πππ ππππ "πππ π" π£. ππππππ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm[UNI AU]
CAMBOY UNI AU
tell
me and i forget, teach me and i remember.
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
β€ π'ππ π€πππ‘ π’π πππ π¦ππ’ ππππ
he keeps his head down in classes, keeps focused, studies hard and participates. mr. fuller must even see his resolve changing, as he's let up on the dogged, pointed questions he asks him during their class debates.
but really, he spends his time instead planning. he texts with some of his regulars in the app - tips for sexting, for a picture here and there. it's easy, mindless money, and truly the only reason his instagram account exists on top of his only fans. after all, his dms bring in a little extra currency on their own.
there's been a buzz, lately. his regulars seeing the added incentives, the added package options. a video message, a phone call, a few sexting options, a few cam options, but? the most expensive? a vip meet and greet. on the surface, it's nothing special. a meet up, a photo op, even a cute little cameo video. but there's always the hint of something more - something more illicit he can't exactly advertise even there.
$3,000.00 - enough to satisfy the bursar, to get his classes on the schedule so he doesn't have his seat pulled, to get his books, the more deluxe meal plan for next semester. it's not smart, he knows. he knows it's not.
and yet, he also knows there is only one fan who would even consider the cost worth it. or so he hopes.
the added perks go live at 9 AM - the right time for working men to see it and get a little flustered in their day to day.
he's sitting in the dining hall with a half-eaten bowl of cheap, flavorless oatmeal when he decides to open the app. he's not sure what comes over him when he opens the messages from the man formerly known as milton, but: ]
Good morning, mister.
Your boy added a few things I think you might like.
Don't work too hard today.
[ if this was anyone else? he might feel like he's begging for money, tricking them into something for a dollar. and yes, he does need the money. more than anything.
but if the money came with a faceless, kinder stranger behind it?
it's a stupid dream. ]
no subject
monday after break starts finds him finished with finals and halfway through proposals, tim's the first one he graded with an a+ virtually stamped and a note on his thesis in the portal: come see me when you're back from the holidays to work out a pinpointed direction. solid start. happy new year, laughlin. he's about to open the next one, something he already knows is gonna be lackluster from the performance he's gotten all semester from this student when his email notification pops up - not the one he uses for school or his personal affairs.
9 am? that's not the usual time range for this kind of thing, what with it being the cold light of day and the time where the head on his shoulders does the thinking instead of the one in his pants. hawk considers ignoring it - already in the groove and well on his way to a waiting duffel bag and a car with a full tank ready to take him somewhere. but the thought of their last session flickers through his mind - the charge, the tension, the rawness that's hard to replicate out in the real world.
fuck it. he'll get these done today, what's a few minutes delay?
besides, skimming across the message he's even got his boy's blessing to take a bit of a break.
though he's not sure what was "added" that's supposed to grab his attention. hawk pulls out a cigarette, holding it between his lips and lighting it before kicking his feet up on his desk and relaxing back into his seat, mouse shifting into skippy's profile to see if he's upped it to an hour, or wants to offer something holiday themed - fuck if he knows, this isn't his area of expertise, but he knows what his dick might like. some of it is the usual, kid's stuff compared to the kind of thing he's after - photos, basic sexting, phone and video, stuff skippy inadvertently already has offered him and he'd gladly pay extra for if it's gonna be a thing moving forward. the prices are more than fair - low, if you ask hawk, but there's one number that's a distinct departure from the rest.
three grand? the vip treatment.
and yet there's no specifications - a whole lengthy list of headaches hawk already finds himself running through: where is he even located? does he have to pay for travel? accommodations? did skippy even factor that in on top of the $3k? probably not, because it seems too damn low. is he clean? why the faceless camming for months only to offer an in person reveal?
the money. that's gotta be it. he must be gearing up for all the free time, trying to make it fast while he can before he gets back to whatever his day to day is. sometimes hawk hates the way he sees through even the most innocuous of situations, sifting through the bullshit with a practiced ease that comes from decades of watching his own back and carefully curating his image. but at the very least - there doesn't seem to be any malice coming from skippy at this suggestion. it's just...risky, maybe even biting off more than the boy can actually chew. something about that makes him exhale harshly through his nose, the torrent of smoke shifting against the tiers in a way that draws attention to that final one once more.
three grand - for what? a date? no, skippy wouldn't be that naΓ―ve.]
Wow. I should say the same for you - someone's been busy.
[it's a little while after skippy messaged him, but hawk considers the best way to stay neutral and address a slew of thoughts running through his mind right now.
not least of all - wouldn't paying a small chunk of change for a fuck he already knows is gonna be good be worth it? technically...it's the first time, and if skippy is halfway across the world - it's still no strings. his fingers tap at his cigarette again, and he sticks it between his mouth to type with both hands.]
Hypothetically speaking, you sure you know what you'd be getting into with this meet-up?
And - still hypothetically speaking, of course - how far are you willing to travel for it?
no subject
he's not surprised he doesn't get an immediate response - it is 9 AM, and he has no idea where this guy lives, he realizes. and it's then he questions whether the $3,000 had been enough. would the guy expect him to travel? would he come to him? should he let someone come to his home town?
it all reeks of bad ideas and red flags. he's a fucking idiot.
an idiot who desperately, desperately wants to put himself through school and try for something better one day.
he's just finished up one of his history papers when his phone buzzes and he half expects it to be arthur or mary, someone from one of his classes begging for a study session or notes. but it's not.
he sees the little only fans logo and his heart skips a beat, right up into his throat. ]
I don't want to bore anyone, you know.
[ facts. become benign and boring and the money stops. he's learned that a few times the hard way. ]
Hypothetically, yes, I know what I'm getting into. A VIP meet-and-greet. π
I could be persuaded to travel a little bit, if I needed to. I guess it would depend on who's asking.
[ shit. yeah, he should have raised his prices. god, he's so dumb. ]
Why? Well, I mean - how far are you willing to travel to meet your best boy?
Hypothetically.
no subject
[his subscribers are going to have a field day with this new roll-out, or so he assumes. hell, he's surprised the vip is even still available - though that brings up another question, which is just how many of these "meet-and-greets" is he intending on doling out.
even more pertinent: why is he fucking considering it?]
Right. Does this meet-and-greet have a time limit? Any qualifications? Leave it open-ended like that, and you might get more than you bargained for.
But if it depends on who's asking...me. I'm asking.
[hawk is not about to offer up where he's at, nor is he about to ask skippy something that invasive, even if it's conducive to facilitating...whatever this is going to be. and just when he thinks maybe his boy is in over his head, hawk gets the tables totally turned on him - and it actually makes him chuckle out loud.
well i'll be damned. touchΓ©, skippy.]
Well well, aren't you clever.
Got a full tank of gas last night. Mileage isn't what it used to be, but I've got about two-hundred or so to burn in the Mid-Atlantic region of the East Coast in the good old US of A.
