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Hawk was running late. Not the good running late where he could politely but firmly reject the advances of insistent sorority sisters, but the bad kind. The kind where Hawk might actually be late for his afternoon class. Now, Hawk wasn't quite as near to the perfect attendance record of his roommate/very adorable boyfriend (for whom a 102° fever and almost continuous coughing hadn't been enough reason to skip his classes), but Hawk liked this class. It was engaging and interesting, and for once the professor actually sounded as if he enjoyed the material and wouldn't cheerfully throttle half the students in the class. Granted, it was only a couple of weeks into the new college year, but Hawk had a good feeling that this class was going to be one he'd remember fondly.
And Hawk was going to be late.
After a draining morning shift at the local cafe (Hawk wasn't going to touch a dime of the money his father had set aside for his education - a decision he regretted every time he had a large assignment but his pride wouldn't allow him to change), Hawk had about twenty minutes to get his things from his off-campus apartment and make his way to his lecture.
Which wouldn't be a problem, on a normal day. Hawk kept his college materials very neat and organised on his desk - not chaotically strewn around the apartment in a system only Tim understood. But today, Hawk was, well, stymied.
Before work (at an ungodly hour of the morning, but Hawk was used to it), Hawk had regretfully pulled himself away from the snuggling warmth of his Skippy, dressed in the clothes he'd set aside for work - as a rule, he tried not to show up on campus smelling like coffee and the various things his coworkers accidentally spilled on him - and then set his clothes for class on his chair. Which was where Hawk's current problem lay. He'd changed into most of the clothes he'd laid out - except his lucky Penn State hoodie.
He'd bought it in freshman year and had been wearing it when he had - quite literally - run into the transfer student from Fordham with the face of an angel. His Skippy.
Normally, Hawk would call out and ask Tim if he'd seen his hoodie, but Tim was in lectures all day and Hawk would feel a fool shouting into an empty apartment. Besides, Marcus was home in the apartment next door, working on an article for the campus newspaper, and Hawk didn't much fancy being delayed by an irate best friend calling him all manner of names but mostly asshole. And he'd laugh himself sick that Hawk was letting a little thing like not having his hoodie delay him.
It was just that it was getting cooler out, the Fall truly beginning to take over after a balmy summer, and Hawk's undershirt just wasn't going to cut it.
Grumbling to himself, and realizing that possible lateness would turn into actual lateness if he gave in to the urge to tear the bedroom apart looking for his favourite hoodie, Hawk reached into the closet and grabbed the first one he came to.
It was Tim's. One Hawk had bought him last Christmas when Hawk had surprised him with a trip to New York to visit his family. Tim's beloved Rockettes were on the front, reminding Hawk of the Christmas Eve they'd spent at the Music Hall watching the show. The scent of Tim's nighttime tea clung to it, conjuring up an image of Tim in his hoodie and flannel pajama pants, chewing on the end of a pen while he read ahead in his history textbooks.
Hawk pulled it on, indulged himself a moment longer in Tim's scent, then cursed, grabbed his bag and ran out of the door.
Later, after a lecture that kept Hawk interested from start to finish, and an impromptu study session for a pop quiz next lecture, Hawk stopped by Tim's favourite little hole-in-the-wall pizza place. It was his night to make dinner and frankly he couldn't spare the energy.
All he wanted to do was go home, let Tim put one of his documentaries on the TV, and snuggle with his Skippy while they ate dinner. And, honestly, Hawk wasn't going to waste valuable Skippy time cooking. Not tonight.
Hawk ran into Frankie on the stairs, wordlessly handing over one of the pizza boxes. Frankie was in the third year of his counselling degree, and had run himself ragged all summer. And he looked absolutely exhausted, muttering the list of things he had to get done tonight. Frankie gave Hawk a bright if tired smile, letting himself into his and Marcus's apartment with a call for Marcus to be nicer to Hawk because he'd just saved him cooking tonight.
Marcus called out a gruff "thanks" from where he was undoubtedly still tapping away at the outdated typewriter he insisted helped his creative process, Hawk managing a nod before Frankie closed the door and went to his partner.
Honestly, that seemed like a wonderful idea. Hawk too, hopefully, had a (much more adorable) boyfriend waiting for him inside their own apartment.
