{Jon}

The sleeping pills gave Jon six blissfully oblivious hours of sleep, but it was still dark when his eyes blinked open in Kurt's tent. Jon's hand dropped to find the soft mop of Kurt's hair, tucked against his ribs, his partner's slow sleeping breaths brushing the skin above Jon's hip.

Today. Tomorrow. Almost through.

Jon tucked his left arm over his chest, feeling the warmth of his own body and the rise and fall of his breath while his skin prickled as if to call to his mind every line that he had unzipped for relief before. He slowed his breathing, reminding himself of where he was; not only in the bed he shared with the man he loved, but also tucked next to the dark bulk of a God who was bigger that all his shit, who overshadowed him with care. In December, Jon had to keep calling back to his mind the times that God had been comprehensible, had shown up for him in ways he could understand, and hold onto the belief that God had not changed and would show up for him again.

Once out of all the times Jon had opened his skin, he had woken up the next morning with those cuts closed and healed and the lingering taste of a kiss from Jesus' own lips in his mouth. It was an experience too vivid and strange to categorize, entirely consistent with who God said he was on paper but unexpectedly personal. Apparently, some days Divine Love made time to step into the bedrooms of angsty, borderline suicidal gay teenagers and intervene.

Maybe that kind of spiritual encounter only happened when you were young. Jesus wasn't hanging out in Jon's bedroom now, or at least not in a way that was visible to Jon, but for all the darkness arrayed against him on these December days, Jon was still sure he was loved. When he came up empty and dry, nothing left for himself, that memory came back to tap on his shoulder. Jon might look alone, but he was not alone.

When he stirred to get out of bed, Kurt's fingers found his wrist, catching him. "Where you goin'?" his voice slurred sleepily.

Jon's smile curved. He wasn't alone at all, anymore. Kurt's very present care strengthened Jon's resolve to do this day sober, skin intact. "I'm hitting the bag. Jumping rope. Getting all sweaty then coming back here for a shower." He touched his lips to Kurt's scruffy cheek. "I'll get you up for coffee."

"Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do," Kurt grumbled, then pulled the blankets over his head.

{Kurt}

Kurt didn't fall back asleep after the bump of adrenaline that came with waking up to Jon leaving him. Curling around Jon's pillow, Kurt thought dreamily of Jon's lips brushing his cheek and the way the other man had cuddled into him at bedtime, just wanting to be held until his sleeping pills kicked in. Kurt was used to blending into the background when someone needed him, becoming whatever his mom or Nicky needed in the moment. The only way he got heard in those relationships was if he turned the volume way up on his own needs and feelings.

Thinking of Jon touching his face and telling him he was beautiful all the time, Kurt's heart squeezed and expanded. His partner was hella fragile right now and he still looked in Kurt's eyes and saw him and loved him. Every day Kurt thought, I love Jon as much as its possible for me to love anyone. And every day he saw little things about Jon--the way he touched him softly on the way by, the way he asked for help with his eyes--and found his heart stretching yet another size bigger in response.

He wanted to do something for Jon. Something that was outrageous enough to tell Jon how much he loved him, and intimate enough that Jon wouldn't be embarrassed.

Kurt rolled out of bed and flipped on the light, finger-combing his hair and smiling at himself in the mirror. He jumped back into his chinos and pulled on a fresh V-neck T, as blue as the pool he used to have, on a day in June. Their church was totally ready for Kurt Visser to show a little colour.

Checking the hallway, Kurt locked his door and sat criss-crossed on the floor by his bed to open his guitar case. Last week Grandma Visser's rings had come back from the engravers in a handsome new box, and the two gold bands gleamed against the velvet.

Holding his breath, Kurt slipped the narrow band around his ring finger. It now fit perfectly.

Cupping the ring box with Jon's ring in his lap he just sat quietly for a moment, feeling his feelings. What am I doing with this? I want to give it to Jon.

Past Kurt would never have told God anything about what he really wanted. He'd kept his heart closed tight, protecting all the soft parts of himself from an all-powerful being he was pretty sure would just as soon flick him off the face of the earth as hear his prayers.

Whoever the hell that God was, it wasn't who Kurt prayed to now. He sensed the Person who leaned in to listen was soft and generous as he was, but clean. Opening his heart to pray felt like stepping into one of Mel White's hugs. And he wasn't stupid; he could feel how much bigger than him this God was, how the Person he prayed to saw from a perspective that he wasn't always going to get. But to the bottom of Kurt's heart, he knew this vast, generous Love was for him. And that made Her presence the safest place in the universe for Kurt's crooked, vulnerable heart.

(Her? Them? Him? He had no idea what gender pronoun God preferred and since She seemed the most like Grandma Visser, that felt the most natural to Kurt.)

What grew in his heart in response to his question was a burning desire to do just that--to offer this ring to Jon. Even if it wasn't the wedding they wanted, it still meant something to him.