Sorry to say, but the last place I'd plan to be this time of year is an aiport. I'm sure you can guess why.
[it'll be a fucking nightmare to navigate, for one. and for another - he promised the dean he'd drop by a christmas eve soireΓ© with lucy and leonard in town to celebrate. but if it weren't for that - would he hop on a plane?
maybe.]
Since this is strictly hypothetical, and you're my boy - how much interest have you drummed up with this? Gotta be a line around the block by now.
no subject
I know I'm sweet, but I'm not dumb, sir.
But since you're the one asking, hypothetically...
[ there's a pause, three little dots indicating he's typing. he deletes and retypes, considering. he even gets interrupted by a library clerk who brings him a book he'd been waiting a few weeks on. but finally: ]
24 hours. A day. We meet somewhere nice and open, public. At least at first.
Where we go and what we do after that can be a little more adventurous.
I'm a curious boy, remember?
[ he tries to be a little flirty, of course, but his heart is pounding in his chest. he feels the itch of both nerves and excitement welling up all at once. this man is actually interested? willing?
he swallows hard. nevermind his preening at being called clever. ]
You're the first to ask.
No lines around the block, either.
On your boy's honor.
no subject
And I know you're not. But when it comes to this - I don't think you can be too careful.
[there's enough of a delay - and the type keeps disappearing enough that he wonders if his pulse is quickening for no good reason, that skippy is somewhere out of reach and he's entertained this at all like a fucking idiot. but he comes back with his - frankly lofty demands, and hawk again wonders if he has any idea what 99.9% of his clientele is really going to be like behind the screen. one hour in and he might be ready to scream and head for the hills.
(he's the .01%. obviously.)
How could I forget?
[his answers are short, distant, while he tries to talk himself out of this. skippy didn't even acknowledge the distance, but he also didn't write it off, which could mean he's in the right range. and that makes him wonder - is he a city boy, struggling to make ends meet in some big metropolitan wonderland? or is he the boy next door, small town reality with big dreams and trying to make it out in one piece? could be either when it comes to the money.
speaking of:]
Really.
I know you're telling the truth, but I'm finding that hard to believe.
[is that a sign? coincidence? no such thing.]
Hypothetically, I've been looking to blow off some steam before Christmas kicks up.
You're sure about this?
[hawk's not. this could be a fucking disaster. but then again - skippy's just another stranger, isn't he? it's not breaking any of his rules if he happens to be primed on what hawk likes. before he even answers, hawk stubs out his cigarette and sends off another reply.]
Public meeting first, and we can discuss the timeline later. December 22nd. And just so you know: I don't do sleepovers.
Give me a place and I'll book it.
no subject
[ he knows that everything about this reeks of danger for him. that this guy could show up and be the absolute opposite of everything he's made himself out to be online. but even showing his concern, expressing he can't be too careful? well. there's a glimmer of the guy he thinks he might be meeting. ]
Why do you think I messaged you this morning? It wasn't because I was questioning myself.
But if you're not interested...
[ he knows the guy is. there's no way they wouldn't be talking details like this if he wasn't, and he can't help the way his face goes hot, waiting to see what he types next.
this is so, so stupid. the dumbest thing a guy like tim could do and yet if the money can come attached to a marginally familiar, kind stranger interested in a little more than video play? no less a guy that, at least in writing, has some how managed to snare a heart string of his or two?
again. stupid, laughlin. stupid. making all of this messy, breaking his own rules. ]
I don't do sleepovers, either. In case that wasn't obvious.
[ is it? it's not. ]
Emissary.
Corner of 21st and P Street.
Washington, DC.
Close enough for your drive?
no subject
I'm flattered.
[24 hours, but doesn't do sleepovers. sure. he knows his boy isn't dumb, but...]
Didn't have you pegged for a DC boy.
[that's a hop, skip, and a jump from campus. 2 miles too close, and only 7 minutes away from his office on a good day without traffic. he should say no, suggest someplace well clear of georgetown and foggy bottom to be safe. or frankly, he should run the other way entirely.
but it's the holidays. majority of his students are on break - already flown home to the four corners of the rest of the country and probably already spent at least one night getting shitfaced to celebrate the end of the semester.
fuck. he should say no. apologize and tell him it's too out of the way, they'll have to settle for another one on one as a consolation prize.]
10:30am. Don't be late.
VIP Meet & Greet
π DEPOSIT FOR $600
π₯π²π³ 600 TIP SENT β
See you soon, Skippy.
[it's a terrible fucking idea, and hawk doesn't even have the excuse of scotch or a hard on clouding his judgment. december 22nd is three days from the initial exchange, and the distraction of finishing all the exams and submitting grades isn't enough to keep him from periodically popping back into the app to reread what he's set in stone. it's not a matter of losing his nerve - though he does hover over a cancellation text several times over the next 72 hours. but something holds him back every time, whether it's the memory of what skippy looks like glistening with sweat and arched across a mattress or the earnest it's easier to believe than you think mixed with the fact that he all but requested hawk for this.
at the end of the day, he's still a stranger. that's what he keeps reminding himself, at least up until the moment he steps into emissary at 10:25 on the dot. his hair is slicked back in its usual coif, the last vestiges of a cigarette clinging to his scarf and charcoal wool stroller jacket. underneath he's got on a black cashmere turtleneck, tucked neatly into slim black trousers and an italian leather belt he's held onto since a foreign exchange adventure his senior year. there are aviators covering his eyes, and he strategically maneuvers himself in front of the empty cash register to order an espresso and act like he's just another patron trying to wake himself up - not here to meet some twink off the internet to take him to a hotel room and fuck his brains out for the next however many hours they can stand each other in person.
he waits with his hands in his pockets, using the cover of his glasses to glance around the perimeter of natural lighting flooding the brick-walled large alcove. and of course, the barista calls his name right when his eyes land on - fuck.
none other than tim laughlin, curled into one of the cozy corners with his head in a book.
what are the fucking chances?
hawk pulls out his phone, discreetly firing off a message to skippy, because the dots haven't fully connected, and he just thinks this is some shitty twist of fate.]
