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"I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid all the doubles are booked," the hotel clerk says. Her voice is flat and bored and she doesn't sound sorry in the least, but Jon has a flash of Knowledge–they're happening more and more often these days–and Knows that this is her third shift of the day, her ninth straight day of work in a fourteen-day work week, and that the last thing she ate was a Clif bar three hours ago, crouched behind her desk where no one could see. He doesn't take her tone personally.
"I see," he says.
He tries to keep the exhaustion out of his voice, but he doesn't think he succeeds, because something almost like pity flits across her face.
"We have a single room free on the third floor, but…" she pauses, glancing between Jon and Tim. Jon doesn't know enough about this part of America to remember how scandalous two men sharing a bed would be. At the moment he doesn't care. He and Tim have traveled most of the way around the world in the last week–from Beijing back to London, and then only a few days respite before continuing on here to Chicago. O'Hare had been loud and confusing and at one point Jon was pretty certain they were being followed, though he lost track of them before he could point them out to Tim. Put it all together and Jon isn't actually sure how much longer he can stay upright. If he isn't careful, he's going to collapse onto the pitiful loveseat tucked into the corner next to the coffee station.
He looks over at Tim, who shrugs. In the harsh fluorescent light of the lobby, he looks at least as tired as Jon feels. The shadows under his eyes are deep purple, and new pinched lines of weariness and worry are beginning to overtake the laugh lines that used to define his face. Jon still gets a pang when he thinks about how much Tim has changed. He misses those smiles, the stupid jokes, the way his laugh used to be open and booming instead of clipped and bitter.
It's not as bad as it was when Tim was still so angry with him, but Jon doesn't think he'll ever get used to the feeling of missing a person who is still standing right in front of him. And then he feels guilty for thinking even that–after all, Tim is right here. Jon hasn't actually lost him, as much as it sometimes feels like he has.
He wonders if Tim feels the same way about him.
"Sir?" the clerk says, and Jon realizes he's let his mind wander and that she is still waiting for his answer.
"Sorry. Um--y-yes. Yes, that will be fine," Jon says.
He waits for the clerk to raise her eyebrows or make some sideways comment, but she just nods, taps at her keyboard for a moment, and writes the room number on a little paper envelope before sliding two key cards inside.
Jon makes a silent prayer of thanks to the god of indifference, and takes the keys from her with a thin smile.
He and Tim don't talk as they climb the stairs to their room (the elevator is out of service) or after they dump their bags next to the beleaguered-looking armchair just inside the door. The day has been too long, all their words and energy used up in navigating airports and arguing with recalcitrant Uber drivers. They have this routine worked out by now, anyway, and Jon goes into the bathroom first to shower off the travel grime and brush his teeth.
The water is lukewarm, but he still has to make a conscious effort not to fall asleep right there in the bathtub.
Later, while Tim takes his turn in the bathroom, Jon stows his clothes carefully in his suitcase and then sits on the edge of the armchair, gnawing at his thumbnail and staring at the bed.
The thing is, it shouldn't be a big deal.
Their first night in China, Jon had woken up from a nightmare, chest heaving and hand clutching at his mouth to stifle a half-born scream. Tim had mumbled his name from across the room, and before Jon could finish his stammered apology for waking him, he had padded over without a word, pushed Jon gently over until there was room for him to crawl into the bed next to him, and held him until he stopped shaking.
A few nights later, Jon woke to the sound of shaky half-sobs from Tim's bed, and when he'd reached out his hand in a tentative, silent offer, Tim had nodded and scooted over so Jon could join him, though he'd kept his face turned away the whole time. Jon rested his forehead against Tim's broad back and wrapped his arm around his shoulder, and waited for Tim's breath to even back out into the steady rhythms of sleep.
Since then, more often than not the second bed in the room has gone unused. Sometimes they keep to their own sides. Sometimes one of them will end up curled around the other in a warm cocoon, a welcome reminder of another human presence.
But even so, Jon's always been careful to book a double room.
It's the choice that matters, he thinks. He never wants Tim to feel obligated, to feel like he's forcing his way into Tim's space. The trouble with this single bed is that it takes away that choice.
So he stays on the armchair as Tim comes out of the bathroom, scrubbing at his hair with one of the thin, pilled towels.
One night in a chair won't kill him. He's fallen asleep at his desk often enough, after all.
Tim glances at him and heads over to the bed.
"That chair will murder your back if you try to sleep in it," he says. "Come on." And he pulls the covers back on both sides of the bed.
Jon hesitates, just for a moment. Then he rolls his eyes, and smiles, and goes over to join him.