Work Text:
He doesn’t think about it much anymore.
Obviously, he knows it wasn’t just ‘uni experimentation’, the way the rest of the world likes to label it. Jon long ago accepted the parts of himself that aren’t always as welcome, and refuses to throw away the years of progress he made because of self doubt.
No, he’s comfortable with who he is now. Being biromantic, being asexual. The labels don’t mean as much to him as they do to others, but he is glad for them. Having words to identify yourself means something, gives you the opportunity for community.
So when he sees Timothy Stoker sporting a bisexual pin attached to his coat, Jon recognizes it instantly. Of course, he doesn’t say anything about it. They’re friends, yes, and Jon knows that Tim’s even more comfortable with himself than Jon could ever hope to be, but it’s not necessary to ask him about it.
All the same, it is rather gratifying to see, and to know he’s not alone in all this. Jon thinks, rather absurdly, of the dogs he sees at the park, of how excited they are when they spot one another, their tails flying in a blur, drool hanging from their jaws.
Cats are far better.
It’s raining that day, and Jon walks into the Institute sopping wet and irritable, having lost his umbrella weeks ago. He’s greeted by harsh clipped words, and is nearly bowled over when he enters the office to Tim brushing past him on his way out.
”Ah, good morning Tim,” Jon starts, then cuts himself off as Tim storms away. Inside the office, one of their coworkers, a man named Vince (maybe, or perhaps Victor. Or Vito), looks wide eyed and flustered, his expression guilty.
Jon resists the urge to glare at him, and instead asks, “what happened?”
”Hey, man, I don’t know. I just asked him for a favour, and he got all snippy about it. Really, I didn’t do anything!”
”What sort of favour?” he asks suspiciously, being very certain that Tim wouldn’t just storm away for no reason.
”Oh, you know. He’s got that, that bisexual pin on his coat, doesn’t he? Thought I’d invite him over to my place, with my girl. You know, guys like him are always down for that.”
There have been many times in Jon’s life where he’s wanted to punch someone, but hasn’t because he’s 5 feet and 6 inches, and practically a skeleton with some skin stretched over it. This is one of those times.
”And when he said no, which I presume he did, because asking your coworker for sex is clearly out of bounds?” he asks, jaw clenched.
Now, Vince-Victor-Vito, or whatever his name is, has the good grace to look a little embarrassed. “I might have implied that it was all he was good for anyways, and that he was missing out.”
If looks could kill, Maybe-Vince would be a little pile of ashes on the carpeted floor.
”You disgust me,” Jon snaps, “and I am begging you to reconsider asking anyone for sex again, unless you pay good money. I hope your girlfriend has a fantastic salary.”
Vince, or maybe Victor (god, what was his name?) splutters, and Jon continues, “I would highly advise against saying anything, because I do believe workplace sexual harassment is worse than any petty insults I might dish out.”
With that, he turns and leaves to go find Tim.
The institute rooftop might be cold and ugly, and exceedingly wet from all the rain, but it was good for a smoke and a mental breakdown, both of which Jon had done multiple times.
He finds Tim sitting under the awning, legs sprawled across the ground. The wind is whipping through his hair, and Jon shivers. When he approaches, footsteps tapping quietly, Tim looks up, scowls, and looks away again as Jon stops beside him.
”What, come to ask me to hook up?”
Jon sighs, sitting down gingerly besides Tim. The rain beats against the tin roof shielding them from the sky’s wrath, and he shivers again.
”I’m sorry about Vince.”
Turning his head, Tim looks at him, askance.”Who’s Vince?”
”Er, Victor?” At Tim’s blank look, Jon tries, “Vito?”
”You mean Dave?” Tim asks him. “The guy I was– talking to?”
Jon frowns. “His name’s Dave?”
”Yes, Jon, his name’s Dave.” Tim lets out a bark of laughter, short but genuine, amusement creasing his whole face for a moment. “Do you know the names of any of our coworkers?”
”You and Sasha are the only ones I need. Why would I bother with the others?” Jon asks, only half-joking.
