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When Tim opens the door to Jon’s flat, the first thing he registers is the smell—acrid and sooty, stronger than usual, like Jon’s gone from one or two cigarettes a day to an entire pack.
The second is the fact that it’s quiet.
Tim kicks the door closed behind him, balancing the bag of takeaway in one hand and the bottle of bourbon in the other as he does so. He sets the takeaway and alcohol on the table, takes off his shoes, and makes his way to the bedroom.
Jon had mentioned to him once, more than a few drinks into a night out at the pubs, that he’s the type to mourn in private. Tim can’t remember how it came up—maybe something about Jon’s uni years, or something Sasha said—but Jon had spun off into a story of the time he’d caught a frog over the summer and had decided to keep it. He’d placed it in a little glass jar with holes poked in the lid and had slid it beneath his bed—apparently, he’d read about what frogs eat, and so he’d planned to go out the next day and get the necessary supplies.
When he’d woken the next morning, the frog was dead. And it had taken his grandmother three days to convince him to leave his room for more than just meals.
So Tim isn’t surprised when he walks into Jon’s bedroom to see Jon sat atop his bed, hair tied up into an approximation of a bun and an array of papers spread out before him in a kaleidoscope of white and black. Nor is he surprised to see the cigarette held between Jon’s fingers, burning faintly orange in the low light.
Jon startles as Tim enters the room, nearly dropping his cigarette onto the papers. He mutters a curse, snubs the cigarette out in an ashtray next to the bed, and says, “Christ, Tim, a little warning next time would be nice.”
“Sorry,” Tim says, leaning against the doorframe. “Went ahead and let myself in.” He holds up the key Jon had given him and wiggles it for effect. “Besides, if I’d have called, you wouldn’t’ have let me come.”
“You don’t know that,” Jon mumbles.
“Yeah,” Tim says. “I do. And I just… I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”
Jon’s laugh is dry and bitter. “Not great,” he says, gesturing to the papers in front of him with his now-free hand. “There are so many choices that I’m expected to make, like- like it even matters if her coffin is oak or mahogany, or if we have a wake or not.” He leans back against the headboard and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s… it’s not like there’s any point to it, is there? What’s the sense in having a funeral when you haven’t got any family left to mourn you?”
“You’re still here,” Tim says gently.
Jon lets out a long, slow breath. “Well, I would much rather just get the entire ordeal over and done with.”
Tim can see stress written across every line of Jon’s face, underlaid with a grief that hasn’t quite had time to settle yet. He wants to offer to help—to make arrangements for Jon, to get the entire thing squared away, to help Jon organize a proper service and go with him so he’s not alone. But he knows the offer would be rejected, no matter how he phrased it or how many times he asked. So instead, he says, “I know. And you will. For now, though, think you could take a break? I stopped by that Thai place on my way over, got that peanut curry you like. Also, bourbon, if you’re feeling up for it.”
Jon glances down at the papers in front of him. He looks tired, and Tim’s heart breaks for it. Still, he waits until Jon says, hesitantly, “I… I suppose that might be… yes, I- I think a break might do me some good.”
Tim brings the takeaway and the bourbon to the bedroom, despite Jon’s protests that I can walk to the kitchen, Tim, I don’t need to be coddled, and settles down on the bed in the empty space where the papers had been a moment before. He pushes the peanut curry into Jon’s hands wordlessly and pops the lid off his own squash curry.
Tim’s never been the kind to mourn in public. There’s always been something so mortifying about showing the most vulnerable parts of yourself to people you barely know, and so Tim’s always kept it hidden until he has the space to breathe, to finally let go.
He hadn’t cried for Danny until he’d gotten back to his flat. The icy numbness had slipped away as soon as he’d crossed the threshold and he’d broken, crumpling onto the floor in his entryway and letting out ugly, hiccupping sobs that echoed in his empty flat. His eyes had been stained red when he’d talked to the police an hour later, but his face remained neutral. Even when the officers they’d sent into the ruins of the Covent Garden Theatre came back with nothing more than empty hands and false apologies, he didn’t cry. How could he? Danny deserved his tears, not them. It doesn’t seem right, to mourn in the open, when death is such a private affair.
But as he sits with Jon, their knees and shoulders pressed together gently as they sit and eat in a silence that could easily be oppressive but is anything but, he thinks that if he were with Jon, it wouldn’t be so bad. And given the way that Jon leans slightly into his touch, he thinks that Jon feels the same.
Tim doesn’t bother with glasses, just takes a drink of bourbon from the bottle with a grimace before extending it toward Jon. Jon wrinkles his nose but, after a moment, he takes the bottle.
They pass the bourbon back and forth, and Tim’s head has started to go a bit fuzzy when Jon finally says, quietly, “Thank you, Tim. For- for being here. I… I don’t usually…”
Jon trails off, but Tim thinks he understands. He takes the bottle from Jon, gingerly sets it on the side table so as not to spill, and puts his hand on his knee, palm facing up. An invitation. After a moment, Jon reaches over tentatively and lays his hand on Tim’s, threading their fingers together. Tim squeezes Jon’s hand gently and says, “I’ll always be here, you know. Whenever you need me.”
“I know,” Jon says softly, and after a moment, he squeezes Tim’s hand in return.
They sit in silence for a few more minutes. Tim’s never liked silence—it’s always felt stifling, anticipatory, like a liminal space that only exists between one noise and the next. Even now, he still itches with the desire to fill it, held back only by the knowledge that that’s not what Jon needs from him right now and the fear that even if he were to say something, he doesn’t know if it would be the right thing.
Then, in a voice cracked and choked, Jon says, “I miss her.”
Tim turns to look at Jon; his eyes are fixed on the bedspread in front of him, and it looks like he’s trying very hard to fight back tears. “We weren’t all that close anymore, really. I don’t think we ever were, if I’m being honest. But she was the only family I had left, and now she—”
Jon cuts off with a small, hiccupping laugh. “And now she’s gone. It’s- it’s just me.” He lets out a long, shaky breath. “It’s just me.”
I’m here, Tim wants to say. You’re not alone. I’m never going to leave you alone.
Instead, he lets go of Jon’s hand, slips his arm around Jon’s shoulders, and pulls Jon tightly to him as something inside Jon breaks and he begins to cry.
Jon’s face is still sticky with tears as he presses it into the crook of Tim’s neck, curling up against him as they lie in bed, the takeaway containers discarded onto the floor. Tim wraps his arms tighter around Jon, presses an impulsive kiss to the crown of Jon’s head, and lets the soft sounds of Jon’s breathing chase him into sleep.