Evidently more than Hawk does, who very nearly pauses for a moment. Is there, genuinely, anything this guy can't do? It's another sad wistful jazz number, and there's something in the untrained quality of Phil's voice that makes it really feel like he lived it. The same way Ella Fitzgerald always feels like she's really in love with you, or Miles Davis could make it sound like his trumpet was weeping. Phil pushes him into some motion, and Hawk is grateful for it, because otherwise he might stay stuck there all night, Phil's broad hand on his waist, the way it burns through his layers of clothes.
Hawk wants a room full of jazz records to go over with him singing like that. He wants a table a mile long of good food to share with him, he wants to ruin ten sets of sheets rolling around with him. It's lust, yes, undoubtedly, Hawk's restraint the only reason that he's not just burying his face in Phil's chest. But it's longing, too. Longing for that moment like on the ship where he cracked through to him, longing for how gentle he is with his kid, longing for how thoughtful he is, how kind. Hawk wants him not just how he usually lusts after a handsome nurse, it's... what, does he want to be Phil, or does he just want to see more of that? Does he want to be in the room when Phil's firm and calm and wonderful? Does he want more of it for himself? To be the reason he smiles, the one who makes him laugh?
Hawk eases them into a faster foxtrot. This sort of thing, it gets worse when you stew on it. He needs to move. He has to get out of his head.
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Evidently more than Hawk does, who very nearly pauses for a moment. Is there, genuinely, anything this guy can't do? It's another sad wistful jazz number, and there's something in the untrained quality of Phil's voice that makes it really feel like he lived it. The same way Ella Fitzgerald always feels like she's really in love with you, or Miles Davis could make it sound like his trumpet was weeping. Phil pushes him into some motion, and Hawk is grateful for it, because otherwise he might stay stuck there all night, Phil's broad hand on his waist, the way it burns through his layers of clothes.
Hawk wants a room full of jazz records to go over with him singing like that. He wants a table a mile long of good food to share with him, he wants to ruin ten sets of sheets rolling around with him. It's lust, yes, undoubtedly, Hawk's restraint the only reason that he's not just burying his face in Phil's chest. But it's longing, too. Longing for that moment like on the ship where he cracked through to him, longing for how gentle he is with his kid, longing for how thoughtful he is, how kind. Hawk wants him not just how he usually lusts after a handsome nurse, it's... what, does he want to be Phil, or does he just want to see more of that? Does he want to be in the room when Phil's firm and calm and wonderful? Does he want more of it for himself? To be the reason he smiles, the one who makes him laugh?
Hawk eases them into a faster foxtrot. This sort of thing, it gets worse when you stew on it. He needs to move. He has to get out of his head.