[there is an irony at embry being preciously offended by his current state and his predilection towards draining a bottle of anything with a higher concentration than 40% abv. they met when they were both drunk like skunks, embry probably rolling on some designer drug on top of it all to boot, for christ's sake. irritation licks up inside him, flaring into something decidedly hotter than the numbness that's consumed his last forty-eight hours. since when did he fucking ask for company? why is he getting lectured for something he's witnessed and babysat embry for doing in public, no less, when he's in the privacy of his own home - indeed the only sanctuary he has short of that little italian villa on the water that feels farther and farther away by the day? no one was supposed to see this. no one was supposed to know that hawkins fuller has feelings, vulnerabilities, people he loves - except it almost makes him laugh bitterly to know every single one of them save his mother is now past tense, and who knows how long she's got left on account of the smoking she does in private and the extra gimlet she tosses back after dinner.
hawk doesn't know what to do with an envelope from ash who he knows isn't a fan and greer who he's met only a few times to count on one hand, so it gets set aside as he instead eyes the more useful thing that embry's brought, which is scotch that he's started associating with the man himself considering the bottle they'd shared in seattle and that he's started to pour more frequently for reasons unknown. but of course he's an asshole about it, because that's what he does best - and honestly, if it were any other day hawk might take it in stride and watch embry float through the circular gallery room off into the kitchen and follow with snark of his own. but it's not any other day, and this was supposed to be his own private pity party - no guest list.
unfortunately he is starving, and he pads barefoot through the gallery following the wafting smell of teriyaki and wontons with furrowed brows and his fingertips itching to wrap themselves around the glass embry has helped himself to and stolen his scotch from. there's a stony glare leveled at him over the noodles, even if his stomach betrays him with a quiet pang and the thought that he could at least offer a thank you - his family would be appalled at the lack of manners.
it's not until embry saunters away towards the dark and moody den of the living room that's been his solace since getting back from the funeral that he allows himself to begrudgingly pull out the chopsticks and take a few bites of noodles, which taste like mana from the gods at this rate. grateful as he is, it feels ridiculously childish to be bossed around like this and spurs him to shout out gruffly around a mouthful just to be petty:]
Please, make yourself at home.
[this whole thing makes him feel exposed, like he's under a goddamn pane of glass to be studied at embry's leisure and picked apart. every trinket, every memento, the few frames he has along the mantle and in his office - all of it feel like pieces of shrapnel that are suddenly digging into his skin and trapping him here under the weight of all his failures and most intimate secrets.
like the record player, the collection of jazz hits and romantic ballads that the kind of man his father wanted him to be would be embarrassed to even know the name of, let alone keep in their possession. hawk stabs his chopsticks back into the box, pushing it down on the counter among the makeshift feast that's been splayed out for him even as he's tempted to crack open that bottle. he shoves down the urge, knowing it'll just earn him more nagging as he takes in embry slotted amongst his things. even with all his wounds feeling split open and raw, there is a part of him that doesn't hate the way he seems to fit right in among all the things that hold secret, special meaning - the kind he'd never sacrifice by making known to the rest of the world. something in him softens from outright prickly to cautious civility.]
Not a bad place for that. Mine was in Milan.
[not that it was particularly meaningful - getting himself acquainted with as many forward european men as he could manage, not even realizing it was the last hurrah before the tragedy of velletri would strike. strauss came long after that though - a gift from lucy that didn't hold much sentiment on its own until he pulled it out one day and watched a certain boy with floppy brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses run his fingers reverently over the cover before putting it on during one of their few overnights to lull them into a quiet moment together on his couch. he swallows thickly, hating the way it must flicker across his face and threatens to well up in his eyes.]
Yeah, Strauss. From a friend. Didn't have the heart to throw it away.
[if his entire body wasn't threatening to shake apart and hawk wasn't feeling like one wrong step before utterly crumbling, he might steal that cigarette back and tell embry he's been a bad influence. that he was on his way to quitting and his lungs will thank him later - keep him alive a little longer so he doesn't fucking lose another person he cares about.]
I get it - duty calls. Ghosting you wasn't the intention.
