homosexuals | [UNI AU]

[UNI AU]

CAMBOY UNI AU

tell me and i forget, teach me and i remember.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

[ tim sighs softly, the warmth generated by the gentle touch enough to make him think that maybe these chills won't last forever. it's just from the drug in his system, the nurse had warned him. as he begins to go through the waves of it and the fluids they gave him, he'll flip flop from cold to hot. but for now, the shivers seem to take him over as his body starts to come down from it all. ]

Thanks for waiting.

[ why would his professor wait for him? why would he wait for anyone that showed up to his office like tim is now, strung out and drugged, spewing tales of a date gone wrong. it's a miracle the man even believes him.

he turns his face against the blanket for a moment, sniffling softly and wiping at his eyes with the fabric. embarassing - all of this is so embarrassing - even in the haze of the drug he can feel shame wash over him hot and sharp. ]

I couldn't ask you to do that. I don't -

[ ... deserve it. he almost says it out loud and instead closes his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to stop the momentary spin of the room or the hurried ticking of his heart. but he begins to shift anyway, turning onto one side so he can push himself up and away from the backrest of the bed. he needs to swing his feet over, and he manages to turn a little, but his shoes get caught up in the blanket. ]

I just need to... find my phone. I get that and I can find someone.

[ but he knows there will be no one. no one will answer tim laughlin's calls late at night, when most students are out partying or drinking with friends. his use is limited to them, after all, and doesn't include emotional baggage like this.

hindsight? what would he even tell them. would he make up some lie about drinking too much? going to some rager? going to some upper-classman's party? it wouldn't be believable. he hangs his head after a little bit of a struggle, his feet finally coming free and swinging to the side of the bed. he grips the bed hard, knuckles white, and while he doesn't seem like he will fall or sway over, unsteady, like he would have before, he doesn't look great, either. he stares down at his boots, the laces worn, the dark leather cracking, for a long time until slowly, he sucks in a breath. ]

It is my fault. All of this.

[ he pauses a little, biting his lip to help a wave of nausea pass. ] I'll... I'll go with you. No one will answer if I call, anyway.

[ there's nothing self-pitying in it, but there is a sort of clarity in it - a statement of fact so true it may as well be made into a scientific law. he breathes deeply, slowly, like one of the nice nurses had said, when he starts to feel a little dizzy again. his heart's beating fast - anxiety - she'd say, made worse by date-rape drugs like this.

ah, right. ]

I don't know if I can walk. Sor - [ he cuts himself off. ] Maybe if you help me stand up. Or... or whatever you want to do. I don't - um. If anyone sees.

[ he ducks his head a little, suddenly aware that his professor is risking a lot by being here with him, showing his face with someone in the state he's in. if only he could get the room to stop spinning, to get his heart to slow down, to breath deeply and forget everything about the man and -

tim swallows hard and shakes his head. ]

You don't have to thank me either.

[it was the decent thing to do - the safer thing too, wasn't it? he tries to imagine how someone like the dean or lonigan or even craig would have handled this. probably not like this, that's for damn sure. hawk doesn't necessarily think that means it's wrong, even if it isn't "right" by the school handbook. the point is: he's not leaving tim again. and even if circumstances are ideal...he'd like to think dean smith would have his back. is it really so different from a boy back from boarding school, practically shunned by his own family and doing everything to claw his way up into the world, to forget the way he'd earned his father's disgust after years of trying to hide and be the perfect son - to try and forget his trauma of being discovered and outed so he could do it all right and just survive? sometimes hawk has to pretend it was different with leonard - the drinking, the drugs, the drama. he wasn't a good son and he never even tried, that's the only reason he'd earned his father's ire, surely.

hawk lifts his arm, shifting to help untangle the blanket from his shoes and tug it off so he can attempt to sit up. which might have been a mistake, considering the fact that he looks a little green around the gills again. it seems like he's mentally torturing himself by the extraordinary tightness in the way his eyes slip shut, squeezing hard like the white-knuckled grip his fingers have on the bed too. he can tell what's left unsaid at the end of that sentence - i don't deserve it. so what if tim's not some lost lamb in high school, he's an adult but that doesn't make this any less difficult for him. his lips pull downward into a small frown, and even though he wants to chime in, somehow it doesn't seem like his place.]

Here. It's not much, but you look cold.

[hawk's linen blazer - better than nothing.]

Forget about them, they'd probably be about as helpful to you as their contributions to class.

[he's trying to make a joke of it, to subtly let tim know how elevated he is compared to his peers. to get him to stop feeling so low and so fucking guilty when it's hawk who should be taking on that burden. he moves in, one hand pressing against the side of tim's cheek to try and steady him again where it looks like he might start to sway. only because something solid and steadying and surprising might do him some good right now. his voice lowers again, something soft and coaxing like he's working with a wounded animal. this time, he doesn't bother to look over his shoulder.]

Hey - I want you to try something for me.

[should he assume tim will obey? no. but he knows he will all the same, and that's definitely something to shove down and lock away until long after tim is gone and he can think about the s-word freely in the comfort of his own bed.]

Take a deep breath for me and close your eyes.

[hawk mimics it too, an audible inhale.]

Yeah, that's good. Just hold it for a second, and exhale nice and slow.

[in the meantime, hawk kindly omits the fact that he chose sibley because it was off campus and the likelihood of being seen by student or staff was a hell of a lot less for the moment.]

And when you feel ready - open your eyes.

[his fingers shift slightly against the warmth of his cheeks, and when he looks into the wide, dark rings surrounded by warm chocolate, he meets it with a soft and encouraging smile.]

Now - the easiest way is probably for me to carry you again, you think you can manage to hold on until we get to the car?

I can't stop shivering.

[ there's going to be the sound of a cutoff apology at the end of nearly every statement but he's trying his best. after all, if this man tells him to do something or otherwise, he cannot help but listen. maybe it's a bad habit to fall into, but right now, hawkins fuller's voice is the only thing keeping him grounded.

the blazer comes around his shoulders and he seems to relax a tiny bit with the warmth of it around him. it smells of the man's cologne - the very same from that little kerchief he'd been offered before. tugging it a littler closer, he lets out a shaky breath. he looks up just as the man's palm rests against his cheek and he blinks a little wider up at his professor, even though he knows he must look a mess.

and so obey he does, keeping as still as he can beneath the touch. his eyes slip shut slowly, and he follows the instructions to the tee, taking in a deep breath and holding it for a few moments then slowly letting it go. he repeats it a second time, lingering in the warmth of the man's hand, his body almost naturally leaning into the touch even slightly, just as he had before in the wintry dc streets.

slowly, so slowly, he opens his eyes and blinks up at professor fuller again. the world isn't any steadier, but it does something to calm his heart rate, to make his chest stop feeling so impossibly tight. (something deep in him wants the man to lean down and kiss his forehead, or his nose, or his lips - something to feel the heat of him a little closer - but he won't be able to assess that need until later, when he can feel a little shame over it).

but he smiles in return finally, a faint little quirk of his lips. it's the drug in his system that makes him reach a hand to lightly grasp at hawk's forearm, the one with a palm against his cheek. it steadies him, certainly, and he realizes that yes, he would be very warm to be close to. ]

I think I can hold on.

[ he nods a little, letting his own hand drop back to his side. he takes in another deep breath and grips the side of the bed. ]

How can I -

[ he makes a little face again as nausea comes over him, but just as the man showed him, he takes in a deep breath and holds it, then releases slowly. ]

... what do you need me to do?

[ he can remember being carried earlier, sort of - but he doesn't remember much else. just the warmth of hawk's chest, the aftershave against his neck, the safety and all the movement. god, it feels like years ago. he releases the edge of the bed long enough to shift the blazer, sliding his arms into the sleeves. it must look comical on his slight frame - so different from the broad depth of hawk's shoulders. ]

I don't wanna - ... s'pose I want to make it easy. I... sor-... er. Yeah.

[maybe that wasn't the brightest idea on his part, considering tim complies almost immediately and executes his orders to perfection. it doesn't help to see tim wrapped in his jacket, eyes screwed shut as he breathes in and out slowly. hawk realizes quite suddenly his glasses are gone - yet another barrier removed, a vulnerability he's seeing up close where anyone else would overlook it. his fingers flex against the softness of his cheek, somehow now the third time he's had to precisely memorize the sensation of it against his palm. it doesn't go unnoticed that tim seems to lean into it from something other than being off-balanced, but that's the kind of thinking that makes hawk tamp down near immediately lest he fall into the same category of any other man wanting to take advantage. even as his gaze drops ever so briefly to his lips, the dark flutter of lashes against his cheek and knows that's an image he would have paid good money to see before tim walked into his classroom.

but thankfully the nausea seems to subside enough for him to open his eyes and offer a smile, weak as it is. a lot better than watching him fumble with excuses and keep blaming himself. another wave of it comes on, and hawk waits for it to pass politely before nodding in approval that he's repeating the instructions.]

Well, before either of us forget -

[his glasses are perched on one of the rolling bedside tables, stark black blending into the faux-wood and lenses reflecting the unforgiving fluorescent lights that cast an unfortunate, sickly pallor over everyone no matter their current ailments. hawk carefully plucks them up, opening the arms before a quick i'll do the honors to keep tim aware more than anything else before slipping them up onto the bridge of his nose and tucking them behind his ears, knowing tim will probably need to adjust them.]

There.

[another quick smile, and he waits for tim to slide his arms fully into the blazer, unable to help himself from reaching out and tugging the lapels in closer as if that'll make the difference in warmth rather than fabric choice. what an idiot he must look like, fussing over his student like this. but it's too late to back out now, to leave tim stranded when he really needs it most.]

Put both your arms around my neck and I'll do the rest.

[and when he does, hawk will lean in, wrapping one arm around his mid-back and easily sliding the other under his knees. they bend together almost immediately, ankles dangling in a way he can't think of other than downright dainty. princess carry, his brain absently supplies. whatever the fuck that's supposed to make him think about. he waits to make sure tim's adjusted alright from the sudden shift in probably the entire axis of his existence right now, praying he won't get nauseous or worse.]

You can duck your head and close your eyes if you need to. I'm going to walk us out now.

[the only place for him to do that is hawk's neck, which he is resolutely attempting to ignore as he starts the slow, steady trek back out to the parking lot.]

