#aspecarchives

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t enjoy the cup of tea when Martin joined him in his worst bouts of insomnia. He would sit on the tiny couch in his office, nursing his own mug and chattering away in a low tone that Jon was starting to find soothing instead of irritating. At first Jon clammed up, uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion on his late night routine, but he soon found Martin didn’t expect him to respond or contribute, save the occasional grunt of acknowledgement. Sometimes Jon even craved the company, the familiar rhythms of Martin’s voice had become an unconscious comfort. 

Tonight he was looking particularly exhausted, slumped in his seat with deep purple bags under his eyes. It sent an unwelcome pang through Jon’s chest; Martin should be sleeping, not entertaining him because he chose to stay late. He said as much.

“You don’t have to stay up on my part.”

“Hm?” Martin looked up from his lap, eyes finding Jon’s. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I like the company, to be honest. Unless…?”

“I don’t mind,” Jon assured him. Shockingly, he found he meant it. Still, it didn’t ease his guilt. Martin was always here, never leaving the Archives for more than an hour to get food or other necessities. He considered his next words. “That being said, I hope you know you’re allowed to have a life outside of the institute. I won’t judge if you want to have a...late night, or go out. It’s not my business what you do in your free time.”

Martin squinted his eyes as if he didn’t understand the words Jon spoke. Christ, do I really seem that out of touch? He knew he could be severe and well, a bit of an ass at times. The stress of the job got to him more than he cared to admit. But he didn’t want his assistants to think they should follow his example. He was Head Archivist, it fell on his shoulders to get this place in some semblance of order. 

“I’m not really one for nights out, Jon,” Martin gave that familiar, self-deprecating laugh as he leaned back in his chair, an almost defeated-like set to his shoulders. “Well, besides the occasional drink with Tim and Sasha. And even those are sort of...I don’t know. They have their own thing going, and I feel like-”

“A bit of an outsider,” Jon provided before he could activate his ‘word to mouth’ filter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-”

“No,” Martin cut him off. “You’re right. Feels like I’m intruding.”

“Their banter can be overwhelming for the, ah, uninitiated.” On the few times he’d gone out with them in research, he’d felt more lonely than included. His awkward attempts at interjecting could make a conversation fall flat and he felt the need to accept every drink they handed in him the hopes of ‘loosening up.’ It never worked. They were never mean about it, no- or at least had the decency not to do it in his presence. 

“Tell me about it.” Martin gave Jon a tiny little smirk that sent his heart stuttering in his chest for no particular reason. “I’m used to it, is all. This isn’t much of a change in routine, worms notwithstanding.”

“You, er, don’t have friends you can meet up with? Or maybe a partner?” Christ, why am I prying? What’s gotten into me? Jon felt curious, the man practically lived with him and yet he barely knew him.

The bark of laughter he got in reply was sudden and more than self-deprecating. “A partner? Are you kidding me?” Martin’s tone threw him off-balance; it was jaded, bitter, not like him at all.

“I didn’t mean to pry-”

“No, it’s- to be frank, I don’t think I’m cut out for all that.” Martin toyed with the mug in his hands, gazing into it like it held the answers he needed. “I’ve uh, tried to go on a few dates, meet people, that sort of thing. But they all expect something at the end and it just never feels right, I can’t explain it. Like there’s something missing. ”

Jon paused; the words and their sentiment were not unfamiliar to him. In fact, they resonated quite deeply, if Martin meant what Jon thought he did.

“It’s always been that way- I get a crush, I get to know them, they want to, y’know, and I-I don’t know what's wrong with me, but I can’t-” He cut himself off, sitting up straighter as if suddenly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this-”

“It’s fine.” And it was. Martin looked at his hands and Jon recognized the sadness in the set of his shoulders, the lines etched in his face. He never thought the two of them would have much in common but that- that was a feeling Jon knew all too well. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

Martin somehow managed to deflate even further, curling up as if trying to disappear. “Yeah, well- I think it’s time to admit that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.”

The words hit Jon harder than expected. His fists tightened in his lap; he was sixteen again, wondering why the kiss he stole in a backroom felt more invasive than intimate. He was reading romance novels, understanding the words but not the feelings they were supposed to invoke. He was in college, being called a ‘tease’ or a ‘prude’ when he pulled away at the end of the night. And it was all accompanied by that deep, crushing fear that he’d never be enough. 