[for leaving you to deal with it on your own, is his own unspoken admission. his mind drifts to the thought of embry next to him in his own dress blues, or more likely he'd err on the side of fashionable and just wear some sinfully slim fit tux - zegna, or maybe armani. embry would have arranged car service for the smiths, a separate one for the two of them where maybe hawk could reminisce over all the things america was losing with one less senator and one fewer good man over a glass of honorary whiskey.
but he looks up sharply at that, eyes narrowing and tone borderline offended.]
Look, I'll be back tomorrow. I didn't think you'd be in the office today.
no subject
hawk doesn't know what to do with an envelope from ash who he knows isn't a fan and greer who he's met only a few times to count on one hand, so it gets set aside as he instead eyes the more useful thing that embry's brought, which is scotch that he's started associating with the man himself considering the bottle they'd shared in seattle and that he's started to pour more frequently for reasons unknown. but of course he's an asshole about it, because that's what he does best - and honestly, if it were any other day hawk might take it in stride and watch embry float through the circular gallery room off into the kitchen and follow with snark of his own. but it's not any other day, and this was supposed to be his own private pity party - no guest list.
unfortunately he is starving, and he pads barefoot through the gallery following the wafting smell of teriyaki and wontons with furrowed brows and his fingertips itching to wrap themselves around the glass embry has helped himself to and stolen his scotch from. there's a stony glare leveled at him over the noodles, even if his stomach betrays him with a quiet pang and the thought that he could at least offer a thank you - his family would be appalled at the lack of manners.
it's not until embry saunters away towards the dark and moody den of the living room that's been his solace since getting back from the funeral that he allows himself to begrudgingly pull out the chopsticks and take a few bites of noodles, which taste like mana from the gods at this rate. grateful as he is, it feels ridiculously childish to be bossed around like this and spurs him to shout out gruffly around a mouthful just to be petty:]
Please, make yourself at home.
[this whole thing makes him feel exposed, like he's under a goddamn pane of glass to be studied at embry's leisure and picked apart. every trinket, every memento, the few frames he has along the mantle and in his office - all of it feel like pieces of shrapnel that are suddenly digging into his skin and trapping him here under the weight of all his failures and most intimate secrets.
like the record player, the collection of jazz hits and romantic ballads that the kind of man his father wanted him to be would be embarrassed to even know the name of, let alone keep in their possession. hawk stabs his chopsticks back into the box, pushing it down on the counter among the makeshift feast that's been splayed out for him even as he's tempted to crack open that bottle. he shoves down the urge, knowing it'll just earn him more nagging as he takes in embry slotted amongst his things. even with all his wounds feeling split open and raw, there is a part of him that doesn't hate the way he seems to fit right in among all the things that hold secret, special meaning - the kind he'd never sacrifice by making known to the rest of the world. something in him softens from outright prickly to cautious civility.]
Not a bad place for that. Mine was in Milan.
[not that it was particularly meaningful - getting himself acquainted with as many forward european men as he could manage, not even realizing it was the last hurrah before the tragedy of velletri would strike. strauss came long after that though - a gift from lucy that didn't hold much sentiment on its own until he pulled it out one day and watched a certain boy with floppy brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses run his fingers reverently over the cover before putting it on during one of their few overnights to lull them into a quiet moment together on his couch. he swallows thickly, hating the way it must flicker across his face and threatens to well up in his eyes.]
Yeah, Strauss. From a friend. Didn't have the heart to throw it away.
[if his entire body wasn't threatening to shake apart and hawk wasn't feeling like one wrong step before utterly crumbling, he might steal that cigarette back and tell embry he's been a bad influence. that he was on his way to quitting and his lungs will thank him later - keep him alive a little longer so he doesn't fucking lose another person he cares about.]
I get it - duty calls. Ghosting you wasn't the intention.
[for leaving you to deal with it on your own, is his own unspoken admission. his mind drifts to the thought of embry next to him in his own dress blues, or more likely he'd err on the side of fashionable and just wear some sinfully slim fit tux - zegna, or maybe armani. embry would have arranged car service for the smiths, a separate one for the two of them where maybe hawk could reminisce over all the things america was losing with one less senator and one fewer good man over a glass of honorary whiskey.
but he looks up sharply at that, eyes narrowing and tone borderline offended.]
Look, I'll be back tomorrow. I didn't think you'd be in the office today.
[you weren't supposed to know about any of this.]