Chapter Text
Before booting up Zoom, Jon took a moment to regret agreeing to this interview. The shed at the bottom of his garden was quiet, save for the faint sound of cars on the distant main road and much more nearby, the morning’s rain dripping from the eves. In here, he was safe from the outside world; just him at his desk, the lumpy old armchair in the corner that he had fallen asleep on once or twice this week, and the shelves upon shelves of books. You could practically hear the old structure groaning under their weight, and perhaps a more present person might have had a clearout. Jon was not such a person. He liked the way they lined the walls, creating his own anechoic chamber. Hell, some weeks he didn’t even turn the wifi on. Jon ran his hands through his hair, feeling its rough ends slip from his fingers and going again, trying to massage some calm into his scalp. Maybe even some social skills. No point in delaying the inevitable. His publishing house set these up every time a book came out, and although it was ultimately his choice, the voice Elias used on the phone would have anybody forgetting that.
“Good afternoon Jon,” the interviewer greeted him with a polite smile “How are you today?”
“I’m fine thank you,” Jon responded stiffly, feeling a familiar prickle begin at the back of his neck. Fortunately the interviewer seemed unphased. Jon was beginning to wonder if they were warned in advance.
“I was wondering if you could start by telling us a bit about your latest mystery?”
The interview continued on relatively safe territory, the interviewer wasn’t even particularly horrified by all the flesh-eating worms in Jon’s latest book. Good. Jon was just beginning to tentatively pat himself on the back when there came the question that he would have been dreading if he hadn’t been so determinedly avoiding it, standing there in the corner of the shed he called an office, glittering like a mirrorball.
“Just before we wrap this up, what’s this I hear about you going on Strictly Come Dancing? By all accounts the BBC has been asking you for years, what changed your mind?”
Christ, maybe Jon shouldn’t have been ignoring this question with such commitment, he could have come up with an answer in advance. He knew why the BBC had wanted him so much, apparently husbands refusing to watch Strictly had been driving ratings down and the BBC had decided that they needed to give them something to watch for. He knew, had always known on some level, that his audience was cishet men in their fifties at least, the kind of men who married the women who watched Strictly, the kind who would elbow him out of the way at the pub without really looking at him. He knew that. That didn’t mean it hadn’t been a shock just a few months back when Elias had finally strong-armed him into creating some kind of online presence, showing his face on the Facebook fan groups at least. The first post he saw on the largest group was about how he hadn’t given into the pressure to write gay romances into his books, completely ignoring how he had only written one romance and it had been, in his opinion, his worst work. Mysteries were no place for romances anyway. Something twisted in Jon’s chest, something that had been silent since he had accepted his sexuality in his first year of uni. He continued scrolling. There were plenty of positive, inoffensive posts, but his eyes skipped over those, focussing on the one making fun of people thinking the detective in his bestseller wasn’t white. Jon had really thought that he had nailed British Pakistani culture in that one, write what you know and suchlike. God, maybe he shouldn’t have baulked at including an author photo in his books. It wasn’t like he lived like a fugitive but it was clear that very little of his audience could picture him.
The hand running through Jon’s hair became more insistent, pulling a little as it went. He wanted to grab the person who had written that stupid post by the shoulders and yell in their face. He wanted to cry in his armchair. He wanted to go on national TV in a sparkly shirt and yell something about his first ever crush, Hamza Rahman, the boy he’d watched with something simmering in him that felt like anxiety if anxiety felt wonderful across the room in Quran class every week growing up. For the first time in his career, he wanted a presence.
Just then, an email notification. Elias again. Jon opened it and skimmed everything his agent had to say about positive engagement with fan communities, but stopped short when he saw the note at the end, a perfunctory comment that the BBC had invited him to be on Strictly again, and that Elias had said no thank you on his behalf. Jon’s fingers were typing a reply before his brain had had a chance to consider the matter.
Elias,
Tell them I’ll go on Strictly if they’ll let me dance with a man.
J
It didn’t take long for Elias to reply. God, did that man ever leave his desk. Not that Jon was one to talk. He was a ball of thrumming nerves as he skimmed over the message, something about weighing up the publicity this could bring him with how his target audience might feel about him dancing with a man. Ugh, target audience? Jon wouldn’t write a book intended for these people if you held a gun to his head. He tapped out a quick confirmation and hit send with one hand while rummaging in his pocket for a cigarette with the other.
Focus, Sims, you’re taking too long to answer the question. Jon obviously couldn’t tell the interviewer the real answer, that he had had a momentary impulse to stick it to the bunch of Tories, or God forbid, Reform UK voters, that were his entire livelihood, but what could he say instead?
“I’ve… been interested in having more of a public presence recently, I realise I’m rather known to be reclusive.”
Well, that was some of the answer at least. After concluding the interview, Jon took a moment to click his knuckles and bury his mounting panic about his upcoming ballroom debut deep within his desk drawer, before getting right back down to the first draft of his next book. Something about identity theft maybe.