You're not here yet, are you?
no subject
but at 7 am on the morning of december 22nd, tim laughlin wakes and cannot shake the itch of nerves under his skin. he paces his room, checks his phone, rifles through his wardrobe. he should have taken some of that deposit and used it toward something nicer to wear, but too late. 10:30 AM will rear its head soon enough.
he showers, scrubs his skin until its clean and pink, and takes good care of any and all places that this mysterious man's mouth or hands may wander. he's nervous, but it doesn't stop the strange swoop of warmth in his stomach at the very thought. he shouldn't be excited. he's sold an image of himself online for money, but this? his body, his virginity no less? but how could this guy know that?
he won't.
it's better he never finds out. tim can fake a myriad of things, after all, and faking his proficiency in bed? it won't be that hard in the dark. because as much as he'd like to think a little coffee shop meet up is what's in store? he knows better.
he knows much, much better.
tim arrives far too early - too nervous about missing buses or late buses, and plops down with an oversized mug of chamomile tea and a book from one of the stuffed shelves in the back. (the iliad - because of course). he'd be stupid to bring much of his own personally identifying things - text books, writing, laptop. so he simply has a cross body bag that looks like any other commuter's bag, but it's contents? far more salacious.
he's otherwise unremarkable in the comings and goings of those in the cafe. black, slim jeans, cuffed at his slender ankles. brown leather boots, stylishly worn and faded at the toe. a slim heather grey t-shirt with a loose v-neck. a deep green cardigan over that. there's a thin, gold chain around his neck that falls into the neckline of his shirt. maybe he should have dressed up more.
he checks his watch periodically, orders another tea, and he's just to a moment when achilles has learned of his father's death when he hears a name called out in the din of the shop. tipping his head up, he blinks around the room, noting almost immediately the man retrieving his coffee. in his surprise, he misses the buzz from his phone, and instead rises a little, to get the man's attention.
god, he shouldn't. who knows when the mysterious guy could walk in. who knows who he could be. he could be here already, watching and waiting the same way tim has been. ]
Professor Fuller?
[ odd, to see him out, but it is christmas break. it's even more odd for tim to have left campus even this far, but he can chock it up to the same - the break. ]
I didn't know you came here. Or - I mean - I thought most of the faculty would be off or vacationing now. Dean Smith acted like it'd be a ghost town for a while.
[ a small, nervous smile. almost sheepish. he admires this man beyond reason, really. the challenge of his class, the sharpness of his wit, the complete and utter unashamed way he presses him to do better, to learn more, to advance. ]
Happy Holidays, by the way. Since I didn't get to tell you after I got my thesis proposal back. I really appreciate your help with that this semester.
no subject
Small world. Thought you'd be on a ferry to Staten Island by now.
[he remembers tim mentioning it offhand - backing up one of his debates about the poor and downtrodden and what policies would best serve the underrepresented communities he'd grown up around. if the world was a perfect place and washington wasn't full of stuck up pricks only worried about padding their wallet, anyway. he lifts his cup, logo facing tim as if hawk can't quite get enough of it. the lies come easy, just like they have for years when it comes to protecting his preferences.]
They know what they're doing around here. Trying to muscle through the last few grades I owe, let everyone start their holiday without waiting around worrying if they passed. They can't all be like you, anyway.
[it's odd his phone hasn't pinged back. is skippy standing him up? or maybe he's running late - which would be great if it meant he could find a place up the street to move their rendez-vous to. but he doesn't want to leave tim hanging, and there's an eagerness that makes him soften slightly, shoulders relaxing as he finally takes off his aviators.]
First one I read, you know. I'm looking forward to seeing what you do with it in the next course, since you're stuck with me a little while longer.
[there's a hint of amusement in the soft blue of his eyes, fixed on tim, and up this close - he realizes there's something familiar about that same softness in his student's smile. a jawline he thought he was imagining - trying to force into one fantasy. no. it's the nerves - messing him up, the burst of energy from the drink.
no such thing as coincidence.
his gaze drops to the book tim has temporarily abandoned on the table, spine facing downwards and covers spread apart. the iliad. greek classics. icarus. and just like that, the pit of his stomach plummets and his jaw tightens as the daunting, terrible realization sinks in.
shit. fuck. goddamnit.
did he manifest this? that's not what he wanted at all.
absently he puts a hand on tim's shoulder and squeezes.]
Listen, I've got to run. Enjoy the holidays and see you next year, Tim.
[he doesn't wait for a response before he turns on his heel, shoving his aviators on and ducking his head down to keep a low profile. he pushes open the door, reaching into his pocket and pulling up the app once he's safely outside with the icy chill chapping against his face, already missing the comforting lull of the coffee shop and what was supposed to be easy banter and a body warming up the rest of his skin. he pulls his phone out again, noting there's no response from skippy still - of course there wouldn't be, because skippy aka tim laughlin was busy chatting up his fucking professor in broad daylight. the idea that skippy's money woes are actually tim's and that he's been doing this in between rising to star pupil among the department is...something he'll have to unpack later.
as soon as he gets home, deletes his account, and gets the fuck out of town to let this all blow over.
he punches in a quick message again before shooting off the rest of the money out of - well, some sense of fucked up responsibility, he supposes.]
Nevermind. Something came up. Sorry to leave you hanging - hopefully this makes up for it.
no subject
[ even admitting out loud that he can't afford to move out, go home, and move back in. he can barely afford to even attend georgetown, but he's made it this far, and he's unwilling to give up just now. but there's a little bit of warmth rising up into his cheeks that his professor has listened so intently enough to pick up where he'd be heading back to. ]
But it's not a bad place to spend a holiday, really. And no one can be stuck in your classes - they're already very difficult to get into. I got lucky to get into next semester's.
[ if the bursar will hold his seat after today - if they will accept a late payment. he just has to meet this stranger, make the day out to be whatever it is going to be, and go home. then, and only then, can he dream about his thesis or classes or anything for the upcoming four months.
he opens his mouth to speak again when the man's hand lands on his shoulder and his brow furrows, a little confused and a little embarrassed all at once. it's only then he clocks the buzz of his phone - the sound of a reminder - a message still left unread.
shit. ]
Oh. Right - sorry, holidays. I'm keeping you. See you next year.
[ and the moment the man leaves, tim turns to his phone next, seeing the missed message. the gap of time between the first, and he raises his head, blinking and looking around the shop. he doesn't see anyone new, doesn't see anyone on their phone. but there's the second message.
something like dread crawls its way up the back of his neck. just as his professor left, the message comes in. his head swivels for a moment in disbelief, and when he sees the man through the fogged window panes of the shop out on the street, with his phone in his hand?
no.
no, it can't be.
(but could it? could it be? would he be upset? is milton actually professor fuller? what would that mean in the grand scheme of things?)
he quickly fumbles a text in panic as he scoops up his bag and the black, worn peacoat he's had for years. he leaves the iliad left on the table, the pages worn, and the last passage highlighted by someone long, long before him.
The proud heart feels not terror nor turns to run and it is his own courage that kills him. ]
Did I miss you? I'm here. I'll wait outside for you.
[ too desperate? too much?
tim fumbles his way outside into the blistering cold, his coat under his arm and bag haphazardly slung on one shoulder. he can see professor fuller's back in relief against the morning sun, and he doesn't know what comes over him when he looks back at his app and presses the call button.
it rings on his end once, waits for connection, and then he hears it.
professor fuller's phone. ]
Professor Fuller! Wait, please!
