[ of course hawk doesn't truly listen. it's no surprise the meaning is lost on him, either, and something about that makes his heart ache. he stares down at the page, the end of the chapter waiting there - a few lingering sentences and the endless blank, yellowed paper indicating he should indeed shut the book and turn out his light.
It never occurred to him that he was getting into the most unusual and perhaps the most dangerous of adventures. But even if he had known this, he wouldn't have dreamed of shutting the book…
With a trembling forefinger he found his place and went on reading.
The clock in the Belfry struck ten.
he's tired, and it shows in the sigh of his words: ]
No, no. I'm sure I could find a copy and read it for you one day, though.
[ what does he look like, sprawled out in bed, drunk and flushed, tousled and unkempt in a way that shows he's gotten messy around the edges. tim always liked it best when he saw the delicate seams start to fray behind closed doors.
he sits for a moment, listening to the man breathe, to the silence on the other line. he feels so far away. ]
[he'd like it if tim were here for him to touch, to hold. is he laying down too? or is he at his desk, no doubt working himself to the bone with late night arrangements and proposals and burning the midnight oil. hawk probably interrupted him - just another tally on a long list of shitty things he's done to this boy.
if tim listens, he'll hear hawk roll over and tug at the switch, turning it off because he would have forgotten. how funny the things they remember about one another - details burned into their souls that they'll never be able to let go, accumulated like little pearls of intimate knowledge twinkling at inopportune times and tugging on their heart strings.
hawk is quiet for a few moments, and then in a low, almost surrender -]
I'll have to see if I can find a copy in all of my free time.
[ though he means to sound a little put off by it, there's no doubt that hawk could hear the smile in his voice if he's listening closely enough. tim should be mad - should chastise hawk and rail against him and count the many hurts he's felt at the other man's hand and words.
the text had been a cry for something, of course. for all the ways he was never able to understand hawk, he can also see right through him. tim isn't made of the stuff to be cruel, even when some deserve it.
(he's not sure hawk will ever fully deserve it, which is another thing to revisit altogether).
he hears the click of the lamp and tim closes his book on his chest. he'll stay put on the couch, and he reaches to turn his own lamp off. this way, if he closes his eyes, he can imagine the scene of them together for a moment. ]
Mm. In a way. She sends someone on a quest to find him. She's the ruler of a great, magical land that's under threat. She's too weak to fight off the evil - she needs to be renamed by a child to regain her power - so he goes on the quest to help her. He can do whatever he wishes, but with every wish, he loses a memory. In the end, he's the one that renames her and saves the land - saves her. But he loses himself, when he does it.
[ he huffs a little, shaking his head. ]
So she sends him back - but only with his ability to love. And with that, he saves himself. He goes back to the land many times after that to give the girl a new name - to save her every time.
Saying it out loud? It's a little stupid.
[ except he finds it utterly charming, of course. and he also assumes hawk has most likely fallen asleep. who wouldn't? ]
So they love each other at the expense of themselves.
[the words are a little slurred - half sleepiness and half all the scotch he's put away tonight while chasing off thoughts of this very topic. but just like the boy he can't seem to stay too far, and while he'd told tim once that he should have never gotten close - should have left him alone, he knows if he had the chance he'd go back and do it all over again.
(so why can't he...now? no.)
he remembers tim scolding him once for looking at things so bleakly, interpreting hawk's own protective idea of freedom as an exclusion to keep him out. part of it had been to keep him from getting hurt back then - but it happened anyway, and that's the part he'll take to his grave. even if for now it's easy to pretend that tim is on a jet somewhere, or in a hotel, and he can't sleep because of jet lag or work and hawk is waiting for him to come back and crawl into bed so they can curl around each other like two halves of the same whole and drift off.]
It's not stupid. Seems a little deep for a kid's book, frankly.
[hawk shifts onto his back again, breath evening out as he closes his eyes and listens for every inflection of tim's voice, every inhale he takes in response like he might manifest the sensation of it next to him. enough time has passed that he thinks maybe tim has drifted off too, instead laying himself bare in a murmur that's barely above a whisper.]
[ the book itself isn't about love, it's about adventure and loss and discovering self, but who is tim laughlin now without hawkins fuller? he'd thrown himself to the army to try and find out, to see if he could smudge the imprint of the man from his heart.
it failed. he can see that very clearly now.
tim's eyes remain close as they sit on the phone and he tries to imagine what it would be like were his head on hawk's chest again. if he could feel his heart or meter his breathing. he knows where every dip and turn is, knows how far to reach to find the splintered skin of his scar on his back.
it's a love that picks and nags at his heart with warmth in the same way it hurts. he's just never felt it beat so close to his own heart that his throat swells slightly, his eyes burn, his breath clinging to his ribs. no one but the man on the other side of the phone can slot himself into the hole in his heart and mend it.
he thinks of ash, sadly. ash understands with his sad eyes and warm smile, all good and kind and rough edges. ash, who knows that something as great and all-encompassing like this is a gift, never a curse. no matter the hurt. the wound in is chest doesn't bleed for him - he wasn't the one who made it. ]
I know. [ soft, a near whisper into the phone because he's sure hawk is drifting off. ]
Call me, next time. When you want to drink. I'll read to you. Goodnight Moon, maybe. Or Icarus and Apollo.
