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Basira visits Jon’s flat for the first time on a wednesday, letting herself in as she’d grown accustomed to at the Institute. Jon has an unsurprising knack for knowing exactly when he should leave his door unlocked.
Tapping the dirt off her shoes, she lets her eyes float over the details in front of her: pale yellow paint on the walls, front hall easing gently into a kitchenette, and Jon sat at a small wooden table, hand lifting up gently to greet her. The view is almost shockingly close to her expectations. The flat is bright and plain, with muted colors and dark wood accenting the floors and shelves. The lighting is low, letting the sun light up the room naturally as it pours over the paper in front of Jon and hugs the corners of the kitchenette with warm, orange light. The mug in Jon’s hand is white, ceramic, and the usual muted greys and greens of his outfit fit surprisingly well into the warmth of his apartment interior. It’s altogether peaceful, a relaxing atmosphere that suits the quiet sleepiness of mid-morning.
That is, of course, except for the screaming cacophony of music rattling the walls of the flat.
Basira studies Jon’s face for a reaction, an indication that Gerry has forgotten just how thin the walls are or how loud his speakers can get, but his muscles stay unmoving save for the occasional sip from his mug.
“Sorry. Should have offered you a cup of coffee,” He mumbles, more to himself than Basira as he stands up.
“No worries.” Is Basira’s reassurance as she watches him re-arranging mugs in a cupboard, ceramic clinking lightly together.
“How do you take it?” His voice still has the edge of the morning behind it as he asks, hands now busy rummaging through a cluttered cabinet full of tea boxes and loose sugar packets. Apparently coffee orders aren’t the sort of thing that slips into his mind unwarranted.
If he’s just being polite in asking, Basira appreciates the facade.
“Black. Sugar’s fine.” The hum he gives her in return tells her this is new information, and apparently interesting in some way. It’s almost inaudible under the screams and insturmentation rumbling over the interior of the kitchen.
“Jon.”
His eyes finally leave his coffee-scooping efforts, a pop of wakefulness entering them as he looks up at Basira.
“Is that not…bothering you?” She has to suppress a frustrated laugh as Jon slowly moves his eyes back down to the bag of coffee, squinting quizzically at the label.
“Christ, Jon, not the coffee. The music.”
His face still holds the same confused expression as he looks back up, leans over the kitchen counter to glance towards Gerard’s room, then back to Basira.
“Gerry’s never up before I am. I’ve never been woken up by it or anything…” He trails off, giving once more squint at Gerry’s door before he starts,
“Oh! Oh, jesus, sorry, did you want me to ask him to turn it down?”
“Trust me, Jon, that’s not why I’m asking.”
“Then what–”
“Am I the first person you’ve had around your flat?”
“N–no, Georgie’s been over a few times…”
“She’s a fan of metal, then? If she’s never brought it up?”
“I really can ask him to turn it down, Basira.”
“No need. So she’s got the same taste as Gerard, then.”
“Gerry. And, no, he’s not usually home then. She’s only really been over on the weekends…”
Basira keeps her voice flat, amusement threatening to peek out from the edges of her words,
“So it sounds like this a lot during the week, then?”
Jon’s expression borders on flabbergasted. Basira bites her cheek.
“Yes? Th-there’s nothing odd about having music playing in a house. It’s perfectly common.”
“Right it is.” Her smile pushes at the gates of her feigned neutrality, trying to force its way out.
“Then what is the problem, Basira?” Jon asks this question with a groan, exasperation taking the place of any and all bewilderment from the moment before.
“I just think…you’re at home, in a collared shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, dress pants and loafers at eight in the morning, drinking a cup of tea and reading the weekday paper – cover to cover, from what it looks like,” and her smile has broken through her defenses, and she’s grinning now,
“And all you can hear in your little pastel flat with potted lilies and sunbeam lighting is a man screaming about warlocks and bloodletting, and that doesn’t disrupt even an iota of this routine for you?”
Her grin is wide now, half in failed attempt at a pokerface and half for the benefit of Jon’s neurosis, but he still curls in on himself as he replies, voice almost too soft to hear over the noise:
“He likes it.”
One of her eyebrows pitches upwards, the other down. She tries to throw him a bone.
“And you like him, right?”
Crumpling his brow, shaking his head, he protests,
“That’s not it, Basira. I don’t tolerate it. It-it’s supposed to make you feel nervous, right? To feel stressful? That’s why you think I wouldn’t like it, right?”
“W-well it’s a pretty…unexpected taste in music for everything else about you is all,” and Basira’s smile is forced to falter as she says this.
“It’s a sign that he’s…home, Basira. It’s something he’s comfortable with – it makes him happy. So when it’s on and I can hear him knocking things over in there and when it gets louder because the door’s got opened and he’s coming out to grab a cup of tea or talk to me, how am I supposed to just miraculously feel unsafe? This is just…what it sounds like. To be home.”
“I’m sorry, when you hear this it makes you feel– safe?”
Jon falters for only a moment,
“Well. Yes.”
Basira jumps when Melanie walks in; Jon was expecting it. She’s two minutes late to Basira’s ten early, but neither Basira or Jon were keeping track. As Melanie shuts the door behind her she rubs her shoe on the mat with just enough care to leave a streak of mud over the edge and onto Jon’s floor. The second shoe fares no better.
“I’m late.” Melanie informs the pair: no apology, all anger. Basira’s fingers find the loop of Melanie’s bracelets, a rehearsed action that slots them together. It is with a hushed tone and a note of urgency that Basira bends down and speaks to Melanie,
“Melanie I can’t– I really can’t handle what Jon’s just told me. I’m so glad you’re here,”
“Christ, Jon, you couldn’t wait for me to get in to have a crisis? I’m two minutes late for god’s sake–”
“It’s far too urgent, Melanie. It really couldn’t wait.”
Jon’s confusion has returned, anger-tinged: “Basira, what are you–”
“The man is hopeless.” Basira says it pointedly, fixes her eyes on Jon,
“Head over heels, Melanie. The man is in love.”
Jon’s embarrassed sputtering is drowned out by the sound of the couple’s laughter, rivaled only by the melodic wails still rumbling from Gerry’s room.