If That’s What it is
A difficult reunion. cw for strained friendships.
Tim doesn’t remember how to be friends.
The was never the one… He could fake it… once. Or maybe he really was like that. Was he ever as friendly as people seemed to think? Was he just filling a roll? Covering for his hurt? Where does the facade end?
It doesn’t help matters that this is Jon. Jon. How can he rebuild bridges long set on fire then torn down then had both sides bricked over and a cemetery developed between the halves.
Sat on opposite ends of the couch in the quiet of a London flat.
The distance of a few handspans may as well be a journey of a thousand steps.
It may as well be made of pages of misdeeds, or the longest novels written stacked end to end and must be read to cross.
Why is he even here?
It was fine when he… what did he even think?
That Jon had gone full monster? That he intentionally ended the world? That he died trying to prevent whatever the fuck that was? That he simply died years before, maybe when Tim supposedly had. He doesn’t know what he thought but he had deniability, for whatever that was worth.
Jon keeps opening his mouth, as if to speak, but shuts it tightly every time.
This isn’t the first attempt. Nor is it the second.
Just… the most awkward, as hard as it was to beat the previous encounters.
Encounter one:
Scene: the grocery store.
Enter Tim, minding his own damn business with his headphones in. Loud enough that he can actually hear it, even if it means just about everyone else in the store can hear it too. Probably should be paying more attention to his surroundings as he runs into someone when he’s trying to buy peanut butter. The someone probably says ‘oof,’ but Tim can’t hear it.
“Sorry, mate.” He offers a bit of an apologetic smile. (Smiling has gotten easier, but… But not as easy as it was.)
He doesn’t plan to meet the eyes of whoever he ran into, but even he can hear the squeak when the someone, Martin, catches sight of him properly.
“TIM?”
Oh shit. It’s Martin. Martin Blackwood. Martin K. Blackwood. Archival assistant. (Does he count as a one night stand if the “one night” was over two weeks on in the nightmarish magical mystery ride of the Distortion’s hallways?) Friend? Abomination apologist. Friend. …Yes, a friend who thinks Tim is very very dead.
Martin’s shopping is on the ground, and without thinking, Tim has helped Martin to the ground and is pushing his head between his knees to stave off what is shaping up to be a panic attack.
Tim hasn’t even paused his music.
It’s still blaring something irritatingly of the wrong mood into his ears.
Once Martin has his breath back, he starts signing furiously.
And Tim has to stand back stunned at the barrage affection and anger and resentment and relief, and off balance that Martin still remembers the sign he learned for Tim.
He leaves without his peanut butter, and with a coil of guilt deep in his gut, with nothing to curb the ringing in his ears because he can’t tolerate music right now, and an address and a number ‘only if he is ready to step on his anger and listen to Jon, for once.’ He hadn’t even gotten a word in. He hadn’t even told him that Sasha was alive.
Just been yelled at in a grocery store.
Encounter two:
Scene: A Living Room, night.
“Jon isn’t here.” Martin tells him this before even letting him in. “He knows you are, but he isn’t here. He’s having dinner with some other teachers in his department. It’s just us.” Martin’s signing this.
Tim is wearing his hearing aids, but Martin is signing anyhow. Maybe it’s easier for him to get it out through that halfway-to-icy expression on his face. Maybe it’s out of coldness, but Tim can’t help but feel a warmth deep in his chest that Martin remembered the BSL he labored over when he was assigned to the archives.
Tim swallows hard around the hope and bitterness and anger and regret and longing. He nods. “Thanks for having me.” He signs quietly.
Martin ushers him in, and hands him a cup of tea. It’s still hot. It’s just how Tim takes it. And he’s sat on a squashy couch, staring at a squashy cat who is glaring at him.
Well. That seems fitting.
Cat glaring. Martin… almost glaring. No, not glaring. He’s got his own tea. And he is sipping it, giving a very chilly look to the poor wall.
