If you don't mind? I know it's not honest, but - I don't think I could focus if I went now, anyway. [ and for once, tim will concede this to the other man - a lie to another faculty member, to protect him. he doesn't accept favors easily, and accepting this one is just an attempt to show his gratitude - to give space where he'd not allowed before. ]
I'll stop by your office hours tomorrow. For the thesis. I actually think I want to include a segment on the degradation of bipartisanship and how our inability to find neutral territory in the Senate and the House is undermining our democratic success, especially since we struggle with two-party politics when the race really is wide open.
[ the words come out with ease, and it's obvious for a moment that the gears are already turning again like they should be - the cogs greased and whirling - tim laughlin brought back to life. his brow furrows, a hand comes up so that his finger can tap idly against his bottom lip all the while he looks up in thought. ]
But I think there's more to unpack there - it's too broad. But it's all so complex it might be just as easy to get lost in the weeds, too. Oh -
[ another peace offering - the bag of chips. tim takes it with little rebuttal, and even opens it as he wanders a step backward, still thinking to himself as he pops a chip into his mouth. (it's also silly how he blinks in surprise and hums at the sharp, cheddar flavor). ]
You're missing out, you know. Maybe we give these out to Congress and all our problems will be solved. Then what would I write about?
[ he heads for the door, eating another chip, but he turns at the last moment, peering over his shoulder at hawk. ]
Thanks again. Honest.
[ a sheepish duck of his chin and he's turning, headed out and into the quad's open air. ]