No, you’re not that kid anymore. 

And Martin shouldn’t have to be either.

“What’s that look for?”

He was drawn from his thoughts at Martin’s words, looking up from the scratched wood of his desk. “Sorry?”

“You’ve- you’ve got that look on your face, like you’re const- like you’re thinking really hard.”

Jon tried to think of a way to word his query delicately, but ‘delicacy’ had never been his strong suit, according to Georgie. Come to think of it, it was never hers either. “Have you ever considered that maybe- that you’re- you’re of the persuasion, that is-”

Martin shot him a deadpan look, unimpressed. “Yeah, I know I’m gay, Jon.”

“That’s not-” He sighed in frustration, fuming at his inability to communicate. “It’s okay to not feel that way. I never have. It’s normal.”

Martin blinked. “Sorry?”

“Asexuality, that is,” he said, finally managing to get out the words. “I was...in a similar position, I guess you could say. I didn’t feel the way you were ‘supposed’ to feel, like how all the books and TV shows describe it. Zero interest in anything sexual, and I thought...well, I thought something was wrong with me.” Jon felt a lump building in his throat, much to his horror. “But being able to put a name to it, an identity, it just felt right.” Martin’s face was unreadable- had he spoken out of turn? Did he have this all wrong? 

He tried to clarify. “What I’m trying to say is that I know what it’s like, that...feeling you described. But it doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for love. You...you shouldn’t have to feel that way about yourself. You’ll find people who accept you. You’re not doomed to be lonely.” Now you’re just getting sentimental. Jon wasn’t one to dole out advice. He attempted to reign it in, get himself back on solid, familiar ground. “Maybe don’t take me for an example, though. I assure you, my isolation is very much self-imposed.”

Martin didn’t laugh. For a brief, panicky moment Jon thought he might have offended him, assumed the wrong thing, taken him out of context. But Martin met his eyes and Jon saw it- a look of dawning understanding, of comprehension and knowing and as much as Jon wanted to look away he couldn’t, because for the first time in a while he thought he might have said the right thing. 

_____

He watched as Martin puttered about in the break room and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Martin hadn’t said much after their conversation, just thanked him in a choked voice and mumbled some excuse about going off to bed. Jon felt a bit conflicted- he now had time to ruminate on the conversation, pick it apart and wonder if he said anything wrong. He didn’t think he had, but his instincts had been proven wrong before.

Still, the thought of helping one person, sparing them from that crippling self-doubt and inadequacy, made any embarrassment or awkwardness well worth it. So here he was, shuffling his feet and holding a stack of paper, stapled and neat and in some cases, annotated. He cleared his throat and Martin turned away from the sink to face him.

“Oh, g-good morning, Jon.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel, throwing it lightly on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

He’d gotten two hours tops on the lumpy couch in his office. I need to invest in another cot. But he nodded anyway, walking forward and thrusting the pile out for Martin to take. Martin looked down at it quizzically but took it all the same, his face softening as he flipped through the pages.

“I, um- I printed out some articles that I thought might be of interest,” Jon rambled, feeling more awkward by the second. Was this too forward of me? “I’ve always found it easier to read on paper instead of the screen. For ah, concentration purposes. This- this isn’t required reading, or anything. Just might be helpful for, uh, figuring things out.”

Martin didn’t look up from the pages in his hand, instead zeroing in on them with a more intense stare. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with sincerity. “Thanks. It uh, it means a lot.”

“Yes,” Jon replied nonsensically, having no response to the emotion in Martin’s words. “You- you don’t need to talk to me about this, if you’d rather not. But I’m available if you’d like to.” He paused. Best to keep this somewhat professional- it was almost nine. “Outside of normal working hours, of course.”

“Of course,” Martin echoed, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he finally met Jon’s eyes. He fought down the urge to smile back, instead muttering an excuse and turning to flee the room. I think I’ve filled my emotional quota for the week. 

They don’t talk about it again, but a few days later a sticky note appears on his desk. Thanks- MB. Underneath the clear script he’d doodled a small flag- black, grey, white, and purple. 

