{Cary}

Cary was pleasantly exhausted from his week of work and his wallet was full of cash from the drywall job he'd finally finished today. This booth felt private and safe in the midst of the crowd and his favourite person was slouched across from him, smiling, bobbing his head to the music. It was rare enough for Jon to allow himself a night off to unwind and Cary enjoyed his friend's enjoyment.

When his order arrived--a huge basket of battered fish poppers and hand cut malted potato chips—Jon's eyes widened with horror. "Is that mayonnaise?"

Cary chuckled, shaking the dipping sauce so it wiggled a little in the dish. "Yummmmm."

Jon cracked a smile. "Ugh Cary, don't tempt me. Now I totally want some."

Cary wrapped an arm protectively around the basket and scooped up a big pile of the goop with a piece of fish. "You stay strong over there. It's not that good and it's definitely not 'clean.' I'm gonna eat all of it."

When the band took the stage, Jon's eyes hooked on the front man and never left him. Kurtis Klassen glowed under the lights, hugging the mic and pouring his heart out, his voice climbing a huge range of sound. Cary glanced from Kurt's body, leaning towards the crowd, taut with emotion, to Jon's mesmerized face. "Huh," he said softly, smiling to himself, and smushed a fish bite between two potato chips to pop in his mouth.

Midway through the show, Kurt switched from electric to acoustic guitar, settling the sparkling strap on his shoulder and flashing a dazzling smile. "This next song is about the first kiss I wish I had—with the first guy I ever loved—" He leaned into the mic to purr dramatically. "—and, lovelies, he's here tonight."

Some cheers and whistles from the packed dance floor and Kurt stroked a big, throbbing chord out of his guitar to open the song. Jon slid down in the booth, his face flushed and his eyes wide under the brim of his cap.

"He didn't point you out," Cary said drily. "No one knows he's talking about you."

"Yeah I know that." Jon's voice sounded strangled. "I just...didn't think he would even remember me, really. Care—he wants me to meet him after for drinks."

Cary's face lifted in a smile. "So? He's a cute guy—you're a cute guy. You wanted to see him again and the feeling is mutual. What's the problem?"

Behind him, Kurt's voice crooned the chorus, about what might have been, about lost kisses and stolen moments. Catching the lyrics, Cary blinked and his own cheeks heated. So maybe he would be a little not okay with someone singing this song to a crowd about his first crush.

Jon ducked his head, hiding his face. "I can't do this. It was stupid for me to come." He slid out of the booth, checking his pockets for his phone and his wallet and keys.

Cary's eyebrows lifted, looking from the man on stage, lost in his song, to his half-finished basket of fries and battered fish, to his best friend hunched and miserable, eyeing the path to the door. "Kay. You need me to come with?"

"It's fine," Jon said. "If you're liking it—it's your weekend, you should have a night out."

"So should you," Cary commented.

Jon closed his fist against his chest, glaring back at him. "I can't." He shook his head hard--he wouldn't even look at the stage now. "You know I can't, Care. I've worked too hard to fuck it up going for drinks with Kurt Klassen. He's so out his #gaylife is trending." Jon's mouth twisted like he'd bitten into something bitter.

Cary shrugged, popping a chip into his mouth, but inwardly he sighed. He should have known it was too much to ask for Jon to loosen up and take one night off. "Fine, go. I'll see you at home."

Tugging his cap low and flipping up his hood, Jon vanished into the crowd. Cary stayed until the set was done, nursing his drink to stay on the edge of a relaxed, pleasant buzz.

When the band cleared the stage, the crowd broke up; the sound in the bar raised a few decibels. Cary saw Kurt's shirt and glowing white-blond hair as he made his way over. The other man's face was blazing with fierce joy. His eyes went from Cary, to the empty booth across from him, and he pulled up, setting his guitar case upright and leaning his hands on it, scanning the room.

"White?" he asked, looking expectantly back at Cary.

Cary sighed, turning his drink in his fingers. The sides of the glass were warm now from his hands. "He had to go. Work shit, I guess."

Kurt went still for a moment, his eyes glimmering and dark in the mask of his smile. "Ah." He brushed his hand across his face, tucking a stray hair behind his ear and attempted to rally. "You stuck around—how did you like it?"

Cary raised his glass to him. "Liked it. All the feelings."

Kurt tipped his guitar case and lifted up on his toes, glancing back at the stage. The drummer was there, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and it seemed to Cary like he was watching them. Kurt found his smile and turned it back on. "Can I have a drink with you, Douglas?"

"Sure," Cary said slowly. "Seat's free."

Kurt stowed his case and sat in a fluid motion, slinging his long legs along the empty bench and flagging down a server. He ordered five times more alcohol than Cary planned to consume this evening, then sagged into the corner of the booth.