Kurt lifted his eyes to his room, to clothes on the floor and his tent hanging askew, the rumpled blankets on his bed and half a dozen books and lumpy candles on his dresser--a riot of colours and textures and kind of a mess.

He laughed quietly to himself. "All right, I get it. It's a hell of a metaphor." And just for a second he remembered the smell of Nicky's room, a thick mix of perfume and body odour, and the texture of the filthy carpet in the apartment he'd managed to find on his own. This room was messy with the life he was making with Jon, and Kurt loved all of it down to Jon's boxer shorts crumpled in the corner next to the laundry hamper like his partner just couldn't make the extra inch to toss them in.

Kurt knuckled his eye, the ring on his finger smooth and cool against the heat of his eyelid. "Yeah okay," he said quietly. He worked the ring off his finger and tucked it back in the box next to Jon's then stuck the box in his pocket, deciding he would know the moment when he saw it. Fortunately these chinos were not skin tight and he could actually keep stuff in his pockets. There was something to be said for men's clothing.

As he jogged downstairs, he could smell the coffee and hear Jon and Cary talking in the kitchen. At the table, Jon's face turned towards him and lit up. Kurt leaned in to kiss him, smelling the salt and lemony-mint of post-workout, freshly showered Jon. "Thought you were getting me up for coffee," Kurt said.

"We're doing wine before breakfast," Cary said.

Kurt blinked, taking in the half-eaten rye loaf from last night, laid out on the counter with a mason jar of red wine beside it.

"I'm not up for people this morning," Jon said softly. "So we're doing church at home."

Kurt took a little step back, leaning his hip against the sink and looking longingly at the coffeemaker perking behind Cary. "Are you allowed to do that? Don't you need--uh--some sort of license?"

Cary huffed a laugh. "No. It's the Eucharist, not a firearm."

Kurt folded his arms over his chest, glancing at Jon's face for a cue. He didn't know what that word meant, and his partner had been planning to do this 'church at home' thing without him. He had a little ball of mixed feelings in his stomach about that. "Do you want me to..." He gestured at the stairs. "I can just grab my coffee and go." Maybe Jon was right and he didn't belong here.

Jon had his arms folded on the table, his cheek resting against them. "You don't need to go. I just thought you'd prefer to sleep in. I know you don't love church."

"I mostly feel like church doesn't love me," Kurt muttered. Meeting Jon's eyes briefly, he crossed his arms over his body. "I know they're not all like that now. Even if service is still soooo long."

"Stay if you want, Kurt," Cary said. "The upside of church at home is we'll be in and out in fifteen minutes. Shorter than an AA meeting and better coffee."

"And real wine," Jon added, a smile flickering over his face. "Although that's not as much of a draw for you as it is for me."

Kurt narrowed his eyes in a smile back, staying where he was.

Cary thumbed through a battered Bible as he leaned against the stove, his flannel shirt rolled up his arms. "Okay, I'm just doing one reading for today. I need my coffee for any sort of old testament list of begats."

"Amen," Jon said dryly.

"The people walking in darkness

have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of deep darkness

a light has dawned.

Every warrior's boot used in battle

and every garment rolled in blood

will be destined for burning,

will be fuel for the fire."

Cary took a breath, pausing in the reading to smooth his hand over the back of his neck, and Kurt thought of all the years of violence the other man had absorbed into his body to get through to here.

"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given

and the government will be on his shoulders.

And he will be called

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Of the greatness of his government and peace

there will be no end."

In the moment of quiet in their kitchen Kurt tasted that peace and breathed it in.

"Word of the Lord," Cary said gruffly.

"Thanks be to God." Jon gave the response.

Cary shut the Bible with a soft 'slap' and laid it aside. "Prayer requests? I think we should pray, then eat."

Kurt put his hand over his mouth, watching them both. Jon straightened, stretching his shoulders back and linking his hands behind his head. "Dusty's mom? Darla Kickingbird. There's twelve days left in treatment and I would love to see her make a home for her kids in the new year."

For the first time, Kurt registered that the answer to this prayer meant his partner would lose Dusty and Jordin forever. His heart ached, stretching again. Jon, love. You do hard fucking things.

"Uh--my prayer request is for my brother, Liam." Cary rubbed a hand over his face. "Just for God's tent to be over him, wherever he is. Keeping him safe." His dark eyes met Kurt's and he smiled. "Visser?"

Kurt's eyes widened a little. This was the weirdest thing he'd ever done and Cary was standing there all calm like praying in your kitchen was a normal way to hang out with friends. It took a moment to think of someone other than Jon that he wanted to pray for. He removed his hand from his mouth. "You could pray for Greg Lykaios. He's an old codger in a care home. Pretty lonely this time of year."

Jon's forehead wrinkled. "Your grandpa?"

