[ timothy laughlin. so embry had been close to the cracks in hawk's seemingly unbreakable shell, though the consolation prize of the admission doesn't fill him with any sense of satisfaction. he hurts suddenly for tim, who maybe wanted hawk as badly as embry wanted ash, viciously and hopelessly, and lost in the end. because hawk didn't want him badly enough.
he doesn't know which is true: that ash didn't want him badly enough to just give a goddamn inch and keep sneaking around until their presidential years were over, or embry didn't want him enough to sacrifice all the good that ash could do in office, all the good he could do for everyone else. all he knows is that he played ash like a fucking fiddle and the cruelty of his lies hold up to this day.
his knee-jerk reaction to hawk's grasp is to punch him, but he finds he can't move, his limbs brittle and aching as badly as his heart. the truth of this threatens to open its serrated mouth and swallow him whole. ]
Everything worked out — [ a low, quiet rasp, like an animal wounded. ] Exactly the way I wanted it to.
[ he'll never marry. never fall in love. never bring anyone home for christmas, just like he hasn't for the last thirty-odd years, and he'll die with a bottle of gin in his hand overlooking the lake house, because eventually ash will go off and raise horses in fucking montana with someone else and embry won't have anymore excuses to follow. he's mature enough to lie in the grave of his own making, at least, even if it makes him sick with grief.
he recovers his equilibrium and snatches his arm away from hawk, but he puts down his coat and goes to the closet instead, fumbling around until he returns with a broom. glass tinkles as he begins sweeping up the ashtray, his chest hollow and his skull buzzing. ]
People love Ash. They won't if they know he fucked me for years. [ loved him, wanted to marry him, would have given up his entire fucking future if embry had only said yes. his voice hardens, bitter to be raked over these old, familiar coals again. ] Everything I've done is to keep him in office. You're here as an extension of that. Don't forget it.
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he doesn't know which is true: that ash didn't want him badly enough to just give a goddamn inch and keep sneaking around until their presidential years were over, or embry didn't want him enough to sacrifice all the good that ash could do in office, all the good he could do for everyone else. all he knows is that he played ash like a fucking fiddle and the cruelty of his lies hold up to this day.
his knee-jerk reaction to hawk's grasp is to punch him, but he finds he can't move, his limbs brittle and aching as badly as his heart. the truth of this threatens to open its serrated mouth and swallow him whole. ]
Everything worked out — [ a low, quiet rasp, like an animal wounded. ] Exactly the way I wanted it to.
[ he'll never marry. never fall in love. never bring anyone home for christmas, just like he hasn't for the last thirty-odd years, and he'll die with a bottle of gin in his hand overlooking the lake house, because eventually ash will go off and raise horses in fucking montana with someone else and embry won't have anymore excuses to follow. he's mature enough to lie in the grave of his own making, at least, even if it makes him sick with grief.
he recovers his equilibrium and snatches his arm away from hawk, but he puts down his coat and goes to the closet instead, fumbling around until he returns with a broom. glass tinkles as he begins sweeping up the ashtray, his chest hollow and his skull buzzing. ]
People love Ash. They won't if they know he fucked me for years. [ loved him, wanted to marry him, would have given up his entire fucking future if embry had only said yes. his voice hardens, bitter to be raked over these old, familiar coals again. ] Everything I've done is to keep him in office. You're here as an extension of that. Don't forget it.