"Tell me about him." The sound of Kurt's singing voice vibrated close to these words, and his face was creased with strong emotion as he glanced at Cary. "Can you tell me about him? I thought I'd never see him again even though—it's not like this is a big city. There was always a chance we could run into each other. I just thought...when he texted...maybe he wanted—"

The server arrived with a whisky sour and left the bottle. Kurt latched onto the drink like he was parched. Draining the cup and pouring another over the ice, he seemed to recover his confidence, a self-mocking smile swaggering onto his face. "Humour me. What does Jon White do in his free time?"

Cary crossed his arms, weighing how Jon would feel about this conversation against the fragility he sensed very close to the surface of the person across from him. "He doesn't have a lot of it. He's looking after kids in a group home. And finishing a social work degree. He works nights."

Kurt's face brightened. "Does he still play music?"

Cary frowned, unable to remember the last time he'd seen Jon pick up a guitar. "No. He used to for church. I guess his work schedule messed up practices so... he doesn't now."

Kurt's eyes were intent on him. "So...wait. Is he out? He's gay, yes? Oh my god, please say yes." He gave a little self-conscious laugh. "Or I've just made such an ass of myself."

Cary's mouth flattened. He didn't know how to answer this question. "Yes. But everyone doesn't know. He's very—guarded about his private life. You're gonna need to respect that."

Kurt crossed his arms like he was abruptly cold. "Dammit," he said softly. He pressed his lips like he was about to say more, then bent his head and tossed his drink back. Cary hoped he could hold his liquor better than he looked: Kurt couldn't be more than one-hundred-ninety pounds, soaking wet. Kurt curled over the table, then raised the bottle and slowly poured another.

The drummer emerged from the crowd, a solid wall of a human, arms straining his jacket. The look he shot Cary was pure hostility, and he stroked his groomed beard, curling his finger around the point like a Disney villain. "Hey babe?" Cary's eyebrows shot up—the guy was still giving him a death glare, but he was pretty sure the 'babe' was addressed to the other person in the booth.

Kurt shifted his body away from the man, cutting him a look through his hair.

"You coming home with me tonight?" The guy said it like a threat. Cary crossed his arms, pushing his feet into the floor and measuring him up.

"I'm tired." Kurt's voice sounded higher than it had before, feminine and neutral. He shook his hair out of his face and tried to meet the guy's look, but his eyes shied away from his. "I paid you, Nicky. You were really good tonight. Alright?"

"Damn right I was," Nicky grumbled. He made a disgusted noise. "I don't know why I fucking bother." He loomed over the table, pressing his face next to Kurt's like they were taking a selfie, and giving Cary a hard look. "Just so you know: this slut will drink every dollar you earn--" Kurt's eyes were shuttered, his lips fixed in a smile with the man's fingers on his neck. "--and spend the rest on shoes."

Cary held still, giving this asshole one more second before he threw him out the door and broke something. Kurt made a strangled giggle, his hand planted on Nicky's chest to try and push him away. "You're scaring the fans--fuck off."

Abruptly, Nicky showed his teeth in a smile. "I love a fan." He kissed Kurt on the lips, hard, and stood up from the booth. "You were amazing, babe. See you later."

It took a couple minutes for Cary's heart-rate to slow and his fists to uncurl under his arms. Kurt kept his head down, running his tongue over his teeth and silently pulling on his drink.

"That your ex?" Cary asked.

Kurt nodded.

"He's charming." Cary's voice was dry.

Kurt's sideways look was enigmatic. "I really know how to pick 'em," he said lightly. "I think I have daddy issues, you know?"

Cary snorted. "I do know. You can do better."

"Really?" Kurt's words were slurring a little now. "You're gonna find me a good man to hold me tight and keep me safe?"

"And buy you shoes?" Cary said. "Probably not." He sat back in the booth, considering Kurt's slumped form.

"You gonna talk or are we just sitting here while I finish my drink?" Kurt asked.

"We're just gonna sit here while you finish your drink," Cary said comfortably. "Then I'm driving you home."

*

The smell of piss and alcohol assaulted Cary's nose as he half-supported, half-carried Kurt up the stairs to his apartment. He had to leave the guitar locked in his car because Kurt couldn't carry it and he only had enough hands to carry Kurt. Kurt was green and sweating as he fumbled with his keys, and very shortly after he stumbled inside Cary heard the sound of throwing up. Cautiously, Cary stepped into the apartment after him.

"I'm coming in," he warned.

Kurt's place was one tiny room: a sink and stove and mini fridge next to a bed with a rumpled comforter and threadbare sheets. A battered acoustic hung on the wall over the bed. Cary grimaced at the floor—there was nothing grosser than carpet in a kitchen.