[ a step forward, then another, and he's hurrying after him, breathless and confused. ]
no subject
except the universe apparently wants to torture him with the reality settling in - don't turn around, you already know the answer. he's far enough up the block that a quick sip and a casual shift of his head confirm what he indeed already guessed, and there's tim looking frazzled and flushed in the cold without his coat even pulled on yet. this would be a good time to duck into one of the stores - get off the street and disappear on the off chance he has any kind of sneaking suspicion. tim's intelligent enough - skippy definitely is - and god, it's already feeling uncomfortable having to reconcile the fact that they're one in the same. of course they are, how could he have overlooked it? the barrier of professionalism in his day to day kept him from piecing it together, from daring to think about the similarities down to the goddamn bone structure.
the fact that he's seen skippy, his boy - tim laughlin covered in his own cum, breathless and begging for his cock - fuck. this is bad. his brain is already rolling over into crisis mode. the first step is making sure tim doesn't put two and two together. and he just about thinks he's managed it with the head start of at least a block and a half...until his phone starts buzzing loudly in his hand with something that definitely isn't his standard ringtone. shit, shit, shit. he nearly drops it in a fumbling attempt to get it to shut up, terminating the call with an aggressive slam of his thumb.
it's not enough, because of fucking course it isn't. there goes tim calling after him from the distance between them as he keeps moving quick enough to put a plausible amount that he might not be able to hear him anymore, but not so quick as to imply his guilt. yeah, guilt. not for his preferences, not for being a consenting adult, but for agreeing to this stupid endeavor in the first place. if he had just kept it virtual, stuck to the plan - he'd be miles away from foggy bottom right now and still keep his weekday trysts.
and not to mention - there goes his tenure, christ.
not that he thinks laughlin would do something like reporting him, hard up for cash or not.
tim's getting closer and closer, and he shoves his phone back in his pocket, stepping off to the side and plastering on another placid smile with the espresso he doesn't even want to finish now still held aloft in his hand.]
Tim - everything alright? Did you forget something?
[his brows lift marginally behind his glasses, and he's grateful they're blocking most of his expression.]
Like I said, I really need to get going. I'm heading out of town for a few days, and well - you know how it is with DC traffic.
[it barely registered until this part of the conversation that tim is staying here the entire duration of the holiday, that it's a lonely thing when contrasted by the underlying component that he might not be able to afford the time away in the first place.]
no subject
the notification for the money isn't lost on him - three thousand dollars that not only feels unearned, but also stirs something like guilt deep in his gut. regardless of who the faceless man is, he doesn't deserve his money, even if he desperately wants to keep it.
but professor fuller fumbles his phone, and tim knows then. he knows with a sudden, sharp stab of shock that the man he'd planned to meet must have been him. the man on the other side of the screen all this time, praising him, guiding him, encouraging him? had been professor fuller. the professor who, in classes, put up with his long-winded responses and his socratic jabs, willing to play devil's advocate as tim worked through a difficult policy or piece of legislature out loud at the class's expense.
a kind man. who knows he lives in staten island, who knows more about him now than tim is comfortable with, considering.
and yet, he knows he's safe here, too, even though things seem tipped and tilted in away they shouldn't be. the man on the other side of the screen, who coveted and desired him, is professor hawkins fuller.
he comes to a stop just in front of him as the man pauses to regard him and he breathes a little heavily, winded, breaths coming out in puffs. it's so cold - his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips bitten a berry color from the whip of the cool winter air, the mousy brown of his hair flopping over the rim of his dark glasses. ]
It was you.
[ he tries to keep his voice down but there's no hiding the excitability in him, even in situations that are meant to be uncomfortable. ]
Your phone - I heard it. I called him - it's - I'm -
[ a few days from now, tim will look back on this moment with such embarrassment and shame that he didn't realize hawkins fuller had been running from him, in a sense. escaping the reality that the little slip of a thing he'd planned to meet was never meant to be a student.
but he straightens a little, shivering, but seemingly otherwise unaffected by the cold with how determined he is. his voice lowers, and there's no doubt hawk will hear the similar notes from their one on one - the pitch shifter from his setup doing its job enough if you don't know what to look for: ]
I'm Skippy. Your boy.
[ a hand goes to his chest, as if the words aren't enough, as if the way he blinks up at the man with wide, eager eyes and a surprised little grin isn't it enough. ]
You - you have the right place. I just - I had no idea it would be you. Honest, I didn't, but I guess it's -
[ he goes quiet when someone passes by them, starkly and sheepishly aware of the city street around them. ]
I'm so relieved.
no subject
in fact: looking at his bright eyes, the maddening sweep of his hair hawkins wants to brush back from his forehead, and the reddened blotches on his cheeks from cold air kissing across his skin and exertion from dashing here to catch up - yeah, it's everything he imagined his boy would be and more. if they were just two strangers, truly, there's no doubt in his mind he'd make the most of the full 24 hours he'd initially scoffed at as blind optimism. and worse, he might have let himself fall under a spell he'd tamped down for decades, ever since he'd had to go to italy to escape from his father's rage and the an icy disappointment for his proclivities that cut to the bone deeper than any winter breeze.
tim somehow manages to see right through him anyway - pinning him down with his earnestness and clearly bulldozing right past every red flag imaginable, as if this could ever proceed the way it was meant to. and there's that blind optimism, the sweetness and naΓ―vetΓ© hawk's been slowly trying to coax him away from the last four months.
it doesn't change anything for him. it can't.
(not even when he pitches his voice low, melding the two personalities together forever and making him wonder how he could have ever missed it before: i'm skippy. your boy. fuck if that doesn't just send a white hot jolt straight through him, and it sure as hell isn't made of panic.)
tim shivers, bringing back to the stark reality of this. he can start with the easy way out.]
Christ, Tim - it's freezing out here. [he reaches for the peacoat tucked under his arm flapping it out once from where its been crumpled up in the rush to wrap it around his shoulders. the sincerity there is real, even if it's also a moment of deflection for him to steady himself.]
You'll catch your death like that.
[and then he tips his head as if the rest has just settled in, mouth quirking slightly in practiced confusion.]
Sorry, what? Who's Skippy?
[tim can't see the way his pulse is racing, eyes flickering behind his glasses to drink in every detail of his face. later, when the shock subsides, he'll think about how elated tim looked in this moment. he'll remember biting his tongue so he didn't press him on that declaration of relief. hawk glances off to the side, watching passerbys who seem preoccupied with their last minute christmas shopping or walking their dogs, grateful they haven't attracted any undue extra attention.]
Were you...meeting someone back there?
all aboard the gaslight express!
[ tim has little time to reach as hawk reaches for his coat, flaps it out, and reaches to drape it around him. he shuffles almost sheepishly closer to better aid the effort, and it takes a second for his mind to catch up - hawkins fuller, the man behind the screen, putting his coat around him like in some stupid romcom. so he accepts the coat, even awkwardly reaches to pull at his own lapels to tug it closer around him. it does nothing to calm the highspeed ticking of his heart. ]
Sorry, you were leaving and I didn't want to miss you.
