homosexuals | [UNI AU]

[UNI AU]

CAMBOY UNI AU

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

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)

[that's one of the things that has risen on the long list of what he admires about tim laughlin in as much as it is something they'll desperately need to work on coaxing him out of before the time he hits the ground in the capitol. the rabbit could never survive in a den of lions and tigers and bears - oh my - but it wouldn't survive the serpent-tongues that could take even the largest of creatures with gnashing teeth down in a simple flick either. in this context his honesty isn't a bad thing, even if it's betrayed by the beautiful rising flush along his body, and he realizes belatedly that another shirt should have been offered to him sometime ago and that he himself never got around to putting on something more comfortable last night. first things first then - slowly he unbuttons the cuffs at his wrist, rolling them upward across his forearms and just past his elbows as he listens intently to tim's explanation.

of course it wasn't meant to hurt or alarm him, but if his student thinks he hasn't been paying attention and doesn't know how to read an entire book between the lines - he's got another thing coming. or more accurately: it's an unfairly easy glimpse into the environment that has shaped this passionate boy, no lines to read between at all, printed plain as day as if in compliment to look homeward, angel.

staten island has never been on his list of visits from childhood until now, only remembering the vague recollection of the picturesque, primary coloured cyclone and a good old fashioned hot dog from coney island across the way. new yorkers were a mixed bag according to his father, frowning upon any child whose exuberance was not as tempered as his son's, and even then he'd wondered what they'd been doing there at all if reservation was the name of the game. but now he knows about the conservative lean the areas sport - often well-meaning, large families who work hard and don't know what they don't know. but they don't have the fortitude to get the fuck out and see the rest of the world for what it is, confused and offering guilting platitudes to those like tim who would spread their wings and eagerly fly away.

thank christ it isn't anything as dastardly as abuse or neglect - though he's not sure that's entirely accurate either. going back to a place like that means hiding who tim is at his core, more than just his sexual preference or the job he's forced into to make ends meet. it's stifling his creativity, his voracious search for truth and justice in a world designed to shirk it as much as possible. staying there means finding some dead end job to just get by, go through the motions day in and day out without real meaning or substance to his greater purpose. not that hawk would ever recommend that higher purpose has anything to do with god or religion, and he can't help the way his expression turns a little critical at that - a furrow of his brows, the slight pull of his mouth into a thinner line.

christians, catholics, jesuits - doesn't really matter. every last one hypocrites one way or another, hiding behind a shield in pursuit of the same damn thing they all are, only with a insufferable crock of self righteousness to prop themselves up with in the process. that, or it's the symbolism and the signs, the necessary excuses to live life beyond what they think they're limited to following laws written by modern hands and not some holy spirit. but he's not about to get into a theology lecture - it's something he knows is important to tim, who has drawn from it before, who has left office hours at a sprint because he'll be late catching the bus for masses at st. joseph's across town. but it's that same piety that's torturing him, probably is at the root of why he continues to hunch in on himself when he thinks about the things he's deemed himself a failure for, or somehow less than.

all of that is bullshit, so far as he's concerned. why would a benevolent god punish people for love? why would a god who forgives all sins overlook one? and why the hell would a place meant for sinners not celebrate the behaviour that landed them there in the first place?

(he hadn't lasted long with his own youthful foray into the world of religion with that attitude. another early disappointment in the books at the fuller household.)

his gaze follows tim's hands - reaching for something on his chest in a motion that should be mundane, but has hawk swallowing thickly anyway before he drags them back up slowly to his face and keeps them there. right, the shirt.

he pushes up from the chair, stepping over to his tall dresser against the wall and rifling through one of the bottom drawers for another faded tee, this one from the old debate team. standing, he tosses it to tim.]

Catch. You look cold again.

[he doesn't take the chair again, instead letting out a sigh and putting both hands on his hips.]

Look, I don't know about God and what he's got to do with this, but you're barking up the wrong tree with that anyway. Public servants, Putin, populism - I've got you covered there. I only lasted a few weeks in Jesuit school for good reason.

[a wry smile, blink and he might miss it before it drops into something serious again.]

But Tim, you're not going to hear agreement from me if you're looking for a reason to turn back. If you want to believe in signs and miracles and the pre-ordained. And I know that's not what you want.

[hawk takes a step forward, towards the bed, hands falling to his side as he looks down at tim sitting there, looking up at him with those big brown eyes and mussed hair. jesus.]