[ it has to be the drug, the alcohol, that makes the sensation of the older man putting on his glasses so eerily intimate. he watches as if in slow motion as professor fuller takes up his glasses. when they're raised to his face, it's shameful the way he looks up at him (like icarus to a sun, he might have said once), letting his eyes flutter closed only when the feels the little ear pieces slide against his temples.

he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held once he feels the plastic against the bridge of his nose. it comes out low and slow, almost like a sigh, before his eyes flutter open again. he's shivering - the cold under his skin unnerving, and yet something blooms warm in his chest and causes a chill of gooseflesh to rise up on his arms, the back of his neck. his color improves as well - a tinge of something peachy in his cheeks. it's the drink and the drug on an empty stomach making him see this man in a different light, that's all. he'll feel differently in the morning. (he won't).

but like any good student he listens to his professor and reaches to wrap his arms round his neck, careful not to pull or tug at him, even as the man lifts him as though he weighs nothing. but the haul is exactly what he didn't need - the room spins and makes his head hurt, makes his eyes sore and he closes them almost immediately to the movement.

not as bad as before, but.

he's already settling his face against hawk's neck as he's warned. he presses his nose in against hawk's pulsepoint, the first place his woozy head landed and when he closes his eyes he can almost imagine the rhythmic beat of his heart falls perfectly in line with his strong stride. ]

Sorry I'm heavy.

[ because what grown-ass man wouldn't be heavy? but he protests little otherwise, getting placed gingerly into the car and taking off.

the car ride feels like a million years with his eyes closed. he keeps up some slurred conversation with the man to prove he's awaking still but otherwise, he wishes he could curl up and settle, could close his eyes and simply be warm and content that way. but he can't. before too long, they're stopped, and they patiently wait five minutes in the car in silence while the world outside seems to calm down.

he's able to stand this time, but of course, out of precaution, hawk carries him up the steps to the little walk-up.

everything inside and out feels expensive. deliberate and modern, clean lines with an old-world elegance. a man like hawkins fuller would live here, he thinks, but again it could be the drinks and more beyond then making everything seem so rosy hued and beautiful. but it's true - even when hawk sets him down on his feet to test his walking and guides him to the restroom, tim knows he will never see a place more rich and fanciful than this.

he tries hard for it not to show even in the restroom, where he's sat on the closed toilet seat and told to wait with that worried but charming looking on his face. so he waits, and out come a set of clothes, a wash cloth.

when tim shuts the door and looks in the mirror, he's horrified. it's hard at first to peel off the blazer, then his own t-shirt. (he'd had a jacket. at the shop. hadn't he? where did it go?) his body is otherwise unmarked, untouched, but he has to grip the counter when he turns to look side to side. it's the mark beneath his ear, the smallest burn of stubble on his jaw.

he washes his face in silence, scrubbing at those marks made by another man. his body has morphed into one that is not at all his own anymore - like the chubby, sweaty palms of that client have somehow heavy irremovable grease marks behind. his eyes are bloodshot, pupils still too wide, cheeks puffy, lips bitten red. he looks like he might as well have gone to a rager at this point.

its with a final sigh he puts on the offered clothing, surprised by the size of the shirt, the way the sweatpants fit but sit low on his hips regardless of what he tries with the drawstring. his clothes get folded and neatly say on the counter for later. he's exhausted by the time he's done and he opens the door to the bathroom, reaching for the door frame and leaning against it. there's enough of a lean that his shirt rides up, presenting a sliver of skin over his hip. tim doesn't notice - thinking only instead of whatever bed awaits him.

never mind that his hair has been wetted and slicked back, which in its own right just exposes the man's foul actions sooner, and yet. here they are. ]

I... I feel so much better. [ there's a faint sway when he steps out himself, only to momentarily reach for the door frame again just in case. ]

Um. I appreciate you caring for me.

[(tim's not as heavy as he thinks he is. that - and he's a comfortable warmth settled against his neck with shallow little breaths.)

once they're out of the hospital and he's successfully buckled into the car, hawk takes a minute to exhale before coming around and getting in his own seat. the ride back lacks all the adrenaline and frantic energy of rushing him to be seen as soon as possible, worrying what had happened to him and how bad it was besides the scar it might leave on his student's psyche. they're not entirely out of the woods yet, and god knows what the morning is going to bring physically or emotionally - but the worst of it is over. christ, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now. absently he notes that it's somehow drawn out just past midnight, and he'd been so worried he hadn't even realized two hours had come and gone in the stark soul-suck of the waiting room. tim chats idly here and there, probably to convince him he's doing alright, but hawk tries not to drag it out and tax him mentally right now for thought-provoking content.

and then...tim laughlin is in his fucking house.

life comes at you fast, he thinks wryly, as he helps the boy support most of his weight with an arm wrapped around his back and the other in front, guiding him towards the bathroom which is a tastefully decked-out mid-century modern with black and white, a walk-in shower nestled next to the free-standing tub that's probably big enough for two that are more than a little comfortable with one another. he knows his entire apartment is the epitome of bachelor pad, but it's worked this long and if it isn't broke...

the toilet is where he deposits tim for now, a quick little stay here a minute before he rifles through one of the dressers that never gets any action in his room - tugging out an old, faded georgetown tee from when he was still attending on the other side of the equation and charcoal sweatpants. on his way back he swipes a clean washcloth out of the hallway closet and steps back in, hoping tim hasn't started to peel out of his clothes yet. it's only when he's confident that tim can stand on his own two feet with a slight wobble instead of utter jello in his legs that he offers an easy: call me if you need anything, i'll be right outside.

smoking is probably still out of the question, so he settles for pouring himself a goddamn drink after he hears running water without any further commotion, collapsing into the chair behind his desk. the desk, his mind so graciously supplies as a reminder, where he's absolutely jacked off to the man currently standing in his bathroom in some degree of unclothed.

well, so much for one drink.

the tiredness starts to sink in a little more, and hawk realizes he'll have to settle for the couch tonight. his back twinges slightly at the thought, but he pushes it away and finds himself unable to focus on little else right now other than the reality that tim laughlin is still in his house. about to be wearing his clothes. after being drugged by some fucking asshole who was supposed to help him pay his bills, because hawk left him high and dry. his drink is set down with a clink against a coaster, still there from last time he was grading papers, and he leans forward onto his elbows to massage at the exhaustion gnawing at his temples. it's only when he hears the door click open up the hall way does get back up, striding over quickly to make sure tim didn't take a tumble or struggle too badly.

he looks a hell of a lot better, that's for sure. seeing him with pants that are slung below his hips because his waist is that much tinier than hawk's, a sliver of pale flesh with water droplets from wet hair and the mark on his neck that may as well be a brand for how it eats under hawk's skin...christ. this was a terrible idea. thank god for his poker face - and he puts on another smile, hoping tim can't smell two tumblers worth of whiskey on his breath.]

Glad to hear it. Let's get you to bed, huh? C'mere.

[there's half a mind to lightly scold tim for thanking him yet again for doing the decent thing, but he doesn't have it in him and instead overlooks it altogether for now. he holds out the crook of his arm as if he's about to escort tim through some debutante ball, enough that he can slowly brace against hawk without getting too close. he can smell the faint aroma of the soap he uses, eyes shifting sideways to glance at how he's holding up and not the way one bead of water drips down the line of his neck. his bedroom is close enough, and hawk carefully guides tim to the edge of it before reaching to pull away a few decorative pillows and tug back the rich navy comforter, soft striped sheets with a sinful thread count waiting below to welcome tim with a cool embrace.]

Here - get in. Are you hot or cold right now?

[ while he doesn't feel nearly as lost at sea as he did a couple of hours ago, he still feels hazy and under water. if he were more himself he'd be stopping to gaze at the apartment, take all of it in and truly get a peek at the man he absolutely idolizes (and wants) in a way most have likely never seen. but instead he wobbles at the door frame from the bathroom, pristine and expensive and tidy, reaching to take hawk's arm when it's offered.

they pass a door ajar, and a swirling glance in shows him the sliver of an office. a beautiful, wood desk. papers. a coaster. a glass. he can smell something on hawk's breath but it doesn't fully materialize into anything he should be worried about. he trusts him. who else in his life can he trust as much as he's relying on this man right now?

as they cross the threshold, he loses a little footing, leaning a little closer to hawk to keep steady. even if it means when he turns his head, a few damp locks sweet over hawk's shoulder, what with the way he sheepishly ducks his head following the mishap - tim tries to recover: ]

Your... your home is beautiful.

[ even laying eyes on the bed makes his body feel inexplicably heavy. the sleep he'd so badly needed earlier now tugging at the edges of his consciousness. he carefully lowers himself to the edge of the bed once the covers and sheets are pulled back and he sighs in relief at being stationary again, letting his eyes drift shut as his vision stills. he doesn't even notice the way the bottom of one glasses lens has fogged from the heat of the water and the flush of his face.

despite that, he can already feel the chills from earlier returning to his bones. he's careful in the way he turns onto the bed, wiggling in beneath the covers. only when he reclines, letting his head hit the pillow that immediately floods his overwhelmed senses with the very scent of professor hawkins fuller does he sigh, something almost turning into a little groan at the end. not quite the sounds made on camera, but were he not coming down off a drugged high in hawk's bed, it might not be too far off center.

but the bed is plush and rich, enveloping him even as he turns onto his side slowly to face hawk. he forgets his glasses, uncaring the way they tilt and skew themselves on his face. ]

M'cold.

[ he's pathetic. he should just ask for a cab and go to his dorm, but the longer he stays wrapped up in the bed, the more he can feel the strain on his body from the day. he fumbles for the sheet, the duvet, but even after he gets them to his shoulders, he hesitates. ]

Your bed is comfortable. [ tired, spoken in a little bit of a sleepy drawl, the drug and exhaustion finally taking its toll. he turns his head a little, the cheek touched earlier against the pillow case so for a moment he can imagine its warmth again. ]

S'big bed. I'll move if you need to sleep, too. S'okay if not. I... I won't be nuisance. I'm just so tired...

Edited 2024-01-06 08:36 (UTC)

Easy there.

[his arm snakes hard around tim's middle, the sudden aroma of soap and something he's grown familiar to recognize as tim wafting by when his hair - which suddenly seems that much longer and boyish when wet - flips slightly behind them from the stumble. his other hand presses against tim's chest to steady him, watching the way he hides his face and mumbles out something utterly unrelated as if in slight embarrassment for his condition. of course he would, and of course it tugs at that piece that's threatened to break loose around his chest all night seeing tim at his most vulnerable - grateful for the care and still sweet when he has every right to be bitter and angry and lash out especially at hawk for being responsible he's in this situation in the first place. the gratitude feels wholly unearned, and it makes him swallow hard and look away again to the bedroom.]

Not a bad place to lay my head every night, yeah. Thanks.