[ there was no thought put into this, into the exit from the shop to this moment where he stands a little too close to hawk for the sake of polite society, but not so close to make anyone think twice.
he's about to open his mouth to speak again when hawk's face seems to change - the quirk of his lips, the faintest furrow of his brow over the glasses - he can barely see the blue of his eyes through the dark, reflective lenses. something even colder than the bitter air sinks deep into his belly and his eyes widen a little, breathing coming in quick, shallow breaths from the exertion of running the block or two.
he heard the phone ring - he saw hawk fumbling. he wasn't imagining it. he couldn't have - who else had been on the block when he came out of the shop?
tim glances around them once, back behind them and then leaning to one side to peer even up the street from hawk. no one but a few people who've exited shops or who are walking dogs. he turns his gaze back on hawk then, brow pinched, voice quieter. ]
Skippy. Your Skippy. I was supposed to meet -
[ wait, did he really get this wrong? his mind races, trying to put together all the pieces, trying to somehow stitch together everything to this moment. what had he gotten wrong? or had he simply been hoping the mysterious man behind the screen would always have been someone like hawkins fuller? had he truly created a fantasy now, and tied up the only person who has shown a modicum of care in it. ]
It was you. It had to be you. I saw you, missed the first message. But when you left, you were on your phone and -
[ tim looks stricken, like hawk reached out and struck him across the face instead of politely gathered him into his own coat. tim fumbles for a moment for his phone, fingers working too quickly and he opens the app, sees the myriad of messages they have sent.
if he's wrong, here...
but why would professor fuller lie? why would he do anything like that when everything up to now he has been nothing but honest, even when it had been harsh and difficult. when it had cost him a failing grade, even. a stern hand, but a gentle one. his hand drops to his side, phone in his palm and he looks up at the man then, the flush in his cheeks warming now to something furiously embarrassed, the pink even climbing to the tips of his ears.
his free hand rises to furiously push his hair out of his face, but with the wind, it just sweeps it up, feather light, and makes it a tousled mess atop his head. ]
I, um. Yeah. Sorry, I thought maybe - I just heard - I'm really tired after finals and all, that's all and got confused. I don't want to keep you.
toot toot bitch
kill it. now. don't you dare finish that thought.
hawk takes off his sunglasses again, wanting to wholly impart his "sincerity" to tim. his voice lowers too, and he leans in enough to show some discretion and avoid any passerby from overhearing on the off chance they care. thank god they still don't, because he's keenly aware that if it was anyone but strangers off campus...it might be a much different story.]
Is this - "Skippy" - a friend of yours? Have you met them before or was this -
[he points to tim's phone, then back to tim as if he's trying to piece together something, like some incompetent boomer trying to open a fucking pdf.]
An online date?
[he shakes his head, stepping back and putting up a hand as if in surrender.]
You know what - nevermind, it's really none of my business. I'm sure the last thing you want is me razzing you during your time off.
[hawk offers a conspiratorial smirk, again ignoring the churning in his gut and the uncontrollable urge radiating through his fingers to brush down his hair from the mop it's turned into, strands swaying lightly in the chilly air around them. tim's expression is nothing short of crushed, eyes wide and glassy from both the icy atmosphere and the cold rebuff from hawk, maybe, and what he wouldn't do to smooth away the furrow of his brows with a soft brush of thumb, a kiss to the temple. a muscle in his jaw flexes tightly again, even as he offers a playful nudge to the shoulder of his student in understanding.]
We're all a little worn out. Don't worry about it.
[his eyes soften again as he desperately tries to suppressing the crushing sensation that feels like it's squeezing around his chest, the very real moment sinking in that he's letting down Skippy - Tim - his boy the most gentle way he possibly can and escaping from this whole fucking mess. this lesson should have been hard earned years ago, and somehow he still - ]
Enjoy your break, Laughlin.
[he turns to get back on the path of the sidewalk, stopping again like he can't quite help himself before angling his head to the side and calling over his shoulder.]
Be safe, okay?
no subject
maybe a life in politics isn't for him.
suddenly, he feels the uncomfortable itch that he should go to confession.
even though he knows hawk has removed his glasses, he can't quite make himself look up. he keeps his eyes on his cold fingers, one hand still gripped tightly around the lapel of his coat to keep it seated properly on his shoulders. the other still gripping his phone at his side. he huffs, gives a shrug of one shoulder, and tries to brush it all off. ]
Ah, yeah, it was nothing. Just - tinder, you know? Crazy world we live in. Got stood up, I guess. No surprise there.
[ the playful nudge rocks him on his feet and he glances up then, seeing the softening of the man's eyes and he feels so incredibly small. so incredibly stupid, and it takes all his energy to even offer the barest quirk of his lips.
worn out. tired. stressed. embarrassed. defeated.
confused. still so confused. he was sure. ]
Oh, right. You as well. Happy Holidays.
[ he stays rooted in his place at first, letting the cold settle into his bones and watch as hawk walks away.
be safe, okay?
and he almost turns then to walk away. almost concedes and folds, laying his cards face down on the table. but his phone burns hot in his hand, feels impossibly heavy. he turns it in his palm and looks at the messages, the money sent.
he's not sure why this whole thing sits wrong with him, why he feels both ashamed and guilty, but also... what? disappointed? surprised? angry?
wait.
angry. betrayed. the numbers don't add, no matter how he tries to make them work. the equations fail every time and it's why his thumb presses the little phone icon again on the app, but this time? he lets it ring. it takes a few seconds, and hawk is further up the sidewalk now, but he won't give him the satisfaction of running after him if he hears it.
one second. two.
the ring. the phone ringing loud and clear, and where tim felt icy shame and disgust at himself there's now warmth. ]
Professor Fuller!
[ a shout, loud enough the man can hear and so that it will draw attention, if need be. remember, hawk, tim can be clever, maybe a little stupid. maybe a little naive. maybe a little idealistic. but he's sharp. and he stands on the pavement where he'd been left shivering and confused, now with his jaw set, brow furrowed in a triumphant recognition. ]
Did you remember to fill up your tank? To, what? Two-hundred or so?
no subject
but of course tim wouldn't let it go - a wind-up toy chasing after its prize on an unreachable string. of course he'd keep calling, trying to find out why the change of heart, what he'd done wrong, if there was a miscommunication. of course he'd blindly try and still make it work, even when it's spelled out clear as day in black and white. frankly, if it was anyone else, he'd think they'd be fucking delighted to have scored three grand without having to lie on their back or waste a few hours small talking a stranger. if it was anyone else they'd be long gone, but not tim. god, he can just imagine the principled stand - the idea that it wasn't earned that has him frantically trying to salvage the botched meeting.
because hawk can't think about what it would mean if skippy, tim, was really actually there out of some fucked up sense that he wanted it for the sake of connection. isn't that what they all say? part of the act, because the loneliness on the screen usually only goes one way, and the other is laughing all the way to the bank. but not tim.
he's just about made it to the corner of o street where he can turn off and get to his car, out of tim's line of sight, when his name is shouted loud and clear across the way. and it's with a tone that makes his stomach plummet, that draws the look of a few passerby wondering what the need for the disturbance is. hawk offers tight smiles to them, as if to say - what can you do? kids these days, before steeling his shoulders and turning around with a stony expression. there is no mistaking the look on his face because it's the same look hawk has watched bloom to life on his face at the end of a successful debate or the realization of some complex political intrigue in one of their class' many example scenarios. a look hawk has delighted to be at the other end of, encouraged to flourish. he dips his head down again, aviators tucked into his inner pocket, and finally does himself the favour of binning the espresso in his hand that he wasn't going to finish anyway as he walks back over slowly and carefully to tim.]