You're right where you belong. That's all there is to it.

And two years from now, when you're walking through those hallowed halls in your best suit - I want you to think back on this moment, right now, and take a minute to celebrate.

[but that still leaves the immediate questions: what does that mean for summer school? for next year?

he needs divine intervention, is what it means. or just a very stubborn hawkins fuller, pulling a few strings in the wings. he won't know.]

If the deadline was yesterday, what's the plan now?

[he asks it casually enough, overlooking the obvious fact that he'll need to try and keep down food, shower, rest, speak with a counselor, and get through the rest of exams next week.]

[ tim simply can't help the way his eyes flutter to the careful unbuttoning of the shirt cuffs, the way professor fuller rolls them up to the crook of his elbow. he's seen this look dozens of times before, and yet in the close space between them now, the forced intimacy from their rough night together makes the whole thing feel different. he takes in a second longer - the muscles of his forearms, the broad hands he can remember on his skin. he tears his eyes away, back to his own hands once they fall back to his lap, missing his cross.

he barely manages to catch the shirt. the old debate team - the year worn out and faded. there's a sort of wry look on his face as he shakes it out and pulls it on over his head, letting even his glasses pop through the well-loved collar. the fabric itself is soft, but it's the smell. it makes his skin prickle again, but the scent of hawkins fuller won't leave his olfactory memory any time soon. it's rich and warm and safe. ]

Thanks.

[ and because professor fuller himself has drawn his attention to it, he reaches for the comforter then, tugging it up around his shoulders to cocoon himself in. he's exhausted, sick, sore, upset. sleep is exactly what he needs and yet even here he refuses to lie down.

soon, he'll get up, get back into his own clothes, and head back to the dorm. they'll pretend none of this happened, too. there will be no counselors, no follow up, just the quiet understanding that things will have been taken care of. it's not like he'll be able to see a counselor anyway, what with the return to staten island now so imminent. ]

Trust me, I know better than to talk to you about God. [ there's a look there - fiery disbelief that in any other chat they'd be having would have long since turned into the rolling of eyes. it's better for his stomach he doesn't do that. ]

And I don't know that I believe God is on this path with me, anyway. I don't know what to believe anymore. I feel troubled and pray every time I go to mass, but I wake up the next day with the same questions. More questions, even. My father would say it's God's way of punishing me - torturing me until I turn around and go back down the right path. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, et cetera. That poem is flawed, by the way.

[ he sighs, tugging the comforter around him again. he knows he'll have to answer the question eventually. that he'll have to come face to face with the reality that he will be leaving in a week and he's wholly unprepared for it. mentally, physically, financially. there's so much more to do still before he can go home. ]

But yeah, I feel like I am where I should be. [ it's quieter, less bite and conviction, less sarcastic remark. genuine, more than anything. ] That's what I meant - Romans, that is. The struggle is going to be worth whatever the outcome is. I can't afford to believe anything else.

[ he gives in to the temptation to fall back onto the bed, first leaning to his side, then rolling onto his back. he has all but wrapped himself in the blankets now, and no doubt he looks a sight with his wild bed-head and glasses peeking out from behind the expensive fabric. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling first, mulling the question over, then letting out a sigh. ]

It's obvious what's next.

[ the bus ride. home. his family. church.

his skin crawls. ]

I go home. There aren't any more extensions - I'd already asked for one and used it.

[ he grips the covers, closes his eyes in a long blink, then glances back at hawk. ]

I'll do some of my thesis reading. Last time I checked a few books out of the library and just kept them. Took the hit on the fines. Cheaper than buying them. I'll do that. Maybe try to write a few analyses. My father won't let me get a job - he needs help at the Church. They have a significant plot of land, a community garden.

[ his hands ache from the thought already. and he knows he'll have to hide his books, too, lest his father decide they're full of satanic speech. ]

Until then I need to get boxes. Find somewhere to store my stuff until I get back. Get a bus ticket. Study, if I can. Do my exams.

[ he has to feel better, surely, tomorrow? there's no way any of this can linger overlong. he doesn't have time for it. he needs to study, ace his exams, and secure a spot in his senior year. failing isn't an option. he cannot afford to return to school here, for so many reasons.

tim doesn't even look at his immediate needs - food, a shower, sleep. instead he's lying in professor fuller's bed feeling like half a human being, stripped bare and ripped open for the world to see. he's quiet for a long minute, letting his breathing even out a little, his heart to come back down to the pace of someone trying to relax. and then: ]

I'm not looking for the Divine. Signs. Miracles. I wasn't born for all of that anyway. I'm just trying to put one foot in front of the other, for now.