Tim laughs shortly again, settling himself against the wall. “Yeah, we’re the only good ones, aren’t we.”
They sit side by side for a moment before Jon says quietly, “you could report him. He told me what he said, that’s ridiculous.”
”What?” Tim forces his lips into a sharp smile, his eyes flashing as he speaks. “You don’t want a go at this? I’m the hot new toy, Jon. Ask me for sex with your partner, out of nowhere, when you’ve only spoken to me twice, because apparently, that’s all anyone sees!”
He sucks in a breath, and continues, “All people ever see is either that I’m someone who needs to be fixed or someone they can use, and it would be a real fucking relief if someone could see me for more than they think I am when I’m open and proud.”
Jon blinks, and the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “I’m bi as well, if we’re talking, ah, labels.”
He can feel Tim still beside him, freezing up in surprise.
”And asexual, this isn’t a, a come-on or anything, I’m very much not interested,” he adds hastily. It really wouldn’t do to be misinterpreted right now. “I only wanted to say that, well, I see you. For more than that. Because I’m your friend, and because, well, yes.”
”Really?” Before Jon can answer, Tim amends, “No, I didn’t expect you to be putting the moves on right now. Trust me, Jon, you don’t strike me as that kind of guy. But thanks for trusting me enough to say that.”
He turns to look at Jon, and his eyes are a little gentler, a little less wild. “Good to know I’m not alone, though. Us against them, better than one against everyone else.”
”Right,” Jon agrees, glad to see Tim softening a little. “I knew when I saw the pin, but it felt a bit odd to say something about it.”
”At least you know how to keep your mouth shut, unlike someone,” Tim mutters.
Jon winces. “I really am sorry about him.”
”I know you are,” Tim says, waving his hands dismissively. “It’s not your fault, I’m sure you’ve dealt with shit like this before. Just, it’s stupid, you know? It’s so stupid.”
He’s facing out again, into the rain, and his eyes flutter closed as he speaks. “You know me, Jon. I like people, I like sex– you don’t mind if I talk about this, right? Sorry, I just assumed–”
Jon shakes his head, and motions for Tim to continue. “You’re alright.”
”Right. I like sex, yeah, it’s fun if everyone’s happy, and what’s not to like if something makes you happy? But I like people too. And I’m human, obviously I’m not just–” he makes a rude gesture, “– banging people left and right. When I’m in the mood to meet people, I like meeting them, properly, getting to know them! That’s how it works, right?”
”Yes,” Jon says softly. “Or at least it’s how it should work.”
Tim lets out a noise of frustration, letting his head fall into his hands.
Carefully, Jon begins, “It’s been a while, since I was around anyone who felt… the same way we both do. But even when I was with others like us, they still expected me to like people wholly more than I do, or ever will.”
Beside him, Tim makes a muffled sound that could’ve been interpreted as a laugh, or a scoff.
Jon laughs a little himself. “I do like people, but not the way you do, no matter which way you spin it. I’m just not as personable. But even people who I thought would understand were always making assumptions. About what I wanted, about what I wanted to do with my body.”
He takes a breath; it’s been years since he spoke about anything like this, and he doesn’t want to say too much, or take over Tim’s moment.
”Sorry. I just– I understand, is what I’m trying to say. People are horrible."
”They’re not all bad,” Tim says lightly. “Just Dave.”
”Fuck Dave,” Jon mutters to himself, and is rewarded with Tim’s laughter. Louder and longer this time, and more genuine. He can’t help but think that it’s always nice to hear Tim laugh. They say that hearing someone who rarely laughs do so is the greatest pleasure, but Tim’s laughter is so frequent, and so infectious, that it’s more of a comfort than a special treat.
And Jon has always preferred the little comforts in life.
”Shall we go back inside?” Jon asks, when the rain has died down a little, a diminuendo from the previous incessant drumming.
Tim gets to his feet, reaching out a hand to pull Jon up as well. “Let’s. Sasha will be breathing fire when I tell her about this, by the way. You have to come along, it’ll be great.”
Jon smiles, and agrees.
Together, they leave the rooftop.