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“Jon, are you all right?”
Jon wishes he could say that he didn’t startle at Tim’s voice. He also wishes he could say that instead of retreating into his own head, he’s been listening to the story Tim’s been telling about… ghosts? Horror movies? Jon’s embarrassed to admit he has no idea. His hand tightens on Tim’s in what he hopes feels like a reassuring squeeze. “Yes, I… I just got a bit distracted. You were saying?”
Tim gives him an odd look but doesn’t push. He launches back into his story—right, the supposed haunting that Georgie’s been investigating—and Jon tries to pay attention. He really, really does. But soon, his mind is drifting again, and he feels something bitter and wounded curl in his chest.
Tim’s hiding something from him. And Jon can’t figure out what.
The day had begun normally; they’d slept in like any typical Saturday. Or, at least, Jon had slept in. He’d woken to the smell of coffee and eggs and had come out of the bedroom to see a quiche set on the countertop, still steaming from where it had apparently just come out of the oven. Tim had handed him a mug of tea—that expensive kind that Jon likes but can never justify buying himself—with a grin slightly wider than normal. It had been… nice, if unusual. Jon had wondered, briefly and with a pang of worry, if he’d forgotten an anniversary. But no, they’d had their two-year anniversary a month ago. Jon had booked that three-day trip up to Scotland, and Tim had laughed when Jon had handed him the rather comprehensive itinerary and, at Jon’s frown, had smiled and kissed him soundly. This was… something else.
He’d noticed more things after that. Tim had been more restless than usual, walking too-fast through the aisles of the Sainsbury’s near their flat and picking things apparently at random when Jon asked if he was going to stop long enough to actually shop. After checking out, Tim had practically pushed Jon out the door, claiming that he’d forgotten something and that he’d meet Jon back at the flat.
Tim had been gone for an hour. That was when the confusion had begun to harden into a knot of worry and, beneath that, a kind of stinging hurt that Jon wasn’t keen to acknowledge.
They had plans to go out that night, to the Indian place Jon likes and then to the park with the lights where there’s usually music and they can sit on the benches underneath the willow trees until Jon gets cold and Tim wraps him in his jacket as they begin the walk home. It wasn’t anything unusual or- or any sort of special occasion, but then Tim had come out of the bedroom wearing the expensive silver button-down with the embroidered black flowers that Jon had gotten him, and Jon suddenly felt terribly underdressed. He’d stood quickly, intending to change into something nicer, but then Tim had withdrawn a bouquet of dahlias from behind his back—the little white ones Jon’s always been quite fond of—and had handed it to Jon before tucking one of the flowers carefully behind his ear and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead and then his lips. Warmth and affection had bloomed in Jon’s chest, easing the knot ever so slightly, and he hadn’t ended up changing after all.
Dinner had been nice, normal. Jon had begun to relax, bit by bit, as they left the restaurant and walked to the park, his hand warm in Tim’s. Maybe he’d overreacted. Not- not everything had to be according to routine, he reminded himself. Maybe today was just different.
Then, Jon had noticed the fidgeting.
Jon’s always been restless, tapping his fingers on desks or twisting his hair into knots or bouncing his leg unconsciously. Tim hasn’t. Jon knows Tim—he lives with him, he loves him, he knows him. And Tim doesn’t fidget. Not like this, where Tim’s running his fingers through his hair every other minute and rubbing his thumb along the back of Jon’s hand in rhythmic circles and occasionally bringing one hand down to dip briefly inside his pocket.
Jon has considered the facts, and he’s come to the obvious conclusion that Tim’s keeping something from him. And the thought eats at him and eats at him until he feels hollow.
“Jon!”
Jon’s dragged from his thoughts a second time, but this time it’s because Tim’s stopped walking, pulling Jon to a halt as well with their clasped hands. They’re stood a fair way away from the area where they normally sit, and Jon can just barely hear the faint strains of folk music trickling over upon the breeze. By the look on Tim’s face, Jon gets the feeling that this isn’t the first—or even the tenth—time Tim’s said his name.
“Is something bothering you?” Tim says, his forehead creased in concern. “We… we can go home if you’d like.”
The reluctance in Tim’s voice is palpable, despite his obvious effort to hide it behind a small, reassuring smile. And like a rubber band stretched too far, Jon finally snaps.
“What’s going on?”
Tim’s expression folds into one of shock. “What?”
Jon’s face burns, but he continues, “I… obviously, you- you aren’t obligated to tell me, but I just… you’ve been acting different all day, and I don’t know if I missed something, or…”
Jon trails off with an exasperated noise. “It just… it feels like you’re hiding something from me.”
Tim just looks at Jon for a moment, and just as Jon’s about to stumble through the apology he feels waiting at the tip of his tongue, Tim laughs. It’s light and airy, like it’s been punched out of him, and it’s not at all what Jon was expecting. “What… what’s so funny?” Jon says, trying not to let the distinct feeling of being made fun of bleed into his words.
He must not succeed, because Tim’s laughter cuts off as soon as it had started and Tim’s other hand comes up to clasp Jon’s free hand, pulling them closer together. “Hey, no, I- I’m not laughing at you. I’m sorry, I- I just…”
Tim cuts off with a small exhalation, another breathy laugh that Jon still isn’t convinced isn’t at his expense. Then, he releases Jon’s hand just as soon as he’d taken it, reaches into his pocket, and retrieves something that glitters in the warm yellow glow of the string lights above. “I was trying to be romantic.”
“Oh,” Jon says softly, staring down at the delicate silver ring in Tim’s hand as the pieces finally fall into place. “I… I see.”
They’ve talked about this before, in bits and pieces—what they each want for the future, where they see themselves in five or ten or fifty years, whether or not they would ever want to get married—but it had always seemed like an in the future concept, suspended just beyond reach. But here, with stars blinking into existence above them and the gentle breeze tugging strands of Jon’s hair free from his braid, he feels the right now of the situation in his stomach and rising steadily to his chest, making him feel like he’s floating.
“Jon,” Tim prompts after a long moment, punctuating the word with a nervous laugh. “You, uh. You haven’t really given me an answer yet? I- I don’t want to rush you, but I’m freaking out a little bit over here.”
The mess of emotions in Jon’s chest settles just on the giddy side of happy. He manages to keep his voice neutral when he says, “Technically, you haven’t asked me anything yet.”
Tim’s sigh is just as much fond as it is exasperated. “Jon, will you marry me?”
The words make something funny flutter in Jon’s stomach, and he says quietly, “Yes, I- I think I’d like that.”
Tim’s mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Oh, you think?”
Jon’s glare carries no heat and only serves to make Tim chuckle before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss against Jon’s mouth. And when Tim slips the ring onto Jon’s finger and threads their fingers together, the press of metal against skin is a feeling that’s as new and exciting as it is strange as it is achingly lovely.