[that's one of the many problems with god, he's always thought - punishing those who least deserve it, leaving them without an answer amidst a world that is already cruel enough. there's not a single thing about tim laughlin that's truly flawed or needs to turn around and walk some path of righteousness over one person's arbitrary idea of what's best. obviously he's never met the parents of any student, least of all tim's - but there's already a very distinct idea in hawk's mind that he wouldn't care for them at all, a combination of his least favorite things: small-minded, stifling, and sectarian. they've got a golden egg in their nest, and rather than let it shine they'd sooner rush to hide it away.

though, it's a wonder how tim ever even got into his - business venture in the first place. must have happened in college without any financial support from his family, and scholarships can only get one so far. no library or cafeteria job would even come close to paying what a pound of flesh could earn, and there's few jobs a boy his age could make an honest living working for that kind of need. yet another point in favor of him staying here, keeping the momentum going and working off the inertia of everything else. so many of his suspicions click neatly into place in this moment, and it occurs to hawk that it's probably sad in some ways that this is the closest and most intimately he's known someone else in the last several years save maybe marcus. he knows more about tim laughlin than any other student, any friend or acquaintance or even his own mother. the thought should be unnerving, a blaring warning sign to cut it off and recreate that distance between them - but strangely, it's easy to tune out for a change.

there's a week to fix this. a week of tim being kept in the dark while hawk pulls strings and he thinks he's getting back on that ferry. the thought of him wasting an entire summer - unable to catch up on his finances, limited in what he can study, toiling away in the dirt - and for what?

no. that's not in hawkins fuller's plan. forget about god.

hawk watches the graceful arc of his body flopping back into his bed, cocooning himself away from the rest of the world save for the tufts of messy hair and the glint from the lenses of his glasses. it takes more effort than he wants to admit not to reach out and try to smooth it down, to run a soothing hand through his scalp and tell him it's going to be alright.]

Well, you and your exams have always gotten along like a house on fire. I wouldn't worry about those.

[there's a bit of levity there mixed in with the praise, enough to try and distract him from the laundry list of preparation he must be running through. not good on an empty or exhausted stomach, and definitely not good when he's fighting sluggishness and the lingering effects of the drugs. hawk steps back to the side of the bed, dipping down to meet tim closer at eye level as he watches him try and relax into it once more. the breathing, the sudden stillness in the way he's laying there. good, let him get some more rest. he'll need it.]

I think your feet can take a break for awhile. Mine are going to the kitchen to get you something something small to try and eat. Then you'll sleep some more, and if you can handle it by then - a shower's definitely in order.

Get comfortable.

[there's not much room for protest. hawk stands back up, heading for the door and hesitating at the threshold for a moment, one hand gripping against the white molding along the doorframe. he makes a half glance over his shoulder, somehow unable to face tim head on for this.]

You know, considering all the circumstances you've pulled yourself out of - I'd say you're the goddamn miracle around here.

[the delivery is a little gruff, but it's meant to have a lasting impact. and before tim can object or answer or be the one to expose hawk's vulnerabilities in saying so - he's off to the kitchen as promised, hoping it'll sink in and be done by the time he gets back up the hall. enough time has passed when he returns with a fresh glass of cool ice water, a few slices of toasted bread, an array of crackers, and a banana on a large plate.]

It's no brunch at The Jefferson, but here. Let's see what you can keep down.

I will always worry about my exams.

[ tim offers it as a wry sort of thing, mouth pulling up at one corner and eyes rolling. it's easy to do that now that he's lying down in the bed. there's truth to it, though - tim has always carefully watched his grades, maintaining an outstanding gpa just to keep himself high on the dean's list and make certain nothing slips. his meager scholarship depends on it, for one thing, but his future does in some way, too.

he's letting the warmth of the bed settle him when hawk approaches again, and he finds he wants to reach up out of the blanket and catch his hand, hold it, tell him it isn't food he needs but warm, solid company at his side. even in the chair, it was easy to chase away that haunting, lonely feeling when he'd wake, woozy in the middle of the night. but he does none of that - simply smiles, hums in understanding.