Kurt shook his head. "Nicky's dad." He put his hand over his mouth again, flicking Jon a quick look. At one point Mr. Lykaios saw Kurt more than his own son. The taciturn old man came to life over a game of cards, and the care home cafeteria served bottomless fountain pop. Kurt was relieved to find Jon's eyes still smiling at him. He really didn't want to say anything more about that.

"Sure we'll pray for Greg," Cary said. He also glanced at Jon. "You just want me to pray for everything, or take turns?"

Jon already had his eyes closed. "You be the pastor today."

Cary huffed a laugh. "Sure." He lifted his tattooed arm like he was stopping traffic or doing a warding spell. Protego, Kurt thought, his lips twitching.

"Hey Jesus," Cary said and proceeded to talk to the Prince of Peace like he was chatting to a dude in the room. Cary didn't bother with very many more words than they'd said in their prayer requests, and he paused often like Someone was carrying the other end of the conversation.

Jon's face creased while Cary was praying, his mouth flattening when no one was supposed to be watching. It looked to Kurt like he was labouring with the pain of an old injury and weary of it.

Taking a steadying breath, Kurt closed his own eyes. Hey. Man upstairs. Where's Your great light for Jon? Show up for him already. I shouldn't have to beg, You're not supposed to be an asshole. So prove it. Prove You are good.

He flicked tears out his eyes quick when Cary said, "In Jesus' name and by the power of his blood shed for us, amen."

Jon breathed in and smiled as he opened his eyes. "Amen. Thanks Cary."

The big man's tattoos rippled as he tore the loaf in half. "This is Jesus' body broken for us. He's gluten free today, but on the plus side he's the correct colour." Cary caught Kurt's amused, questioning look, crinkling his eyes back. "Jesus is from Palestine. He's a brown dude." And he held out a hunk of bread.

Laughing a little, Kurt took it without thinking, then paused. "Uh--wait. Are you supposed to give this to me?"

"You want it?" Cary asked. "It's pretty tasty for gluten free." His mouth was full of his hunk of bread and he took a big swig from the mason jar of wine before passing it to Jon. "Jesus' blood shed for you, Jon," he said casually.

Growing alarmed, Kurt pinched the soft bread between his fingers. "Look, doesn't this mean something to you? I'm not fucking around with something that's, like, sacred to you both. I'm not an asshole."

"It's fine if you are," Jon said, licking wine off his top lip, narrowing his eyes in a smile at him. "This is my asshole medicine. One of these days it's gonna cure me."

"You abstaining?" Cary asked, gesturing like he would finish the wine if Kurt didn't want it.

Kurt snapped, "Someone is going to be pissed as hell if I take this. I'm no choir boy and you both know it."

"Well that someone's not Jesus, or either one of us," Cary said bluntly. "You're holding a grace gift for assholes and non-choir boys: Jesus' good and beautiful self for our fuck ups." He put out his hand, his face softening. "I forgot you haven't done this in a while--here, I'll eat yours if you don't want it, Visser. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

But Kurt snatched the bread away from his reaching fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. He turned his back so they wouldn't see his face as he chewed, eyes squeezed shut, tasting the malty goodness of the bread and the salt of tears he wasn't crying, running down the back of his throat.

The cool side of the mason jar nudged against his arm and Kurt took it blindly, drinking the last swallow of wine, making a face at its smoky alcoholic bite. He wrapped his hands over his mouth, his ears popping as he swallowed. Holding his breath, he waited for something to happen. For his stomach to heave and Jesus' body and blood to crawl back up his throat and escape this gay body Kurt had dragged through so much shit.

Nothing happened. The taste of bread and wine lingered in his mouth like the coppery tang of blood, and his body trembled, releasing.

Kurt slapped the tap on and rinsed his face, drying his eyes on his shirt. "Is that it? Do we get coffee now?"

He felt Jon's hand touch his elbow lightly, then his arms slid around Kurt, hugging him from behind.

Cary drew a rough cross in the air. "In the name of the Father and the Son and the Spirit, you're forgiven, go in peace and all that." He made a shooing motion with his hands, then got out of the way of the coffee.

*I think that "It's the Eucharist, not a firearm" is my favourite line I've ever written lol.

So the guys are practicing for COVID church at home! I wonder if I would've written this scene if it weren't for the pandemic. Remember when we stayed home from church voluntarily? I would take all those Sundays back now and show the hell up.

This Sunday church buildings are open in my city for the first time since November, and even though we can't take communion (what Cary calls the Eucharist--there's a couple different names depending on your tradition) we're going. I find myself longing for Christian community.

Three very different men here, each with their own way of picturing God and relating to Them. This is a bit of a slow chapter, unpacking and setting up what we need to know about where Kurt's at in particular for the drama ahead. Boring or working for you?

Thanks for the reads and votes, lovelies! Be well and be good to one another this weekend.*

3098 words.