Johnathon Ohnn was terrible at feelings. He was terrible at confrontation, terrible at talking things through, and terrible at relationships.
Yet here he was, ogling the new janitor at Alchemax in a manner he'd be too ashamed to describe. Not in a sexual way-- at least, not usually in a sexual way-- but rather in a cheesily romantic way.
He thought of buying you flowers, boxes of chocolates, and even of writing a love song for you, though he was not musically inclined in the least. And perhaps he could do things like this, if not for one tiny problem.
That tiny problem: you didn't know he existed.
He had never spoken to you, and had only made eye contact with you once. In short, the two of you weren't exactly near the romance stage of the relationship because there was no relationship at all.
Johnathon found this to be both frustrating and shameful. Why was this so difficult? It was just talking. He could do the most complicated scientific calculations, but couldn't talk to somebody he slightly admired.
He would have talked to you, but every time he set off to do so, his brain blared panicked warnings and his forehead began to sweat profusely.
By the time he'd come near you, he would become aware of the sheen of sweat on his face and the newfound stench of his body odor, and decide that he was in no condition to talk to you.
Oh well, that's too bad. Maybe next time. That's what he told himself every time.
Now he was watching you from the other end of the hallway, eyes wide and taking in the sight of you, trying to remember how you looked. He really hoped you wouldn't turn around-- then he'd be forced to look away.
He leaned on the wall, ready to turn the corner if you happened to see him staring.
To his relief, you didn't turn around and simply swung the mop around on the floor as you cleaned halfheartedly. There was a faint voice, but he didn't know whose it was.
Johnathon squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of your face even though your back was facing him. When he did see your face, confusion tugged at his brow. Your mouth was moving.
Oh. Were you... singing?
Judging by the sound of a voice-- of which happened to be softly singing, now that he paid attention to it-- and the movement of your lips, Johnathon Ohnn, clever scientist that he was, concluded that you were indeed singing.
He strained to make out the words coming from your mouth.
"Just the two of us," is what you were singing. "We can make it if we try, just the two of us..."
Good God. How painfully ironic-- he was daydreaming about a relationship with you, and you were singing a love song.
This made him think: what if you already had a partner? What if you weren't interested in him? Not that you had to be, of course, he'd love to just be friends with you.
But if he was being honest, the diminished possibility of romance in the future didn't especially make him want to start talking to you. It just made him a bit disappointed.
In other news, he found that listening to your gentle but scratchy voice put an inexplicable feeling in his stomach and some not-exactly friendly thoughts in his head.
The thought of you beside him in bed, singing softly and smiling at him. The thought of you in the morning, with ruffled hair and squinting eyes. Him kissing you while you untangled yourself from the bedsheets.
The thought of you making little noises when you... well, he was getting a bit carried away.
"Hey," you said, and Johnathon noticed abruptly that the singing had stopped. Which left you to look at him awkwardly as he stared at you, distracted by thoughts unbefitting for an accomplished scientist such as himself.
"Do you need something, or...?" You raised an eyebrow, but you didn't seem angry, just confused.
Johnathon didn't answer. Instead, he darted around the corner and rushed to the nearest restroom, where he was sure you wouldn't find him should you come looking.
He collapsed onto the toilet seat and locked the stall. Then, after making sure nobody was in the restroom with him, he put his head in his hands and groaned.
"What's wrong with you, man?" he whispered ferociously to himself. "You just-- you were just standing there and gawking at them! Thinking those awful thoughts... you damned pervert."
But really, what upsetted him the most was that he got caught. If you hadn't turned around and seen him, he would have gladly stood there and looked at you all day. Forget his job, seeing you was more important.
A wave of realization struck him. He had a crush on you.
Johnathon bit his lip and fidgeted with his hands, trying not to panic. Okay, what did he know about having crushes?
"Having a 'crush' on someone is, obviously, a biological impulse. Or maybe an instinct? Doesn't matter. Seeing the subject of said crush releases dopamine, leading to pursuing this subject as a pursuit of dopamine." Johnathon had found some years ago that going over the basic scientific explanation of something cooled his nerves. Or usually it did. It didn't seem to be helping now.
"Some causes for romantic feelings can be proximity, opportunity, and attraction." He shut his eyes tight. Was there proximity? Kind of-- he often passed you in the hallways and he knew that you rode the bus after work.
Was there opportunity? Probably not. He hadn't even talked to you, and had no idea if you were already in a relationship, let alone if you'd be interested in him.
And finally, was there attraction? On his part, definitely. He couldn't say if you found him attractive, but with his critical thinking skills he decided you probably did not.
"Hey, is there anyone in here?" someone called from outside the restroom.
Oh, God. It was you. Why was his luck so terrible today?
