{Jon}

There was an email from his boss, requesting a meeting with him in person, in the morning before shift change. We need to discuss diversity training. The words jumped off the screen. And how to respond given the widespread acceptance of homosexuality in our context.

Clicking the email shut, Jon felt his heartrate accelerate. He tucked his hands inside the hood of his sweater to rub his aching shoulders, leaning back with a sigh. It didn't feel like a good sign that his boss was using the term 'homosexuality'—the same word the Bible used in its most condemning passages. It told Jon he might not have done any reading beyond those verses and made him feel deeply unsafe.

He breathed a wordless prayer and got up to move the laundry along.

He was surprised to feel his personal phone buzz against his stomach at three in the morning and pulled it out to check.

Kurt: <what's your favourite romcom *sparkle heart*>

A corner of Jon's mouth smiled. <I don't watch movies I'm boring *blushing smile* what are you doing up?>

Kurt: <bad dreams need some good thoughts to fall back asleep>

Jon lifted his eyes from the screen, thinking of all the nights he'd sat by Cary's bed reading him psalms to push back the dark of his nightmares until his friend fell back asleep. He sent: <want a call? done my work til kids get up *heart face*>

The phone buzzed in his hand and he went to the office, closing the door.

"Is it really okay that I call?" Kurt's voice sounded muffled and unsteady.

"Yeah, it's quiet here. I finished the chores and I'm ignoring my emails," Jon said. He knew better than to ask about bad dreams when there were so many hours of dark left until morning. "You need stories to fall back asleep?"

He heard Kurt take a slow breath. "That'd be good."

Jon's eyes wandered around the office, catching on the photo of him and Dusty and Jordin in the mountains. Dusty's eyes were closed with laughter and he squeezed against Jon's chest to fit in the photo. Even Jordin's expression was relaxed, his silky black hair blowing over his face. "Have I told you anything about my kids?"

"Tell me everything about your kids. Here I thought you weren't having any." Kurt already sounded more like himself.

Smiling, Jon told Kurt about Freezie Pops and Jordin's sparkly clips, and the day Jordin arrived at the house and hugged his brother for the first time, and teaching Dusty to ride a two-wheeler.

"How long you been with him—Dusty?" Kurt asked.

Jon had his chin propped in his hand, swivelling the desk chair under him. He couldn't remember--it felt like always. "Since he was seven? He was so tiny he just looked like he was five and we barely got him in the program. River House is supposed to be a home for eight to twelve-year-olds.

"Jordin came later. He racked up quite a record in the system and the ministry didn't think there could be a setting that would work for them both. We advocated for Jordin to come here—it was here or a house with bars on the windows. That's the hardest thing about these nights--when I was on three to elevens, I got to spend all evening with them." Kurt was quiet and Jon pictured him lying on his back in his bed, the phone to his ear. Unexpectedly, his body warmed and he checked the clock—three hours until shift end.

"You're a dad, White," Kurt said slowly. "That's so sexy to me, god." His low chuckle made Jon need to stand up and stretch, shaking out his legs.

"I'm not," Jon said. "Kids go in and out of our house all the time--I have to hold them open-handed. They could go." It wasn't an idea that he was really able to look at directly. "But for now, with these two..." He exhaled. "Yeah, it feels a lot like that."

They were silent on the phone together, breathing. "You feel better?" Jon asked. "Feel like you can sleep?"

"Feel like I want you home with me." Kurt's voice was sleepy and buzzed with warmth. "Have a surprise for you when you get back. Don't be late." He was laughing when he hung up.

Jon didn't have time to say he had to get through a conversation with his boss before he was free to come home. Just as well. If it was a shit show he wouldn't say anything to Kurt anyways.

{Kurt}

Kurt woke up refreshed and got up early to shower and dress and run downstairs. But Jon was late, and he fell back asleep waiting for him, curled on the rug with the knitted 'sheep' blanket over his shoulders. A touch on his elbow made him take a breath and open his eyes. Jon smiled, withdrawing his hand, seated cross-legged on the hardwood beside him. "You bought us a carpet," he said.

Kurt propped his head on his elbow, one side of his mouth curling up. "You like it? I thought we needed somewhere more comfy to—you know—hug and tell stories. And you seem anti-couch."

Jon laughed, then put his hand to his mouth, looking aside. Kurt pushed himself up, noticing tiredness or strain Jon was trying to cover. "Okay morning?"

Jon shook his head, waving it aside. "Boring." He made a smile, but it looked to Kurt like the light had been snuffed out behind his face. "How was yours?"