Unless it was carpet in the bathroom. Kurt was all knees and elbows crouched around the toilet bowl, one hand clenched in his hair to keep it out of his face. When his body started to heave again, his hand convulsively gripped the toilet bowl and his hair fell into his eyes and mouth again. Without thinking, Cary stepped behind him and held his hair back, like his mom had done for him a few times, her cool touch steadying him when he was sick. Kurt's scalp was soaked with sweat and sticky with hair product, and the smell of throw up made Cary want to do the same. He turned his face aside, breathing shallowly through his nose.

Kurt collapsed onto his back on the carpeted floor—what colour had that carpet even been originally? Orange? Green? Cary dropped back a step uncertainly—there was no gracious way to exit this situation.

He went to roll Kurt on his side so at least he wouldn't choke on his own vomit if he didn't wake up enough next time. When he clasped Kurt's shoulder, the other man's eyes snapped open, and he shoved himself away, up against the shower compartment. "No touching the goods before you've paid."

Cary wanted to growl back that he'd just finished hauling 'the goods' up three flights of stairs for free—but his gut said Kurt was too drunk to know who he was with or how he'd got here. He was just giving the next line of a script he'd used before.

Adrenaline had sharpened Kurt's bleary expression. "Fifty for a blow job. Two fifty to do whatever you like. Or get the hell out." This was all delivered from his slumped position against the shower surround. There was vomit spattered on the knees of his jeans.

Cary reached over his sprawled legs and gently shut the toilet lid to flush it. Then he pulled out his wallet with two fingers and drew out three bills. He dropped them on Kurt's heaving stomach. "I'd like you to get out of those clothes and get in bed, asshole," Cary said softly.

Kurt gathered himself, his long fingers smoothing the bills and folding them into his pocket. He used the shower curtain to pull himself up, his expression smooth as he wrestled himself back to his feet. It would have been hilarious if it wasn't so damn sad.

Cary backed out of the washroom, waiting to make sure Kurt could make it on his own. He arranged the kitchen garbage can next to the bed just in case.

When he looked back around, Kurt's long body was bare, leaning over the kitchen sink to rinse his mouth with his hand. His torso was hairless as a swimmer's, the ridges of his rib and hip bones jutting sharply under his skin.

The door was one step across the room and Cary pulled it open, locking the knob again as he did so. "Sweet dreams," he growled and shut it firmly behind him. If he could have thrown the deadbolt from the hall side, he would have. Kurt did not live in a safe neighbourhood and he guessed he was going to need twelve hours to sleep that off.

Cary shook his shoulders out and wiped his hands on his pants. Not his problem.

In his car he sent this text: <You left your guitar. It's safe with me> and his address.

He pulled up to his own home with a sense of relief, a gracious, old two-an-a-half-story house on a tree-lined street. Light flickered behind the curtain of his front window, and he guessed that Jon was still up.

The sound of water rushing softly over stones filled his ears as he opened the front door, and the air was hot and damp against his face. Cary put his head around the arched entrance to his main area: there were candles lit in the corners of the living room, and a space heater and humidifier turned their dry prairie climate into a hot, steamy jungle. Jon was standing on his head, his forearms braced against the hardwood floor and his bare feet pointed neatly in the air. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow--his body appeared to be effortlessly poised; only the slight wrinkle in his forehead betrayed the effort required to hold the pose.

That and the sweat sheening his bare torso, dripping off the ends of his hair and soaking the waistband of his shorts.

Of course, anyone would be sweating in this heat; Cary was already sweating. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, letting his breath out softly. It was hard to erase the image of Kurt Klassen crumpled in his carpeted bathroom, and he thought of all the years of bullying, secrecy, and self-hatred that Jon had worked through to get to this place.

"I can feel you staring at me," Jon said, without opening his eyes. "It's creepy."

"I'm just glad you exist," Cary said. He ducked his head and shucked off his jacket. There was dried vomit on his shirt.

"Are you joining me for a bikram yoga sesh?" Jon stepped out of the headstand. "You could detox all the processed garbage that was in that mayo dip."

"I'm fine with the processed garbage," Cary said. "I just need a shower."

Jon wiped his face off on the towel next to his mat and went for a glass of water in the kitchen. He made a face at Cary. "Why do you smell like throw up?"

"It's not mine." He took a breath, held it, and then released it in a gusty sigh. "You really don't want to know."

Jon's eyes studied his face as he drank. "How was the show?"

"Liked it," Cary said. "More—depth that I expected. From a country band."

"Alt-country," Jon corrected him automatically. "Yeah his—their—lyrics really get you in all the feely places."

"I like the feely places now," Cary said.

Jon crossed his arm loosely over his chest, narrowing his eyes in a smile. "I'm happy for you. I'll send you more of their stuff. For days when you want a good cry."

Cary laughed drily and ducked his head. It was a new realization that of the two of them, he was more comfortable with his feelings now.  

3011 words.