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There were many ways Hawk liked to be woken up from an impromptu afternoon nap. One of his favourites was with Tim's lips, coaxing him awake with a sweet insistence Hawk could never resist. Another was Tim climbing onto his lap, dripping wet from a swim and feeling just impish enough to wake up Hawk with the shock of cold. But, sometimes - usually when it was winter and Hawk had fallen asleep on the couch, grading papers or reading whatever book Tim had recommended for him - Hawk was woken up with a rare treat. Hearing Tim's voice as it drifted through the air, singing softly as he busied himself with whatever chore he decided he'd accomplish without Hawk there to tempt him into procrastinating.
Hawk stretched in the sunshine, comfortably drawn back to wakefulness. The early July heat was bearable for a change, almost temperate; the perfect weather for dozing gently in the warm sun, worries far away and nothing, but peace on the horizon.
Which is exactly what Hawk had been doing, content as he always felt here in Milan. In the garden of the home he had built with Tim.
He didn't question why he was awake as he could tell immediately what had woken him. Not Tim's sweet kiss, nor his impish love dripping over him, but that rare third perfection.
Tim's voice carried softly through the air, barely audible, but there nonetheless. And Hawk, always attuned to his angel's voice, could hear it above all other sounds. The chirps of the birds, the calls of the insects, the soft rustling of the trees - nothing compared to the soft, beautiful sound of Tim's voice singing Doris Day, brightening the summer day.
Hawk stood, stretching out the mild crick in his neck, and adjusted his sunglasses where they'd fallen down his nose.
The scent of the lemon, olive, and cherry plum trees played on the light breeze, tempting him with the urge to wander towards their little orchard. Hawk let his feet carry him there, lured by both the pleasant aroma and the enticing notes of his lover's voice.
"... to my honey, I'll croon love's tune. Honey moon, keep a-shinin' in June..."
Hawk stopped to pick a ripe cherry plum from one of the branches of a tree, taking a bite and enjoying the peace of the moment. Tim's voice in his ears, the sweet, juicy tartness of the cherry plum on his tongue, the sight before him. All more perfect than anything Hawk could have ever dreamed of.
Tim sang to himself, hanging up sheets on the lines they'd strung between the trees. He looked incredible, surrounded by billowing white fabric; a vibrant spot of colour against the white sheets and clear blue sky.
Hawk couldn't tear his gaze away, drinking in every ounce of it. His camera would have loved this shot, but Hawk couldn't bring himself to go and retrieve it. There wasn't a force in the world that could move him from his spot.
Nothing existed except Tim, his gorgeous, brown eyed angel, singing about a silvery moon while their bedsheets danced around him. Hawk felt a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest, falling impossibly more in love with Tim with every second that passed.
His angel absent-mindedly danced as he moved from line to line, adjusting the sheets that had billowed in the breeze, and - unless Hawk's eyesight was playing tricks on him - sniffing them.
"What are you doing, Skippy?"
Startled, Tim yelped, spinning into the sheet he'd just nuzzled. "Hawk!"
Hawk laughed, waving at him, possibly a little smugly. "Hello, angel."
Tim's face scrunched, doing that thing it did when Tim was pretending to be cross with him. "What are you doing here? I thought you were asleep!"
Hawk tsked, wagging his finger. "I believe I asked you first, Skip."
And, there was that adorable face scrunch again.
"I like the smell of clean sheets," Tim announced, jutting his chin out in that stubborn, I know you're going to tease me kind of way. "It's refreshing."
Hawk chuckled, watching the way Tim shaded his eyes as he looked at him. "It is refreshing," he agreed, not wanting to let on that he knew Tim's scent was, at least partially, that of clean laundry. "But, my love, couldn't you wait to smell them until they're inside and dry?"
Tim's nose scrunched up, his eyes fondly narrowing at Hawk. "You wouldn't understand."
No, somehow, Hawk didn't think he would.
This was another of those things that was unique to his Skippy. And, that only made Hawk love him more.
Tim crossed his arms, tilting his head in the way that told Hawk any further teasing about this would not be allowed. At least, not as long as Hawk wanted to maintain kissing privileges.
"Did you want me, beloved?"
"Always," Hawk replied, smiling easily.
"For something in particular, beloved," Tim clarified, sighing in fond exasperation.
This was a trap. Hawk knew it was a trap, and yet, he found himself shrugging insouciantly and admitting, "Not really."
"Well, you can make yourself useful, then," Tim decreed, nodding to the woven basket beside the laundry hamper. "You can harvest that fruit you're munching on."
Hawk finished his final bite of fruit, carelessly tossing the pit into the orchard. "Can I at least have a kiss first?"
"No," Tim retorted, laughter sparkling in his voice. "You can have a kiss afterwards. As long as you behave, Mr. Fuller."
Hawk ignored the playful warning, strolling closer. "Mr. Fuller is for work, my love," he reminded him, sweeping up the basket by its handle. "At home, I'm your Hawk."
Tim's facade cracked, his eyes soft and caring. "Always my Hawk," he promised swiftly, kissing Hawk in sweet apology.
Hawk wrapped his arms around Tim's back, holding him close as he deepened their kiss. Tim's hands wound their way into Hawk's hair, gently tugging at his curls as he returned the passion of the kiss.
Tim pulled away first, licking away the last of the kiss from his lips. His eyes glittered, entirely ruining the frown pulling on his lips.
"You're a menace, Hawk."
Hawk inclined his head. That was true. "But you love me."
"Hmm," Tim's lips thinned, unable to entirely squash his smile. "I suppose I do."
Hawk pouted. "You suppose, Skippy?"
"I suppose," Tim nodded, pecking Hawk's lips once more. "Fruit, Hawk."
Nodding, Hawk nudged Tim towards their lemon trees. "You collect the lemons. I'll harvest the cherry plums."
"Why do I get the lemons?" Tim grumbled, snatching up the lemon basket.
"Because you'll snack on the plums and spoil your dinner," Hawk replied, hiding his laugh in the slight clearing of his throat.
Tim's eyebrows jumped into the sweep of his fringe. "And remind me, bumblebee, who was the one who ate the plum?"
Hawk shrugged, winking at Tim. "My tree, my prerogative."
Tim rolled his eyes, playfully bumping his hip into Hawk's as he walked past. Hawk turned and watched as Tim parted the billowing sheets, his voice softly ringing out in song.
Hawk melted again, quickly snatching the ripest plum from the tree. "Skippy?"
Tim turned, the song stalled on his lips. "Yes, beloved?"
Hawk tossed the plum perfectly into Tim's basket, smiling softly at him. "I love you!"
"I love you too, cuore mio," Tim called, blowing him a kiss.
Hawk turned back to his favourite of their trees, softly humming along to the song his heart was singing.