"Boring," Kurt said agreeably. He patted the carpet beside him. "Come over here, you look tired. I'm a champion back-rubber."

Jon pulled his sweater off with some apparent reluctance and climbed onto the carpet to lay down on his stomach, his face buried in his arms. "This too," Kurt said, tugging on the hem of his T-shirt, and his lips curled, pleased, when Jon pulled it over his head, baring the his muscular back and freckled shoulders.

"Where are you tight?" he asked, his voice a little husky. The smell of Jon's skin, the warmth of him just inches away was intoxicating.

"Shoulders," Jon said, muffled.

Kurt took the real surprise out of his pocket: a little bottle of massage oil that smelled faintly of vanilla and coconut and also happened to be edible. A man liked to be prepared. He slung a leg over Jon's hips, rubbing the oil between his palms to warm it, then stroking his hands from Jon's hips up to his shoulders and neck. Jon made a noise of relief, exhaling.

Kurt hummed to himself, working his thumbs into the tension in Jon's shoulders. "You're all knots, darlin'. You been throwing sand bags around at work today?"

Jon made a dry noise. "Just—vacuuming. That feels seriously amazing."

As music crooned in the background and candles flickered insubstantially in the morning sunlight, Kurt felt Jon loosening under his hands. "Tell me about your tattoo." The way Jon's shoulder was bent, the lines were wrinkled and bunched on his skin, but he could tell it wasn't English lettering.

Jon turned his cheek so Kurt could see a sliver of his face, his fingers rubbing the lines on top of his arm without opening his eyes. "It's Hebrew. From the Bible."

Kurt made a sharp noise. "You inked the Bible on your skin?" On a different morning, there were more than a few things he would have said about that.

Jon's throat moved. "It's about love." His voice was a little frayed. "Jesus' words as a lover:

Place me like a seal over your heart;

Like a seal on your arm;

For love is as strong as death,

It's jealousy as unyielding as the grave.

It burns like a blazing fire,

Like a mighty flame.

Many waters cannot quench love;

Rivers cannot sweep it away."

Jon's voice steadied as he spoke those words aloud. "From Song of Songs," he finished.

Kurt frowned, rubbing his fingers in little circles up Jon's neck and into his hair. He'd forgotten the way the Bible rang in the air when it was read, impossible to ignore. "Sounds like a hell of a song lyric," he allowed. "What's that mean to you?"

Jon let out his breath in a long sigh. "I used to self-harm—did you remember that?"

"Yes," Kurt said low. He swallowed, stroking his thumbs down the side of Jon's neck. Some part of him was always in that coffee shop the last time Jon spoke to him, absorbing Jon's furious expression and cut up arms and realizing abruptly how little it would take for his friend's entire life to spill out on the floor--over in an instant. "I didn't pray for much in high school but I prayed for you. To stay alive."

That got Jon to look at him, his hazel eye glancing back over his shoulder. "You did?"

Kurt nodded, embarrassed. Lying down next to Jon, he ran his hand over the script on Jon's arm, leaving a soft sheen of oil on his bicep. "Oh." His breath caught softly. There were scars under his fingertips, slashed crookedly under the beautiful straight lines of script.

Jon's eyes were closed but his face was still turned towards him, and Kurt watched his lips say: "I really hated my gay body. Until I, um, had this experience where I... felt so loved and held by God. By Jesus. And my cuts healed, actually." Jon flipped onto his back, pulling the waistband of his jeans down on one hip. His mouth was flat and he didn't look at Kurt directly. A ladder of scars climbed into Jon's pants.

Carefully, Kurt laid his hand over them, his chest tightening. Jon had so many more scars than he'd imagined. "I love your gay body," he said. It hurt him that Jon would cut and hate something he felt so strongly about.

Jon's laugh cracked. "I know. I do too, now."

The rest of what Jon had said was sinking in. "Wait, you're saying these cuts healed? For real? Like a miracle on TV?"

Jon wove his fingers into Kurt's hand on his hip, drawing it up to his chest. "Like a miracle in my own bedroom. I went to sleep a mess and woke up—like this. Just scars."

Kurt tipped his face, frowning at him. Jon was clearly not shitting him--he believed this healing thing had happened. There was something visceral about Jon's relationship with spiritual things that Kurt had never been able to understand. For all that they both grew up in Christian families, God was real for Jon in a way Kurt couldn't say he had ever experienced.

Dismissing the part of that story he couldn't understand, Kurt squeezed Jon's hand. "Did you stop cutting after that?" He was looking in Jon's face for the happy ending and didn't know what to make of the sadness billowing off Jon's body right now.

