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In the nearly pitch black room he was in in that moment Tim couldn’t help but start thinking: he wasn’t generally prone to insomnia. He knew Martin was, he told him once upon a time, and Sasha used to spend hours in the computer before coming to lay down next to him, although she always told him it was because she “was a night owl” at opposite to Tim’s early bird nature. And Jon, he thought, wasn’t much for insomnia but for overworking himself. He’d spent hours working and coming and going (like her) but when everything was said and done, he would have no problem with closing his eyes and sleeping.
Apparently the problem came after.
Tim growled at nothing, at the dead space between their beds, at the blue darkness and the faint city lights that filtered and tainted the air between them. He couldn’t sleep, too worked up with everything that happened and was going to happen in only a few hours... And distracted, too, by Jon having a very obvious nightmare only a couple meter from him. He tossed and turned and his breath was shallow, and if it were any other time in the past Tim might’ve felt bad for him, but that was long past due.
Eventually he heard him wake up with a startle and sit on the bed, as he feigned sleep and watched in silence. Ironic, part of him thought, as he saw the lines of worry and the fear on his tired eyes and as he did nothing. He wouldn’t do anything. Not for him… Or at least that was what he told himself, before seeing him shiver for the third time since he woke up, rolling between the sheets and sighing in that pathetic broken manner. He couldn’t stand it. And he could stand it less when he rolled one more time and his eyes finally noticed him staring.
Jon just stared back in silence, probably wanting to know whatever he was thinking in that moment. So he got up.
—Tim…?
—Shut up, move over.
He could see the confusion on his eyes as he silently scooted closer to the edge and the following surprise when he laid besides him under the blanket. It wasn’t a very heavy blanket and it was certainly cold in their hotel room (and he could have wondered if those two cop ladies were alright, but he knew for sure that those two wouldn’t have any problem warming up), so no wonder he couldn’t sleep with it. Neither of them.
It wasn’t until he closed his eyes with his back on the mattress that Jon asked, again.
—What… Are you doing?
—I’m sleeping. Trying to, at least.
—Tim.
—We’re probably going to die in a few hours, Jon, so might as well do it well rested.
He could hear how his breath hitched but didn’t say anything in return. Good. Finally he knew better than to argue about this with him. Even as he said “we” he knew (both of them knew, he hoped) that he was talking about himself. He could feel him staring at him, for a long beat, before laying down next to him.
The next couple of minutes were spent rolling on their sleepless rest as Tim tried to ignore the warmth coming from Jon, his nervous energy, and the vague thought that it had been a while since he last shared his bed with someone else. The warmth was nice, the feeling that you were not alone was something he used to enjoy at some point, but now it almost felt cheap. They were just two guys trying to sleep, keeping their distance and shifting at mismatched times. But it wasn't until he was actually at the brink of unconsciousness that his body betrayed him in such a way, seeing the back of Jon's messy black hair and the outline of his always fragile body not even the thought of how strange it was to spend his last night with the man he hated (because he did hate him... he really did... he did) stopped him from hovering his arm around him in a mockery of familiarity.
The moment he felt Jon tense beneath his sleepy arm he realized what he'd done and cursed at himself, trying to pry his arm back when a hand stopped him on his tracks. He stared at the back of his head with a raised eyebrow, as if that would explain to him why on earth Jon would try to hold him in place. In another moment he would have been annoyed, probably enraged as well, but he was tired, and he figured if he didn’t mind then why not? He huffed, before wrapping his arm around the man in front of him with at least the effort of not touching his chest. He could still feel him tense under him, but when he let go of his hand Tim felt him scoot milimetrically closer, nesting himself between the pillow, the blanket, and his own warm body. He didn’t want to ask. He did not want to ask.
How much time did they spent like that? Between the nightmares and the staring and now just laying like that, hearing the other's breathing and feeling the other's heartbeat in the quiet? It was a strange way to spend your last night alive, part of him reminded him, as he tried to sleep even after he felt Jon roll over inside his embrace. He never really thought Jon would be the cuddling kind he’d surely associate with Martin, but as he felt his arms tentatively wrap around his back he didn’t protest, nor when he felt his hands wrap tightly on his clothes.
Nor when he heard his shaky breath against his chest.
Nor when he...
Well.
When Jon started muttering something against his skin Tim opened his eyes to the darkness with annoyance. His mind was too fogged to understand what he was saying, but he still understood the general feeling of it. Forgiveness, he asked, or the closest thing to it. Understatement of regret. Regret spilling form his lips over and over again in the smallest drops as if he hoped to not wake him up.
—God, Jon. —Ignoring the startle and the confused mumbling he shifted, hands grabbing his head when he tried to pull away and holding him closer to his face, wanting him to actually see him now when it mattered—. Can’t you ever shut up, for once in your life? Is that too hard for you?
Their noses touched and he could see his wide eyes staring at the expanse of his face before dragging them to his own eyes, and Tim frowned with a weird feeling on his gut. Looking at his face now, so close, he couldn’t help but remember the first time he saw him. Standing seemingly proud despite being the shortest member of the team, sharp dark eyes and even sharper tongue, he remembers thinking he was rather pretty, at the time. But most importantly he remembers believing him, believing the bullshit that he fed to all of them making everybody believe that he was this unaffected man instead of the utter mess that he was holding right now. Scared, small, full of tiny horrible holes and multiple scars dotting his skin (just like himself). He looked up to him with his big dark eyes, hands wrapped on his wrists but without making any attempt to push him away.
Tim was suddenly very aware of the fact that no part of Jon seemed keen to push him away.
—I'm sorr-
—Shh...
