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It only occurs to Tim to check what time it is when he decides to stretch at his desk and notices it’s gotten dark out. Quick check of his phone confirms it’s indeed after 8 PM and he groans quietly. He briefly thinks that he really should pay closer attention to how long he stays in this place. It’s not like they pay him nearly enough for all this effort. But then again, it’s not like all the research he does is for the benefit of the Institute. So that’s fair enough, he supposes.
Slowly, he begins gathering his things into his backpack and he’s about to put his jacket on when he notices light still on in the far-right corner of the library. There’s only one person he can think of who would still be here, and sure enough, when he makes his way over, his eyes land on Jon, hunched over a desk completely covered with papers and books. He’s lost in it, Tim can tell, and he stands there for a long second, just looking at him.
Jon is… difficult, to say the least. Since Tim has joined the Institute, he’s tried his best to befriend him, always chatting him up on lunch breaks, following him out into the cold for a smoke (even though he doesn’t, not really) and inviting him out every chance he gets. And flirting, of course, that too. Usually Tim has a pretty good idea from the get-go, can tell if someone’s into it and whether or not he should continue, but Jon is as ever-changing as the whimsical March weather. The few times they’ve been out, pubs or eating late-nights at some lousy kebab places, it’s always nice, but Tim honestly isn’t sure if these were dates or if Jon simply just tolerates his company. It should be driving him insane. If it was someone else, it probably would be. But with Jon it is… interesting. Something new. He likes to think of it as a fun little challenge instead of addressing his more complicated feelings on the matter.
Finally, he reaches out and touches Jon’s shoulder gently (what he really wants to do is to brush his hair off from his forehead, but he doesn’t think that would be appropriate). He doesn’t expect Jon to jump up like he does, and look up at him, eyes wild, hand dramatically coming up to the centre of his chest. It takes him a second to realise Jon had earphones in.
“You deserve it, you know,” he teases as Jon takes them out and folds them nicely on his desk. Freak. “Only crazy people can read and listen to music at the same time.”
“Did you want something?” Jon asks, looking up expectantly. His tone could easily be read as rude if Tim didn’t know better.
“I’m heading out,” he replies simply. “Saw you’re still here and thought I’d ask if you wanted to grab something to eat.”
Jon looks like he wants to decline, but then sighs and shoots a helpless look towards the pile of papers on his desk. Tim takes the opportunity to stare at his neck.
“Come on,” he says, and it’s learned, almost automatic. They’ve danced this dance so many times before. He knows the moves. “I’m planning to make pizza tonight. I could use some help and I’m sure you could use a pair of ears willing to listen about whatever this is.”
Jon looks up and smile creeps up even into his tired eyes. Tim knows he’ll come. He helps him gather all of the mess into files and then into his bag and they’re off, marching through the cold evening to the nearest Tube station. It’s not rush hour anymore, thank god, but it’s still busy on the Victoria line and they end up pressed quite close together at the end of the car, Jon half sitting on these little seats, Tim leaning down, trying to hear his excited chatter over the sounds of the train moving. It doesn’t take long to get near to where he lives and he gently guides Jon (who could walk right in front of heavy traffic like it’s nothing when he’s rambling or lost in thought or… just at any time really) into a corner shop to get a few fresh ingredients.
He’s in the middle of picking out the best courgette when Jon realises that they’re not walking anymore. He stops himself mid-sentence and blinks, confused. Tim cannot contain his smile.
“Hi there, you’re back,” he teases, and Jon rolls his eyes. “What do you want for your pizza?”
“You know,” Jon mumbles and Tim’s smile widens, though it shouldn’t be physically possible.
“You’re not telling me you’re gonna have it with just cheese again, are you now?”
“Stop bullying me, Tim.”
“I’m not! All I’m asking is that you try some of mine.”
“You put courgettes and olives on it, and I think it’s a crime, quite frankly,” Jon says and oh, he’s getting mean now. Tim loves it when he teases him back.
“Don’t forget the occasional pineapple!”
“Not even thinking about the pineapple!”
“Okay, okay,” Tim says and holds his hands up in the sign of surrender. “I’ve got the cheese you like at home. Now, come on, we’ve got more stuff to get. And you were saying about that letter…”
It’s a bit of a blur after that, from the canned goods section to the self-checkout machine that hates Tim, then to his little flat at the top floor of a cute Victorian conversion. The flat is nothing special, kind of bland, actually, as Tim has never been the one to put much effort into decorating, save for his bedroom, which looks like it’s been pulled straight from a post of an Instagram influencer.