[doubtful tim is taking much of this in with great detail, even though he has a sneaking suspicion the boy would love to get a closer look at some of the stylistic choices and aesthetic and insight into the man that he'd thought he'd known before everything shifted. sometimes that man only exists between these four-and-then-some walls, but no one needs to know that. honestly, it's a miracle tim's eyes don't slip shut the moment his head hits the pillow for the ringer he's been through tonight. and hawk would bet his non-tenured but nothing to sniff at salary that this bed is a miles more comfortable and inviting than whatever small, borderline cardboard crap they've got stuffed in the dorms. maybe they haven't even upgraded them after ten or so years - wouldn't be a shock. it brings a soft smirk to his face, one that is less amused at tim's sudden contentment than it is at what a world of difference it probably is.

what he hadn't fully thought through was what the sight of the star of his late night fantasies suddenly doing look quite snug and blissed out in his bed was going to do to him. not to mention, this might be the first person besides marcus or estelle who's even been in this room let alone the most sacred of his private retreats. there's that damn tightness again - and if he weren't in perfectly good shape save a little too much whiskey and the smoking, he'd think maybe he was developing signs for an early heart attack. his body goes rigid when tim lets out a soft groan, not unlike another kind of context he's heard it in. and it was one thing when it wasn't attached to a face, just a rock-solid body near sinful, but now....

now hawk hums lightly, pushing it down and reaching once more to pluck the glasses half pressed into tim's face off his nose, folding them and setting them down with a soft tap against his nightstand. he pulls up the sheets and the comforter all the way up, past tim's shoulders until it's near his neck and only the soft mop of brown and his eyes are visible, tucking it in slightly around his sides so it'll keep the chill to a minimum. there's a blanket somewhere in his closet, far too thick for breezy summer nights and the humidity creeping up from the south, but he takes that out too where it's folded neatly and perched in a shelf high above rows of pressed shirts and rich leather oxfords and matching suits. everything its place, an empire of streamlined navy and black and grey and white - just the way he tries to live his life. he flaps it out a bit, tossing it up and over the bed on top of tim's body which is looking smaller and smaller underneath it all.]

There, that should help with the cold. Now you just - get some rest. You must be exhausted. I'll be up the hall if you need anything.

[he turns on his heel, but not before tim stops him with an invitation into his own bed. hawk pauses, glancing over his shoulder where he hasn't budged and won't see the look on his face. it is an awful big bed for just one person, but he doesn't have it in him to explain that's intentional, and that it goes double for his student. even one he'd gladly slide in next to and warm with more than just an expensive blanket, or ruffle his hair and try to do away with the blemish on his neck out of some twist of possession he's got no right to feel.

skippy.]

Goodnight, Tim.

[he leaves the door cracked, turning off the hallway and bathroom lights along the way. the initial plan had been to crash on the couch - but it's too far away if tim needs help in the middle of the night. to his office then, where he practically launches himself into his chair and scrubs a hand over his face as the exhaustion he'd expected to finally sink in is nowhere to be found. christ. he's a little too busy thinking about the fact that not six feet away, on the other side of a wall, tim laughlin is in his bed.

what did he need the money for?

that's a slippery slope to start down, one he might not like the answer to, but it doesn't make it any less impossible to stop now that he's started. he tips his head back against the leather of his desk chair, closing his eyes and wondering if he can try and doze off for a few hours before checking on tim again later. the nurse had warned him about alternating from sudden bouts of chill, feverishness, nausea...he might be needed sooner than he thinks.]

[ there's little that tim will remember in the hazy, sleepy moments where hawk pulls the covers up over his shoulders, removes his glasses, and layers another thick blanket on him. he's exhausted beyond belief and it's a miracle he hears anything about up the hall before his eyes flutter shut.

the bed lulls him into a listless sleep, the covers tight around him and the smell of hawk's aftershave on the pillow utterly overwhelms him. if he'd been more awake, more lucid, he might think deeper into the fact that the scent alone takes the tension out of his shoulders, makes him breathe a little easier, helps him relax. but he isn't. and so he drifts into fitful sleep.

at first he dreams of nothing but endless dark - sleeping so deeply that he doesn't even move in the pile of the blankets, simply settles. but it doesn't last long. the chills turn into vicious sweats and the dark void of his sleep turns into a frenzied recollection of memories. it's first his childhood home and the fire and brimstone of his church. the preacher screaming something incoherent, fire in his eyes and hate on his tongue. it all morphs itself into the scene at the pizzeria, the bald client he met somehow morphing into the very face of the preacher himself, with grubby hands and greedy lips, and the last thing he sees is the man dipping in against his neck when he snaps awake.

he feels like his whole body is going to catch on fire and sweat pours from his temples. at first, he moves too quickly and the room spins viciously. it's dark, but there's a faint light from the hallway. it's not his dorm room and that causes another hint of panic at first - tim scrambling from the covers and all but rolling out of the bed. he hits the floor with a soft thump and comes up groaning.

professor fuller.

he's at professor fuller's.

he's caught between feeling miserably ill and dizzy, the heat having utterly done him in. pushing himself up to his feet he wanders to the bathroom attached to the bedroom and stands at the sink for a moment. he looks pale in the mirror, gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes, sweat stippling his brow and he pulls the old tshirt off - it's drenched, and he has little foresight to put it anywhere but the floor, desperate to get it off and cool down.

the world seems to calm down behind his eyes, but it doesn't change the fact that he feels utterly shaken. idly he wonders what god would think if he saw him now, if he could confront him and confess the myriad of sins that got him to this point. how many hours would it take in prayer to make it to the golden gates with some semblance of a chance at a better life?

it makes his blood run cold, makes that pull of panic come back and he stumbles out of the bathroom, away from his own reflection. he's unsteady on his feet when he leaves the bedroom, and he cannot quite remember at first just where the man said he'd be.

it takes a few moments of steadying himself, of that same deep breathing from before, in order to make it to the little office across the hall. at first, he doesn't quite see where the man has ended up, until he catches sight of the chair turned toward the door. there he is, leaned back, and he almost doesn't move any further, letting him stay asleep with no interruption.

but his hands shake, his breathing comes quick, and the idea of going back to that bedroom and being alone makes his stomach churn. so he steps into the office, headed to the chair opposite the desk when he bumps it, knocking some kind of paperweight off his desk. he's sure he hears it crack, whatever it is - but he's too woozy to deal with it. instead, he plops himself down in the chair, grimacing at the way the leather sticks to his sweat-dampened bare back. ]

Professor?

[ he doesn't want to wake him. in fact, he should just go back and get his own clothes and head to the door. go back to campus and pretend this didn't happen.

he's not even sure he can make it home. he closes his eyes and pulls his legs up into the chair, to his bare chest, and lets his head rest against the back for a moment. ]

[sleep comes a lot slower to hawk, but the exhaustion wears in deep and somewhere between realizing he left his bag of papers at work and listening for any sounds of movement up the hall, sleep overtakes him. his neck certainly won't thank him in the morning considering he doesn't even make it over to the elegant, sprawling chaise lounge in the corner that's never seen action a day in its life and is instead tipped against the high-backed leather chair behind his desk with his hands folded over his stomach. thank god his sleep is soundless - no dreams to speak of, because he's not sure he could handle the idea of his fantasies haunting him while the object of them is on the opposite side of the wall in his bed. that, and he absolutely doesn't need to wake up with morning wood.

the thing about living alone for so long is that he's gotten used to the regular creaks here from old wood parquet floors, the occasional icebox deposit from the fridge, and dc traffic quiet but constant and faded into the background outside. he's not a light sleeper by any means - but anything out of the ordinary would startle him awake, which it does when tim takes a mild tumble. it's a louder than expected thump, the kind that has him groggily coming to, sleep still trying to keep his eyes closed even as he fights to claw back into awareness. maybe it was just a bird, something outside - until he realizes there are soft footsteps, a door opening, water running. it pulls at him even further to keep fighting the lull of sleep that threatens to drag him back down. and then the footsteps grow louder, like they're right before him, followed by a cracking noise that may as well be deafening. he doesn't hear tim at first, eyes widening as he shoots up in his seat and grips the edge of his desk with his heartbeat racing and tries to take stock of everything immediately in front of him. pens, a pair of scissors, a letter opener - until he looks at the vintage clock on his desk reading just after 3am and realizes what happened mere hours ago. it's not an intruder, it's -

tim.

only then do his eyes drag up, a quiet exhale of relief when he realizes it's just the boy sitting across from him, cradling himself like he needs to be rocked back to sleep. it's been hours and his hair still looks damp, skin pale and gleaming under the overhead lights he'd forgotten to turn off. hawk rubs a hand over his mouth, blinking a few times and trying to calm the way his heart is fluttering in his chest far too rapidly at the startle.]

Jesus, Tim - are you alright?

[he realizes the mistake almost immediately, that tim had to get out of bed and walk (stumble, more like) all the way over here. he'd put himself just out of arms reach. again. and now he's sitting here looking even smaller than ever, strong arms wrapped around the tops of his knees and head dipped back like he's trying to stop the world from spinning once again. it gives hawk the perfect, inconvenient view of his clavicle - the top of his chest and the beautifully carved muscles he's only gotten glimpses of on a dark computer screen and not even in 4k or hd. this is the real thing.

he licks his lips, pushing up onto his feet and slowly coming around to the seat. his voice is lower than usual with roughness around the consonants, the kind that comes from disuse and early mornings with poor sleep and a much lower register.]

Must have dozed off. I was going to come check on you, but you beat me to it.

[he kneels down next to the chair, knowing it's a stupid question to ask how he's feeling if he had to make the trek over and considering how he looks and what he's been through. two and some hours isn't going to magically fix this. his palm presses against tim's forehead, absently brushing some of his hair back as a frown furrows his brows again.]

Christ, you're burning up. I'll turn up the air, but let's get you back to bed, c'mon.

Let me help you.

I broke something. I'm sorry.

