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One of Hawk's favourite things to do was watch Tim. Tim took his breath away, no matter what he did. Tim could be doing dishes in the kitchen, singing softly and shimmying his hips, and Hawk lost all sense of time. Lying on the lounger, bathed in sunshine and reading, and he was the most beautiful man Hawk had ever seen. He had spent entire rolls of film just capturing every elusive part of Tim; waking, sleeping, swimming, reading, and everything in between.
Many people would say Hawk was hopelessly besotted. And they wouldn't be wrong.
Hawk preferred to put it a different way. He was the luckiest man in the world. Tim Laughlin shared his home, his bed, his life.
It was a rare man who would have given up his entire life, his family, and his career to move country in a vague hope of a life together.
Hawk defied anyone not to be hopelessly besotted.
Right now, Hawk was feeling more lucky than he had a right to be. Leaving his office after his monthly phonecall with Lenny (living in Naples with a handsome Italian man who gave him the happiness he deserved), Hawk glanced outside.
Out on the veranda, caressed by the afternoon sunlight, Tim had his forehead creased in concentration. Tim looked beautiful, flawless. As if he belonged in one of the museums Hawk dragged his Skippy off to in return for all the churches Hawk had visited here. From this angle, partially obscured as Tim was by hanging vines, Hawk couldn't see what his love was doing, but he had an idea.
Padding softly through the villa to the kitchen, Hawk filled a glass with the sweet lemonade Tim preferred. The heat wouldn't do it any favours, but his angel would appreciate the refreshment.
Glass in hand, Hawk slipped outside, sparing a moment to wish for the sunglasses resting on the table just inside their front door. He wouldn't be outside too long anyway - dinner didn't cook itself - and he vastly preferred to look at Tim without the filter of sunglasses.
Tim's unconscious humming led Hawk closer to the little wilderness that surrounded their veranda. His Skippy sat on a stone bench amongst the vines, a Roman God caught out of time.
Part of Tim undoubtedly noted Hawk's presence, almost invisible lines of tension lost from his shoulders, but in practice Hawk was unspotted. Free to indulge his most favourite past time.
Skippy watching.
A smudge of graphite lined Tim's cheek, one corner of his lips drawn into his mouth. The crease of concentration rested between his eyebrows, almost hidden under the sweep of his sun-bleached hair.
A sketchpad lay open on Tim's lap, slowly filled in with gentle strokes of Tim's pencils. Hawk's eyes were drawn to the vivid recreation of their garden; columns wrapped in flowering vines, butterflies fluttering around, the two of them slow dancing by the edge of the pool.
Hawk let his gaze rove back to the face he loved so well. Tim's eyes rested softly on his art, happy and at ease here in their home.
It was a sight Hawk never tired of, drinking it in, sustaining himself on it. His Tim was happy, at peace.
Every time Hawk thought he had reached the bounds of love he had for Tim, he found deeper depths. He never stopped falling deeper in love with him. If he was lucky, he never would.
Unable to silently observe his sweetheart no longer, Hawk stepped into the sunshine. The glass made a soft clink as he set it on the table at Tim's side, Hawk delivering it with a soft kiss to Tim's hair.
"Here you go, angel."
Tim hummed, flashing him a sweet, if absent, smile. "Thank you, beloved."
Hawk's heart danced in his chest, giddy warmth bursting through him. Beloved. No matter how many times Tim called him that, easily as breathing, Hawk could never get enough.
Still, his angel was occupied and Hawk had his own list of weekend chores to complete, away from the sweet, irresistible temptation that was his love.
"Don't stay out here too long."
Tim shook his head, sketching in another detail of the pool. "I won't."
"That's what you said last time," Hawk reminded him, watching Tim's nose crinkle in playful offense.
Longing to kiss the crinkle away rose in him like a tide, but Hawk refrained. His Skippy had definite ideas about when Hawk was allowed to distract him from his art.
"I'll be making dinner soon," Hawk said, letting his voice be the caress of a kiss. "I'll come get you when it's ready."
Hawk bent, pressing his lips to the sun-warm skin of Tim's forehead. He allowed his lips to linger for a handful of seconds, drawing slowly back to preserve the closed-eyes look of contentment on Tim's face.
"I love you, Skippy."
Tim smiled, bright and warm and all for Hawk. "I love you too, Hawk."