{Jon}

Early in the morning, Jon felt Kurt slip out of his arms, leaving the warm imprint of his body in the bed beside him. In a haze of post-migraine hangover, Jon eased onto his back, sinking into his body. His scalp felt tender, and his neck and shoulders ached, but the pulsing quasar of pain in his head had dissolved. He breathed, opening his fingers, releasing the tension in his body piece by piece.

At the 'click' of his door opening, Jon lifted the shirt off his face a crack. Kurt was arranging a water glass and a bowl of cut bananas on the bedside table. His blue eye glanced through his hair at Jon's movement, and one side of his mouth smiled. "Need another round of meds?" he asked.

"No, thank you." Jon pushed himself up on his elbow and drank, then laid his eggshell head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. "I'm getting up. Just...give me a few."

There was a simplicity to the morning after a migraine that Jon just surrendered to now, having figured out the hard way that recovery couldn't be hurried. No email, no reading, no screens. Hot shower, slow movements, clean food, water, water, water. It was a day for listening to his body and caring gently for its needs, like he was one of his kids and they had all the time in the world. If he wanted to be functional for work or school on Monday, he couldn't stress about those things today at all.

There was warm coffee in the pot and all the blinds were closed against the morning sunlight when he finally made his way into the kitchen. "Bless you, Visser," Jon said, cleaning up the toast crumbs and helping himself.

A cacophony of sound beat against the basement door, the wail of Kurt's electric guitar and his voice raging a counter-point. Jon leaned against the counter, his coffee warm between his hands, easing his neck from side to side.

It was abruptly simple. With his head soft and fragile as an egg, the uncomplicated voice of his body was plain as day. From the tender top of his head to the ends of his fingers and toes, Jon's body wanted to be with Kurt Visser.

Jon had never in his adult life felt this warm, tidal pull towards another man. Sure he'd had momentary crushes on guys, but the thought of acting on those feelings and ending up all over each other naked was just...horrifying. No part of Jon was interested, and unfortunately he could speak from some experience. It had been one more blow to absorb; his body didn't respond to women and, even though he was attracted to guys, he seemed to have zero drive to actually have sex with them.

But Kurt. Jon had every kind of feeling for Kurt. His whole body responded when Kurt was in the room.

He wanted to be with the man making something so incandescently beautiful out of his pain that Jon felt the intensity of the music through the soles of his feet. He wanted to be with the man who crept, shivering, into his bed last night just to fall asleep together. He wanted to be with the man reading by lamplight with his glasses on, and the man swaggering under the nightclub lights, his eyes smoky and dark with makeup. Jon's body wanted all the things with Kurt Visser.

Jon closed his eyes, a slow smile spreading over his face. Nothing like a night of blinding pain to snap things into clarity. He didn't have to capacity today to overthink this even if he wanted to. They were safe in his house; they were adults and old friends. Maybe Kurt wanted more than that with him too. How did you make a relationship when you were a mostly-closeted mostly-not-sexy gay man? Jon didn't have a plan, just a jumping off point. All he needed to know was if Kurt wanted to be with him back.

Geronimo.

Jon lit the candles and rolled out his mat for his post-migraine yoga flow. At some point as he breathed, gliding from movement to movement, the basement fell silent. For a few moments, he wasn't aware of anything except his body and his breathing. When he opened his eyes on the room, Kurt was leaning in the doorway, an arm wrapped over his chest, watching him with a complicated expression on his face.

The other man dropped his eyes, turning aside. "Didn't mean to disturb you, White. Carry on."

Jon followed him, a little dizzy at the speed with which his feet wanted to carry him after Kurt. "Hey, slow up."

Kurt paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing back with part of a smile on his mouth.

Jon steadied himself on the wall. "What are you doing today?" He laughed at how much like an awkward teenager he felt right now. "Do you want to hang out?"

Kurt's smile deepened. "Is that another word for "make out with my boyfriend"?" he teased.

"Yes," Jon said. He put his hand on his chest, lifting his eyebrows hopefully.

Kurt's own eyebrows flicked up, but he hesitated. "I have practice with the band and...are you sure I'm not too much for you today?"

Taking a chance, Jon crossed the distance between them, drawing Kurt's face down to his, kissing him as softly as Kurt had kissed him earlier this week. Kurt made a quiet hum, his hands touching Jon's shoulders light as birds. Catching his breath, he put his face next to Jon's cheek. "Does anything still hurt you?" he asked huskily.

Jon tangled his fingers in Kurt's hair, leaning his weary body into his. Thank God the nausea stage had passed. "No. I just need to go slow. It's like...making out with a hangover, I guess."

Kurt made a face. "I never want to make out with a hangover."

Jon reached up to say wordlessly he didn't feel the same. Kurt opened his mouth for him; he tasted like coffee and strawberry jam. Every nerve ending in Jon's body was tuned to Kurt's body, asking and listening—Is this what you want? With me?