I'd say you're the goddamn miracle around here.

his face burns hot, suddenly. embarrassment, confusion, flattery. he would never describe himself as any sort of miracle or wonder. he's only had to pull himself out of situations he has single-handedly put himself in. there's nothing divine at work here where tim laughlin lies in the bed of his professor. but the sentiment isn't lost on him, the gravity of it. tim smiles in spite of himself and turns onto his side, burrowing into the blankets further.

yes, something has changed between them. and maybe that is the miracle in and of itself.

by the time hawk returns to his bedside, he's nearly nodded off. the pull of the warmth of the bed, the overwhelming scent of hawkins fuller and the exhaustion from the drug enough to coax him back into a hazy, dreamy state. his eyes flutter back open when he hears the movement, trying for a moment to remember why hawk is returning. stifling a yawn behind his hand he shifts to sit up, the blankets falling around his waist. the t-shirt has even slipped, worn and stretched out on broader shoulders than he has, which means the top of his peeks out of the fabric. ]

You didn't have to do that.

[ but he knows the man would have, regardless. he takes the plate, looking down at the offerings and he doesn't want to admit that all of it looks unappealing. his stomach feels sour and angry in his gut, but it's very possible it's from being as empty as it is. sitting the plate in his lap, he picks a piece of the toasted bread first, biting into it. ]

Unless you really just want to see me throw up. I can't imagine that was on your plan for today.

[ was any of this? was tim? no. and so he takes another healthy bite to prevent himself from saying anything more foolish and stupid. he should eat, he realizes, and leave. muster up the energy to fake his way through looking more put together than he knows he looks now. he won't be successful, but the hint of guilt at existing here in this man's space alone just won't dissipate. ]

I don't even know what The Jefferson is. I know like two pizza places and the Dining Hall. I guess there's that weird farmer's market they try to do on campus, but it's always too expensive.

[ he finishes one piece of bread, starts for another. as the food hits his stomach, though, he realizes just how hungry he truly is. it doesn't help that most of the time he's living on meager rations anyway, but right now the plate of food in front of him feels like a feast.

he eats quietly for a moment, starting in on the banana once the bread has been demolished, and its only after he takes one bite of the fruit and finishes it that he pauses. maybe it looks like he's waiting for his stomach to revolt, but actually his mind is turning. well, really? it's his heart aching, strangely enough.

sitting the banana down on the plate, he looks back up to hawk, then. ]

Why are you doing all of this for me?

[ but he knows, doesn't he? he knows. it's written all over the care taken at his office, the hospital, here. wrapped all around the low, firm good boy he's now heard twice within these four walls. tied up in the fact that hawk is letting him sleep here, shower here, feed him, and asking for reasons why and how and saying things like never again ]

Please, tell me the truth.

Not something I pencilled in, no. But humor me - you're probably hungrier than you think. At least drink some more water.

[the shirt slipped off tim's shoulder gives him another point to fix his gaze on - something to think about later the way it exposes the enticing skin around his neck. it hits hawk quite suddenly that after he leaves (whenever that is - he's in no rush) - the scent of tim is going to linger against his pillow, the shirt in the bathroom that's been discarded. there's a pulse in his jaw at the idea of it, a sudden faraway look in his eye until tim adjusts himself and reaches for the plate. as soon as he's certain the boy won't faceplant into it or have another dizzy spell, he finally takes a seat in the chair again and sets down the cool glass, pushing the room temperature one off to the side to be discarded later. he'd rather be in reaching distance of the small trash bin just in case his hunch proves wrong and he needs to push back his hair and rub reassuringly at his back or escort him to the restroom again.

but the bread at least seems to have been a safe choice, and hawk watches the realization hit tim before he digs in a little more and explains his unfortunate, limited experience with local cuisine.]

5-star hotel - up the street from the Big House. I guarantee it puts the farmer's market to shame, and it's probably better sourced than whatever noise those groups are trying to push.