[ it would have been advantageous of himself to grab his glasses as he tumbled out of bed. that would have made the trek here easier, but with the way his vision delays and swims as he turns his head, he's not sure clarity behind the lenses would have helped much. a small part of him wishes he had just tossed himself back onto the bed and waited out the sweats, the dreams - stayed awake staring at the ceiling himself instead of waking this man.

he's obviously tired, if the rough edges of his voice tell him anything. (he'll think about this voice later, when he's alone in his dorm room and on the mend, it will shake him to his very core). but for now, he's opening his own mouth to apologize again when that hand presses against his forehead and he sighs, leaning into the touch once again for the sheer coolness of his palm comparatively.

he doesn't realize the way his eyes nearly flutter closed, either, at the sheer comfort. it's so different from the hands of the man at the pizzeria. so different from any other touch he's been offered by any adult in his life. with it comes compassion, care. nothing more, nothing less. ]

It's okay. You - you should sleep. I can stay here for a minute. Just have this headache -

[ and worse. the dream. the haunting dream that makes his stomach twist, but there's nothing in it to really do anything about. he won't throw up, even if he feels like he might be able to. he's not even sure he can cry anymore - the heat has all but baked the tears out of him. ]

It's your bed. I don't want... [ he can't help but reach for hawk's hand then, idly grabbing and reaching, only catching a forefinger and middle finger to stop him from moving his hand away from his forehead. it's cooler than his own skin. ]

Just don't leave me in there. Or wherever. Not alone. I feel... I feel crazy right now. I can't think... I can't... - move without - my skin crawls because I still think of -

[ feel him there. see the fiery eyes of the pastor. the hateful slander of the church. and he can't help but wonder if, in the dream, he'd have been met with hawk's disapproval. he deserves it from him, doesn't he? more than anyone else.

it's this that makes him let go of hawk's hand, his own fingers falling back to a place atop his knees. needing help to do the simplest things, to simply survive? it feels ludicrous and it just adds another layer to the beginning burn of shame that is starting to well up. a camboy who made a bad deal and ends up on the front step of his professor's home?

that'll make wild headlines.

he closes his eyes tight, tries desperately again to take in a deep, slow breath. maybe, just maybe he can use the technique from before. it's not as effective here, not without the brace of the palms on his cheeks and the insistent instructions. he picks at the knee of the sweats, fingers trembling.]

Even when I close my eyes. I just - I'll... I'll stay in here with you. If... if you're staying here.

I don't care about that right now.

[whatever it is has rolled under his chair or somewhere off on the floor, but he can't be bothered to look for it when tim is the priority. he knows he shouldn't be reaching for him so freely, that there are plenty of stories of professors being fired for far less than a half naked, drugged student in their home with. light touches to their person. but tim wouldn't ever do that to him - he's spent an entire semester keeping hawk's (their) dirty little secret and never bringing it up other than when he desperately needed this help and no one else would understand. because no one else knows. but fuck if he's not wholly encouraged each time he does it - the way tim practically leans into the touch, his eyelids fluttering and pretty dark lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks, that much more stark in comparison against the ruddiness on his skin he sees up close.]

Don't worry about me. I'm not leaving you in here alone, though. Especially not with a headache. Think you can keep down some ibuprofen?

[because stupidly, hawk just sees it for the physical discomfort. the pounding he's probably got in his temples, the night sweats overtaking the freezing chill on his skin, the exhaustion that even sleeping is doing little to abate right now. it's the other part that won't fade so quickly he hasn't even considered - the trauma of being taken advantage of, and god knows whatever he went through besides something resulting in that goddamn mark on his neck. not to mention the guilt and the shame he's been carrying around for god knows how long, the desperation to stay on campus? maybe it runs deeper than just the money, the fear of not being able to make it back. and the moment tim speaks again, reaches to keep his hand there for the way it must feel that much cooler on his skin - shit.

it all sinks in then, even just a fraction of what he's feeling. hawk remembers what it was like when he'd been caught that fateful day - two years of secrecy, gone in a single moment. on his knees, looking over his shoulder at one of the hall checks because they'd be too engrossed in their affection to hear the soft click of heels. the shock, appall, and eventual disgust that was repeated from adult to adult until it landed on the face of his father, summoned in from summer vacation preparations. a humiliation burning under his skin that he'd vowed never to let anyone have power over again. he wishes he could impart some of that to tim without the context - but even he knows the words would just fall flat, like useless encouragements and generic, uplifting ideas. they'd sound hollow, especially coming from him.

he's so distracted thinking of it that he misses the fingertips that rest atop his own, holding his hand there longer than he'd meant to keep it.]

Shhh. You're not crazy. You've been through an ordeal tonight, something you didn't deserve. But the important part is that you got away and you're safe now.

[he pauses when tim removes his hand and lets it drop back to his knees. he can see the rise and fall of his bare chest, counting the seconds and knowing exactly what he's doing - repeating the instructions hawk gave him earlier. because he's so desperately looking for guidance, because he needs something to cling to right now. hawk might regret this, in fact, he's the one who might be earning the headlines, but he does it anyway, fingertips gently brushing from his forehead and down his cheek, along the strong curve of his jawline and stopping when he reaches the mark from before.]

This will never happen to you again. No one will touch you like this, you understand?

[even if tim won't look at him, all he has to do is nod or just answer it with one word. what does he think he's asking for? promise that tim won't go looking for anyone else to do this with? that he'll be safer next time? that he'll save himself for -

no. not that.

his hand slips away, and he stands back up, bracing his hands against the back of the chair.]

I'll stay with you in the room, but you need to be horizontal and I know these chairs aren't as comfortable as that bed. Think you can walk? Or do you want a ride?

[he tries to keep it light, unbothered. but tim might be weak enough that he needs to be carried, and hawk won't mind if it's the case.]

Maybe.

[ but he isn't sure he needs to be putting anything in his stomach. isn't sure that there is anything that will wash away the same and guilt that rest just beneath the surface of the drug. the ghb amplifies everything, makes all these feelings vivid and bright, bringing with them memories and pains like ghosts, hiding patiently in the corners until dark falls.

so he'll take ibuprofen. he'll take anything hawk offers him because it will keep him at his side a moment longer, chase away the whispers and the ghastly fingers of the past. it will keep his eyes open and stave off the dreams that all but wracked him before he stumbled his way in here. stupid that he's so desperately touch-starved, that he's so incredibly lonely, that sitting in the personal office of his professor who turned him down some time ago feels as close to something like connection as he's had in a long time.

he'll see the school counselor, but he can't tell him the truth about anything. he can't face anyone and tell them what it is he has to do every day just to hope he can have enough to make it by. to eat, to buy books, to attend class. he can't tell him about the way that, when the drug wears off, he'll go to the chapel and pray for hours to remove the feeling of hawkins fuller's fingertips in his hair, on his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

his eyes burn, suddenly, when he was sure they would be barren and dry.

you're safe now.

only within these four walls. only so long as his phone is dead somewhere. only so long as he's able to pay for schooling and stay a little while longer. he closes his eyes a moment longer, as professor fuller's fingers graze over that little mark on his neck. his stomach twists sickly and his breath shudders.

you're even prettier in person - the sweaty man's voice against his neck, the brush of stubble, the sharp, sudden nip of teeth. but there are fingertips laying little pricks of fire there instead, warming the little, sore area. he can't help but look up, tilt his head into the touch faintly, seek it out even as the blown-out, glassy brown of his eyes tilts upward to meet professor fuller's eyes.

and then the command.

he swallows hard, and there's no doubt that hawk won't feel the heavy bob of his adam's apple. ]

I understand, sir.

[ quiet, sheepish, lacking all the confidence that skippy on the other side of the screen would have had, and yet the gravity that falls with it seems bigger, somehow.

this will never happen to you again.

a mantra - he's sure he'll repeat it over and over and over.

and then, sounded defeated as he turns in the chair, letting his feet fall to the fine rug of the office: ]

I can't walk. M'shaking too bad.

[ nevermind the soft, quiet sniffle. no tears fall, and it takes a deep, deep breath in to even steady his own breathing. his hands shake, his knees tremble, his heart rattles in his chest -

no one will touch you like this, you understand? ]

I, um... I don't have - the fare, I mean.

[ it's a woozy, slurring attempt at some kind of levity. he wouldn't have the money to pay hawk for the ride back to his bed, nor would he have anything like that for the ride home to the dorms. ]

[oh, that's going to stick with him for a long time. all of it - pretty half-lidded eyes with the same richness he'd find at the center of a dark chocolate truffle, the slight jump under his fingers, impossibly warm, flushed skin - the gentle promise and awe that somehow manifests itself in a simple i understand, sir. it's what skippy would have done, would have trusted him to ask. that's the thing that consumes him with a sudden, swooping realization - he'd spent so long reassuring tim to reconcile with the idea of skippy coexisting in the eager boy spending his afternoons in hawkins fuller's office and knowing that fundamentally nothing had changed, but had he taken a moment to reconcile himself with the patient man doling out orders and praising that same boy for putting said trust in him in the first place?

i'm glad it's you.

maybe he'll regret this. maybe tim won't even remember it in a few hours, let alone when he wakes up tomorrow. his fingertips press into the mark lightly, as if his might replace the feeling of whatever bastard dared lay an unwanted hand (or mouth) on him. as if tim can sink into this part instead if he can hold on - thumb shifting across his skin and into the hollow of his throat as both drag upwards, lingering on his jawline to hold his gaze there while hawk's pins him down. there is no denying the significance that settles between them, filling the air in a way that molds against them both and keeps them apart yet somehow connected through the sheer gravitas of what he murmurs, low and equal measures full of praise.]

Good boy.

[putting the words to a voice to a face. maybe now they're even. and then the moment passes, the electricity sliced apart as hawk's fingers pull away and tim adjusts back into the chair with a weariness that looks bone deep. poor kid, he really is shaking - and hawk lets his hand fall to the back of the chair just as tim lets out that soft sound - the precursor to tears falling, which he doesn't know if he can take right now. his chest rises and falls again with those stabilizing breaths, but he remembers what worked last time and doesn't need to be asked twice. he bends down, one arm slipping underneath his shoulders and down to his waist as the other finds the space behind his knees in as many hours, slowly lifting him up to try and mitigate any dizziness again.]

Put your arms around me - you're smart; you know the drill by now.

[and only when he feels the warmth of tim's arms around his shoulders, chin settling against the crook of his neck does he head out of the office and back to the bedroom. leave it to tim to feel like he owes something for it, and hawk can't help the soft chuckle.]

Mm, well consider this one on the house.

[his sheets have been rucked up from a sleep that didn't end as restful as he'd hoped, but he deposits tim against them once more and wonders if he'll detach as easily as this time. quite frankly, he's getting a little too easy with the realization of how light he feels in his arms.]

I'll be right back - don't move.

[to turn up the air and pull together a cool rag and a glass of water, because he's accepted the fate of dragging over the seat in the corner of his room near the small reading table he has set up to sit at tim's bedside like he's florence fucking nightingale. no more nightmares, no more stumbling around in the dark. no more shivering or sweating and trying to work it out on his own. here, he says, deciding against the ibuprofen for now and offering him the drink to clear out the dryness in his mouth. and when he's done his fingertips lightly graze tim's upon retrieval, setting it down on the nighstand with a soft clink before he's brushing back his hair with the same hand and enhancing the lingering sensation all over again. all so he might try and bring down the fire burning under his skin, bring him back down into the enticing lull of sleep. his palm presses across it, plastering the dampness to his forehead as he leans back with a soft smile and a rumbling whisper.]

That better?

