{Nicky}

<where the hell r u went by ur place last night u moved again??>

<u fucking ghosting me klassen?>

<u think u can do the show without me think again the bands my friends>

<answr ur fucking phone>

<klassen>

<Im gonna find u>

<answer me>

<r we on for practice tonite or not???>

{Kurt}

Kurt felt like Jon's hands had left a warm imprint on his stomach, and he was unaware that he was singing while he worked, rolling coat after coat of paint onto the walls they had framed, drywalled, mudded and prepped. The soft 'smush' of the paint coming off the roller was immensely satisfying and seeing clean bright rooms where there had been nothing but bare concrete before made him feel like today he'd done something he could be proud of.

Cary's side-eye and smirk made him catch himself mid-lyric and he blushed, for god's sake. Kurt Visser had never been the blushing type.

He didn't see the messages until they were in the truck finding a place for lunch. Nicky's name on his screen caught him like a punch in his short ribs and he slid down in his seat, reading through his ex's rapidly escalating rage-texts. He dropped the phone into the cup-holder and looked blankly out the windshield, trying to think. How many days 'til the show? They did need to practice and he had been ignoring Nicky, letting his previous texts go unanswered as not important or welcome in this chapter of his life.

With two fingers, he picked the phone back up, taking a deep breath.

<yeah practice tonite like we said>

<sorry i thought u knew>

<I'll remind the guys>

<I have some new stuff ur gonna love *grin emoji*>

Nicky didn't respond for hours, which set Kurt's teeth on edge and dialed his tension a little tighter every time he checked his phone. This was his punishment for not answering the previous texts—he hated that it still worked on him.

Finally: <should fucking hope so see u at 6>

Jon texted him as they were cleaning up their brushes and getting ready to head out. <Free for supper? I can come home after class before work>

Kurt sighed. He'd never been so sorry to have to go play music in his life.

<band practice shows next weekend*sweaty smile**crying emoji*>

<sorry love>

{Jon}

Jon's mouth curled up, reading that one word: love. Kurt didn't mean love-love, but it was another little glimpse of Kurt's affectionate personality that left him warm. Jon texted: <proud of you *red heart* see you tomorrow>

He grabbed a veg stir fry at the food court on campus and did his reading for the next day while he ate. He arrived early at the house, parked a few blocks away and reclined in the passenger seat to close his eyes for thirty blissful minutes.

It turned out he was going to need every minute of extra rest: he could already hear raised voices in the office as he came into River House.

"If you hadn't bought him those girly clips he'd never have gotten in that fight in the first place--" Patrick said.

Angel's voice was low and fierce. "If the kids at his school weren't such narrow-minded assholes it wouldn't have been a problem, Patrick."

Jon settled himself over his centre of gravity and pushed open the office door. Both heads swivelled towards him, going abruptly silent. "Evening," Jon said, looking from Angel to Patrick. "How was the day?"

"Did you seriously authorize Angel to purchase feminine hair accessories for Jordin?" Patrick said, exasperated. He was a young man just a little older than Jon.

Jon blinked innocently at him. "What's the problem, Patrick?"

Angel said shortly, "Jord was in a fight in the school yard. Some boys made fun of his hair and—well you know how he gets."

Alarmed, Jon searched her face. "How bad?" Jordin's rages were legendary in the house—the rec room had numerous dents in the drywall and they'd finally taken to bolting all the furniture to the floor so he couldn't haul off and throw it, and encasing the TV in an supposedly unbreakable plexi-glass box.

She shrugged, her own expression flat with anger and exhaustion. "There were four of them so he didn't kill anybody. They hauled him off one kid and held him down until a teacher came. It was definitely more than they bargained for."

"Is Jordin hurt?" Jon asked.

She shrugged, nodding. "He's banged up but mostly just mad they held him down."

Jon breathed a soft sigh of relief. Unlike himself at that age, Jordin was more than capable of defending himself.

