Chapter Text
Tim found himself shooting up from his bed, his body straight as the morning reveille seemed to blast at full volume. He gasped so hard his chest hurt, a hand flying up to grasp his heart. The first year in the military was… well, it was fine. It was as fine as it could get, and adjusting to the environment still kept him on his toes, so much so that he was surprised he made it through the night. He rubbed at his eyes, hearing a man playing the trumpet loudly a few bunks down. It felt comical, how he reached over on his side to grab his glasses. The other men in the barracks beside him groaned loudly, putting their pillows over their heads.
“Rise and shine, boys!” A large man called, walking in right past the man with the trumpet. “Day 453— Get used to it! Do we need a fuckin’ rooster now? Get up! Breakfast in five minutes.” Tim looked at his watch: It was five in the morning. He always wondered why they had to get up so early. It’s not like they were doing anything, anyway. At least, anything exciting enough. The days dragged on one by one, and it didn’t hit Tim until he wasn’t in his mother’s home, jumping up and down as they counted down to the New Year. He felt a wave of homesickness shoot through him, one he hadn’t felt before. He was now reaching the point past no return.
Tim sat groggily with the tray in front of him, his eyes following around people in uniform interacting with the soldiers who were all eating their brown slop of oatmeal for the morning. It didn’t even look like oatmeal anymore, Tim thought wryly. He pushed in his glasses, watching a few men in uniform handing letters to the men around him. Each morning during breakfast, the mail, as far as letters go, would be handed around. Packages needed to be picked up elsewhere. He felt himself smile. Maybe his mother sent him another letter. Maybe this time she included it with a little lipstick smear kiss or a new little poem she had come up with off the top of her head. Either way, it would end up amongst the other letters from his mother around his bed bunk. The gruff man behind him shot an arm out, startling Tim.
“Thank you,” he responded politely, taking the letter from the man in uniform. Except, this time, there were two letters. He bit his dry lower lip, looking at the two letters. One was, of course, from his mother. He was able to recognize his mother’s handwriting from a projection in the sky or a billboard. He smiled to himself, flipping the letter over to reveal the next one.
Hawkins Fuller
2201 C St NW
Washington, DC 20451
The smile on his face quickly fell upon seeing the name on the envelope, his heart dropping to his stomach immediately. He instinctively looked up, setting the letter down on his lap and covering it up with his hands. He looked around: Did anyone else see it? Did the army general see it? He gulped, looking back at the letter from his mother and ripping it open quickly. He scanned the contents of the letter, smiling again as he read the sweet words from his mother. She had written a poem in the letter, as he suspected: Langston Hughes. He nodded to himself before slipping the note back in the envelope, setting it, as well as the one from Hawk in his jacket pocket. He figured he’d save the heartbreak for later tonight when he would be hiding under the covers with a small flashlight, keeping out now and again for officer patrolling the bunks.
“Promise you won’t write?” He looked down to Hawk, his head splayed against his lap, looking right back up at him. He felt his eyes well up with tears just keeping quiet eye contact with the former.
“I won’t,” he responded, almost immediately. His eyes were dark, but still wide as looked up to Tim. He sighed, turning his head the other way. Neither of the men spoke, Tim running his fingers softly through Hawk’s hair. This needs to happen. I need to let you go.
Tim sat up against the frame of the bunk, looking down at the unopened letter in his hands. The name Hawkins Fuller seemed to glow red, the envelope feeling like fire underneath his fingertips, like it was forbidden that he should even be touching it, looking at it. He shook his head to himself, tracing his fingers over the pen marks on the envelope. He brought the envelope up to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply. Nothing. Just the scent of paper from the post office. Zero traces of Hawk’s cologne or even any smudges that indicated a human truly wrote it. He looked back down at the letter, finally not caring about anymore traces of Hawk that could’ve been left behind.
Tearing the envelope open, he pulled out a familiar sheet of paper. One that looked like that was stolen from his desk and been written with one of his pens. He felt himself snort at the idea of Hawk taking his own writing supplies without giving a damn to even buy his own pen and paper. He folded the letter open, taking a deep breath as he did so.
Skippy,
I know you told me not to write to you. I apologize for any inconvenience this ailed you, now that you are busy amongst your military service and other things I may not be aware of. I felt the sudden urge to pick up a piece of paper and write to you—to which this was originally going to be burnt in the fire, but alas, I feel you would want to still hear from me; hear my words again.
Your body, mind, and spirit seem to haunt my every waking moment. It’s like everywhere I go, I see you. I see your face, your hands, your body against mine, and I think about the moments we shared, whether that was late at night in your bed, or arguing on the top floor of a party for someone you don’t know. I see you in everything. I don’t expect you to reply at all, but I felt compelled to write and send this note to you.
Lucy and I got married last year, and she’s now six months pregnant with our child. She is as beautiful as ever—everything I could have asked for in a wife. However, it feels weird without your presence around the office. Even Addison has noticed your lack of presence. By the day, it’s worse and worse to sit through McCarthy’s long and drawn-out hearings, like he’s trying to milk every second of an appearance to be on TV. Marcus still hasn’t been promoted, either. I told him that if he got on the cover of The Post, then he’d be able to potentially put his foot in the door, but the assholes over at The Post don’t seem to want to go anywhere with him anytime soon. I always thought the two of you would work well together.
Skippy, I hope no one over there is giving you a hard time and all. I always worried that a guy like you might get hurt easy. I wonder what division you’re working in, although I cannot imagine you out on the front lines. At least I sure hope not. I never said I didn’t want to see you again. I don’t think I would be able to live with myself knowing you’re not okay. I know you’re strong—my boy. I never saw my boy as a soldier, but I suppose one of us has gotta do it. My boy… You’ll always be my boy. No matter how far apart we are, you’re always going to mean the world to me.
God bless you Tim,
Hawk
Tim let his fingers brush over the words on the letter, feeling the ink smudge on his fingertips. He let his hand drift up to his neck, carefully feeling the cool metal of his cross necklace on his skin. He sighed, letting his hand drift down to his chest, rubbing it comfortingly. This is exactly what he didn’t want to happen.
“I said lights out!” A man’s voice boomed through the entryway, startling Tim. He straightened his back, shoving the letter back in its envelope and setting it on the table next to him. This is exactly what he didn’t want to happen…
The night grew dark, and before long, his hands were wrapped around his body, embracing himself in a way he might not ever be embraced again for a while. His own strong arms weren’t enough, it never seemed like enough. And it never would be enough. Not without Hawk. The mere thought of him and his wife and a family full of children. Hawk: A family man. That’s what he was, without a doubt. He closed his eyes, squeezing his body with his arms, imagining the cool-toned apartment of Hawk’s. He would have never needed to even sell the apartment and buy a house, not with him. He didn’t have to give up his life for the sanctity of others, not with him. Nights would be quiet as they fell asleep to the sounds of each other’s breathing, feeling Hawk’s head on his chest. He would’ve never needed to give anything of his up, not with him. Not with Tim.