For a moment he considered not saying anything, so that he didn't have to pass you on the way out of the restroom, but he refused to entertain this idea.
"Yeah," he called out, and immediately wanted to scream. His voice was high, shaky-- why did he sound like that?
"Okay." There was a silence. "You, uh. You almost done in there?"
"Just a minute, please," he said, and dragged his fingers down his face. What was wrong with him? How come he couldn't bring himself to see you when just a moment ago he'd been staring?
Johnathon took an unsteady but deep breath, and stood up. He pretended to wash his hands, even though he had only sat on the closed toilet, so that you wouldn't think he was being unsanitary.
And then he walked out of the bathroom, almost running straight into you.
"Jeez," you yelped as you stumbled backwards.
"Shit shit shit. I'm so sorry!"
"No, it's okay, I just-- God, you startled me."
The first interaction between you and Johnathon. In his book, it was already an irredeemable disaster.
"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that." Another awkward silence. "I'm Johnathon, by the way."
Your face scrunched up with confusion, and Johnathon felt his heart screaming for mercy-- you were so maddeningly cute. Even more so up close.
"Right. Uh... can I help you, Johnathon?"
He laughed anxiously, not sure what you were talking about. Only after a few moments of concerned staring did he realize that he was blocking the way to the restroom.
Oops. He stepped to the side quickly, muttering apologies. His face was burning-- how was it that a person could screw up basic interaction so badly?
"Oh, wait-- hey, Johnathon?"
"Yes?" he asked, a little too quickly.
"Were you the only person in the bathroom?" He turned to look at you as he pushed up his glasses.
"Yeah, why?"
"It's... I wasn't sure, because I thought I heard you talking to somebody in there."
Damn it. Damn it. Johnathon promptly made the decision that he should go hide in a hole for the rest of his life. Every single thing he did was backfiring, and now you knew that he talked to himself.
How could he save this?
"No, I was just--... I was on the phone with someone."
"Hmm... all right." Was he delusional, or did he hear amusement in your voice? He was about to make a snarky comment about the situation before you swiftly disappeared into the bathroom, taking your cleaning cart with you.
Oh. Well, that's the end of it, I guess. For a moment he considered following you into the bathroom so he could talk to you, but he quickly realized how creepy that would be.
The last thing he wanted to do was mess this up even more.
As Johnathon headed back to the lab, he tried to clear his mind and failed. All his daydreaming about a first encounter with you, imagining himself making a good impression, making you smile-- all of that, just to end up looking pathetic.
"Jesus, Johnathon," he muttered under his breath, "You told them you were on the phone with somebody while you were on the toilet! If they didn't think you were weird before, they definitely do now."
He sighed and stopped in front of the door to the lab. Peering through as he cracked it open, he could see that no one else had returned from lunch break yet. That was a relief: he needed a second to collect himself.
"Okay," he breathed, "focus." And yet, he couldn't seem to banish the janitor from his thoughts. He didn't even know your name, but for some reason you haunted him. You plagued each day of his life, a looming presence at the back of his mind. But he liked to think about you.
And he couldn't seem to stop humming that song you had been singing. He caught himself humming it, just the two of us, in the shower and waiting in drive-thru lines, we could make it if we tried, working in the lab and before bed. It took about a week to get over the humming habit.
A few weeks passed before Johnathon spoke to you again. He wasn't sure how to feel about this-- on one hand, he was rather embarrassed from the previous encounter, but on the other hand, he'd been left craving further interaction.
The second interaction, like the first, had been initiated by Johnathon's complete and utter inability to behave like a normal person. You were cleaning, and he was watching from a distance because, he reasoned in his head, this behavior that'd normally be creepy was okay so long as you didn't see him.
Besides, what was he supposed to do? You'd been singing again, and the moment he heard your voice from down the hallway, he knew he couldn't leave it alone. He couldn't leave you alone, that is.
All right, he simply had to know: what were you singing this time? He strained to make out the words to the song, and only when he took a few steps forward was he able to hear them.
"But I'm a creep," you sang, and Johnathon winced in shock. Radiohead. Dear God.
"I'm a weirdo..." This strange coincidence of you singing songs that fit the situation. Because Johnathon was a creep, and a weirdo, he supposed. And here you were singing this silly song.
Just as abruptly as the first time he was watching you sing, you turned around to stare at him.
"That's weird," you said. "It's like you appear out of thin air every time I'm singing." It wasn't necessarily an accusation-- more so an observation-- but Johnathon paled in fright nonetheless.
You always caught him. So why did he keep doing this?
And also, what was he going to do? Did he respond, say he liked your voice? Or did he play dumb?
"Oh, huh." Okay, that was a little too dumb.