"Yeah, pretty much." Jon sat up, kissed his knuckles and released his hand to pull on his shirt.

Kurt reached out and touched his ankle. "Jon—love. What's wrong? Did I do something—?"

"No." Jon shook his head quick. "It's not you. I just need to—send an email before bed."

Kurt sighed, laying back and opening his arms. "Kiss me before you go, then. Love is as strong as death—even stronger than emails."

For a second, Jon's face broke, then he controlled it again. He leaned over Kurt, spreading his hand on Kurt's chest to steady himself. As their lips touched, Jon's throat made a hurt sound and he turned his face aside, hiding it against Kurt's shirt. A sob tore out of his body, and he sprang to his feet and fled.

Alarmed, Kurt got to his feet to follow. "White?" The kitchen was empty. He checked the stairs and the hall, then pushed past the coats in the tiny back entryway to look outside.

Jon made a very small ball below the coats, knees pressed to his chest, hands covering his face. Tears slid through his fingers and he rocked silently with sobs.

"There you are," Kurt said softly, lowering himself to the sandy floor facing Jon and scootching close with his legs sprawling on either side of Jon's knees. His own eyes heated and overflowed, watching Jon's body clench and release without a sound. He clasped Jon's bare feet in his hands, trying to see his face.

"Jon?" Kurt's voice cracked. "Talk to me." He stroked his hands up and down Jon's corded arms, taking deep breaths while he waited.

Jon fisted tears out of his eyes, glaring at him. "Why are you crying?"

"I always cry when other people cry," Kurt said unsteadily. "Why are you crying?"

Jon took a gasping breath. "Fuck," he whispered, turning his face aside. "I don't even want to repeat it and get this shit on you." His hand clenched his shirt over his stomach and his mouth twisted.

Kurt swiped tears out of his eyes. "I'm okay with shit," he said softly.

Jon shut his eyes, clenching his jaw. "This morning. My boss. Terry. Came to see me. To talk about Jordin. And he—felt the need for a heart to heart—to unload what he's feeling about—the sickness—of homosexuality perverting our kids—and just how—sad he was for all the little queers—probably going to hell—an' definitely dying of AIDs because—there's no possible way to be gay—without sticking your dick into anything that holds still long enough—" He gulped for breath and Kurt muttered, "Holy hell."

He gripped Jon's upper arm, like he could keep that from going in through his scars. "He said this to you?" Kurt asked roughly. "To your face?"

"To my face—to my fucking gay body sitting there trying not to move and give myself away—"

"Christ." Kurt touched his forehead to Jon's hot, damp face. "What did you say?"

Jon sucked in a breath, his lips pulling back from his teeth in the opposite of a smile. "I said—that must seem very threatening to your privilege, you homophobic cis-het asshole."

Kurt laughed. "Oh my god, please tell me you used your outside voice."

Jon's hand clenched in Kurt's shirt, pushing against his shoulder. "Of course I didn't. What could I even say? I thought I would be sick if I opened my mouth." He made a broken noise. "I wanted to be done crying about this shit, God."

Kurt could feel Jon fighting to get his breathing under control and he put his hand over Jon's fist. "It's okay to cry. I would." Although at this point he would probably have laughed in the man's face, and said, "Have you met me bitch? I'm one hundred percent the faggot you're afraid of."

Jon's voice frayed. "I am so. Sick. Of crying. Kurt. I'm so. Fucking. Sick. Of hiding. And apologizing. Like there's something. Wrong with me. For being gay."

At this, Kurt drew back to watch Jon with new interest. "You coming out, Jon? You quitting?"

Pressing his face against his knees, Jon balled his fists over his head, his whole body clenching, trembling. He made a raw sound, slumping and letting out his breath. His fists opened, reaching out for Kurt, who ducked his head so Jon could thread his fingers through his hair. Jon drew Kurt's face against his and Kurt felt his tears dropping onto his own cheeks.

"I'm Dusty's Pops," Jon said.

Kurt closed his eyes, feeling everything wrapped up in those three words.

"He's my heart, Kurt." Jon's voice was low, and he felt it vibrating in his chest. "They're going to have to stand me against a wall and fire me--I'm not leaving. Fuuuuck." It came out a long sigh of sound.

Kurt wrapped himself awkwardly around all of Jon that he could reach, wishing he could soak up every toxic shitty thing into his own body, so Jon could keep doing what he did. "I love that about you, White," Kurt said. "I am so proud of you right now my heart is going to explode."