[ it would be better for both of them if the feeling of hawkins fuller's fingertips sliding from the little mark beneath his ear, to the hollow of his throat, up to the curve of his jaw didn't feel like a brand against his skin. it would better for both of them if tim could forget the ripple of chills that climbed up his spine at the simple, low utterance of good boy. but it sends a shockwave through him, one that makes his jaw slacken just slightly against the touch and a soft breath fall from his lips.

while he knows the message went to the account on hawk's phone, a tiny part of him could never truly put together the pieces of the domineering man who guided him to the most intense peaks or who would give him solid, firm instruction with all the praise to follow a job well done. it's as vividly quaking as he'd imagined it would be, pinned down by the cool blue of his eyes, the firm set of his brow, the low and steady gravel of his voice. how many times had he closed his eyes after such written praise and imagined what the man might look like?

it had always been hawkins fuller, somehow. the realization will hit him later that, in all of his fantasies and wild wonderings, the image would have always had the outline of a friendly, challenging professor with an intellect to match his prowess at the front of the lecture hall. all that dominating force and confidence turned down and in a different direction when the lights are on and there isn't a computer screen between them.

before tim can truly come back to his thoughts, he feels the slide of hands and the easy sway as he's carried from the office to the bedroom. it takes effort to release him when his back hits the bed, to not burrow into the warmth of his neck or chest and beg him to wait a moment longer. he doesn't pull the covers up this time, doesn't snuggle in against the warmth of those comforters and sheets - he merely rests his head against the pillows and sighs again, eyes fluttering closed as hawk gives him yet another order. don't move.

he doesn't. instead, he merely presses one hand over his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, at the sticky damp on his forehead. he focuses on the scent of the sheets again - the musky aftershave, the clean linens, everything to remind him he's nowhere but this apartment. there is no church, there is no pizzeria, there is no dorm room. just this place, just this man, and just his own stupid, foolish, drugged out mind.

it helps with the tears - the burning behind them, the way his throat had gone thick and swollen with the thought of everything that had happened. but being held and carried and cared for does something to soothe the confusion and hurt and disbelief. (trauma, he'll read later. trauma).

but he obediently sits up, drinks deeply from the glass offered to him and goes through every motion until there's just the dark, the feeling of fingers brushing his hair back, and the cool press of the cloth against his skin. it's like heaven, the faint burn from fingers still cooler than his skin, and the prickling chill of the cloth. again, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan tumbles from his lips beyond his control. ]

It's better.

[ he doesn't feel like he'll melt into oblivion at this rate - he doesn't feel like something perches, waiting in the corner to eat him alive if he makes the wrong turn. the room has stopped spinning, his heart rate calming, and he's sure he'll be able to get some sleep. it's foolish how he craves more, still. craves reaching for the same hand, gripping fingers or crossing the distance between the chair and the edge of the bed too make some kind of connection. to be sure that when he wakes he isn't left alone again to face whatever lies in the swirl of maddening colors behind his eyelids. ]

M'sorry.

[ a whisper for a whisper, tim's head turning just so to peer at the man in the dim light of the room. ]

I won't get up again.

[ he's not sure he'll be able to, anyway, with the strong pull of sleep making his limbs feel heavy, his eyes even heavier. he doesn't bother with the top sheet, and instead finds himself shifting to get comfortable again, turning slightly onto one hip.

he's not sure how much time has passed when his eyes flutter open again so briefly, but the washcloth has gone lukewarm against his skin. he turns completely onto his side, which angles him against the edge of the bed, nearer and nearer to the comfort and warmth of hawk in the chair so nearby. the cloth itself peels its way free, but tim doesn't notice. with his eyes closed and curled in on himself, sleep overcomes him.

he doesn't dream this time, but he doesn't sleep easily - shifting even moments after he drifts off, body wracked with discomfort. he won't realize that in all of this, he's only sought out the man in the chair, and by no conscious thought of his own as he tosses and turns, does his head fall off the bead, cheek sleepily finding the bend of hawk's knee where he finally settles and stills, drifting, finally, into a deep sleep.

by the time the sun begins to peek between the blinds and curtains in the room, tim has made a mess of the bedclothes - comforter disheveled, sheets tangled around his ankles. even the sweats loaned to him have shifted enough to reveal the calvin klein waistband just straddling the jut of hip bones. he barely registers anything at first as he begins to slowly drift back into hazy consciousness.

he feels like he's been hit by a bus.

slowly, almost feline in the way he stretches, he begins to emerge from sleep, hazy and dizzy, stomach cramping in a way that tells him its otherwise empty and sick all at once. at first, he expects to hear the noises in the suite kitchen outside of his bedroom door. andy from the lacrosse team always turns music on way too loud first thing in the morning, and nick down the hall thunders around with the weight of a thousand soldiers.

but it's quiet.

eerily quiet. save for the breathing of another person in the room.

another person.

his heart rate ticks up slowly, slowly, and when he opens his eyes he blinks against the light. the after shave. the soft, downy sheets. the chair. the bed. the pizzeria. the man. the bus ride to campus and the polisci building. professor fuller

he shoots up, which is his first mistake.

the world spins around him for the swiftness of it and the way his stomach revolts takes the air out of his chest. his glasses are somewhere, and yet when he looks up he sees the man himself, dozing in the chair beside the bed. so close, so real, and as much as he'd like to think all of last night was a fucking awful nightmare?

it's not.

he's sore all over, exhausted. a hangover so bad he's sure he'll swear off drinking for the rest of his life.

but he has to go. he has to get to the bathroom, what with the way his whole body is warning him. the watering of his mouth, the faint stipple of sweat at his brow, the heaving breaths that never seem to fill his lungs with enough air.

it's stupid, the way he fumbles. the way he disentangles his legs from the sheets and toes out of bed. he must look like drunk bambi, what with the way he stumbles past the man in the chair and heads for the bathroom.

there's a tshirt on the floor by the toilet, tossed aside, which he thinks may be odd for someone like professor fuller. a pair of jeans that look like his own and a tshirt that looks like his own dumped behind the door haphazardly, but he doesn't have much time at all to put two and two together before he wretches.

it's not elegant. and nothing comes out. but his body heaves as though it may expel everything from the night before with only the flexion of muscles and a desperate attempt to purge whatever horrid thing is flowing through his blood.

it leaves him with arms folded on the counter top after, fingers white with tension as he presses against its surface, his head buried into the crook of an elbow as he makes every sad attempt to catch his breath. ]

Shit...

[ nothing makes sense. he has puzzle pieces from the day before, with jagged edges that don't fit together enough to make one, cohesive picture. his head pounds behind his eyes, his body aches, his throat feels dry, and his heart won't stop rabbiting in his chest with the panic. he swallows hard around a lump as another dry heave threatens, but dissipates instead into a hollowness that just might be worse. ]

Fuck.

[it's impossible to sleep the whole way through the rest of the night. the chair being better for decor than actual comfort is somehow the least of it, but even if he had to pick the one in his office would stand a better chance of leaving him without a crick in his neck in a few hours when the sun came up to shine. it's the sudden insistence of tim's presence that does him in - the overwhelming sight, sound, and smell of him. even if he probably feels like he's rolled onto death's door, it doesn't stop hawk from stealing a few glances at how peaceful he looks when sleep finally manages to pull him into its sweet embrace. it doesn't stop him from glancing at the last vestiges of a fine sheen of sweat on his bare chest, something he'd temporarily forgotten in the presence of tim's distress - had he left it in the bed somewhere? or is it on the floor and he missed it? he can't say he's too sorry for it to be gone, even if that probably puts a tally on the long list of sins that are going to send him straight to hell, if he believed in that sort of thing.

tim believes in that sort of thing, and it's going to be a hard pill to swallow come morning. that'll be the hardest of it - continuing to convince him this wasn't his fault and he didn't deserve it, all while hawk himself has the emotional availability of a brick wall and little shame. that, and trying to coax out of tim what he needed the money for in the first place. three grand isn't an insignificant amount, but maybe he was trying to prepare for senior year and decided one fell swoop was better than trying to work himself ragged burning both ends of the candle for a few weekly one-on-ones or less lucrative texts. those are the things running through his mind as he tips his head back and tries closing his eyes, tries to ignore the sound of sheets rustling and tim shifting around trying to find the right position.

he must doze at some point, because when his neck twinges with enough soreness that it has him stretching his arms up and yawning, catching a glimpse of sun just starting to peek through the curtains, he realizes it's almost six now, and it's fucking freezing in here. but tim -

tim has somehow curled himself into a small bundle, sheets half kicked off, pillow forgone as if he were crawling on hands and knees atop the mattress just to be near hawk and his warmth and the closest part he could access. it twinges something in him, even in his once again interrupted sleep that he doesn't resent in the slightest. at least the boy is out cold, which means he theoretically won't feel the hand that cards through his hair gently so as not to disturb him. the way he's nearly bent in half can't be comfortable, and for a moment he thinks about just gently lifting him by his shoulders to press him back against the bed into something more resembling a recognizable sleeping position...but he thinks twice and tries shifting his neck into something else so he can catch a few more hours of sleep.

which apparently is a success, because it's not until he hears loud stumbling and the sound of pained dry-heaving that he wakes up for the fourth time in as many hours. it takes him a few moments, thumb and forefinger swiping at his eyes as he shakes his head and rises with a bit of dread to see how bad tim is. the door is open, but he still knocks, resting both arms on the doorframe without fully entering at first to assess the situation. he's stopped attempting to vomit - probably because there isn't anything in his stomach to get out anyway, but he looks wrecked all the same leaning against the countertop and probably feeling twenty times more miserable than he looks.]

Tim? It's Professor Fuller. You might not remember it all from yesterday.

[the consideration that tim might block all of it out hadn't occurred to him, so all he can hope is that the wrong idea of being half-naked in his professor's house and sick as a dog doesn't worm its way into his head. doubtful, considering the amount of blind trust he seems to constantly offer hawk, but still. apparently he can be too careful and that hawkins fuller has thrown caution to the wind.

he takes a tentative step in, reflection visible on the mirror as he gets closer and holds both his hands out like he's about to try and soothe wounded prey more likely to startle and run. does he even remember anything from last night? christ.]

You're safe, but there's a lot for us to catch up on.

[carefully his hand reaches to press against tim's shoulder and back, patting lightly to try and help abate some of the awfulness that is intrinsic to nearly vomiting and probably a pounding headache to boot. this time he opens the cabinet against the wall with his free hand, pulling out the ibuprofen and setting it against the counter for later.]

I can leave, if you want to wait in here for a bit for this to pass. Or I can stay.

Up to you, just say the word.