Jon managed to maintain his sense of denial for the next two months, right up until he was doing up his trainers in his hotel room ready to meet the pros for the first time. He had tossed and turned all night on the unfamiliar mattress and was feeling distinctly grouchy. Checking google maps on his phone, he noted that the bus was on time. Good, he wanted to be early, hopefully get a feel for the place before anyone else arrived. Water bottle, check. Hair bands, check. Spare t-shirt in case the one he’s wearing has something wrong with it, check. Jon is stalling. Hands shaking, he shouldered his dark grey backpack and went to catch the bus.
The journey was thankfully painless, even if Jon couldn’t keep his eyes on his book, or out the window, or really anywhere for long, and all too soon he was dragging his feet through the studio doors. Inside, the lights were just a little too bright, seemingly made brighter by the sparkling mirrors at the end of the room. To Jon’s irritation, someone was there even earlier than him. The man had his back to the door, facing the mirror and fussing with his hair, a look of distaste clouding his face. He was remarkably tall, easily 6’3, built broad with large but gentle hands and strong legs. He caught sight of Jon in the mirror and turned, face already smoothing out into a placating smile. Well, at least this interloper was apologetic about putting Jon in such an awkward social situation.
“Hi, I’m Martin, uh, Blackwood. I guess.” The man was still smiling, clearly expecting something.
“Jon.” Jon didn’t exactly scowl on purpose, but he certainly didn’t feel like interfering with what his face wanted to do. Martin’s smile wobbled for a moment, before solidifying again into something a little less warm but still resolutely polite. Jon did not have any ideas for further small talk, but apparently Martin did.
“So, you’re one of the celebrities, right? What d’you do?”
“I write.” Martin seemed buoyed by this response for some reason.
“Oh really? What do you write? Not poems by any chance? Because they’re hardly any good but I do like to-”
“Poems tend not to be very good, it’s rather their default state.” Again, Martin looked crestfallen, and Jon was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t been too harsh when the studio door swung open again and three more people entered, chattering amongst themselves. Jon continued to observe Martin out of the corner of his eye, and noted that while he’d expect him to relax on account of no longer having to make small talk with a stranger, he instead seemed to stiffen, drawing himself up straighter. His smile became even more plastic, but also more polite.
The new people, who were setting down their bags in a pile in the corner, were clearly professional dancers. Jon had looked them all up late one night in a moment of unusually raw anxiety, but even if he hadn’t, he’d have known from the way they moved. The apparent leader of the pack, a man not quite as tall as Martin with strong, angular forearms and floppy dark brown hair that appeared to fall perfectly even as he bent to rummage for his water bottle was the first to catch sight of Jon, fixing him with a grin bright enough to give you a sunburn.
“Tim,” he said, approaching Jon with a hand outstretched. At least saying his own name and shaking hands was familiar territory, and Jon accomplished the task with relative ease.
“I see you’ve already met Martin, then,” the man continued, nodding his head towards the corner with the bags where Martin seemed to be cooing over photos of another professional’s new puppy.
“I, ah, yes.” Jon said, running a hand through his hair which quickly got caught in his untidy ponytail. He’d forgotten he had that in. When Jon didn’t elaborate any further, Tim gave him another UV level ten smile, and went over to join the others, who apparently hadn’t run out of puppy pictures yet. Jon noticed Martin look around the group and then at him, almost as if surprised not to see him joining them. Surprised? Jon hadn’t been invited, he was hardly going to muscle in on this dancer chat. Besides, he was a cat person. With little else to do while he waited for everyone else to arrive, he sat down on the floor across the room from them and tried to get back into his book. His focus had not improved.
The day consisted mostly of dance-related exercises done in pairs, which rotated every half hour or so while the producers watched them to assess chemistry. Jon was exhausted from learning all the new faces, and even more so from struggling through the first steps of a waltz ten times without getting any better. He could see that he wasn’t doing as poorly as some of the people in the room though, and that combined with the fact that the producers had apparently complied with his request to dance with a man just about kept him going. Finally, he was passed to Martin, whose left hand appeared to shake a little as it landed on his waist. Up close, Jon could see a few tiny freckles tracing up his nose bridge and feel the way his shoulder muscles moved under his fingers as he spun Jon around at a snail’s pace. He wondered how Martin felt dancing with another man. He didn’t seem to show any distaste, but then again, he could just be good at hiding it. Jon had been learning a lot about what people really thought as of late.
The music faded to an end and a producer clapped their hands.
“Great work today everyone, we’ll be in touch about your professional partner assignments and first official interviews in the next few weeks. Excited to be working with you all!”
Martin seemed to move as if to say something to Jon, but Jon had already let go and gone to gather up his bag and head out for the bus. The day had been as painless as it could have been, but he was not staying any longer than he had to. Outside, the clear morning had turned to a charcoal-grey late afternoon, and Jon turned up his collar against the wind and the noncommittal drizzle of rain. Over his shoulder, he spotted a group of mixed professionals and celebrities leaving the studio together and making for the pub on the corner, all chatting in a warm huddle. Martin’s head cleared the group easily, and for a moment Jon thought he saw him glance his way and make a few seconds of eye contact before jerking his head back to listen to whatever Tim was saying. Pulling his own gaze back to the approaching bus, Jon proffered his brand new oyster card to the driver with a sigh.