Jon puts it in his right-hand drawer next to an old polaroid of the Admiral, where it stays.

Jon still hasn’t said anything. One of his hands has gone to the shining gold ring holding the cream-colored fabric napkin neatly wrapped and is twisting it back and forth, like Tim usually sees him do with the black ring that sits on the middle finger of his right hand. The ring that Tim had seen ages ago, back when Jon had first joined Research, a stripe around the base of his finger that was fractionally darker than the skin around it. It was something he never took off, and Tim found his gaze going to it every time Jon would hand him a book or a file folder or a cup of coffee. He’s held Jon’s hand only once, and the ring had been cool against his fingers, worn smooth from how often Jon’s hands went to it during the day to twist it back and forth, an absent-minded motion done whenever Jon was stressed or anxious or nervous or just deep in thought.

 Jon’s fingers twitch around the napkin ring, just for a moment, like they’re itching to reach for something else, before stilling, and now Tim just feels guilty. Before he can stop himself, he says, “I- I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, Jon. I’ve just. I’ve always thought it was nice?” Oh god, stop talking, just stop—

 “It looks good on you.”

 Finally, Jon looks up from his menu, his eyes blown wide with surprise. “What?” he says, his voice just a touch rougher than normal, and Tim isn’t sure whether or not to find that incredibly concerning or incredibly hot.

 Focus, Stoker.

 Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes. So, with a shrug that’s meant to seem casual but really, really isn’t, Tim says, “I’ve always thought so. The way you fiddle with it sometimes, it’s- it’s, I don’t know, cute.”

 “Cute?” Jon says, that same roughness scraping the edges of the word raw.

 Fuck it. “Yes, Jon, cute. I asked you on a date because I think you’re cute and because I want to spend more time with you and because I like you. And I just- I don’t know, it just seemed like the ring was something special to you? Maybe should have gone for something like favorite movie first or something, but I already know a lot of that stuff, and I guess I just. Wanted to ask?”

 Tim’s thrown all semblance of this being a put-together, normal date out the window. Not that anything has ever been normal, or easy for that matter, with Jonathan Sims. Still, he wants this to work. He wants it so goddamn bad he aches. So he bites his tongue, watches Jon’s face, and waits.

 The waiter comes to their table suddenly and without any preamble, with quite possibly the worst timing ever. Tim has no idea what Jon orders. He just blurts out mushroom ravioli on instinct and orders a mid-priced bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon because if this conversation turns any more sideways, at least he’ll have wine to drown his sorrows in.

 There’s a brief pause after the waiter leaves, during which Tim can’t help but notice that Jon’s hand has gone back to his ring, twisting it back and forth on his finger with what now seems like an intentional focus, a way to ground himself in the feeling of it against the pads of his fingers. Then, Jon lets out a small exhalation and says, “I’m… I’m not upset that you asked, Tim.”

 Oh. Tim searches for something to say and comes up with nothing. Relief and confusion curl in his chest in equal measure, and he settles for just nodding, giving Jon what he hopes is an encouraging smile—though it feels decidedly more like a grimace than he’d like.

 In the interim, the wine arrives at their table, their glasses filled by the waiter and the bottle set near the candle flickering in the center. The firelight refracts off the dark glass and Tim swears he can see it reflected in Jon’s eyes, a repeating reflection of flames in Jon’s pupils that goes on for eternity. Tim takes his glass, feeling the desperate need to have something in his hands, and takes a long sip of the wine. It’s nicely bitter on his tongue, briefly chasing away the salty, nervous taste that had filled his mouth.

 Jon takes his own glass in hand and tilts it back and forth, watching the red liquid within swirl around and around. After a long moment, he says, “I wear it for a reason, and I… I suppose I’m afraid that you won’t care for that reason.”

 What? Tim sets his glass down more heavily than he intends to and reaches across the table. When his hand meets Jon’s, Jon flinches ever so slightly.

 “Sorry, sorry,” Tim says, hastily retracting his hand. Before it can retreat more than a few inches, however, Jon shakes his head and reaches forward, grasping Tim’s hand firmly in his. His fingers are warm and dry against Tim’s, and the ring on his finger is cool to the touch where it presses against Tim’s palm.