Looking back to that moment he couldn't be sure how exactly it happened or who closed their distance first, but next thing he knew he felt his scarred cheek under his thumb, lips awkwardly sliding with his own rough ones. He closed his eyes, humming, as he felt how his trembling hand gripped his wrist harder before letting them go, tentatively grabbing his shoulders to pull him closer, Tim would think if he didn't know him better.
Jon kissed softly, cautiously and without real coordination, but you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Tim thought, content to just submerge himself in the silence of the night and their own quickening breathing. He was good at doing that, back in the days, to let himself go without a care of what the future held (to numb himself in other people, too).
He felt the ghost of a smile tug his mouth when he felt him hum against his lips as he buried his hand on his hair, and he gave it an experimental pull. He relished the surprised gasp and gently licked his mouth, as his other hand held him closer by the back. After so much time spent in the institute around him it was strange to feel him so warm against his skin, hands set on his own shoulder and waist, shifting sometimes to his face and neck and back, as if...
Between kisses Tim found himself sitting on top of him, hands cradling his face, lifting it to reveal his slim neck and start mouthing at his dark skin. He could feel his fluttering heartbeat, the worm holes under his thumb on his cheek, his arms, a couple on his legs... but it wasn't until he felt the slight tremor of his hand on his waist -keeping their distance- that he remembered something and broke the kiss.
He looked close to wrecked, flushed cheeks and fast breath, eyes filled with something familiar that Tim couldn't put his finger on. And if he had kissed him to prove a point -which... wasn't Not the case- he'd consider it a win.
But.
—Wait, I... —He shook his head a bit in the tight space between them, trying to not let that fleeting thought escape him—. I thought... you weren't into this...
Jon stared at him with surprise, flashes of relief crossed his face and a sour thought crossed Tim's mind.
—Well, no, not really, no, but-
—If you were- If you're doing this because of pity, Jon, I swear.
—No! No, it's not...
He started to pull back, angry at the thought and ready to go back to his own bed when Jon lifted himself up, one hand grabbing his wrist while he pressed a kiss on his lips. There was certain urgency, something important in the way he frowned with his entire face, how he raised his other hand to his face without being quite able to touch it, and Tim let him. He could distantly feel how the grasp of hand on his wrist got thinner, falling down mere inches of his own.
—I want... This is fine. This... —He vaguely gestured at them, then at their mouths for a split second—... is okay.
—...—Tim looked at him contemplatively for a few seconds, until he heard him take a shaky breath, increasingly anxious air around him—. "Okay?"
And he had to admit, years later, he still loved seeing him flustered.
—It’s more than okay...
And it was weird, really. There was no lust on his part, obviously, and he didn't peg him as a guy who would -albeit literally- sleep with his co-workers (unlike, say, Martin, who had surprised him in the past), and if this wasn't some sort of guilt ridden/pity make out then...
He looked at his own already forgotten bed one last time, before looking back at him.
—...Fine. —He let himself fall on the bed again, getting closer but not close enough, before warning him—. But if you want to touch me then do it. —Coward went unsaid.
Jon stared at him for a few moments and then some more, apparently until he realized that those were his last words, and tentatively raised his hand to his face. His left hand, the one torn apart by the fire on some foolish trust demonstration from what he heard, touched him, held him, with such gentleness that he almost wanted to be sick. He brushed the holes on his cheeks and forehead and Tim couldn’t discern his expression even at the light of the streetlamp. It didn’t fit his face, to be this soft, to have so much…
—Penny for a thought? —He urged him, without nearly as much bite as he probably (Definitely) deserved.
He opened his mouth to say something, for a second, before mumbling an apology with at least the decency to look embarrassed, and then he kissed him. He let him take the lead this time, curious as what he would do, and as his body fell into a comfortable rhythm his mind couldn't help but focus on his hands. Dragging him closer by the cheeks, by the back of his neck, that same urgency he saw before betraying his chapped yet soft lips. It wasn't until he felt them spread on his back that he realized what they felt like, what they meant.
He pushed him closer, held him closer, to keep him there, to try and keep him -and Tim wanted to laugh, if it wasn't so pitiful- safe. Didn't he know? Wasn't he aware of how much he wanted to burn and drag the entire circus with him to Hell? To destroy everything so completely that it wouldn't leave a trace? Didn't he know he hated him?
Jon made a soft noise with the back of his throat and his eyelashes tickled Tim's face, and he had to push him for a second to take a deep breath, one, two, three, feeling a sting behind his eyes. He was angry, he was furious, and he Was going to die. No matter Jon's hesitant hands cradling his face, taking the excess of the beginning of a tear. No matter the awkward kiss he planted on his cheek, right below his eye. No matter the words that tried to come out of his mouth borne out of pain and regret and love, that hurt on his throat when Tim swallowed them with a kiss, questions that he couldn't and didn't want to answer.
And so he didn't, and they kept kissing as if tomorrow neither of them were going to die.
As if tomorrow they both were going to die.
As if the thing that was between them were simple, and not an amalgam of broken friendship and twisted trust and hate and love.
As if they were just two men on a bed who couldn't sleep, and that was it, and that was all.
Time later Tim didn't know if the light that filtered through the binds of the window were the streetlamps at the side of the motel or the sun that started making its way up, marking the beginning of the end, but it hardly mattered in that fragile moment that seemed to dilate in time. Jon had his face locked in Tim's neck, arms wrapped around his body as the slow rise and fall of his chest tempted Tim into going back to sleep, his own hands resting quietly on his back after absently drawing circles for a while.
He could hear Jon's voice from time to time, and despite lightly wondering if he was talking on his sleep, or if he was awake and thought Tim wasn't, (or if he was awake and Knew Tim, too, was awake and listening), he didn't say anything as he mutely pleaded for him to not die.
After that things were quiet. And peaceful, almost. And, for a moment, Tim desperately wished they weren't living through the calm before the storm.