Chapter Text
The tape recorder clicked on and a soft whirring sound filled the small kitchen. Jon stared at the little thing, watching as it dutifully collected the seconds of silence that he strung into the air. He sighed and ran a hand over his face, the skin of his palm scraping over the roughness of his stubble.
“Recording of Jonathan Sims regarding…” Jon licked his lips and smiled wryly. “Regarding anything, I suppose.”
“Do you ever think about how little of the human eye we see? I… I don’t really know why I’m asking, I don’t know if anyone will ever listen to this,” Jon laughed, running a hand through his hair. He looked out of the window at the rapidly waning evening light. “I’ve just been thinking about it a lot. How we see only one sixteenth of our eye, and in fact, if we ever saw the whole thing we would be disturbed despite it being a significant part of ourselves. A significant part of everyone we know.”
Jon took a breath, his hands curling against the kitchen counter to steady himself. “It’s almost as if, the more we learn about ourselves, the more unfamiliar we become. And the more unfamiliar you become, the more you can’t help but wonder: do I even know myself at all?”
“The heart beats of its own volition, sending blood rushing through my veins with no direction from me. My cells multiply and my intestines squeeze food throughout my body all on their own. Sometimes I wonder, how much of my body I truly own.”
Jon tapped his fingers against the kitchen counter, a staccato rhythm to fill the space between the ticks of the kitchen clock. He laughed dryly, shaking his head slightly.
“Martin suggested I try journaling. He said it would help. I don’t think this is what he meant, and I don’t think this is helping.” He smiled softly, his fingers growing still. “But it is soothing, in a twisted sort of way I suppose.”
Jon heard the sound of a door opening behind and turned to see Martin, paper sacks filled with groceries in hand towering over his form. Jon straightened guiltily and rushed to his boyfriend’s aide.
“No— no, I’ve got it.” Martin dismissed Jon and kicked the front door closed behind him. Martin made his way to the kitchen, Jon hovering beside him, ready to catch a stray can of beans should the need arise.
Martin set the bags down, one landing on either side of the little tape recorder.
“Oh! Um…” Martin looked at the tape recorder with no small amount of apprehension. “Jon? What is this?”
Jon wrapped his arms around himself, pulling his cardigan tighter around his shoulders. “You said I should try journaling. So…”
“I meant *writing* or— or *therapy,* Jon! Not this! Not— not statements!”
“I… know. It’s just…” Martin leveled Jon with a stern look and Jon found he couldn’t meet the man’s eyes.
“Just what? Exactly like the archives? Exactly like we’ve been trying to get away from? Everything we’ve been trying to heal from?”
“It’s familiar,” Jon’s fingers dug into the meat of his arms. “It’s just familiar. I’m— I’m used to it and it. It’s familiar.”
Martin sighed and Jon felt a warm hand across the back of his neck.
“Oh, Jon.” Soft lips pressed against Jon’s brow and he sighed in turn, his fingers unwittingly twisting into the fabric of Martin’s jumper.
Martin slowly untangled them and ended the recording with a soft click. It felt like a loss but Martin’s arms around him were steady. Grounding.
“Let’s make dinner, yeah?”
“Ok.” Jon’s voice sounded strangely hoarse.
“And seriously. See a psychiatrist.”