 “Please, don’t- don’t apologize.” Jon looks down at the table, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and worrying it for a moment before continuing, softly, “I just don’t want to mess this up before it’s even begun.”

 Tim says, with more certainty than he’s ever felt about anything, “You aren’t going to.”

 Jon sighs, exasperated. “Tim, you can’t possibly know that.”

 “Yeah, I can. Because whatever horrible reaction you’re expecting from me isn’t going to happen. Unless your big secret is that you’re secretly a mass murderer, or- or that you’re only dating me to use me for some big master plan—neither of which seem likely explanations for the situation at hand—I’m not going to hate you for telling me. If you don’t want to, I won’t pressure you to, but I don’t want you to not do it because you think I’m going to like you any less for whatever it is. I’ve had a year and a half to pine over you, Jonathan Sims—believe me when I say that I want to be here, with you, more than I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life.”

 Tim really hadn’t meant to say all that, but there it is, and he finds he really doesn’t regret any of it. Well, maybe the pining bit, if only to scrape back together at least a bit of his over-confident and charismatic reputation. Jon’s eyes are wide with shock again, and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally says, in a punched-out voice, “A year and a half?”

 Oh. “Ah, yeah,” Tim says sheepishly, rubbing his free hand on the back of his neck. “Didn’t really think I was being all that subtle, but. Yeah.”

 Jon looks scandalized. “Tim, that’s the entire time I’ve been in Research! This whole time, you’ve—”

 He breaks off with a strangled noise, and if Tim squints, he thinks he can see the tips of Jon’s cheeks darkening, though that could just be the flicker of candlelight across his face. “You didn’t say anything,” Jon says finally, after several seconds of silence during which Tim decided to stop pretending like he’d ever been anything other than completely enamored with Jonathan Sims.

 “Sure I did,” Tim says with a shrug and a sliver of a teasing smile. “Three days ago, when I asked you out to dinner. And now, of course, can’t forget that.”

 “Tim!” Jon’s hand retreats from Tim’s and he pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Christ, and I thought six months was a long time.”

 “Six months?” Tim echoes, a wide grin splitting his face in two. “Wait, wait, have you been—”

 “Tim—”

 “—for six months?”

 “Well, it’s better than a year and a half!” Jon snaps, taking his hand away from his nose and shooting Tim a glare that contains about as much heat as a block of ice.

 Tim laughs and reaches for Jon’s hand again; when Jon sighs and allows him to take it, Tim runs a thumb along the back of it, feeling the smooth texture of Jon’s ring as his thumb passes over it. “Mm, perhaps I should have said something sooner,” he relents, his mouth still curved into a smile. “But I didn’t want to mess things up. I like you so fucking much, Jon, and right now, I can hardly think of anything in the world that could change that. All right?”

 Jon’s staring at their hands, his forehead creased with lines of mild irritation. When he says, “All right,” there’s still a touch of petulance to it, but there’s something softer behind it as well. Something warmer.

 “All right,” Tim repeats.

 They talk about everything and nothing as the evening stretches on, and Tim doesn’t mention the ring. He can tell that Jon’s still thinking about it by the way that his hand goes to it every so often, twisting it around his finger as he talks about the proper types of grass for each climate and the fermentation process for the wine they’re drinking and the food safety protocols put in place to ensure that things like insect legs and metal shards don’t end up in their meals.

 (“Ew,” Tim says, spitting his wine back out into his glass and giving Jon a look that he hopes fully communicates his disgust.

 “Sorry,” Jon says with a wince. “Um. But it’s safe? Because of the protocols.”

 Tim is not convinced.)

 Despite all of that, the meal is lovely, and the tingling warmth the wine is sending throughout his body is lovely, and Jon is lovely. Tim can’t stop staring at him—at the few curls that have slipped loose from his braid and that now frame the sides of his face, at the crisp cut of the emerald green suit he’s wearing that Tim had almost made a joking remark about before he realized that he found it really, really hot, at the way that Jon’s nose wrinkles and his hand flies up to cover his lips when he laughs, like his joy is a secret to be kept hidden. Tim has to take another long drink of wine to keep himself from blurting out right then and there that he loves Jon; he doesn’t think that an hour into their first date is quite the right time to lay his entire heart bare.