Jon laughed shakily, face smooshed against Kurt's chest. "Sorry. For crying."

Kurt pulled away with an incredulous noise. "Bish, I am the queen of crying. I love a good cry. I went to 'Fault in our Stars' three times just to cry my face off."

Jon brushed his knuckles over Kurt's damp cheeks, then smoothed his hair back from his face. "I love that about you, Visser," he said quietly, and stood up, clasping Kurt's hand to pull him up beside him.

Cary was drinking his coffee at the counter and jumped a foot when they emerged from the back entryway, almost spilling on the kitchen floor to free themselves from the jumble of boots and coats. "What the hell--" he gasped, clutching his chest.

"Just trying out all your closets," Kurt drawled. "To see which one's the best fit."

"Give a man warning next time," Cary said, still a little wide-eyed. "You gays are sneaky as hell."

"I'm heading to bed," Jon said, and Kurt bent his head to touch his lips to Jon's, tasting the salt of his tears.

Jon's eyes were wide, when Kurt pulled away.

"What?" Kurt asked softly. "I can't kiss my boyfriend when he's sad?"

Jon laughed once, swiping his arm over his damp face and looking aside. "You can."

Kurt pushed his hands through his hair as he watched Jon's bowed form go up the stairs. His fingers still smelled faintly of vanilla and his chest hurt with how much he wanted to make that better for Jon, right now. He turned to Cary. "Gotta coffee for me?"

Cary put the kettle on without comment, and Kurt crossed his arms to lean next to him at the sink. "You worry about Jon, ever?" Kurt asked.

Cary' dark eyes flashed to his face. "Why?"

Kurt shrugged up his shoulder, the shoulder that Jon had scribbled with cuts under the lines of a beautiful tattoo. "Some homophobic asshat slimed him today and I feel like—I don't want to leave him alone. But maybe I'm just being oversensitive and stupid."

Cary was quiet a moment, then he took the kettle off the burner and padded across the living room, scooping Misty off the window sill. "C'mere cat, your human needs you." Her tail curled around his wrist as he held her against his chest and headed upstairs.

{Jon}

Jon's body felt heavy as he climbed onto his bed, crossing his legs and pulling his laptop towards him. He meant to send the email to the GSA before he went to sleep, thanking them and letting them know their services wouldn't be needed after all. His boss didn't want a bunch of gays coming into the house to do the training, so Jon was going to have to do it himself.

The irony was not lost on him. His stomach was still churning with the words he'd eaten to stay silent:

I'm right here. You gave a fag the keys to this whole house and if I'm a sickness everything is contaminated already.

There was a rap on his door, and Cary's voice said. "It's me."

"It's open," Jon said.

Cary shouldered into his room, plunking Misty on his bed. She trotted to Jon, her tail flipping back and forth and nudged his hand with her head.

"Brought you some company," Cary said. "You need a human today?" His dark eyes checked Jon's face. "Visser's asking."

He laughed drily, stroking Misty's silky spine. "I'll get no sleep and no work done if you leave Visser home with me."

Cary waited, hands in his pockets, because that wasn't an answer and he'd been Jon's friend long enough to know it.

Jon ducked his head, his free hand rubbing his churning stomach. He felt scraped thin and there was a lot of the week left to get through. "Do you think you could come home for lunch? I'll be up at one. I probably—" He cleared his throat softly to admit this. "—need two humans to feel okay enough to go back to work."

"Yup," Cary said. "Make the tent before you sleep. We got you."

*I wish I could tell you I made up Jon's work context, their policies, and the conversation Jon had with his boss today. Nothing is simple. The reality is, Christian not-for-profits are doing vital work for marginalized youth in Canada, but their policies regarding LGBTQ+ people remain deeply shaped by the current conservative evangelical Christian position.

In Canada, a group home like Jon's has to support and treat as valid an LGBTQ+ child like Jordin. Conversion therapy is illegal here. However, a home like River House has unique legal status as a Christian missionary organization, and that makes it possible for them to boundary and exclude LGBTQ+ people from their staff positions. This is the pinch point for Jon--he wants to make sure a child like Jordin gets good, informed care, and he's not free to express his own sexuality as a staff person whatsoever.

Of course, Jon's boss, Terry, isn't representative of every Christian person, but these good-intentioned, hurtful conversations still happen.

Some of you already know that, and I want you to know, lovelies: Spirit's tent is big enough to cover you with love. She's got you. Be kind to yourselves and one another today ♡ *

3527 words.