[he's not totally unaware of what happens on campus, including some of the local rabble-rousers and advocate groups - he just choses to distance from himself as much as possible when it comes to separating the personal and the professional. though tim is certainly giving him a run for his money in that regard. when the bread is finished, he lets them lapse into a surprisingly comfortable silence, hands folded on top of his chest. maybe he'll try and shower while tim gets some more rest, or he can try and take a few minutes on the couch and fight off the eventual exhaustion from the hours he's missed. the idea of sending tim home so soon doesn't sit right with him, and hawk has already accepted that most of his saturday will be spent with his student here. he'll get him a cab, and tim will be tucked into his own bed none the wiser of what else is to come in the week to follow.

there's that soft, distant look in his eyes again, and it's why tim's question catches him off guard as much as the sudden attention tim has placed on him.

it's the decent thing to do. anyone in my place would do the same -

is what he should say. but the reality is...the probably wouldn't. the smarter move would have been to call an ambulance, notify a parent - and yet hawk took it upon himself to do all of this and more, to make the choices that have led to tim laughlin sitting half dressed in his bed, which is the entire thing he's been trying to avoid since christmas. christ. there's no answer right away, especially not when tim follows up with his innocent, almost plaintive need for honesty in this moment. hawk looks away, lips tightening for a moment. his fingers itch for a cigarette or a tumbler of scotch - though vodka is probably the closest thing to appropriate this early in the morning. there's still a tension in his shoulders, guard up even as he glances back to tim with something cautious in his gaze. it's all he knows, even with this seeming truce they've found between them, existing in limbo that is too intimate to be considered professional company any longer and yet still too new to break down every wall.]

You're one of the good ones, Laughlin. That's a rare thing from where I'm sitting, and I'd hate to see it get snuffed out over any asshole here or in Staten Island.

[a pause, and he can't help the way his gaze turns fond without even realizing it. tim is more special than anyone he's ever taught, and he deserves to know it. personal feelings and conflict of interest aside...it's been a genuine pleasure.]

You're gonna be just fine.

Now finish that banana so you can get some rest, got it?

[ there are dozens of answers that hawk could give him on the wide, sliding scale of bullshit and reality. he's not sure which he expects, not here with them sitting near one another in professor fuller's bedroom. it's a place he'd never imagined he'd be, anyway. he'd always thought back to their first meeting in december and he'd known that had he been someone else, they would have gone to some distant hotel and spent the night there.

instead, he's now spent the night in the man's bed, dressing his clothes, eating his food and obeying his orders. in another life, all of this might be different. is this what it is like to be cared about? to be intimately known even though their bodies have not crossed that line often enough for it to count? how is it that they are able to stand toe-to-toe like this, soaking in the warmth of the other and dancing around one another and have it come to nothing?

it's better this way, surely.

but something deep in tim's chest aches. in another life, a version of himself must be watching and mourning the loss for whatever this could have been.

he takes another bite of banana, half expecting hawk to put off his question and deflect instead to some kind of caretaking comment. he pauses, however, when hawk speaks. color rises hot into his cheeks, brushing at the tips of his ears again.

there's something in the look on the man's face and the tone of his voice in that you're gonna be just fine that takes him by surprise. he wants to memorize it much in the same way he has stamped the low sound of hawk's good boy into his mind. ]

Thank you.

[ soft, sheepish, and he keeps his eyes turned to the plate where the crackers still sit untouched and the half eaten banana. ]

For everything. Really.

[ how can he even possibly thank this man for what he's done today and for all the times before? hawkins fuller has everything he wants - can buy anything he desires - and to find a way to show his gratitude seems more impossible now than ever.

but, in the tone of all things leading up to this, professor fuller gives him a directive and he huffs softly. ]

Banana and rest. Got it. Yes, sir.

[ he smiles a little an takes the last bite of the banana, leaving the peel on the plate. he sets the plate on the bedside table and with little preamble allows himself to fall back into the bed on a sigh. he's exhausted, and the fact that he's given permission to stay and rest is yet another thing to add to the list of many items for which he owes the man thanks.

he brings the blankets high up under his chin after he deposits his glasses beside the plate, but in the dim light he looks up at the man in the chair beside his bed. he doesn't care if he sees him, doesn't mind if he can tell he's cataloguing this moment - the tired lines of the man's face, the sleepy mussed wave of his hair, the fond eyes, the tight lips that belie so much more.

he almost says something - mouth opening for a moment before he closes it again, hums in thought and shakes his head. ]

Thanks. I mean it.

[ his voice carries the low, tired note of someone just at the brink of sleeping. and when next hawk looks up he'll see just that - tim laughlin with his eyes closed, breathing evened out, lips faintly parted. unaware of the world around him all at once, and finally looking at peace as he rests. ]

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