"Peculiar stuff. You're one of those head scientists, aren't you?"
"Well, uh, yes. I am." He wasn't sure if this would impress you or not, but he harbored a sliver of hope that it would. You half-smiled, and let out a snort that brought severe heart palpitations upon him, before your expression turned sour and you looked somewhere distant.
"You should tell your friend," you huffed dramatically, "don't know his name, but you should tell him to quit leaving his trash under his desk. It's annoying, to say the least."
Johnathon's brow furrowed.
"Who?"
"I don't know what his name is. He's got the wavy brown hair, gorgeous green eyes? Would be pretty attractive if he weren't so inconsiderate."
Had you said... attractive? Johnathon wasn't sure who you were talking about, but he wished he did so he could give the guy a good talking-to.
Fantasies played out rapidly in his head: him telling this guy to keep away from you. Eliminating the competition.
He wanted to tell you that this man you were talking about wasn't worth a second of your time, but he opted not to. After all, he barely knew you. He wasn't your boss. And the last thing he wanted to do was come off as an overcontrolling creep.
"No idea who you're talking about. Sorry," he managed to croak out. You blinked, watching him pensively.
"Oh. Uh... all right." You had pressed your mouth into a thin line, and began to look around in an awkward manner.
"--I'm Johnathon, by the way," he blurted. Had he already told you his name? He wasn't sure.
"I know." Oh. He supposed he had told you, then.
Johnathon chuckled anxiously. Please, oh please don't be weirded out, he thought. To his relief, you didn't make a comment about him telling you his name twice.
"So, ah, what's your na--?"
"Sorry, Johnathon, but I have to go. Maybe I'll talk to you later."
And with that, you were gone. Johnathon stood frozen in place for a while before heading back to the lab once again.
Maybe I'll talk to you later, you had said. Despite how odd he'd acted, despite the fact he'd been ogling you while you tried to simply do your job, you still had given him the time of day-- you'd talked to him casually, respectfully. And you'd even hinted at perhaps talking to him another time.
"Somehow," he whispered to himself in the hallway, "somehow you didn't screw it up." Maybe you'd talk to him later. The idea echoed endlessly through his head, and he couldn't help but smile. In spite of all odds, he hadn't scared you away for good.
A few days went by, in which Johnathon smiled at you in passing and you returned a half-smile. However, he didn't have any time to stop and chat, nor any courage to do so. There'd been a groundbreaking shift in his project, and both his work throughout the day and his thoughts had been taken up by it.
He couldn't wait to tell you what he legally could: that the project was going well. Maybe he'd even tell you more than he was supposed to, so you could get a good idea of how big this was. Definitely not just to impress you, he reminded himself.
And then the accident. He was trapped, it was over, he was going to die-- but he didn't. The collider exploded, and then he was something other than himself.
He didn't die. But he lost everything.
His family. No more family reunions, with his aunts and mother gossiping about other family members while he tried not to laugh at their out-of-pocket remarks. No more taking his nephews to the park. No more relatives asking when he was finally going to get married-- though the talk was uncomfortable then, he'd do anything to be asked something so normal now.
His job. No more early mornings with steaming coffee, the quiet darkness of the world not yet woken up, feeling alone in a temporary, inconsequential way. No more invitations for drinks on days off, laughing about little mishaps in the lab.
He wasn't even sure he had a heart. He certainly didn't hear or feel it beating.
Nobody would even look at him anymore. He was wholly alone in the world.
He made a few attempts at normalcy. He'd go to the store with his disguise, pretend he was grocery shopping and pretend he needed to eat. He would ride the bus to Alchemax-- he had lost ownership of his car-- and then back to the main areas of the city.
And then you were there again. An anchor of sorts, a shard of his life before. You were sitting across from him on the bus, had you always rode the bus, he thought you owned a car, and he couldn't help but stare.
Was it really you? It had to be-- there was an Alchemax pin on your bag.
You were as beautiful as ever. He wanted to talk to you, but he'd barely talked to anybody since the accident. What if you turned him away? What if he scared you?
But he had the chance, and he guessed the worst you could say was 'no', or 'go away', or 'I'm calling the police'. Oh, well-- he had nothing to lose by talking to you, the only risk was rejection. So he took a breath, discreetly cleared his throat, and turned to face you, although he wasn't sure what he was going to say.
Maybe I'll talk to you later. The words you said all those weeks, even months ago, came right back into his head as if they'd been spoken for the very first time. Maybe this encounter would go horribly wrong, but he had to at least try.
"Excuse me," he said carefully, "...what's that pin on your bag say?"
You looked at him with imploring, brilliant eyes, and he swore he could feel his heart start to beat again.