[hawk remembers what it was like to be the sole focus of tim's attention, the center of this boy's everything. every bit of thoughtfulness, of sweetness and the surprising fire burning inside him needing release from someone with a firm hand. he remembers that chance meeting too - falling into bed and knowing he was fucked from the get-go, not just another one-off at a hotel or some chance grindr hookup. christ, he'd known it the second he'd locked eyes with tim across a crowd of washington's elite in bright spotlights and a busy bar packed with bodies, stunned and unable to look away like a bolt to the heart. not the kind of thing that happens every day, not the kind of thing hawkins fuller thought he'd even be susceptible to after so long buttoned up.
the part that's not a secret is that there's a tim-shaped hole in his heart too. only his vices are liquid, not nearly enough to even come close to filling the space instead of seeping right on through and dragging him down near drowning in it on nights like this.
he's fighting drifting off, if only because it means morning comes and he's back to the polished, bulletproof aide to the vice president who passes tim laughlin with hardly a hello or more than a passing nod of acknowledgment. the longer he's awake, the longer he can stay in this purgatory of tim's sweet voice in his ear, breathing a phantom whisper against his skin.]
Yeah? You gonna pick it up from the Library of Congress just for me?
[there's a fondness in his voice, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips even in its drowsiness if tim listens closely. the same kind that told him once about beachfront villas and italy and sailing in their future.]
No promises about the drinking. Will you still answer?
[ the tiniest little roots of hope begin to snake their way back round his heart, threatening to seep into the hole left by one hawkins fuller. it's better if he ignores it - if he swallows down anything from this moment and stores it away for safety where it can't be touched.
where it can't hurt him. ]
The Library of Congress might laugh me to the curb. But I'll think of something.
[ just for you, he might have echoed in another time, another life, really. it's been two years and still tim knows he is under this man's wicked spell. what would it be like to be loved and held and wanted and cherished again the way hawk had for him?
he'll never know.
but the fondness in hawk's voice, drowned out by the listless fatigue, starts the very beginning of the fissure in his chest. a splinter, waiting for pressure. damn him. ]
No promises. I guess you'll have to take a shot and see.
[ what does he look like now, stretched out in bed, exhausted and sleepy, eyes heavy and smile slow and lazy. a great love, of course. isn't that what ash had alluded to once? is that what hawk is to him? ]
Goodnight, Hawk. Get some rest. [ a small pause, and then, tentative: ] I'll see you tomorrow.
[ damn those little roots - the little taste of hope, to dare him to try and feel something real and true and painful all over again. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It never occurred to him that he was getting into the most unusual and perhaps the most dangerous of adventures. But even if he had known this, he wouldn't have dreamed of shutting the book…
With a trembling forefinger he found his place and went on reading.
The clock in the Belfry struck ten.
he's tired, and it shows in the sigh of his words: ]
No, no. I'm sure I could find a copy and read it for you one day, though.
[ what does he look like, sprawled out in bed, drunk and flushed, tousled and unkempt in a way that shows he's gotten messy around the edges. tim always liked it best when he saw the delicate seams start to fray behind closed doors.
he sits for a moment, listening to the man breathe, to the silence on the other line. he feels so far away. ]
Turn your light out, Hawk. You always forget.
no subject
[he'd like it if tim were here for him to touch, to hold. is he laying down too? or is he at his desk, no doubt working himself to the bone with late night arrangements and proposals and burning the midnight oil. hawk probably interrupted him - just another tally on a long list of shitty things he's done to this boy.
if tim listens, he'll hear hawk roll over and tug at the switch, turning it off because he would have forgotten. how funny the things they remember about one another - details burned into their souls that they'll never be able to let go, accumulated like little pearls of intimate knowledge twinkling at inopportune times and tugging on their heart strings.
hawk is quiet for a few moments, and then in a low, almost surrender -]
Does he get to see her again?
[moon child. he was listening.]
no subject
[ though he means to sound a little put off by it, there's no doubt that hawk could hear the smile in his voice if he's listening closely enough. tim should be mad - should chastise hawk and rail against him and count the many hurts he's felt at the other man's hand and words.
the text had been a cry for something, of course. for all the ways he was never able to understand hawk, he can also see right through him. tim isn't made of the stuff to be cruel, even when some deserve it.