(Jon is still not done mocking the red neon sign that hangs above the bed. One day he will tell him he had it made special.)
The kitchen is a small space behind the living room, open and inviting. Tim loves seeing Jon potter about in it. It’s one of the very few times when he’s actually firm, taking charge and ordering Tim around. He happily obliges and is never insulted when Jon takes the knife from his hands, mumbling no, not like that, and that happens often. Now, Tim isn’t a bad cook. It’s just that Jon is exceptional. And it’s great to see him happy. Passionate.
Eventually, he’s shooed out of the kitchen for the heavy crime of trying to put some flour on Jon’s nose. The dough is almost ready now and Jon has taken to cutting up the vegetables for Tim’s pizza. Tim wanders into the living room, grabs the laptop, trying to make himself useful, maybe find something for them to watch. He wonders if Jon will stay the night. It’s already nearing 10 PM… He’s never been here that late. Tim checks the connection to where he lives, and sure enough, last train leaves just before midnight. After that it’s just a lot of switching on the night buses. So here’s to hoping.
He gets bored of scrolling through Netflix quite quickly. Jon probably has about three different documentaries he wants to start watching anyway. He puts on his happy playlist and dances back into the kitchen. Jon doesn’t even look up from where he’s very focused on the tomato sauce. Tim ponders annoying him a little bit more, but he knows his boundaries. Plus, Jon can get really mean in the kitchen. And as much as Tim likes that, he wants him happy, always.
So he hops onto the countertop in the corner and watches him instead. The songs are mainly upbeat and funky, and he sings along sometimes. Jon smiles fondly when he does a little dance, too. Tim can see him mouthing along sometimes, but no sounds loud enough actually come out. And Jon has a beautiful singing voice. Granted, Tim has only heard it once and briefly at that, coincidentally again when Jon was cooking something at his own flat, but it was enough to make him fall in love with it.
A slow song Tim completely forgot about comes on. It’s a nice one, and the lyrics make him yearn for something, someone, like nothing else. He gets off the countertop and makes his way over to where Jon is carefully arranging vegetables on his pizza. His own is in the oven already. He taps his shoulder gently and bows when Jon turns to him, eyebrows raised. His surprised eyes fall down to where Tim has extended an inviting hand in his direction.
“What?” is all he mumbles.
“May I have this dance?” Tim says, tone serious. For some reason his heart is pounding loud in his ears. This feels monumental, somehow.
“Tim, my hands are literally covered in tomato sauce.”
“I know. I love this song, though.”
“I’ve been touching onions!”
“I should be fine, as long as you don’t jam your fingers into my eyes, surely?”
Jon sighs but he smiles in that way that lets Tim know he’s not actually annoyed with him, just surprised, maybe. They haven’t talked about the past that much, but he knows the walls Jon puts up, all the surface meanness, it’s all for show, for his own personal protection. Tim feels weird every time the thought of Jon hurt enough to think that is necessary enters his mind. He’s felt protective of him from that first time he almost forcibly got him to get lunch together, and now it feels like his life mission is to make him feel loved. Believe he’s worthy of love.
He doesn’t know how exactly dancing in the kitchen is going to achieve that, but it’s nice nonetheless, and it’s as much for his benefit as it is for Jon’s. He smiles widely, almost crazy with how happy he feels, when Jon wipes his hands clean on the cloth. He takes a step back so he’s in the middle of the tiny space of his kitchen and Jon steps forward and into his space. His closeness still makes his breath catch in his chest. Slowly, like it’s a sacred ritual, eyes roaming hungry all over Jon’s face, he takes his hands from where they’re hanging awkwardly by his sides and puts them over his shoulders and around his neck. Their height difference – Jon is tiny – makes it so that Jon has to step even closer for it to be comfortable and their bodies are almost flush together. And he’s looking up at him, cheeks a little flushed, something careful yet daring dancing in his dark eyes. Tim takes in a shaky breath and goes to put his own hands on Jon’s waist.
He doesn’t know what he expects to happen, but it surely isn’t Jon yelping and jumping six feet into the air. He looks like he’s been electrocuted, and Tim briefly wonders if he crossed a boundary but then Jon didn’t say anything, why didn’t he say anything… And then it clicks. He smiles, wide and a touch sinister.
Jon glares, trying to make himself look scary as Tim’s hands creep back to his sides, ghosting over his ribs, but not touching, never touching, just teasing the possibility.
“Jesus, and I thought I was ticklish,” he says, knowing he’s exposing himself to a possible attack, but he wouldn’t mind Jon’s hands on his body, even if it was just to get back at him.