 They haggle over the check for an embarrassingly long time until Jon finally relents when Tim pulls out the a year and a half is a much longer time than six months, Jon, and also I asked you card. The night is cold and biting when they step out of the warmth of the bistro, and when Jon gives a full-body shiver as they’re walking to the tube station, Tim doesn’t think twice before shrugging off his coat and wrapping it around Jon’s shoulders.

 “Tim, I can’t take this.”

 “Oh? Seems to me like you already have it. Would probably be more trouble to give it back at this point.”

 Jon looks at the ground sullenly, gripping the edges of Tim’s coat with thin-fingered hands and pulling it tightly around him. “Must you always be so- so chivalrous?” Jon mutters, like it’s somehow a crime now to be nice to people.

 “Only on days that end with ‘y,’” Tim quips, and he wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulders. His fingers brush against the ring on Jon’s hand, settling there as they continue on their way.

 Tim doesn’t really live near Jon, but he still walks with Jon to his flat, his left hand at some point having slipped into Jon’s right. The ring cuts gently into the flesh of Tim’s palm as they walk, and Tim wonders if Jon finds the pressure of it between their hands as grounding of a presence as Tim does. Then, they’re at the door to Jon’s flat, and Jon lets his hand slip from Tim’s as he fumbles for his keys, narrowly avoiding dropping Tim’s coat onto the ground as he catches it with one hand and retrieves his keys with the other.

 “I…” Jon hesitates, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, before continuing, “I had a nice time tonight. I… that is to say, if… if you would like to do it again, I… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

 Tim chuckles, a soft, quiet noise, and throws caution to the wind, placing a gentle hand on the side of Jon’s face and feeling the prickle of stubble against his palm. It draws a surprised, breathy noise from Jon’s mouth, and when Jon’s eyes find his, Tim sees in them those same nerves from before, when Tim had finally tripped his way into It looks good on you. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t be opposed either,” Tim says with an audible smile in his voice, running a thumb softly over the curve of Jon’s jaw.

 Jon lets out another little noise, and all in a rush, Tim thinks, I want to kiss him.

 So he takes a step closer to Jon, lets his eyes fall to Jon’s lips, and says, “Can I kiss you?”

 The nervousness in Jon’s eyes multiplies tenfold, and in a quiet voice, like he’s admitting to something overwhelmingly tragic, he says, “Is it okay if I say no?”

 Something sharp shoots through Tim’s chest at that, and he only recognizes it as concern after he’s taken a small, shuffling step back in some instinctual effort to give Jon more space. Tim can see a million thoughts flashing across Jon’s face, none of them good, so he says before Jon can think to- to apologize again or something, “Of course it’s okay, Jon.” He hesitates only a moment before allowing himself to give in to the confusion nagging beneath the concern (and ignoring the hurt below that) and saying, “Is… does this have something to do with the ring?”

 Because Tim can put two and two together like any researcher worth his salt. And by the way Jon’s hand instinctively flies to his ring when Tim says it, he knows that he’s right. He just doesn’t know why.

 “I said you wouldn’t like it,” Jon says quietly, and Tim’s heart breaks at the certainty in Jon’s voice. Even though Tim hasn’t said anything yet. Tim gets the horrible, sinking feeling that this has happened before and that whoever had been standing in his shoes then had not been nearly so kind.

 “Jon,” Tim says firmly, his hand dropping from Jon’s face and finding Jon’s hand instead. He tangles their fingers together and squeezes tightly, hoping that the sensation will ground Jon enough that he’ll be able to hear what Tim has to say and that he’ll believe it. “It’s okay. If you don’t want to kiss me, then we don’t have to kiss.” He hesitates, only for a moment, before continuing carefully, “If you don’t want to do… any of that with me, that’s also okay.” He bites back the need to make a joke to dispel the awkwardness and says instead, straightforwardly, “Kissing, sex, all of that—I like them, sure, but I like you more, Jon. So if you don’t want to do any of that, then we don’t have to, okay?”