She went on: "I went to the school to pick him up and spoke to the principal. He's suspended in school; he'll have to stay in at recess and they want him to see his counsellor before next week. It's all in the log." She got to her feet, not looking at Patrick. "Can I go, boss?"

Jon nodded, smiling and touching his fingers to his forehead in a little salute for her. It made her lips twitch up before she left.

"Don't you think Jordin has enough problems?" Patrick said when she was gone. "I just don't think it's the best idea to encourage him to pursue this... whatever this is."

"I think I would prefer not to add 'repression' and 'shame' to Jordin's list of problems," Jon said quietly. "No one's telling him to put clips in his hair--It's something he's wanted a long time and it makes him happy. Angel spoke with him at length before deciding to take him shopping."

Patrick threw up his hands. "Fine, you're the boss. But it makes no sense to me. We should be taking him outside to chuck a ball around, not playing with his hair like a fairy."

Tension jumped into Jon's shoulders. "You can still take him outside and chuck the ball around. I'm sure he would appreciate the attention."

Patrick nodded, his jaw set.

Jon turned aside. "Watch your language in the future, Patrick," he said evenly. "This is a workplace, not the school yard."

"I would never say it to him," Patrick said swiftly.

Jon's ears burned. "It's still offensive. I can't imagine Jesus saying it, can you?"

As he glanced over his shoulder, Patrick's angry, mixed-up expression seemed to say he wasn't even sure of that anymore. The other man left without saying anything further.

Jon sighed, rubbing his thumbs into his tight neck, and sat down to check his emails. There was no response from his boss to his request to bring someone in to do diversity training. Jon tapped out an email to the Gay-Straight Alliance anyways, asking for resources that he could use to orientate his staff with some basics. Within the hour he had a gushing email back, saying how glad they were he asked and here's some places to start. He clicked through the PowerPoints and watched videos about gender and sexuality until his eyes were grainy, then he got up to do the night cleaning.

His reward for all of that was a couple minutes on his personal phone:

<how was practice?>

Kurt's reply dropped in a few minutes later. <tell you about it tomorrow *sleepy face**heart face*>

When Jordin came into the kitchen that morning, he glared at Jon like he dared him to say something. The brilliant bruise spreading over his cheekbone made Jon wince. Jordin thrust out the clips and hairbrush to Jon and sat down, pulling his hair back over his shoulders. He was wearing a blouse printed with purple and white flowers, shoved into the waistband of his jeans.

"Do you want a Dutch braid again?" Jon asked.

Jordin nodded and Jon picked up the brush. "Your shirt is very pretty," Jon said. "Did Angel buy that for you too?"

"My friend gave it to me," Jordin said, flatly. "She wore it last week and I liked it so much she let me borrow it."

"She sounds very kind. What's your friend's name?"

"Bee," Jordin said, and Jon's hands paused, Jordin's silky hair threaded through his fingers with the braid half-done. It wasn't a common name, and Jordin was the same age as Jon's littlest sister.

"Bea—White?" Jon said carefully. "Is her last name White?"

"Yeah, we joke about it because she's white and her name is White."

Jon resumed the braid, his lips curving in a little smile. Good for Bea. His shoulders loosened, knowing his sister would have Jordin's back at school.

"What's your plan for managing your anger today?" Jon said.

Jordin stiffened.

"Dusty needs a sibling who sets him a good example at school," Jon coaxed. "You know half the time he doesn't want to go at all."

"Me too," Jordin muttered.

Jon smoothed his hand over the braid, wishing he could smooth down Jordin's ruffled, wounded emotions as easily. He clipped the stray hairs in place--the sparkly purple clips matched his shirt perfectly.

Jordin sighed heavily. "Walk away," he said. "Take 10 breaths. Tell a teacher."

"Good," Jon said. He gave Jordin a smile. "Do you want pancakes or eggs for breakfast?"

1392 words.