“Tim,” Jon says, trying to squirm his way out of the trap. And he’s not trapped, not really, could back away if he wanted to, but he stays in his place. “If you as much as try anything, you’ll be dancing on your own, mister.”
“Noted,” Tim replies. He’d like to see how Jon would react to being kissed there. “I promise to behave, then.”
“Good.”
Jon’s arms are still wrapped around his neck. Tim gives up the teasing act – he wasn’t going to do anything, not really, he knows how awful being ticklish is – and moves his hands so they rest on the small of Jon’s back. He feels Jon relax in his embrace and they’re finally fully pressed together. Jon rests his cheek against his chest, and they start swaying from side to side, even though the song has ended a while ago and something way more upbeat came on shuffle after.
Tim doesn’t mind. It’s perfect the way it is. The soft, comforting smell of Jon’s perfume is getting to him now, almost maddening. He always smells like almonds, something straight out of his memories of Christmas and childhood and it makes him feel so incredibly safe it should actually be silly.
“Better now,” Jon murmurs against his chest. Tim allows himself to rest his cheek against the top of his head and hopes Jon can’t hear how loud his heart is beating.
“Yeah, much better,” he whispers back, almost as if only to himself.
They sway like that for a while, and the songs pass one after the other, none of them actually providing a good background for slow dancing. Tim rather feels than hears Jon whisper his name against the soft fabric of his shirt and pulls back a little, not breaking the contact, though, to check what he wants.
Jon standing up on his tippy-toes and kissing him messily surprises him like nothing has ever surprised him. He freezes when he feels Jon’s lips press into his, and only realises it must feel like rejection when he feels Jon pulling back after a while. He leans down, then, yielding under the pressure Jon has been applying to the back of his neck, so it’s more comfortable for him, and kisses back with burning passion, licking at his lower lip, asking for access. To hell with patience. He’s wanted that for so long.
Jon lets him in with a surprised little sigh – verging on a soft moan, really – and Tim thinks he’s going to go insane at this rate. His hands wander the expanse of Jon’s back, one coming up to tangle itself in his hair, the other gripping his jumper firmly. As the kiss grows passionate, hungry, he has half a mind to scoop Jon up and carry him to the sofa – or to the bedroom, and he suppresses a groan just at the thought of it – so they can continue more comfortably.
He’s about to pull back to ask Jon whether he wants that, but Jon does it first. He breaks the kiss and straightens in Tim’s arms, looking alarmed, and Tim wonders if he did something wrong. Jon furrows his brows and then he sniffs, and Tim opens his mouth to ask what the hell he’s on about, but then he smells it, too.
The pizza is burning.
“Guess you’re trying mine tonight anyway,” he giggles as he lets Jon untangle himself and watches him rush to the oven. Thankfully, it’s only a bit burnt, and the amount of smoke is minimal.
“Fine,” Jon all but groans. “But I am picking out the olives!”
“Right, fine, more for me, then.”
“Ugh,” is all Jon says as he takes out the dish from the oven and replaces it with the other one. “And it’s all your fault!”
“My fault?” Tim asks, mock-offended, eyebrows rising. “You were the one who-“
“I know, I know!” Jon says, tone sharp, but he’s smiling. He’s still flushed, and his gaze keeps jumping back to Tim’s lips. On his part, Tim is half-sitting on the back of the couch. Thinking about the next move.
“Well, we still have about ten minutes until this one is ready, though,” he says eventually, flashing his best smile.
“I’ll set up a timer on my phone,” Jon replies, already walking over. Tim hauls himself over the back of the couch and lands on the cushions, and Jon settles on his lap, legs on the both sides of his thighs. Tim would never expect him to be as forward as this, but he is not complaining. His hands find their way to Jon’s waist, and then he stops just before he touches, remembering Jon’s earlier reaction. He settles on leaving them on the small of Jon’s back, just above the swell of his arse, and relishes in the full-body shiver it elicits.
Jon throws his phone to the side, where it tumbles off the couch and clatters onto the ground. Tim cannot suppress his laughter. He cannot not kiss him now.
“All done,” Jon says, voice low despite his cheeks burning bright. Tim loves that the position allows Jon to be towering over him for once, hoover above and look down on him. He feels safe under Jon’s gaze.
“Better make good use of the time we have left, then, shall we?”
Jon smiles, bright and easy, and leans down, and after that it’s all very hard to keep track of, fuzzy around the edges and uncoordinated at times, but it feels completely and utterly right.