[ it was only a matter of time before professor fuller woke from his slumber in the chair next to him and sought him out. he hadn't exactly been quiet about his trek to the bathroom and now, with his head bent into his arms, he almost wishes he could will the man away, and with him? the embarrassment and shame he has no doubt flushes its way up his chest, into his neck.

the moment he feels the hand on his back he lets out a soft breath, as if he'd been holding it, wrought with tension and uncertainty. some of the gentleness he remembers in the fog from the night before comes back - a man carrying him, a hospital bed, the smell of expensive aftershave, and warmth.

he raises his head, peering into the mirror at the man at his side. he catches sight of himself - no glasses, dark circles under his eyes, his face both pale and ruddy all at once. he looks horrific, that much he knows. his hair sticks up at a myriad of angles, thanks to the night-sweats and nightmares. no shirt - and when he turns his head is when he catches sight of it - the little mark on his neck.

some of the color leaves his face, and he purposefully pushes up from the counter to stand, keeping one palm flat on the fine, marbled surface. he has to look away from the sight of himself and instead meet the tired face of the man who has obviously cared for him.

he couldn't even suspect hawkins fuller of anything less than honorable if he tried. slowly he takes a breath, trying to swallow around the acrid taste at the back of his throat, to catch up to the wild, racing thoughts he'd had a moment before. he feels awful - like he could sleep for a million years and never sleep again, all rolled into one. leaning against the counter, he realizes the cool top sits on bare skin where the sweats have come down enough, where the jut of his hip bones sits above the disrupted waistband of his clothing.

he's a disaster. he self-consciously pulls the sleep pants up. ]

It's fine - I ... [ what does he even say? he feels like shit. he's sick. he's exhausted. he's scared. he's sad. he's completely defeated. so, so many things. ]

Nothing's - I can't - [ he shakes his head and runs his hand awkwardly through his hair, then scrubbing over his face. he doesn't let go of the counter with the other - just to be safe. his legs feel wobbly, not unlike a baby fawn, and it's better to test them here, anyway. ]

You don't have to leave. It's... it's your house. I should leave. I shouldn't have even... [ he looks down at his own feet then, uncomfortable. another wave of nausea passes through him, and though he doesn't feel he'll be sick, it makes a chill run up his spine, turning the skin on his arms to gooseflesh. ]

Sorry, I don't even know what to say. Or do.

[ does he get his things? the clothes on the floor are his, he now realizes. his dark jeans, the shirt, but with it piled a blazer he doesn't recognize. shit. is that the guy's...?

god, he can't even remember what he might have told professor fuller. he closes his eyes tight and tries hard to think: the pizzeria. the guy. then... what? campus? he definitely went to fuller's office. maybe a doctor. the campus nurse? then here. here that has more memories than his night altogether - here with the smell, the warmth, the traveling fingers, the low voice.

good boy. ]

I didn't... oh, my god, I didn't - did I try to - are you okay?

[ did i try to make a move on you? did i try to show you i want it? did i try to prove something? ]

[the look that meets tim in response is meant to be one that's gentle and without judgment, though he's a hot-blooded american and therefore shouldn't be judged that when tim's hands drop to tug up the pants slung low under slim hipbones in a somewhat futile attempt, in hawk's opinion, considering that impossibly slim waist that manages to house an outline of a perfect abdomen - he can't help but steal a look at the vanishing line of black and white that neatly spells out "calvin klein". he's not ogling his student, he's just taking stock of everything. the clothes on the floor, for example, including his blazer which will need to go to the dry cleaners. the missing shirt, which he must have ripped off in the middle of the night when the sweats settled in. but that doesn't tell a very convincing story to someone who's been through hell and back, and could easily be misconstrued between holes that must exist around a night of interrupted sleep and nightmares and hazy images, if he's even got that go off of.

but it's the way tim sounds that tugs at him more than anything else - afraid, crushed, ashamed. fuck, of course he knew it was coming - he'd just hoped it wouldn't come crashing down so suddenly on his shoulders. that maybe it would come back in small pieces in a way that was somehow easier to digest. but brushing with something that dangerous and seedy and getting fucking drugged by some stranger isn't something to just be swallowed down, not the kind of thing that's simple to just digest like a goddamn six-course meal.

hawk shakes his head even as tim looks away, and he knows from days of looking into his animated face and memorizing every enthusiastic expression, every manic glint in his eye before he strikes gold on some idea - this isn't his finest hour in terms of appearance. but it's not his fault, and he steps in again, hand rubbing lightly against his shoulder in reassurance.]

Betting you've got a lot on your mind right now. I can clear up some of it.

[lightly he shifts his grip, enough that it suggests they head somewhere else besides standing in the bathroom like this. the pile of clothing can wait, though he snags the ibuprofen with a rattle of pills.]

Let's get you some water and take a seat first. Or do you want to lie down again?

[dealer's choice, he almost says before he stops himself, remembering it was something he once said in the middle of that. shit. his hand lifts from tim's shoulder, scubbing over his face once more and trying to push all of that away even though it's very tangential to the situation they're in now. and then tim stops dead and bursts out with - something. hawk's head tilts in confusion, eyes narrowing underneath furrowed brows of disbelief as it takes a few moments to read between the halting spaces that cut off his questions that are both for hawk himself and probably his own recollection.

it's not that he means to be crass about it, but hawk can't help the laugh that bubbles up from his throat at the implication that somehow tim laughlin could force himself or somehow make an unwilling partner out of hawkins fuller. he's not laughing at tim, just the idea of being somehow overpowered or off-put by his admittedly favorite student and secret fantasy.]

Sorry. I'm not - at you. But you're asking if I'm alright after you've been through the ringer? Christ, Laughlin. You're something else.

[the fondness in his tone and the way his face stretches into a smile should sink in enough that that's a good thing, and he pats tim's bare back again lightly with his palm, feeling the ripple of gooseflesh underneath it and knowing he must be hovering between temperatures again.]

Come on, let's see how steady you are on your feet. Hold onto me if you need.

[he extends the crook of his arm again, another motion he'd repeated last night, wondering if tim will remember any of it. it occurs to him partway through tim's first steps that he never really answered any of his stuttered questions though.]

And no, by the way, you didn't.

Edited 2024-01-09 07:40 (UTC)

Sitting his fine.

[ or maybe he should lie down. maybe he should go back to that bed, crawl into it and close his eyes so he can wake up to something else later. wake up to all of this being some wild, fucked up fever dream. but of course it isn't - he knows better. instead he focuses on the feeling of the man's palm at his shoulder, the warmth it spreads beneath his fingertips and he lets out a little shuddered breath.

what he doesn't expect, however, is the laugh.

at first, tim's head snaps up in a sad attempt to assess the laughter - the why. why would any of this be funny? why would anyone laugh about having someone throwing themselves at them and -

oh.

professor fuller's smile is fond and warm and there's the hand on his back again, and suddenly tim feels extremely small. relieved, but small. he didn't do anything to this man - which only means that the flashes of the pizzeria, the bald man (was his name mark?) are all real. it makes his stomach churn again, and with an exhale he nods a little. ]

I... I just didn't want - I would never - [ a breath, then a sigh. ] But you know that.

[ he reaches instinctively for the crook of his arm, carefully hooking his in the other man's, even letting his free hand fall on his forearm to steady himself further as they move out of the bathroom. there's no making up for how this all went down. no changing the past or changing the very picture they're painting.

this was never supposed to go this way.

a few steps in and he can tell already he shouldn't leave the bedroom. maybe it's the anxiety, the panic, the fatigue, the illness - but his vision seems to spot at the edges and his breathing tightens a little. the bed is right there and that is where he knows, for the moment, he should stay.

(he knows, really, he needs to go back to the dorm. he needs to get the hell out of this place and pretend none of this happened. but he also knows that hawkins fuller likely won't let him run off that easily). ]

Actually - can we... just stay here for a second?

[ there's a gesture toward the bed and the chair, where they'd both ended up the night before, and it's only with hawk's help he makes it back to the edge, sitting down slowly. could he walk on his own? sure. he's a little unsteady, but nothing like the sloshing, slurring mess from last night. it's more a mental instability right now than physical - the embodiment of panic, stress, fatigue.

he remembers now how comfortable the bed is, how warm it had been, and he knows too why one cheek had been slightly more pink than the other - from the pressure of sitting upon the knee of a man who doesn't want anything to do with him.

not in that way.

he sheepishly pulls himself further onto the bed, pulling his legs up to sit crosslegged, staring down at his hands in his lap. his head hurts, his body aches, and if this were any other day he'd think he'd have the flu. but no, that's not what this is at all. ]

I'm sorry. For all of this.

[ god, where does he even begin. he can't put the sequence of events in order, but he can tell that had he not ended up here, his evening could have ended up far, far worse. ]

But... I don't - I remember some of it. I just didn't want to... disrespect you. Not after all this.

[ a gesture to mean the care he's been given now, before this, and even before they'd both come to confront that situation they're both tied up in. he runs his hand back through his hair again, and reaches then for his glasses.

the lean is a bad idea though and he catches himself on the edge of the nightstand, closing his eyes and letting the nausea course through him. ]

I know.

[the thought would never cross his mind - hell, it hadn't even when they'd first come face to face in the coffee shop that any of this was an intentional thought to trap him, to force him into an unwanted situation. nevermind that the only unwanted part is the fact that he's a current student - but that's not a fact he's planning on sharing anytime soon. his body slots in close, already preparing for maybe what is the inevitable of tim losing his balance once or his nerve once again. hawk's no mind-reader, but he doesn't think he needs to be to watch the way he's huddling in on himself once more, probably grasping at straws trying to piece everything together and reassure himself that nothing untoward really transpired here. it's still baffling to think his biggest concern would be hawk's comfort, but he supposes that's the same naïveté he's spent weeks trying to hone into something a little sharper and that much wiser.

there's a tremor in him that he senses before tim asks to stop - and they're nearly at the bed when he agrees with a soft of course - go ahead, guiding him to sit at the edge before he pulls himself up into a seated position. which frankly is progress compared to yesterday night, he supposes. hawk settles himself in the chair again, legs spread and back pressed downward so he can rest his elbows on his knees and put himself moreso at tim's level. hands folded between the space in something meant to be casual and encouraging. no desk between them, no schoolwork, and no computer screen. this might be the best chance they've got to have an honest conversation about the whole thing, and it seems like that's what tim wants.

the fact that he doesn't remember...it's not going to be pleasant to be the bearer of bad news, but he has a hunch that if he'd want anyone to do it? it would be hawk, so long as he treads lightly. thank god the hangups he'd had last night about seeing tim in his bed, let alone with a cheek pressed adoringly against his knee have been abated by the stone cold sober realities sinking in during the light of day. they'll sink in again when he's alone, able to absorb the thought of them in a much different context. for now, his gaze shifts upward to where tim looks utterly hollowed out with nothing but rawness left behind.]

