Archive of Our Own

It’s always been easy for Hawk to spot them at the bar—first timers. Visitors just beginning to experience the fantasy—the indulgence—of all that the enigmatic paradise of Fire Island has to offer. Folks suddenly granted access to a freedom not experienced in decades, typically made obvious by their near exorbitant need to once again experience life to the utmost fullest. 

And sure, Hawk had felt that way once too. Thrilled simply by the experience of it all, by the freedom of it all. A place where he could drink what he wanted and fuck who he wanted without anybody giving a damn. A place where he could hide away from the failures of his own life. Be free of the consequences his decisions had brought upon himself, upon those who counted on him.

But now, his visits to Fire Island are—like everything else in Hawk's life—simply a way to pass the time. His own personal state of limbo until he reaches the inevitable end ahead.

A place for total personal freedom. 

A bitter laugh bubbles up in Hawk’s chest as the words of his younger self echo in his mind. Total personal freedom, it would seem, is not all it’s cracked up to be. 

The realization has him draining the last of his drink.

As always, it hits him unexpectedly—the distinct lack of bite to the scotch in his glass. An absent feeling of something sharp and cutting against his tongue, the amber liquid barely even burning as it slides down his throat. Then again, Hawk doesn’t know why he expects it to, knows it’s just another one of the many supposed perks the Island has to offer. 

Really though, it’s just a waste of a damned good scotch.

Setting his glass against the bar with a soft clink, Hawk surveys the crowd around him. Lets his gaze drift around the room—the sprawling, jazzy, rhythm of the band warming his limbs and sharpening his senses. After two years it’s not uncommon for him to recognize some of the island locals, even a seasoned tourist like himself here or there. 

But the man who catches his eye across the bar isn’t someone he recognizes—a so-called first timer no doubt. 

He’s young, at least younger than Hawk that is—though on Fire Island age is relative, to put it mildly. Even under the dim, sepia-toned light of the bar Hawk can easily see his beauty—delicate boyish features hidden under the guise of thick dark frames and slightly too long chestnut hair.

Still, Hawk doesn’t exactly know what possesses him to ask, finds himself doing so before he’s really even given it much thought—

“First time?”

The man startles at his question, index finger nervously tapping against the dark wood of the bar as he warily surveys the assortment of liquor bottles behind it.

“You don’t suppose they have milk, do you?”

Hawk nearly chokes on his own drink at the oddity of the question, “I think they have whatever you’d like. Sort of the point of this whole thing.”

“Right.”

He watches with interest as the man stands there awkwardly for a moment, practically squirming as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking for all the world like a lost pup—not unlike the one Kimberly had once found on her way home from the school bus and begged for them to keep. Hawk feels his lips twitch at the memory, at how the man draws in a determined breath, mouth flapping open to order, only to visibly deflate when the bartender passes him over without a glance. 

It’s a rarity here really, the air of uncertainty that seems to plague his every move. The sight is somehow both agonizingly painful and entirely charming.

“It’s not you,” he calls out over the whining opening notes of the next song. The man gives him a confused look before Hawk jerks his head towards the other end of the bar, where the bartender—Frankie—is leaned over on his elbows flirtatiously, “He’s like that when Marcus is around.”

“Oh I wasn’t offended I—”

“Hey Frankie,” Hawk interrupts, unable to help the amusement he feels flit across his own features when the man’s eyes widen comically in response to his boldness. “When you’re done making eyes at Marcus over there, this young man here would like a glass of milk.”

Frankie straightens up begrudgingly, raising a brow as he scoffs, “Can you believe this guy Marcus—making eyes? Young man? You’d think he was practically ancient.”

“Oh but I don’t look a day over thirty-five,” Hawk tosses back easily, falling into the uncomplicated rhythm of their normal Saturday night banter.

Marcus practically snorts at that, which has Frankie simply rolling his eyes in response, though Hawk swears he sees his lips twitch. It’s the reason Hawk has always frequented this spot—fondly dubbed the Cozy Corner—over the others. Marcus (and Frankie for that matter) seems to be as just as cynical about this whole thing as he is. 

He watches as Frankie turns and pulls a clean glass off the shelf, eyeing his companion curiously, “Milk, huh? I think I’ve got a bottle somewhere.”

An adorable blush creeps over the man's cheeks, tingeing the tips of his ears as the obvious peculiarity of his request sinks in. He wouldn’t be the first to fall victim to Frankie’s scrutinizing gaze, but something about the rosy dusting over his cheekbones causes an image of how that blush might spread to the rest of his skin, to flash in Hawk’s mind.

Jesus, he needs to get laid.

The thought has him flicking his eyes down to his watch, wondering absentmindedly if he has time to drop by The Rack to get his cock sucked before midnight.

10:03 PM

No time like the present, Hawk thinks sardonically, giving Frankie and Marcus a nod goodbye that he’s near certain neither of them notices—too caught up in one another to care—before he drains the last dregs of Glen Mhor from his glass. 

Just as he’s setting it down, an insistent voice cuts across the music, “You’re leaving?”

Hawk huffs a laugh to himself, counts to six as he makes a show of inspecting the antique cut of his glass, because really it’s too easy answering right away. But when he finally looks up, he finds himself at risk of getting lost in the depths of warm brown eyes that seem to assess his own person with a near jarring intensity. And for a moment, Hawk simply allows it—allows himself to be lost. Lost in the way long fingers trace along the curved rim of the man’s glass, lost in the faintest hint of curiosity and eagerness that glint in his gaze, lost in the knowing, lop-sided grin that seems to tug on the corner of his lips.

But tonight’s not the night for that, so instead Hawk simply taps his watch indicatively. A nickname shakes loose from somewhere in the depths of his mind, rolling easily off his tongue as he says, “Fire Island’s a party town, Skippy. Midnight’s only a couple hours away—why waste time sitting here?”