[hawk expected something of a shitshow the moment embry demanded his presence at the family lakehouse. of course there are suspicions about the timing of this sudden invitation - knowing full well that the little he knows from the social pages and gossip surrounding vivienne moore that she doesn't seem like the kind of woman to throw together a party without a purpose - and the idea of some science fair win doesn't really seem to cut it. but he's given embry the courtesy of not bringing it up aside from a gentle reminder and confirmation that he was indeed avoiding ash and greer's big moment announcing their courtship. they look good together, honestly. but something about hawk's instincts tells him embry would look just as good if not better on either of their arms. the question is if it's something that already happened or an unrequited sort of longing he's keeping his distance from.
it's easy to put on the charm - shake hands, smile, compliment the food and decor and even a few forward grips of his cheek, examining him like a specimen that's wound up at a lab, cloned from one of embry's ribs. yes, hilarious - he could fit right in like one of them, couldn't he?
the tension with morgan is palpable, and hawk can tell early on it's partly play-fighting, partly jabs that are more outright vicious than some of the shit he looked down the barrel of in italy. with family like that, really - who needs enemies? he notes the conscious lack of gin, making a note to stop by the liquour store in town tomorrow and grab something for embry's sake - suffering this level of preteniousness for however long they're sequestered here is just adding injury to insult.
speaking of morgan: the woman isn't subtle. not a convincing drunk either - even if hawk indulges it with the absently placid smile he plasters on in the face of the homophobic, impolite, and irritating. sleep it off in here, yeah. don't worry about it - on your side, 'atta girl. wouldn't want to wake up with vomit in that pretty hair of yours. he'd already been exhausted from putting on his best behaviour, reminded strongly of the few times he's come back home since walking out all those years ago and immediately feeling stifled by the decorum of it all. christ. at least he's only got a dozen other rooms to choose from, though he wonders what's in embry's. is it still decorated like his youth, the way estelle fuller has kept his like a memorial to the sensitive boy he once was, all the things he cared about tucked away in the closet?
nevermind - he doesn't want to sleep. he wants a fucking cigarette.
what he's not expecting is to see the vice president of the united states of fucking america sitting at the edge of the lake without a bodyguard in sight, immaculately handsome profile illuminated only by the shimmering sliver of moonlight and bright light from his cell phone. hawk is quiet, not necessarily trying to sneak up - but there's no missing the bright, unmistakable colors of tabloid photos embry is scrolling through. is he...crying? fuck.
hawk clears his throat a few feet away, giving him a moment to compose himself if he wants before he easily saunters up the rest of the way, unceremoniously plopping himself down next to his charge. he's in boxer briefs, a striped cotton-flannel robe tied loosely at his waist from where he'd been interrupted from having a staring contest with the ceiling. he tugs out a cigarette and his lighter, shoving the rest of the box into the front pocket before cupping the flame and puffing at it until it catches. he's quiet through the first inhale and exhale, watching the smoke rise up into the night sky and drift off into nothing.]
I'm really starting to see why you wanted the hotel room.
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it's easy to put on the charm - shake hands, smile, compliment the food and decor and even a few forward grips of his cheek, examining him like a specimen that's wound up at a lab, cloned from one of embry's ribs. yes, hilarious - he could fit right in like one of them, couldn't he?
the tension with morgan is palpable, and hawk can tell early on it's partly play-fighting, partly jabs that are more outright vicious than some of the shit he looked down the barrel of in italy. with family like that, really - who needs enemies? he notes the conscious lack of gin, making a note to stop by the liquour store in town tomorrow and grab something for embry's sake - suffering this level of preteniousness for however long they're sequestered here is just adding injury to insult.
speaking of morgan: the woman isn't subtle. not a convincing drunk either - even if hawk indulges it with the absently placid smile he plasters on in the face of the homophobic, impolite, and irritating. sleep it off in here, yeah. don't worry about it - on your side, 'atta girl. wouldn't want to wake up with vomit in that pretty hair of yours. he'd already been exhausted from putting on his best behaviour, reminded strongly of the few times he's come back home since walking out all those years ago and immediately feeling stifled by the decorum of it all. christ. at least he's only got a dozen other rooms to choose from, though he wonders what's in embry's. is it still decorated like his youth, the way estelle fuller has kept his like a memorial to the sensitive boy he once was, all the things he cared about tucked away in the closet?
nevermind - he doesn't want to sleep. he wants a fucking cigarette.
what he's not expecting is to see the vice president of the united states of fucking america sitting at the edge of the lake without a bodyguard in sight, immaculately handsome profile illuminated only by the shimmering sliver of moonlight and bright light from his cell phone. hawk is quiet, not necessarily trying to sneak up - but there's no missing the bright, unmistakable colors of tabloid photos embry is scrolling through. is he...crying? fuck.
hawk clears his throat a few feet away, giving him a moment to compose himself if he wants before he easily saunters up the rest of the way, unceremoniously plopping himself down next to his charge. he's in boxer briefs, a striped cotton-flannel robe tied loosely at his waist from where he'd been interrupted from having a staring contest with the ceiling. he tugs out a cigarette and his lighter, shoving the rest of the box into the front pocket before cupping the flame and puffing at it until it catches. he's quiet through the first inhale and exhale, watching the smoke rise up into the night sky and drift off into nothing.]
I'm really starting to see why you wanted the hotel room.