"Angel, I'm home!"
Tim popped up off the couch, walking over to Hawk to greet him with a long, leisurely kiss. "Hi, beloved," Tim hummed, stepping back just enough that he could smile at Hawk. "You brought pizza."
"I did," Hawk agreed, lifting the box up in demonstration. "I ran into Frankie on the stairs-"
"Did you buy them dinner too?" Tim asked, his eyes as soft and tender as his smile. "You're sweet."
Hawk kissed the tip of Tim's nose, shaking his head. "I'm not sweet, Skippy. Ask Marcus, he'll tell you that I'm-"
"Sweet," Tim proclaimed, tugging Hawk towards the couch. "I see you, Hawkins Fuller, no matter how much you try to hide."
"Fine, Skippy," Hawk sighed, pretending to grumble. "I'll be sweet, just for you."
Hawk set the pizza box down on the coffee table, careful not to set it over any of Tim's papers - a little bit of grease on them wasn't worth Tim's sad eyes and pout. Hawk could never stand Tim's sad eyes and pout. He straightened up, noticing for the first time what his angel was wearing.
"Is that my hoodie?" Hawk asked, plucking gently at the first N of Penn.
"No." Tim blushed and ducked his gaze, a horrible liar as always. His hands smoothed up Hawk's chest, a distraction, but one Hawk would happily allow. "Is this my hoodie?"
"I had to wear something when you stole my hoodie, Skip," Hawk shrugged, rewarded with Tim's adorable scrunch of offense.
"It's mine now," Tim said, crossing his arms protectively over Hawk's hoodie. "Smells like you."
"Oh, angel," Hawk sighed, gently unfolding Tim's arms. He looked at Tim, wearing Hawk's hoodie, fiddling with the sleeves the way he'd always done. It made something in Hawk melt. "It looks better on you, Skippy."
Tim's smile spread across his lips, so sweet and warm and loving, Hawk couldn't stand it.
"Skippy," Hawk called, waiting for Tim's soft hum and inquisitive eyebrow raise, before he pounced.
His fingers found Tim's sensitive sides, tickling gently but mercilessly. Tim laughed and wriggled, cries of "Hawk!" filling the living area. Tim's laughter was a beautiful sound, bright and uninhibited, just like Tim was himself. Pure enjoyment, no facades or pretense. Just Tim.
Tim retaliated, his long, artist's fingers slipping under the Rockettes hoodie to attack the sensitive spots along Hawk's own sides.
Eventually, they toppled onto the couch, less tickling happening and more giggling and holding onto each other. Tim laid on Hawk's chest, held in the frame of his arms. His soft eyes stared down at Hawk, sparkling with all the love in the world.
"Hi," Tim breathed, voice still light with laughter.
"Hi, Skippy," Hawk smiled back, stroking Tim's hair away from his forehead.
Still smiling sweetly, Tim lowered his face to Hawk's, their lips brushing in a gentle kiss. Hawk held Tim as close to him as he could, deepening the kiss with the tiniest angle of Tim's head, licking into his mouth and swallowing the moans that followed. Hawk gentled the kiss soon enough, though, turning it tender and sweet, banking the passion for now.
Smiling against his lips, Tim pulled back, nuzzling their noses together as they caught their breaths again.
Hawk leaned up for another kiss, Tim sighing as he melted back into the moment.
Quite how long they stayed there, kissing and simply enjoying the moment together, Hawk didn't know. He did, however, know the exact moment they stopped. Tim's stomach gave an alarming rumble, his Skippy blushing adorably and ducking his head into Hawk's neck. Hawk chuckled, stroking soothingly up and down Tim's back.
"Hungry, Skip?"
Tim pulled away, pouting. "You're the one who brought pizza and didn't let me eat it."
Hawk kissed the pout on Tim's lips. "My apologies, Skippy." He lifted him off his chest, letting Tim settle on to the couch. "I'll go heat up the pizza. You find us something to watch."
"Hawk?" Tim called when Hawk was halfway to their little kitchen.
Hawk looked back over his shoulder, smiling at the way Tim's head popped up over the back of Hawk's old blue couch. "Yeah, Skippy?"
Tim's eyes sparkled, his smile beautiful and a little impish. "My hoodie looks better on you too."