Kurt's arms hugged Jon tight, almost picking him up. His unmade-up face was blissfully relaxed, his light eyelashes brushing his cheeks; Jon kept his eyes open a crack to make sure.

Head spinning, Jon pulled away, resting his forehead against Kurt's shoulder. "Hold on, dizzy." Kurt's hands slipped up under Jon's shirt, sliding over his back and lats, skin smooth against skin. Sighing with pleasure, Jon rubbed against Kurt in a wave, once, before he caught himself. They both went still, shaking slightly as they clasped each other, their breathing falling into sync.

"Kurt," Jon said low. "Do you want this? With me, for real? I—" He cleared his tight throat. "I don't want to practise. I want all the things with you." He held his breath, trying not to hold Kurt too hard. He was letting him go if this was anything but an unequivocal yes.

He felt Kurt's breathless laugh against his whole body. "Are you kidding me right now? Yes I want all the things with you. I have for foreeever." The last word came out as a groan and Kurt gathered him close, his body's obvious interest pressed warm against Jon's hip.

Jon laughed, drawing back to look in his face. Kurt was pink, his blue eyes sparkling with his smile, checking Jon's expression as carefully as Jon was his. Jon bit his lip, stroking Kurt's hair back and tucking it behind his ear, touching his earring, touching his cheek. All the touching he'd wanted to do this week and kept his hands to himself. "What time is your practice?"

Kurt groaned again. "In an hour. I need to shower and get ready."

"Are you free to hang out with your boyfriend tonight?" Jon asked.

Kurt was lit up so bright there were spangles coming off him like a mirror-ball. "That's a hell yes from me," he said.

Jon let him go, setting his feet wide to stand on his own. "Can't wait," he said.

Kurt grinned at him, pushing his hands through his hair. "I can't believe I have to drive away from you right now." He took the stairs two at a time, singing. Jon followed more slowly and crawled back into bed.

Fifty minutes later, Jon surfaced out of a doze to the sound of Kurt swearing desperately in the hall. The other man appeared in his open doorway, his hair standing up in blond peaks. "I'm so sorry to ask—my car won't start and it's ten minutes to practice."

Jon sat up slowly, checking on his head. "I can drive you," he said.

Kurt's eyes were wide with panic in his smoky makeup. "You don't have to drive me I just need to reload all my shit into your car and unload it all again and not be fucking late which is probably at this point not even gonna happen--"

Jon flinched his face aside at his rising volume. "Settle down, Visser. I got you. You do the heavy lifting and I'll do the guitars and we'll get you there." The nap had done him good; he was steady on his feet as he pulled on a hoodie and jeans and went downstairs.

At the curb, every door of the Corolla was open, plus the hood; amps and guitars were spread over the sidewalk. Jon unlocked his car and helped repack the gear one item at a time. He handed Kurt the keys and got into the passenger seat. "You drive. I'll help you unload at the other end." There was nothing better to do today, and he was curious about this part of Kurt's life. His head felt okay enough for a short car ride.

As he drove, Kurt's mouth was tight and he drummed his fingers on the wheel.

"Where does your band practice?" Jon asked, studying the coloured powder brushed around Kurt's eyes. His boyfriend's face looked more dramatic than ever, glittering a little in the sun.

"Nicky's place," Kurt said. "A studio in his garage."

Jon fell silent. He had a hundred questions about Kurt's ex but this didn't seem like a good time to ask.

They pulled in behind a home in an older neighbourhood like Jon's, and Kurt shot him a glance. "Thank you," he said.

Jon smiled back. "Sure. Anything for my rock star boyfriend." He glanced around the alleyway as they got out of his car together: empty except for trash cans and fences. Kurt grabbed the biggest amp and lugged it to the garage side door, going straight in.

Jon followed with a pair of guitars, setting them just outside the open door. He heard Kurt say, "Sorry I'm late Nicky--"

A voice interrupted him. "Put your shit over there, god, try to stay out of the way. I told you he'd be late—didn't I say: we shouldn't even bother showing up on time, Klassen will still be fixing his hair." General laughter. "I mean, worth the wait babe, you look gorgeous, c'mere."

Going back to the car for the last amp, Jon barely held his temper. Why would Nicky use Kurt's dead name like he didn't give a shit how Kurt felt about that?

Kurt was talking in the quick, energetic tone Jon knew meant he was gesturing with his hands as well. "--trying some stuff last night and what if we strip it right back for a couple songs, just me and my guitar and some pads--"

"Oh honey, no." The man chuckled. "You just stick to what you're good at. No offence but no one's paying just to hear just you and your guitar—you're dime a dozen, you know that."

Jon's fists closed, glaring at the open doorway, feeling like he might just walk in there and punch that person in the face. Was that Nicky talking? Jon's automatic dislike of an ex-boyfriend upgraded to sheer hatred in an instant.