 Jon’s hand is stiff in Tim’s, but his eyes when they meet Tim’s are wide and watery and full of a raw uncertainty, like he thinks that any moment Tim will admit that it’s all too much, that Jon isn’t enough, that it just isn’t working out. Whatever he sees reflected back in Tim’s eyes, however, is enough to cut through that uncertainty and leave behind something cautiously hopeful. “You… you really mean that,” Jon says, a strange sort of wonder in his voice, like a child staring up at a truly clear sky for the first time and witnessing the full scope of the stars above.

 “I do,” Tim says resolutely, leaving absolutely no room for misunderstanding.

 Jon looks down at where their hands are joined and says, quietly, “Okay.”

 That same rushing, swelling feeling overtakes Tim in a tidal wave of affection, and he says, “Are hugs okay?”

 Jon lets out a little huff. “Yes, Tim, of course hugs are—”

 His sentence ends in a punched-out noise as Tim wraps him tightly in a hug, feeling Jon’s hair tickle the side of his neck and the rapid-fire hummingbird beating of Jon’s heart against his chest. “Good,” Tim says into Jon’s hair. He takes a chance and presses his lips to the crown of Jon’s head; from the way that Jon shivers and presses himself closer into Tim’s embrace, it was the correct choice. So he does it again, holding Jon close and trying to communicate with the press of his arms and the pressure of his lips against Jon’s hair just how much he wants this. How much he wants Jon.

 “I really should get inside,” Jon says finally, his voice slightly muffled from where his face is buried in the fabric of Tim’s shirt. “It’s gotten to be quite late.”

 “Mm, just give me a sec,” Tim mumbles into Jon’s hair, holding him a bit tighter to accentuate his point.

He had a test the following day on a unit that had been giving him trouble, so he was too absorbed in his lecture notes to notice the growing gathering until someone brushed past him to join it.

Jon glanced up, faintly irritated. He didn’t have much of a right to complain; he was in a student lounge, not a library, and there were no rules limiting chatting and gathering here. There was only one of him, after all, tucked away at a corner table where no one was paying him any mind. He could always move.

His memory tugged at him. He’d heard something about a club meeting here today, hadn’t he? Someone had announced it, at some point…

Halfway across the room, one of the other students glanced up and noticed him staring. A tentative smile broke out on her face, and she jerked her head at the others settling down on the couches and armchairs. “You here for the meeting?”

“The…” Jon hesitated. “What was it, again?”

“LGBT coalition,” she answered. “We meet here every other week?”

“Oh! Oh, I…” Embarrassment stalled his tongue—his presence now felt like an intrusion.

She was still looking at him, polite and open and welcoming even though what she was offering wasn’t—it didn’t have a place for him, he didn’t need it, and they certainly didn’t need him taking up their time and space—

“I’m just ace,” he blurted out, lamely. The word felt odd on his own tongue. He’d never spoken it out loud before, much less to describe himself, and the moment it was out, he was seized in the grip of sudden doubt. He longed to take it back—what if he was wrong, what if he just wanted the attention that came of stepping outside the norm—? “I’m not really…”

The girl shrugged, still polite. “That’s okay. Everybody’s welcome, if you want to join us.”

It wasn’t—he didn’t really count—

“Thank you,” he said, and turned back to the notes in front of him. The girl must have turned her attention back to the group, because she didn’t press him, and neither did anyone else.

The meeting went on, but Jon had a test coming up and only one day left to study for it, so he tuned them out.

That was fine. It had nothing to do with him anyway.

***

Jon wasn’t altogether sure when his mind made the switch. There was no spark, no grand epiphany, anymore than there had been when he first understood himself at all. It was a gradual process, full of maybes lingering in the back of his mind, testing it like ice beneath his feet, until one day he simply understood it to be true.

He thought about that day from time to time, that quiet afternoon he’d spent in the student lounge, surrounded by notes, with possibility blooming just within reach.

He hadn’t reached. And now here he was, his school days well behind him, smarting from the missed opportunity.

The button was a small victory, but it felt like a hollow one. The point of these things was to share them with someone, to show them off to those who understood, and now…

It was with quiet resignation that he fixed it to the strap of his bag. Too little, too late—the time to show these things off was long past him. All he could do now was wear it and imagine a world in which he’d been a little less pathetic.

