[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 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. ]