(he's not sure hawk will ever fully deserve it, which is another thing to revisit altogether).
he hears the click of the lamp and tim closes his book on his chest. he'll stay put on the couch, and he reaches to turn his own lamp off. this way, if he closes his eyes, he can imagine the scene of them together for a moment. ]
Mm. In a way. She sends someone on a quest to find him. She's the ruler of a great, magical land that's under threat. She's too weak to fight off the evil - she needs to be renamed by a child to regain her power - so he goes on the quest to help her. He can do whatever he wishes, but with every wish, he loses a memory. In the end, he's the one that renames her and saves the land - saves her. But he loses himself, when he does it.
[ he huffs a little, shaking his head. ]
So she sends him back - but only with his ability to love. And with that, he saves himself. He goes back to the land many times after that to give the girl a new name - to save her every time.
Saying it out loud? It's a little stupid.
[ except he finds it utterly charming, of course. and he also assumes hawk has most likely fallen asleep. who wouldn't? ]
no subject
[the words are a little slurred - half sleepiness and half all the scotch he's put away tonight while chasing off thoughts of this very topic. but just like the boy he can't seem to stay too far, and while he'd told tim once that he should have never gotten close - should have left him alone, he knows if he had the chance he'd go back and do it all over again.
(so why can't he...now? no.)
he remembers tim scolding him once for looking at things so bleakly, interpreting hawk's own protective idea of freedom as an exclusion to keep him out. part of it had been to keep him from getting hurt back then - but it happened anyway, and that's the part he'll take to his grave. even if for now it's easy to pretend that tim is on a jet somewhere, or in a hotel, and he can't sleep because of jet lag or work and hawk is waiting for him to come back and crawl into bed so they can curl around each other like two halves of the same whole and drift off.]
It's not stupid. Seems a little deep for a kid's book, frankly.
[hawk shifts onto his back again, breath evening out as he closes his eyes and listens for every inflection of tim's voice, every inhale he takes in response like he might manifest the sensation of it next to him. enough time has passed that he thinks maybe tim has drifted off too, instead laying himself bare in a murmur that's barely above a whisper.]
I miss you, Skippy.
no subject
[ the book itself isn't about love, it's about adventure and loss and discovering self, but who is tim laughlin now without hawkins fuller? he'd thrown himself to the army to try and find out, to see if he could smudge the imprint of the man from his heart.
it failed. he can see that very clearly now.
tim's eyes remain close as they sit on the phone and he tries to imagine what it would be like were his head on hawk's chest again. if he could feel his heart or meter his breathing. he knows where every dip and turn is, knows how far to reach to find the splintered skin of his scar on his back.
it's a love that picks and nags at his heart with warmth in the same way it hurts. he's just never felt it beat so close to his own heart that his throat swells slightly, his eyes burn, his breath clinging to his ribs. no one but the man on the other side of the phone can slot himself into the hole in his heart and mend it.
he thinks of ash, sadly. ash understands with his sad eyes and warm smile, all good and kind and rough edges. ash, who knows that something as great and all-encompassing like this is a gift, never a curse. no matter the hurt. the wound in is chest doesn't bleed for him - he wasn't the one who made it. ]
I know. [ soft, a near whisper into the phone because he's sure hawk is drifting off. ]
Call me, next time. When you want to drink. I'll read to you. Goodnight Moon, maybe. Or Icarus and Apollo.
no subject
the part that's not a secret is that there's a tim-shaped hole in his heart too. only his vices are liquid, not nearly enough to even come close to filling the space instead of seeping right on through and dragging him down near drowning in it on nights like this.
he's fighting drifting off, if only because it means morning comes and he's back to the polished, bulletproof aide to the vice president who passes tim laughlin with hardly a hello or more than a passing nod of acknowledgment. the longer he's awake, the longer he can stay in this purgatory of tim's sweet voice in his ear, breathing a phantom whisper against his skin.]
Yeah? You gonna pick it up from the Library of Congress just for me?
[there's a fondness in his voice, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips even in its drowsiness if tim listens closely. the same kind that told him once about beachfront villas and italy and sailing in their future.]
No promises about the drinking. Will you still answer?
no subject
where it can't hurt him. ]
The Library of Congress might laugh me to the curb. But I'll think of something.
[ just for you, he might have echoed in another time, another life, really. it's been two years and still tim knows he is under this man's wicked spell. what would it be like to be loved and held and wanted and cherished again the way hawk had for him?
he'll never know.
but the fondness in hawk's voice, drowned out by the listless fatigue, starts the very beginning of the fissure in his chest. a splinter, waiting for pressure. damn him. ]
No promises. I guess you'll have to take a shot and see.
[ what does he look like now, stretched out in bed, exhausted and sleepy, eyes heavy and smile slow and lazy. a great love, of course. isn't that what ash had alluded to once? is that what hawk is to him? ]
Goodnight, Hawk. Get some rest. [ a small pause, and then, tentative: ] I'll see you tomorrow.
[ damn those little roots - the little taste of hope, to dare him to try and feel something real and true and painful all over again. ]