***

“Nice button.”

Jon’s eyes were beginning to smart from the screen. He’d missed his required break again, too absorbed in the project in front of him to acknowledge the promise of a tension headache in his forehead. He looked up reluctantly, and did a double-take when he realized that Tim was sitting on his desk, on top of his accumulating stack of printed articles.

“I beg your pardon?” Jon blinked hard, several times. Tears welled up from strain, and he wiped them away on the heel of his palm. The research office was drafty, and his hands were cold enough to soothe his aching forehead, as well.

“On your bag,” Tim explained, pointing. “Spotted it from across the room and thought, thank God, you know? Last place I worked was a bit stuffier, you’d never see people showing off.”

“I’m not—I’m not showing off,” Jon spluttered. Truth be told, he’d forgotten the button was even there.

“Right, wrong choice of words,” Tim said, wincing. “Think I’ll get yelled at if I swap my mouse pad out for one of my own? It’s got bi colors.”

Jon relaxed, just a little. Tim was older than him by a few years, but he’d only started at the institute last month, and the idea of having any sort of seniority on him was… odd, to say the least. “I doubt anyone would mind,” he answered. “No one’s said anything to me.”

“Fantastic!” Tim beamed. “Reminds me of my uni days. We should start a club.”

Jon laughed humorlessly. “Now that might catch Elias’s attention.”

“Might be a good thing. You do anything for Pride around here?”

Jon paused, wracking his brain for a moment. “What month is that, again?”

“Take that as a no, then.”

“I’ve never had anyone to do it with,” Jon replied, which wasn’t quite true. He’d had Georgie, once. But that had been a long time ago, and they’d never…

It’d just been too new to him. Too much like a gray area between two sides of a binary, before he’d known better.

“Seriously?” Tim went on, oblivious to what was going on in his head. “Where’d you go to school? Nobody does pride like university kids.”

Instinctively, Jon glanced around at the rest of the office. The other desks were unoccupied, which was odd considering how sure he was that someone had been around to overhear this. Where was everyone…? Oh. It was lunch already. Where had the time gone?

“Just never had the chance,” he said. It came out unexpectedly bitter. “At the time, I was…”

His voice trailed off. He’d never told anyone about this. Georgie had already been out of his life, and he’d just… never had anyone else to tell. But here was Tim, looking at him without a trace of judgment, open and expectant like he was actually interested in what Jon was saying.

“I knew I was ace at the time, but I didn’t realize I was anything else, yet,” he finished. “So I just… never joined any of the…” He gestured vaguely.

The expression on Tim’s face shifted. It was the first time Jon had ever seen him look cautious. “You know ace counts as queer, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Jon replied. “I know that now.” He shrugged, easing a page out from under Tim. Obligingly, Tim got off his desk to let him. “But I didn’t then, and… well, that’s that. Missed my chance, I suppose.”

Tim snorted. “Jon, you can’t miss your chance to make friends.”

You can if you’re me, Jon thought. Out loud, he said, “Still wish I’d known better, back then.”

“Ah, well. Least you do now.”

“I suppose.” Jon finished neatening his research notes. “Was there something else you wanted?”

“Yeah,” Tim said brightly. “I’m still a bit new to the area. Where are the good lunch places?”

“There’s a cafe just down—” Jon began, before Tim waved him off.

“That won’t work, I’m afraid, I’m useless with verbal directions,” he said airily. “In one ear, out the other. You’ll have to lead the way.”

Jon stared at him. Tim stared back.

“I have work…” The protest withered on his tongue. “Fine. But I won’t be making a habit of this.”

“Sure,” Tim said brightly.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

"Band was decent," Georgie said, a little too loud, Jon supposed from not only having to talk over the crowd, but also the muffled ringing in their ears from being a little too close to the speakers.

"I'm just not a fan of--" Jon gestured to his ears. "I forget how long it takes to wear off, but did you know that this is actually tinnitus? The loud music actually damaged the hair cells in our ears. These sorts of concerts are approximately 115 decibels, and it only takes prolonged exposure of 85 decibels or greater to cause hearing loss…"

"I was pleasantly surprised," Jon said as dryly as he could with his voice raised.