I did mention I was going out of town.
[his voice is low, a little bit of that rough gravel to it as if to counteract the interruption tim made to everyone else around them. but his eyes have hardened, fixed on tim with a mixture of - pride, strangely, that he figured it out anyway, and resolute conviction that this cannot go anywhere else.]
Look, whatever you thought was going to happen today - it's not. It can't.
[his head tilts again, eyes dropping down to where tim is still shivering, coat still only draped over his shoulders before he snaps them back up to meet his gaze and take on the firm tone he does when his student is edging too far into la la land.]
Go back to your dorm, see some friends, forget about your "date", and we'll see each other over break. To discuss your thesis.
[so much goes unsaid. to discuss your thesis - because that's the only kind of relationship we have and are going to keep having with each other.]
no subject
the ringtone follows hawk as he makes the slow walk back toward him, but tim hears nothing but static for a moment, coupled with the rush of his blood thumping in his ears and in his chest. it's stopped by the time they're close enough to speak, and his own phone has been deposited back into the pocket of his slim jeans, ignored. ]
You did. But not for at least twenty-four hours.
[ like chess, he moves his pieces, putting hawk into an unspoken check.
quiet, low to match professor fuller's, but there's an intensity burning in his eyes that he knows will belie his utter cool. it's white-hot in comparison to the cold, stony thing making up the older man's face. gone is the warmth and the affection he'd seen moments before, a mentor overlooking his pupil, a man showing concern and care for another human being and replaced instead with high walls, a stony tower. ]
Why?
[ it's not soft, not hurt - direct and simple. not unlike the amount of times professor fuller himself has pried tim to dig deeper, to extrapolate more where there had seemingly appeared to be nothing. ]
We're both consenting adults. It's to be kept utterly private. Besides, you've submitted payment at this rate without the offer of goods in return. But it isn't about the money, I don't think. Not for either of us.
[ it had been, at the outset. everything tim has done on that little site had been originally for the goal of making money. and in many ways, it still is with all others but the man standing across from him now. somehow, in the blip of a message and the face connected with it? all of that has changed. ]
Trying to lie to me, too. I know that I am... naive, maybe. Idealistic. Those are your words, mind you. I'd hoped by now that you have learned that I'm not an idiot. Convincing me that I'd made all of this up somehow, that I was just making wild conjectures.
[ a sigh and he shifts his weight finally, inching closer still, and his voice does begin to come back up to its normal timbre, hitching with the passion the other man has no doubt seen in classes when tim gets carried away in the heat of a good debate. ]
Before all of this, I'd never imagined you'd be the type to even look at me. To pass a second glance. But now that I know it's been you this whole time - which, I didn't know, by the way. I wasn't trying to trick you. Never. I'm glad it's you. All of this - if you want this - we can draw whatever rules or lines you want.
[ he lets out a breath, shaking his head. ] And if not, you need to take your money back either way. I don't have friends back at the dorm, nor do I even have a date now. But I'll go, but only if you take it back. I don't want hush money. Whatever we do or don't do, there's nothing to hush.
no subject
You aren't seriously asking me that, are you? You know exactly why.
[his lips press into a thin line as tim....well, accuses him of doing exactly what he did, which is try to lie his way out of it first. and why the hell shouldn't he? it would have been better for them both if tim had stayed there, nose buried in his book and just waited for a man that was never going to walk through that door. if hawk hadn't bypassed all his own carefully constructed speed bumps and ignored every single red flag - well he wouldn't be in this sticky of a situation. he's got nobody to blame but himself, even if he isn't going to blame himself for having needs or preferences or interacting on only fans safely and discreetly like he has. all of this comes down to an awful mistake, an overstep he should have had his head on straight to know to politely decline in the first place.]
Jesus, Laughlin. Call it a Christmas present for our friend Skippy and leave it alone. It's not about the money - and it's not about the goods either.
[he breathes out a noise harshly through his nose, reaching out to grab one of tim's arms and drag him further into a small side area with a few benches and decorative plants strung up with christmas lights. and then he dips into the pocket that doesn't have his phone, tugging out the same pack of half empty cigarettes and forcefully shoving one into his mouth in clear frustration while fishing around for his gold lighter. he murmurs around it, cigarette bouncing up and down between his lips as he cups his hands and ignites it, annoyed he's had to pull one out this early in the first place. he's usually a little more regimented than that.]
Yeah, I lied. Not because I think you're an idiot or wanted you to feel crazy, but do you really think I want both of us to be stuck in the situation we're in now?
[he exhales over his shoulder, away from the determination on tim's face that's practically taunting him to come up with a better excuse for any of this. but then he says the one thing that makes hawk nearly double take in disbelief, following it up with what may as well be a gut punch with each utterance. tim is glad it's him. tim thinks he's - what, undesirable? he remembers skippy saying it was more believable than hawk might think about a lack of interest, but he couldn't really imagine anyone doing what he did most nights really struggling with a body and sense of humour and captivating as that. or maybe this is just further proof how far he's slipped, how much of a fucking idiot he is now for falling susceptible to this in the first place. he takes another long pull, exhaling hard and shaking his head as if to dispel every element of tim's argument by gesture alone.]
Listen to me, Tim. You're a good kid. You've got a promising future in Washington, and you're the best student in my class, okay? But that's all you can be. A student. And I don't fuck my students.
[a pause to let that sink in, the most obvious root of the matter that he frankly can't believe he has to impart at all.]
Especially when I don't know what they're up to outside of class. And I definitely don't want them knowing what I'm up to either. No one's saying anything about hush money. But I'm willing to bet it means a whole lot more to you than it does to me, so I'm not taking no for an answer.
[his gaze has softened again, unintentionally, clear blue shifting back and forth across his face even as they grow glassy from the cold and the smoke billowing up from the cigarette still in his hand.]
Tell me you understand all of it.
[he doesn't mean to give it to him in the husky note of an order, but it seems that's something that seeps into both hawk's regular life and his online proclivities anyway.]
no subject
You tried to gaslight me into thinking I'd been mistaken. I get why, I guess. Whatever situation this is can be delicate and sensitive, but there's nothing wrong with any of it. Not if it's what you want, and not if it's what I want.
[ but he can see the rationale - he is the man's student. a current student, in fact, and with that comes a lot of hangups, a lot of red tape and caution signs. ]
But you could have just said that from the start.