Tim takes in the photos on the wall, while avoiding Martin’s eyes. All Polaroids. There’s Jon and Martin in Martin’s ratty looking jumpers (ones that were significantly more new when they first met) standing in the countryside squashed together and laughing their assess off. Jon in oversized wellies, covered in mud, facing off against a cow. Jon standing in the shallows of a pond, looking peacefully into the distance. Martin asleep, in a rustic bedroom, golden morning light spilling across his lax and happy face. There is a frame containing the Litany Against Fear from Dune. A frame with a page from Slaughterhouse Five. …A frame with a picture of a young and unsecured Jon looking grumpy, a young and happy and probably drunk Tim with an arm slung around him, and an arm around Sasha who is giving a blushing Martin bunny ears. That one has a place of honor. It’s a little worn looking, but in a way that makes it clear it survived a lot… the end of the world, in fact.
Seeing it hits Tim square in the chest. It hurts.
Martin finishes his tea and turns towards Tim.
“So.”
Tim puts his nearly cool tea down on the coffee table. The squashy cat keeps glaring at him from an equally squashy arm chair. He faces Martin, but can’t quite meet his eye. Martin is waiting for him to talk.
“Didn’t die. Thought I would. Thought I had. Didn’t. Walked away. Got a job. I… I uh. Found Sasha. Stranger had fucked her up pretty badly, so don’t be mad at her for not calling, she had a lot of trouble remembering and being remembered. Survived the apocalypse. Got on with life, or tried to. Got some therapy.”
He braces himself for the impact. He’s mentioned Sasha over text, but still. Not to mention, it’s all a lot.
Martin’s jaw tightens.
“Thought you could just, let me think you died? Tim, the only person who came back from the Unknowing was Basira. The only one. Call me selfish, but you died, Jon essentially died, we thought Daisy had died. Then my mother died too. I know you had your head up your ass, but do you know what that did to me? Yeah, sure, great, you got out. Whoop-de-fucking-do. You could have called. Or texted. Or sent a letter. Anything! And you know what? Partly it was a relief, because at least I thought you were happy. Or at peace. Or at the very least you wouldn’t be there to harass Jon anymore. But you all died. It was just me. Everyone I cared about was dead. Six month Jon was dead. And no, don’t you dare get on Jon’s case about that. He mourned you. He still is mourning you. He’s been walking on air since you and Sasha… Tim, I swear, if you hurt him… If you hurt him again, you will regret it. You will only see him if you are ready to listen. You don’t have to forgive, but you are not allowed to be cruel.”
Tim doesn’t have a single doubt. “I… I’ve missed him. I’m sorry.”
“No yelling, no grabbing, no sudden movements, nothing passive aggressive. And I will be in the next room and so help me, if you scare him…”
Martin lets the threat hang.
It hurts. It isn’t anything he’s ever gotten from Martin. Didn’t think Martin had enough of a spine for it. …But. But he guesses when everyone dies(? he has a lot of questions, but it doesn’t look like Martin is in the right headspace to answer them, and Tim might not be either. His breathing is uneven and his face is hot and he isn’t sure if he wants to break something or cry or scream or maybe just repaint his and Sasha’s home all in one go.)… Well… he doesn’t have to guess. He knows exactly what that can do to a person. And it isn’t pretty. He feels the guilt coiling again. He wants to tear it out and stomp on it. But… but he guesses, the guilt can guide him. He needs to do right by the people that used to be his friends. The people he’s missed every day since he got his head on straight with extensive therapy and a variety of coping mechanisms.
The scene: The same squashy couch, in the same quiet flat.
The squashy cat is in Jon’s lap. The cat is glaring, and Jon is staring at him with those giant, hopeful, tired, guilty eyes. Haunted and rimmed in shadow, as ever.
He knows Martin is in the next room, ready to step in if he needs to.
All Tim needs to do… is reach out.