"I'll just get the rest of my shit," Kurt mumbled. When he appeared in the doorway, looking deflated, Jon was waiting beside the guitars, his hood flipped up. Seeing him, Kurt's eyes widened, and Jon caught the front of his shirt, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss on his lips. He wrapped his arms around Kurt, hard, like he could put all the determination and fight in his own body into Kurt.

He drew back. "I'm coming back for you, Kurt Visser," he said, low and fierce. "Don't forget about me."

Kurt's mouth curled up and he turned away, a spring in his step again.

Jon slammed the car doors, barely registering the way the sound echoed in his skull. His impulse was to just park right here until Kurt was done and then scoop him up and take him home, but that seemed weirdly possessive, and his body really wanted to be horizontal for a couple hours.

When he pulled up at their house, he noticed Cary's truck was parked in the back, but Jon saw no signs that his housemate had been in the kitchen yet today. He climbed the stairs to Cary's studio, slowing a little as exertion beat in his head in time with his heart.

There was the unmistakable smell of marijuana as he got to the top of the steps. Cary was hunched over the drafting table, tongue between his teeth, inking the page in front of him with smooth, controlled strokes. His hair was wildly dishevelled and the smell came from half a joint sitting on an ashtray on the sill of the open window.

Jon cleared his throat and tapped on the wall, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, but Cary still jumped, shooting him a glare. "Not a good time," he growled.

Jon held up his open hands. "Are you coming down for supper tonight?"

"No," Cary said. "Gotta get these away to my editor tonight. I put them off 'cause it's basement shit. Now it just has to get done." He tossed his pen aside and got off the stool, easing his shoulders. "Sorry for snapping." His voice sounded less edgy.

"Can I look?" Jon asked.

Cary nodded, dropping into the large, squishy armchair beside the window and taking the blunt between two fingers.

Cary only used his prescribed supply when his PTSD flashbacks were pressing particularly vividly. When he got close enough to the drawing Jon understood why Cary had dipped into his stash today: the basement of Cary's childhood home was almost black with shadow. A dark, frightened eye flashed in one frame, a fist clenched around a leather belt in another. At the bottom of the page, half in pencil, a child lay crumpled, limbs bent at wrong angles, throat white and exposed, face obscured by a thick wave of dark hair. Dark things with claws for fingers crept around the edge of the page.

Jon let out his breath. "These are amazing. And really hard to look at." He crossed his arms against his chest; there had been a trial and a guilty verdict, and Cary's father had done some pittance of time for the scars on his son's body. It still made Jon angry, remembering the day they  brought Cary home from the youth shelter, a battered, unwanted stray.

"Tell me about it." Cary curled his shoulders, setting his elbows on his knees. He dug one hand into his eye, his tattoos rippling on his arm.

"Do you regret taking this project on?" Jon asked. After years of using drawing in therapy, Cary's counsellor had asked if he would share his work to help other abuse survivors in the form of a graphic novel. They had both been surprised by the speed with which they found a publisher.

Cary made a flat smile in his beard. "Ask me when it's done," he said drily.

"How many more--?"

"Two more spreads like that. I shouldn't have left them to the end to do all at once. I'm fucking...tripping over flashbacks." Cary exhaled and his hand was unsteady as he sipped on the joint.

"How 'bout I bring you supper up here? Weed always makes you hungry. Um...I have plans with my boyfriend in the living room."

A little humour sparked in Cary's face. "You do. Good. Jon White's finally getting some. That makes my day better." Jon's face heated, and Cary's eyes crinkled at him. "Glad you finally sorted that out. You're good for each other."

Jon rolled his shoulders, laughing a little. "We'll see."

Cary settled on his drawing stool again, looking grimly at the page on his desk. "This shit will be done and away tomorrow, right?" he said, and Jon nodded, recognizing his brother in every way but shared DNA was talking himself up to continuing. "Then I'm never drawing this fucking basement again."

Jon patted his shoulder, rubbing his fingers briefly where Cary's drawing motion made him tense and knotted. "Agreed. I'll send Misty up, when I see her."

"Please do." Stubbing out the joint, Cary got heavily to his feet to settle again on his desk stool.

*In this edit, I've teased out the complexity of Jon's feelings towards sex and other guys. What do you think?

How do you feel about Jon's decision to just let go of his reservations about being with Kurt for the day?

How much of a difference is there between Jon's body loving Kurt and Jon himself loving Kurt? Is he maybe not willing to admit what's happening here?

If you've read HIDING, you know Cary has been using drawing to process his inner world (and his abuse shit) since childhood. I wanted to pick up on that part of his character again in For Us, even though this is intended to be a stand-alone story. I feel like it rounds him out, and gives a little context for where his relationship wisdom comes from. Would you read Cary's graphic novel?*

3008 words.