[ especially when i don't know what they're up to outside class
something in that makes tim's blood run cold, makes some of the warmth drain from his face. he's told no one he knows what he does. literally no one has found out how he makes ends meet, how he manages to put himself through school. his family thinks its all on campus work and financial aid and scholarships. his acquaintances just think he's on a full ride.
but something in the way professor fuller says it, makes it feel dirty, what he does. implies that maybe he might not be trustworthy because of that, that him doing what he does might be one of the reasons he can't, beyond it just being a student-teacher problem.
he has a right to think that.
it's a fair judgement. tim accepted a long, long time ago that he will have to answer to all of this later, when he dies and is faced with the questions of his life. purgatory, he figured, at the beginning. but maybe it's changed, now that he's seen professor fuller, knows the kind of things he wants and does, and still wants it now. yeah, those kinds of sins lead to nowhere good. ]
I don't - this is an anomaly. You and me, here. I don't do these things with people. I stay in my dorm, eat when I am able to, do my homework, do my research and I only do... the rest when I have to. It's not -
[ fun? enjoyable? exciting?
no, it's none of that. not with anyone else. ]
You were different. Or - I thought you were.
[ tim takes a half step back, self conscious and feeling the steam beginning to run its way out of his body. but he keeps himself upright, both hands gripping to the strap of his bag like a lifeline. ]
I don't want your money for all this. I don't care what you think it means to me - it's not right to take it. I don't want your money. I wanted -
[ he sucks in a little breath and shakes his head, though he stills when he's given the order. it makes the hairs on his arm stand up, makes a prickle rise up his nape, and he knows he shouldn't feel that way, but he does. ]
I understand all of it. I understand you're afraid your job might be affected if you fuck me. But it isn't really about that. It's me, of course. If I had been any other face I guess it might have ended differently but yes, I understand, sir.
[ the sir comes out on habit alone, and he doesn't even realize he's said it.
he understands that if he were some other brown-eyed, brown-haired pretty face that this man would have taken him to some hotel room, tucked him away for the day, and treated his boy to everything they have been deprived on camera. the touch, the connection, the murmured words in hair and ears, the hands on his body, around his cock, and -
he takes another half step back, boots dragging on the concrete path. ]
Is there anything else, Professor? I don't want to make you late. DC traffic, remember?
no subject
Yeah, I'm sure I could have done a lot of things differently. Like never taking a meetup this close to campus and logging this morning.
There are things about me you don't understand -
[things about me you don't understand, skippy - is what he almost says, before vehemently shaking his head as if to clear the compulsion away by physical force.]
And things I don't ever want anyone within ten feet of Georgetown to ever know. And I realize it's 2023 and there's nothing wrong with anything that may have been discussed between us before all this, but it's not exactly the kind of thing I want plastered in the school bulletin, you get me?
[not that he's accusing tim or suspecting he'd do that, but considering how badly he's apparently already fucked up communicating to him in the way his student jumps to explain his schedule and almost....justify? what it is he's been doing? hawk knows this is all going south faster the nosedive of a plane without landing gear. he runs across his mouth before putting both hands on his hips and leaning in again, voice low with a little more sympathy interjected. this is hard on them both, not just him. if it was anyone else he'd have long since hardened up and shuttered any chance of empathy or any further opportunity for them to make this worse, and he definitely wouldn't have allowed himself to stick his foot in his mouth.]
I'm not judging you, Tim. This doesn't change anything between me and you when it comes to my classroom or my office hours, okay?
Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.
[it doesn't fully register that tim is taking this to mean his actual face is the problem, that hawk is turning him down out of some sense of preference other than what should be a very clear boundary of ethics and professionalism. there's a part of hawk too that can't fathom why tim would be relieved to fuck him either, money or not. it wouldn't be a crime for a 33 year old bachelor and a 20-something to get together in another context, sure. and like he said - if he'd been any other face, hawk would probably have him in his car on the way to get bent in half by now.
but he's not. so this is what has to happen.
even if hearing i understand, sir makes a ripple of heat all the way from the back of his neck shiver down his spine. it makes him straighten up slightly to his full height, taking a step closer, biting back a good boy.]
Then it's settled. You're keeping the money and we're pretending this conversation never happened.
[but there's something so utterly disappointed in tim's voice and the way he looks somehow smaller and trying to pull in on himself that makes hawk hesitate and do yet another foolish thing. add it to a long fucking tally of fuck-ups from today, he supposes. his hand extends, cupping tim's cheek gently and tipping it up to look at him. it's invasive, inappropriate, and he's going to regret knowing precisely what the feel of the soft skin on his pinked cheek feels like under his fingertips.]
Skippy...I'm sorry. It's nothing personal.
no subject
[ if he sounds hurt? it's because he is.
even the slightest implication that professor fuller may think he will run around and publish this news across the front page of the hoya stings. revealing the man's past-times and late night proclivities will also expose him, and at what cost? that, and tim has morals, has a conscience. no matter how furious, no matter how degrading someone could be to him? blackmail doesn't run through the fabric of who he is.
so tim does exactly what professor hawkins expects of him - stands still, listens, obeys. what else can he do now, with every word leaving his mouth being shot down or turned against him.
Whatever you think you wanted - trust me, it's better this way.
at this point? tim doesn't know what he wants now. doesn't know what to make of the man standing before him in the shaded light of the little, enclosed park, smelling like cigarettes and waffling between something distant and cold to the warm, considerate man he has known in class. ]
Understood, yeah. Nothing has changed.
[ the fight has gone out of him now - the will to buck up and press back at the edges of every one of the man's defenses dissolved. the utter scientist he can be in a debate has fizzled out: there are no loose threads, no fallacies, no twists or turns or wildly unique conventions he can invoke. there are facts, there is reality. there is no grey area between where he can exist. he is the man's student, and professor fuller is his teacher.
(but all he can feel like now is tim laughlin, the failure. the boy who no one truly knows on campus, the boy who is called when his notes or study sessions are needed, the boy who teachers praise and laud but who barely spare a glance beyond his passing grades. the boy who has nothing to his name but a sex-working site, a meal card, a handful of worn handmedown and charity clothes, and a bag full of items from strange men all over the country who will never know him like this).
he releases a breath through his nose, nods his head, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pre-empting the steps he needs to take to turn around. he wants to be able to leave first. to turn his back on the guilt, shame, and disgust he can feel oozing off of him and into the ice and slush at their feet. ]
This conversation never happened.
