Chapter Text
"I'm not going today," Jon tells his reflection in the mirror before he brushes his teeth. (If he dresses in black slacks and a black button down, that means nothing. He needs to dress professionally and he has a lot of black clothes.)
"I should stay until later," he mutters to himself at five pm, when people are starting to trickle out of the office. He packs his things mechanically, without quite looking at them.
"I'll just go home," he says, as he boards a completely different line than the one that reaches his flat. "I'll just go back," he says at the station, and walks to an address he knows by heart. "I'll just stand outside and not come in."
But then the door opens and Georgie is smiling at him. "Well?" she says. "In or out?"
Jon walks in. At this point, he has no argument to defend himself.
It's warm inside, too warm for long sleeves, but Jon's accustomed to that. It's well lit, at least; if Jon never has to endure another too-dark, too-loud venue, it'll be too fucking soon. Jon takes off his shoes at the entrance and places them in the cube shelf he usually occupies, second on the left and third from the top. Inside, the ground is covered in soft mats.
About half the people in the room are on the floor - on hands and knees, kneeling, sat on cushions at someone's feet, sprawled indolently. Of those on the floor, most of them are in various states of undress. Most of them are wearing collars, ears, or tails. It's that kind of event.
Jon finds his corner and settles. There's an overstuffed chair right at the end of the mats, making it awkward to kneel or play there, so it's frequently unused. Jon's one concession to the theme of the event is that rather than sit up, he curls sideways in the chair and watches the room.
Most people are in pairs but some are wandering the room unattached. Jon's attention settles on a young man, large and soft with gingery hair, who seems particularly lost. Jon doesn't recall seeing him before.
On the floor before Jon, a flash of color comes and goes. Jon's focus is drawn to it; it's a worm on a string, waved about by a woman holding a man on a leash. Jon blinks, and names slot into place: Sasha and Michael, respectively. Jon's played with Sasha before. She knows to mind his boundaries.
He lowers himself to kneel on the mats, a little way away from the chair, and bats at the worm when it next comes near. It's painfully silly and enormously satisfying. Sasha send the worm at him, and he bats again, and again--
"Aren't you a cute kitty," someone coos at him, and that's all the warning Jon gets before a hand lands on his head.
Or would have landed, if he hadn't moved away. He coils himself tightly in the corner, the bare floor hard and cold under his knees, looking up to hiss at the person who tried to harass him.
"Sheesh," says the person, a woman Jon doesn't know. "Friendly, aren't you?" But she leaves him and goes to another part of the room, presumably so she can bother someone else, and Jon doesn't feel human enough to talk to Georgie about her.
Michael saunters close enough to him to speak, though not so close as to upset Jon further. "Want Sasha to tell the DMs?" he says.
Jon shakes his head. He presses himself into the wall, as though he could hide inside it.
Michael looks across the room. "Oh, look, I think one of the tubes is free."
The tubes are large plastic cylinders, padded on the inside, just large enough that a grown man who isn't very big can cram himself inside. Jon can move very fast on hands and knees, and he shoots across the room to reach the unoccupied tube.
Inside the tube, reassuring pressure surrounds him from above and below, and Jon can relax. The back of the tube is bolted to the wall. Nobody can sneak up on him there.
He sits in there for a little while. Then someone outside coughs nervously and says, "Are you alright?"
Jon answers with a low growl. He'd be perfectly alright if people just left him alone.
Slowly, tentatively, something colorful descents at the entrance to the tube. A feather. Jon considers hooking his fingers into claw-shapes and sticking out his hand, the agreed nonverbal stop signal, but decides to wait and see where this goes.
"I'll count to five," says the voice outside. "If you don't want to play, just don't do anything, and I'll go." The man speaking takes a breath. "One."
Jon contemplates the feather. It's green.
"Two."
He could do with some more play. He doesn't want to be lured out.
"Three."
Not yet, or not by a stranger.
"Four."
But he doesn't have to come out, does he?
"Fi-- uh!" The feather moves away when Jon bats at it.
Jon waits, and a second later, the feather is back where it was. It's wiggling.
Jon bats again, the feather withdraws, and Jon hears a startled laugh.
The man has more patience for this game than Jon would have expected. He doesn't try to lure Jon out, or get close, definitely doesn't try to touch him.
Finally, curiosity wins out. Jon crawls out of the tube, wincing at the pins and needles in his leg.
Next to the tube crouches the new guy Jon noticed before. He beams at Jon and says, "Oh, hello." He makes no move to come closer. "I'm Martin." He doesn't ask for Jon's name.
Jon's contrary nature asserts itself. "Jon," he says.
Martin startles and almost loses his balance. Jon doesn't laugh. That would be mean. He does give a little cough.
Improbably, Martin keeps beaming at him. "Lovely meeting you, Jon."
Jon looks at the tube, back at the feather Martin's still clutching, and raises an eyebrow.
Martin looks almost defiant when he says, "It was!"
Jon shrugs. If this Martin has odd ideas about what constitutes a good time, that's not Jon's problem. He nods to Martin and goes back to his overstuffed chair.
For the rest of the evening, it's enough to curl up in a comfortable spot and not be expected to talk or make decisions. Jon watches the others play, and is content.
As the party starts winding down, Georgie finds him. "Had a good time?"
Jon considers. There were some less pleasant parts, but overall, "It was fine."
"Don't go overboard with praise or anything," Georgie says dryly.
"It was good." Jon remembers his manners. "Thank you for organizing."
"You're welcome. And don't forget we could always use more DMs."
Jon snorts. He won't dignify that idea with a verbal response.
He still won't come again. It's not that it's a bad event, but it's time he put this part of his life behind him. Grow up. Move on.
(He's had this same conversation with himself every month of the last six, every time he attended this kind of event.)
"There's a good kitty," Elias murmurs, caressing Jon's jaw with his knuckles. "You know what good kitties get?"
Jon watches him dumbly, even as his entire being screams at him to get away. With Elias, rewards are often more dangerous than punishment.
Elias smiles, cloyingly sweet like a rotting fruit, and pulls Jon closer by his collar.
Jon opens his eyes. He doesn't scream, or sit up in bed. A moment later, he gets up and goes to put the kettle on. So much for sleeping tonight.