Well there's one thing you gotta fix off the bat.

You forgot your promise - no more apologizing. Acknowledging that none of this is your fault.

[that's an easier way of putting it instead of reminding tim he'd agreed to be the good boy the hawk of his classes and his late night activities had come to inspire. it's slow motion the way tim runs a hand through maybe the most serious case of endearing bedhead he's ever seen before he tips against the solid wood of his nightstand and has hawk lunging forward from his seat to keep him from accidentally bashing his head in. his hand steadies agains his arm, the other pressing gently at the bare skin against his ribcage, solid and yet somehow closer to the surface than he would have imagined looking at his torso. must be all the pinching pennies and skipping meals. hawk shifts him back upright with a slight frown, reaching for his glasses and extending them in his hand for tim to take.]

Alright, I think that's enough of that. If you need something for now, ask. You're in no shape for sudden movements, got it?

[he pulls away, crossing his legs and leaning back against the chair with a sigh. one hand drums against the armrest, trying to decide where to start, considering he doesn't even have the full picture either.]

I was in the office late last night. You stumbled in three sheets to the wind, though how you got there in one piece I couldn't tell you.

A date - Pizzeria Paradiso. Do you remember that? Thank god for your guardian angel - the waitress must have known something was off because she kept an eye on you, figured he put something in your drink.

And then I took you to the hospital - Sibley Memorial - less chance of either of us answering questions we'd prefer not to. Nurse said it was GHB and you needed to be monitored. Not a chance I was gonna ship you back to the dorms even in a cab, so I took you here to let you clean up a bit and get some shut-eye.

[that's the gist of it. but that's really not it, is it? his voice softens again, and he reaches tentatively to settle a hand on his student's forearm.]

Tim - what did you need the money for?

[to the tune of about $500 a week, right? because it's my fault - i'm the one that put you here.]

You said it was the first time since we - saw each other during Christmas break.

I'm okay. Really.

[ it's the nausea more than the loss of balance that sends him reeling. it's impossible to deny the dryness of his mouth or the way his stomach twists deep in his gut at anything thought of moving, any thought of doing anything but just sitting still.

he takes the offered glasses, unfolds them, and slides them on. the world comes back into stark clarity, and even here in the dim light of the bedroom he can see that even professor fuller is tired. he knows he kept him up late, for one, but there's a little more added guilt to all of this. but he listens to the man instead, glancing down at his hands in his lap and trying to focus on his breathing as everything sort of melds itself into place.

it's hazy, but there's no forgetting the client. no forgetting the way professor fuller picked him up and carried him to the car, to the hospital. he doesn't remember much there, save for the hands on his cheeks and the breathing. ah, yes. the breathing he's not good at. the smell of the man's aftershave, the feeling of his heart beating in his throat. the warmth of him. and god.

good boy.

he picks at his thumb nail, all the nervous energy falling into his fingers as he sits there, recounting the whole night. it's better, really, that professor fuller doesn't know everything.

his hands still when the man reaches for him and tim's eyes raise suddenly, meeting the cool blue.

a hand on his throat. sliding to his jaw. the command all in the touch instead of in the words. he remembers that, too. but this is different. the gentle touch, the way his voice softens, the way hawk leans forward into his space just so. a man trying to get the information he wants - like he's afraid of startling a jumpy, skittish cat.

tim goes still at the question, staring across at him, his heart beat ticking faster in his ears. the warmth and color from before rise up into his cheeks, down the plane of his neck, a flush of embarrassment. he doesn't want to tell him. doesn't want to admit to anything, and yet what else could he possibly do to repay his kindness? there's nothing more to hide now, anyway. professor fuller knows more about him than anyone should, and while it should be liberating or comforting, it just makes tim sink in on himself a little more.

his lips pull to one side as he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. he mulls over what to say, how much to offer. his eyes drop back to the hand on his arm, strong and warm. manicured in a way that tells him professor fuller lives a physically quiet life. his own hands are picked at, nails back to the quick, some calluses from days working with his father as a boy. ]

School. [ he shrugs one shoulder, a little uncomfortably, voice sounding smaller than he means it to. more defeated, resigned. ] Summer classes. It was due today. But it's fine. I don't need them. I'm on schedule to graduate on time, so it doesn't really matter.

[ but they had been classes he's wanted to take since he'd started there, but couldn't fit in his schedule. (or couldn't afford to add another course). a literature course on anitheroes. a sociology course on culture. one of professor fuller's government courses. another on the poetry of elizabeth bishop.

he can always ask for the syllabi later and do the reading on his own, of course. ]

It would have signed me up, anyway. Secured my dorm. Didn't cover food or anything, but I felt like asking for more would -

[ a higher dollar amount would probably go unanswered. ]

I... I wasn't lying. About it being the first. I... I don't know. It was stupid. The first one was you, and that would have been -

[ fine. safe. good. exactly what he wanted. ]

I just thought maybe this one wouldn't... wouldn't be that bad. But it was. And just... just for stupid classes.

[is any of this shaking loose? he almost asks, but realizes the more he watches tim channel all his nerves into fiddling with his thumb as the colour slowly crawls its way up his bare chest to his neck and all the way up to the tips of his ears. boy wouldn't last a day playing poker, that's for damn sure - but this situation isn't something quite so cavalier. it's through sheer willpower his eyes stay above the neck, partly because tim looks like he'd rather sink through the bed, down the floor and into the earth's dark core than answer this and partly because it's still inappropriate to be filing it away into a mental rolodex. christ, thoughts like that and he's no better than the asshole who put his boy here in the first place.

ah christ. and that - that right there is what he has to stop. tim isn't his boy. wasn't even to begin with. that's the part he left out on purpose, glossing it over with a simple promise, not a verbal command and wordless touches to communicate a demand for obedience. and tim had complied - had taken to that, skippy come to life right in front of his eyes instead of under the dim lighting of smoke and mirrors and careful camouflage of his dorm room. this is exactly the kind of thing that needs to pushed down deep, preferably never to see the light of day again, but only when this ordeal is over and tim is long gone trying to get back to some semblance of normalcy in the brief summer break he's giving himself.

because he'd seen tim's name on his roster - and despite everything, he'd been looking forward to his no doubt favorite student being the center of attention in a class full of hungry, aspiring politicos. it hadn't even registered that's what he was trying to scrape together at the ninth hour. of course someone as diligent as tim didn't need to take it along with whatever else he had planned, but he'd want to, and hawk hopes it's solely because of his dedication and passion for the content. just the content. and selfishly a part of him knew that would probably be the last he'd be seeing of laughlin - onto greener pastures, focusing on his senior year, probably trying to land an internship and dropping by for an update and a recommendation letter request for conquering washington's entry-level opportunities in no time.

in the grand scheme of things it wasn't a make-or-break course. hell, it wasn't even a requirement. but would it have been nice? yeah, it sure would have.

not nice enough to put up with almost getting date raped over three grand. hawk's expression darkens, though it's not directed in any way at tim and rather the idea of the bastard that did this to him. he's no avenging angel, but what he wouldn't do for fifteen minutes in a dark alley with the asshole that's made tim curl up into himself in as many times in the last twelve hours. his hand squeezes without even realizing it, still holding onto tim's forearm reassuringly as he lets it all out.]

For summer classes. My class?

[now he feels doubly responsible. shit. to anyone else, hawkins fuller would delay, deny, and draw doubt from even his toughest critics wanting to suspect him of some wrongdoing or scrutinize his often acerbic wit. analyze his private life, the perceived pull he has with the dean, his youth, his looks, his single status. yeah, he'd have no problem telling them fuck you without saying the words, sending them off with a smile and a firm handshake. but this isn't anyone - this is tim, and if he can't be vulnerable with the boy who's spilled his guts and wound up half dead at his proverbial doorstep, who they hell can he?]

I know that - I trust you.

It wasn't stupid of you to try. You remember what I said in the first few weeks of the semester? That you were doing your best.

[hawk pulls his hand back, leaning forward again and looking at tim with all softness in his gaze sharpened into something quite serious.]

This is on me, Tim.

[he lifts a finger, knowing the way his mind works and the outburst that's coming.]

Don't say what I think you're going to. Five-hundred a week - it adds up. And it damn sure hurts when it's gone, doesn't it?

[his own throat dries right up too, and it makes him reach for the glass at the bedside table and hand it to tim knowing his must be in even worse shape.]

I put you in this position. It's my fault you almost got hurt, and for that - I owe you an apology. All of this? Jesus, it's the least I could do.

[a nod to the glass of water, the bed, the sweatpants - his very presence here.]

But I need you to listen to me. Meeting like that? Too goddamn dangerous. Last night, I told you - you won't do it again.

Promise me right now.

[he sits up straighter, eyes bright with a conviction that only tim draws out of him in their verbal sparring these days.]

You're worth so much more than the risk, do you understand that?

Edited 2024-01-10 06:01 (UTC)

Your class. A few literature courses, a sociology. I considered an astronomy course, but you'd have to pay for the lab hours as well, so I ruled that out.

[ there's a hint of the boy he is - the faint spark of interest and intrigue, the hungry need to learn more and get his hands on any bit of information he can chew on. he'll always be voracious for knowledge. he's been curious since he was a boy, and deeply dedicated to the dogged pursuit of something bigger, better, greater. to know how the world chooses to work is to master it, isn't it?

there's no other chance for rebuttal as hawk speaks, holding his finger up and passing him the glass of water. he presses the cup between his palms for a moment, looks down at the ripples of light on the water before he brings it up for a sip. it helps, but the idea of putting anything in his system makes his stomach flip again. enough that he reaches to set the glass aside, slowly and carefully.

it's the squeeze of a hand around his arm that he misses now - how steadying it felt, how grounding. there's distance between them, and no matter how gentle or soft the man tries to become, tim feels the space between them open up like a void, cold and gaping. ]

It is not your fault.

[ something in tim's voice changes - it doesn't get stronger, but seems to dig heels in, instead. a gravel, a determination he doesn't have the energy for. ]

I made the decision. I decided to make the first post and message you. I wanted you to respond. Specifically you - or. Your account. And maybe I needed the money for this semester but I could have gotten it. Somehow.

[ he blows out a little huff, exhausted and determined to get his words out. ] I am not doing my best. Doing my best would have been accepting I couldn't afford the classes and going home. Instead I made a post. Let a stranger respond. A man I didn't know, but seemed harmless enough. That's on me.

[ he shakes his head again, but this time it makes his eyes squeeze shut, the room spinning a little alongside the lurch of his stomach. ]

I knew - I never expected - the $500 a week. It hurt, yeah. It's the difference in text books and meal plans. But I'm good at making the one daily meal plan stretch. I just - I really wanted to stay here for the summer. I had to have a deposit and then the bursar would set up a payment plan for the rest - I've done it my whole time here. They know I'm good for it.

