[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]