Georgie barked out a laugh, before punching him lightly on the arm. "I told you you'd like them!"

"Jonathan Sims, are you trying to scare me off from future concerts?" Georgie's face pinched in an exaggerated grumpy face. She pulled Jon a little closer to her, Jon assumed so they could hear each other better. 

Jon laughed. "No, of course not. I think it would take quite a few concerts to really have any effect. It's interesting though. Apparently damage to the hair cells in our ears causes our brains to misinterpret the signal it receives, so our brains make up a sound instead! That's the ringing we're hearing right now."

"It's too bad our brains couldn't have made up a more interesting sound."

As Jon started to consider this, Georgie reached up to cup his cheek, and Jon immediately froze at her touch, eyes wide. 

"You're so cute when you share this stuff," Georgie said fondly, with a soft smile, leaning up on her tiptoes, her eyes dropping to his lips, clearly about to give Jon a kiss. 

A jolt of panic, his heart sped up, and he quickly pulled back. "Georgie, I--" 

Georgie didn't look hurt, Jon thought, thank god. She actually looked worried, her head tilted slightly in confusion. 

Jon bit his lip. Well. This was it. "Georgie, sorry, I don't-- um. I can't--"

Georgie's brow furrowed as she tried to parse what was going on. "No, no, this was my bad, I never actually called this a date anyway, I never asked if you were interested--"

"But--Georgie," Jon interjected in a panic. "I am interested in dating. Dating you. I like you, Georgie, I do. I just." Jon internally cringed. It felt like a death blow. And he hadn't even mentioned his asexuality yet. "Don't-like-kissing," Jon said in a rush. "It's uncomfortable? I actually haven't tried it, but any time I see characters on screen making out---it looks…" Jon bit his lip. "Gross? I don't want to try it, it's not for me, sorry," Jon said with finality, trying to project more confidence than he felt.

When Georgie didn't say anything for a moment, Jon decided it would be best to say his good-byes and leave her an easy out to get back home, not have to worry about mistakenly dating him anymore. He was already mourning how such a lovely evening had been wrecked so quickly. Jon ran a hand through his hair as he sighed. "I had a fun time tonight, really. I'm-- I'm sorry if it looked like I led you on or anything. And I understand if you're not interested in me anymore if--"

Georgie pulled a face. "Don't be silly, Jon."

"I-- what?" 

"That's a completely valid boundary to set, Jon, I get it--" Jon started to respond but Georgie held up a hand. "Really, I do. Or I think I do. And if we're being honest with each other, before we date, if we decide to date-- I'm aro."

"Oh," Jon responded eloquently as he tried to process this. "I'm sort of like that? But. Uh. Not like that exactly. We can, uh, talk about it later?" Jon suggested, glancing around at the people loitering nearby, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck.

Georgie laughed, not unkindly. "Of course Jon. I--honestly, I was starting to guess that." Georgie held out her hand, and Jon took it, and she squeezed reassuringly. "Listen, if you want, we can try this, whatever this turns out to be. See what happens. I don't like romantic stuff, but I like hanging out with you. Kissing can be fun, but I don't need it. You're fun, interesting. Cute. Good concert buddy. I'd like to try something out, if you still want to. What do you say?"

"You're... really okay with the no kissing?" Jon asked incredulously, his mind still solidly hung up in disbelief. 

Georgie rolled her eyes with a huff. "Yes, Jon. Like I said, I'm interested in this for you. We had fun tonight, didn't we?"

"Yes, yes, Georgie. Fine." Jon let out a sigh, throwing up his hands. "We should probably head to The White Horse if we still want to grab something to eat, we can talk more there about this?"

"Perfect! I'm starving." Georgie beamed, before turning thoughtful.

"Georgie, what is it?" Jon asked suspiciously.

"Thinking about what we could do instead of kissing. Squeeze your hand? Big hug? Gotta show my affection somehow."

It was a wonderful, cozy sort of feeling, one that was almost alien to Jon, that someone would try to thoughtfully look for alternatives, instead of rejecting him for it or trying their best to ignore it. "I, uh, both would work," he stammered. "I don't mind a cheek kiss… I-- I think. We could try it out at least."