[ he looks down at his hands again, then back up to hawk. ] It's not your fault, though. It might not have been you at that first meet up. It could have been anyone. It's on me. And even if we had - if you - [ a shake of his head. ] It simply doesn't change the fact that had you fucked me as you intended that day, I wouldn't have accepted any further monies from you, anyway. I just -

[ because i would have wanted it to mean more than cash and checks.

tim keeps the man's gaze, and there's a bit of life coming back into his own eyes, he's sure of it. he can tell by the way his face feels warm, the way he grips his hands in his lap, the way he feels ready to bite back at the faintest challenge and conviction in hawk's eyes.

but god, he's tired. so, so tired.

and he will never be able to resist any order this man gives him.

listen to me and promise me. ]

What that guy did to me... you would have never done. Not - not like that. I know you. I just wanted to stay on campus. That's not my reality anymore - I just refused to accept it. So...

[ and there's a moment where tim considers what to say next, his breath a little shaky as he remembers the way he'd been pawed at, kissed at, held. instead he was rescued by the man across from him now - all warmth and broad chest, all kindness and care. a demanding, domineering man who will accept nothing less than what he's asked for.

a part of tim wants hawkins fuller to know he remembers last night.

and maybe that's not playing fair here. not with this situation, not in this context. but there is an unspoken trust that comes with quiet demands and soft praise. a balance and a perfectly in-tune chord struck at every instance.

so he meets hawk's eyes again, expression resigned and resolute. ]

This will never happen to me again. [ not the pizzeria, not the grubby man, not the money nor the incentive to meet.

a part of him wonders if it means they will never meet like this again - raw at the edges and blown open by the stark reality of the world around them. ]

No one will touch me like that again.

[ there's a flex of a little muscle in his jaw, a tired sign of the defiant student hawk knows so well, even if he is buried under the crumpled, shameful pylon of the boy called tim laughlin. ]

But if I'm going to promise you something, sir. I need you to promise me something.

[ promise your boy something.

it's almost quiet, plaintive in the way he says it, voice turning so that no one could overhear were this conversation happening in public. he sounds tired, still - he can hear it in his own voice, with the gravel at its edges. ]

That you'll never say what happened to me was your fault, ever again. Maybe the circumstances were my fault, but what... what that guy did - it wasn't my fault either. [ he blows out a low, slow breath. ]

Promise me, sir.

Edited 2024-01-10 06:29 (UTC)

[sure, it sounds alright when tim lays it out like that. could have been happenstance, could have been anyone else. but it wasn't, was it? it was hawk on one end, tim one the other, and a loaded gun of desire and detriment between them both waiting for a game of russian roulette. if tim wasn't his student? yeah, he would have taken him back and fucked him within an inch of his life. might have even stayed the whole twenty-four hours. but would he have felt the pull of someone as whip-smart and headstrong and wholly endearing as the tim laughlin he knows now? or would it have just been another pretty face, an extended fuck goodbye? this is why he doesn't linger on the what-ifs, and it's definitely why he's refused to consider any other option in this entire mess. not even the insidious little reminder that tim won't be his student forever, hell, if today is anything to go by - he won't even be his student for another semester.

because those feelings haven't gone away. tucked safely somewhere that won't interfere with their day to day and working relationship? absolutely. but this lingering space between them - this limbo of personal and private and definitely not professional - what constitutes as fair game here? giving tim orders, demanding of him the way he would of skippy - laying ground rules and expectations in every sense but the physical. is that even fair? does tim feel like he has the proper platform to reject it if it isn't?

evidently yes, even if tim has a blind faith in hawk that he doesn't have the heart to break him of. maybe if he had a day in his head, or watched the way he's fucked and discarded plenty of one-night-stands on the stringent insistence of no strings, he'd think twice. feel differently. lose the hero worship, which hawk doesn't think of arrogantly nor unjustifiably. there's something deeper here he won't let go of, but first things first:]

You remember.

[his voice drops into the firm resonance he'd use if they were - ]

Good boy.

[there's no taking it back now, and hawk feels like he's watching vitality pour back into tim with each layer they strip away with each other. further and further into this labyrinth of liability - and yet, he can't deny there's a certain thrill to it either. the money, the bursar, the payment plan - that's all something he's filing away for monday. something to make up for this, to keep the promise it's only fair to offer in return.]

That's right - it wasn't your fault. So I'll promise you - it's not mine either.

[at the very least, he promises he'll never say it like that again. there's a moment of silence he lets sink in, gaze dropping from tim's eyes to the way his jaw twitches slightly with that defiance he's come to know and appreciate a little too dearly. there's a heaviness between them at it, like the magic words to an oath or some fairy tale vow - the way it had lingered last night too. only now there's no mistaking its existence, no waving it away as just a dream. his lips pull upward into a light curve, eyes twinkling before his back sinks against the chair once more, spell breaking.

that still doesn't explain one thing:]

Doing your best is striving for it, never giving up even when it feels insurmountable. And you want to be here, so you work for it. You sacrifice.

But tell me something - which is it?

The pursuit of knowledge and making the world a better place someday?

[that one's obvious - he remembers tim asking if he was being made fun of the first time he'd said something along the lines. the answer: only a little.]

Or avoiding whatever it is you're running from back home?

[it's not that he wants to flay tim utterly bare. but a part of him needs to know before he does the most reckless thing in nearly a decade.]

[ something has changed on the air between them. that cold, december day is long past them and something else has grown into its place. gone is the strained professionalism, the don't-ask-don't-tell ignorance they played about the circumstances of their original meeting. maybe it's just the remaining effects of the drug in his system or the aggressive hangover-induced brain fog but the air feels heavy.

their eyes meet and tim can feel the tiniest bit of heat bloom low in his belly. it's not enough to notice - not with the embarrassment piled on top of it flushing his throat, his chest, his cheeks. the shame and embarrassment alone can be as good a fall guy for the imperceptible shift.

yes, he remembers. maybe to their detriment. maybe it would be better if he hadn't, and yet when hawk speaks again? the low, firm tone of his voice sends a spark shooting down his spine.

good boy.

he hadn't imagined it. maybe bringing up the phrasing he'd been asked - no, told - to use the night before had been a way to make sure tim hadn't imagined it all. that the apparent ghb didn't make up some feverous fantasy and produced the imagined sound of professor fuller's voice saying those words exactly. they're not typed on a screen now - there's no deleting or unsending that can happen once the sound reaches his ears. ]

Then I promise, too. I'll stop blaming myself for this, sir.

[ the sir comes so easily - any student would address their professor politely, formally, and yet there's a dip in his voice when he says it that matches the even rumble of the other man's, a soft, pliant echo to the heavy note of praise.

but the tension breaks just as soon after with professor fuller sliding back in his chair, opening up that space between them again. tim's shoulder's slacken, his heart slows and he has no doubt that the flush has only crept its way further down his chest, just blooming at the top of his pecs. it's embarrassing that his shame and fluster presents itself so physically. there's only hiding when he has clothes on, and even then once the very tips of his ears alight, he's done for.

it keeps tim very, very honest.

honest enough that he doesn't quite anticipate the pointed, question. blindsided, really, is the best way to describe it. from the electrical tension between them, to the easy conversational tone of a mentor and his student, to this. it's not rude, crass, harsh, mean. the tone itself is very much the same, but it's the calculated way tim realizes he's been caught.

a rabbit, unsuspecting of the panther that has laid in wait beneath the brush. moving with calculated slowness, making his body still and careful and small until near enough that the rabbit may not even escape.

his eyes widen, his mind goes blank. somehow the memory of the sweaty, grabby man from the night before is far less traumatic and horrifying in the face of returning home now. he has tried very hard to make light of it - like he goes home often - but professor fuller wouldn't know the difference. or so he thought.

god, he's a terrible liar.

tim's fingers flex, he shifts a little to adjust the angle of one of his legs beneath him. he suddenly wishes he had more clothes he could hide behind, he could burrow into. the vitality that had crept back up beneath his skin and into the brown of his eyes remains, but there's a hard swallow that accompanies it. the rabbit, tail flicking nervously, ears back, pupils blown wide - trying to decide whether running is the best option or accepting the swift, painful death may be.

(the rabbit will always run, won't he? always try and dodge and weave and hope that the brush or other obstacle will be too great for the panther to overcome. it's no use here). ]

I'm not running.

[ and he isn't really. running would be denying the bus ticket home. it would be living on the streets or begging one of his acquaintances for a couch to stay on. starving just to avoid the four walls of his small house in staten island. doing everything but returning. but his duty and pragmatism always outweighs those options.

it's foolish. he can play pretend, keep his mouth shut, smile and nod when he has to. he grew up in it, after all. ]

It's just better for me if I don't go back there. If I don't have to. I've managed it every semester so far. I went back my first Christmas, but I hadn't built up -

[ a huff and he looks away then, a wry sort of pull at the corner of his lips. not a smile, not a grin - just darkly bemused. ] I didn't have the client base to make it make sense, then. But it did for a while - I was able to make it work.

[ he shrugs a shoulder, quiet for a moment as he sorts his thoughts. ]

I want to be here. Yes, of course it's for the pursuit of knowledge - to learn as much as I can before I don't have the open doors and avenues to ask all the questions I have. I know I won't be able to stand in the real world and parse apart arguments at the word-level, dig into the etymologies of our political terms and how we somehow lost our roots in the past three hundred years. That's not realistic.

[ and there's a smile, albeit one that is a touch sad and does not reach his eyes. ]

But I won't stand a chance if I go back there. We live in the south end - near the old farm colony site. Six people in a two bedroom walkup. There's one library in walking distance, and there's one bus that gets you to the ferry. No one there believes in knowledge. Believes in truth or justice. They just believe in a God that is neither benevolent nor just. Who expels even those with the best intentions to Hell for the sake of their mere existence.

[ no one there believes that a man could love a man. that a heart could want many things. that a mind could grow and things can change and the world could be so much better that 60s wallpaper, moldy siding, a screaming preacher on a pulpit and hate employed in the name of righteousness. ]

God made all of us with a plan. And maybe being in D.C. isn't the plan for me. For all the obstacles that have stood in my way, you'd think I'd take it as some divine sign to turn back and be done with all of this. Like in Romans - I consider the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us.

There has to be more out there for me.

[ it's absent that his hand reaches for his chest, fingers drifting along the line of his sternum. ah. his cross. he'd taken it off before his date. it sits on his bedside table in his dorm room, on the worn cover a library book - look homeward, angel. ]

Edited 2024-01-10 16:00 (UTC)

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