[ he takes a step back, but when he feels the warmth of the man's palm on his cheek he goes board still. his eyes widen and he wills them not to burn, but there's no doubt that this close, professor fuller can see the shine in them.
it's nothing personal.
how is it that three words can hurt far more than anything else that has been said in all of this? how is it that the carefully crafted thoughts and ideas about what this truly boils down to have been wrecked and decimated in one icy breath, puffed between them on a little cloud.
it was business.
all of this had been business to him.
whatever stupid, lofty, romantic ideas he'd had about what today could be, and what this man might be shatter as easily as the ice atop the little fountain behind them.
skippy, he says. skippy, the boy he is not in this moment but the boy that hawkins fuller actually sought. the boy with the mystery and wonder and intrigue. the boy who listened without question, who called his name and begged for more. the boy who does not have tim laughlin's face. who does not have tim laughlin's pathetic idealism. who does not have hopes and dreams for something more when fucking through a screen on a late school night.
now? he truly does understand. ]
Right. [ he doesn't mean to sound uncertain, doesn't mean to sound shaken the awy he does but his voice comes out hoarse, not fully formed. ]
Of course.
[ he clears his throat, lingers a little overlong against the warmth of the man's palm. how sad is it that this is the most physical contact he's had all year? that the touch is so tender he almost dares to lean his cheek into it, to soak up the last vestiges of kindness that this man would extend to the faceless boy called skippy, but not to tim laughlin.
he backs away, idly rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand, fingers pink with cold. ]
Merry Christmas, Professor.
[ it's later that day, several hours after their meeting, that hawk will get a notification from onlyfans. two, in fact:
π₯β π³ 600 TIP REFUNDED β
π₯β π³ 2,400 TIP REFUNDED β ]
no subject
π₯ π³ 2,400 SENT β
[the first thing hawk does when he gets home is pour himself a stiff drink. the second is to delete that goddamn app off his phone. and the third - is to shake his head and swear when he sees the notifications that both his payments have been refunded. so fourth: he resends both, waiting for the payment to finalize before deactivating his account and logging out of the burner email for...probably ever. and then he reclines back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and swirling the whiskey in his glass as he tries not to think about the wounded look on tim laughlin's face - the glassy eyes, the slight tremor of his lips, and absolutely not the way for the briefest moment he'd shifted closer into hawk's palm as if he couldn't get enough of such a small gesture of contact. this whole thing was just a complete fuck-up - indicative that it was tim's likely first time doing anything in person, and certainly hawk's for getting too damn invested.
look where it got him.
there's another lie to add to his tally, because hawk doesn't end up driving out of town later that day. in fact, he mostly stays home drinking himself to sleep and catching up on lost sleep until the smith's christmas eve party, in which leonard makes a scene and lucy regales them all with her recent trip to italy. hawk invites her to dinner in that nefarious time between actual christmas and new years, then books it out of foggy bottom for one night in alexandria for a quick, empty fuck that meets his modus operandi but leaves him no more satisfied. there are plenty of times on the drive back that he thinks about starting another account, finding someone else to occupy his evenings with and get some form of human connection - but it always goes back to tim. skippy.
he can't let himself miss the routine he'd fallen into. won't.
and if he thought the semester might start off on a decent note, that's apparently a lost cause too. he expects there to be some lingering awkwardness maybe the first few days with tim - a lack of response here, an avoidance as he shuffles past hawk's desk there - but what he didn't expect was an utterly listless tim who's fallen from star pupil to occasional contributor. gone is his fiery questioning of every scenario, his dogged desire to solve each problem that arises in their discussions. there's no more debates, and hawk knows some of the other students are noticing the lack of banter flowing between them, engaging others with their vivaciousness.
but he knows it's really bad when it gets brought up at the first faculty department meeting by a well-meaning mrs. kerr, which triggers a few others to speculate if something happened during break. trouble at home? the lack of presence is noticed to a degree hawk can't remember happening with any other student, and he's put on the spot when dave lonigan, the department chair, turns to him and asks if he knows, seeing as he's had him two semesters in a row now. which makes him partly regret all the praise he'd piled on before, seeing as its left in his hands to have a gentle chat with him for the sake of checking in.
we've been anonymously sexting for months and in a frustrating twist of fate i've rejected his offer to fuck in person probably isn't going to fly.
it's his last period on thursday, and as students file out after receiving their graded first essays of the semester, hawk calls out as one particular blur of brown knitwear tries to beeline for the door.]
Laughlin - before you go, I need a minute.
[his gaze shifts around the class, to the few students still pushing through the doors to the lecture hall and packing up their laptop bags on the way out. hawk clears his throat and stands, gesturing towards the door.]
It's about your thesis. We can chat in my office.
no subject
returning to the dorms felt like nothing short of a prison - the halls eerily quiet, the lights off, not even a student greeter at the door. just the beep of his badged key and the squeak of the glass door shutting behind him. only a few students remained during the holiday, and most that had didn't even live in his building. so tim perched in his room, coming out only for his sparingly few meals per day, and tried his best to busy himself with reading.
even jumping on cam hadn't been on his mind, though he did it in an attempt to make up some more money to pay for his books, his meal card next semester. he'd even made a call home to wish them a merry christmas - his mother had been happy to hear from him, but his father refused to come onto the phone, as usual. there would be no help from staten island.
and so christmas dinner for tim laughlin had been a cup of ramen, a stained copy of locke's second treatise of government for his thesis, and a glass of water. he heralds in the new year much the same way. it's lonely. and maybe it was lonely before and he'd simply had the tools with which to ignore it - the fantasy. the idealistic, stupid dreams of a boy who can barely survive college, let alone the real world.
he reads the same passage of locke twenty times before he finally throws it across the room.
the isolation of break has settled into his bones, however, and even the bustle of the start of the semester does little to shake it off. arthur ribs him for being boring, mary voices quiet concern but doesn't bother to ask any real questions, and a few members of faculty give him looks. even professor fuller doesn't press him like he used to, and he does his best to keep his head down and take diligent notes for later. he answers when called on, turns assignments in on time, fills the air when his professors look for answers from a dead-eyed class, but otherwise, tim laughlin keeps to himself.
it's no different today, either. professor fuller's class is interesting, engaging, and maybe at some point in the past he'd have piped up to question his flow chart on political and manufacturing consent, but he simply doodles the notes down in his notebook, brow furrowed as he marks questions for himself in the margins. the very same questions he'd have allowed space for in the discussion. instead, he'll spend time in the library later.
he's just gotten his bag packed and started for the door when he hears his name. he pauses for a moment, turning to look at professor fuller, and he cannot help the strange tightness that rises up into his chest. it makes it a little hard to breathe, really, and he has no doubt the apprehension shows on his face.
a few students pass him, glancing back curiously of course. timothy laughlin is never asked to stay after class - not in this way. his hands flex around the strap of his bag and he lets out a little breath before approaching the man who stands, gesturing at the door. ]
I have another class in an hour, and I need to try to head back to the dorm for lunch.
[ a quiet, but polite warning. a note that he cannot stay long, whatever this is. he's out of meals for the week, having been unable to quite cover the cost of the extended meal plan on top of his text books. so ramen or a peanut butter sandwich it is for lunch. it beats nothing.
he falls into line beside professor fuller, though makes certain there is a measured distance between them still. ]
I turned my outline in late, I apologize. It got away from me - had a lot of reading frontloaded in this semester that I tried to get done. I understand if you can't accept it past the deadline.
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