{Kurt}

The next morning, Kurt pulled up to the address Cary had given him, automatically checking the cars that were parked along the tree-lined street. Most were under ten years old, mid-size sedans or family-friendly crossovers. Nothing over 30K. Then again, nothing like the piece of shit he was driving now. He silenced the engine of his battered Corolla, missing his truck with a pain like a phantom limb.

What had quickly become clear when he came out was nothing had ever really been his: his father owned it all.

Carefully, he got out of his car, mindful of his head which felt two sizes too big. A handful of Tylenol had turned down the pounding somewhat, but the sun still felt like it was stabbing white-hot picks into his eyes.

Which was his own fucking fault for swan-diving off the wagon of sobriety twelve hours ago. He would be a hell of a lot more comfortable if he could remember more of the night. He'd woken up naked, with a wad of bills in his jeans pocket. Someone had been in his house, had thought to place the kitchen garbage can next to the head of his bed and lock the door. As far as he could tell, checking himself in the shower, no one had fucked with him.

Not knowing for sure was messing with him and that shit was exactly why Kurt had told himself it was time to sober up, months ago. Back to day one.

He dropped his aviators over his eyes and jogged up the porch steps to lean on the bell. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his second-favourite jeans—too loose on his ass now that he didn't have hours of football practice and a gym pass to stay bulked up. That Kurt may have been gone, but he still loved these damn pants, soft as suede and one of the only designer labels he still had in his closet.

The door swung open and he almost choked on his tongue. Jon was standing there, his eyes wide with surprise. The ball cap was gone and the rumpled bed-head Kurt remembered from high school looked genuine. Jon was barefoot, in a sleeveless tee and yoga pants, soft and loose and held with a drawstring on his narrow hips.

Kurt's heart constricted and he might have made a strangled noise. What he could only have guessed at under the bulky sweater and jeans last night was blindingly obvious in pyjamas: Jon White was all grown up and filled out and hella hot, and after vowing to shake it off and move on, Kurt was more done for than ever.

He dropped back a step, the smell of bacon wafting out from the house just to wreck him a little more. "Douglas at home?" Seriously, his voice cracked like he was fourteen. He cleared his throat. "He left something at my place last night."

Jon blinked those clear hazel eyes at him, his lips parting, and Kurt had to look away. Just then, his stomach roared with hunger, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything resembling meat in a week, just noodle cups and oranges which he'd heard prevented scurvy.

"He's out for a run," Jon said. "Do you want to come in and wait?"

Kurt lifted his aviators, the corners of his mouth curling up—hell yes he did. He slid through the door, taking in the interior of the house. There was very little furniture in the main living space, just wide windows and a cat curled on a yoga mat in the middle of the hardwood floor. His guitar case was propped under the coat hooks in the entryway.

The smell of bacon was coming from the pan hissing on the stove top and Jon hurried to snap off the heat and set it aside. He darted Kurt a sideways glance, his cheeks a little pink. "Are you hungry? Do you want some eggs?"

"Uhhh--" His stomach was definitely sending him mixed signals on that one, hunger and nausea squeezing it in turn. "Just toast, if you have any."

Jon rifled through the stuff on the counter. "I think Cary has bread somewhere..."

Kurt leaned on the wall beside the door, trying not to stare at Jon as he moved around the kitchen and wishing he could put his aviators back on. His 'heart eyes' were probably way too obvious; he'd daydreamed about meeting Jon a hundred times, and the reality was somehow even better that anything he'd been able to conjure up. "Is this your place too?"

"Yeah for a bit, while I do school."

Kurt pursed his lips, sure he would have noticed Jon if he saw him on campus, even under that stupid hat. "U of A?"

Jon nodded.

"I never saw you at the Pride events." He felt like he just stepped off the ledge, the question unspoken but hanging in the air between them.

"I'm not out on campus," Jon said lightly.

"It's the easiest place to be out," Kurt said without stopping a second to think.

The look Jon shot him was hurt and angry. "I don't want any of that right now. I don't want that defining how people see me there. I'm more than just 'gay.'"

Kurt crossed his arms, feeling one-hundred percent judged by Jon's position. "Do you let 'gay' define you at all?" He meant to sound off-hand, but his voice was rough.

The front door thumped and Cary loomed into the kitchen, his T-shirt dark with sweat. "Something smells good," he said.

"Kurtis is here for you," Jon said without looking his way again.

Cary turned on his sock heel, his bearded face wary. "Yeah? Your guitar's in the entryway, safe and sound."

Kurt dug the cash out of his pocket and thrust it out. "I think you left this behind."

"Yeah?" Cary said.

"It's two hundred fifty dollars."

The other man's eyes flashed with dark amusement. "Uh huh?" Cary said.

The bills were shaking a little; Kurt's fingers were shaking with hunger and hangover. "Pretty sure nothing happened in exchange for these bills, big man," he drawled. Jon's eyebrows flicked up, but Kurt was way past feeling shame for shit like this. "And I don't take charity from strangers."

Slowly, Cary took the money, shuffling the bills through his fingers. It hurt a little to watch it disappear in his pocket again—Kurt was going to need to find a way to make some cash for food today since he'd drunk almost all his profits from the show the night before.

"Pretty sure you're not a stranger," Cary said. He glanced at Jon's rigid back, where he was scrambling eggs on the stove. "You free today, Klassen?"

Kurt let out his breath, sagging a little. "Yeah I'm free."

"We're doing a drywall job and I need a guy."

Jon whipped his head around, shooting Cary a sharp look. Cary lifted his big shoulders. "You said you had homework and a shift tonight. You can have your day back, Jon."

"I haven't said yes yet," Kurt said. "I might be shit at working a hammer."

Cary pulled up a chair and nudged the other seat out with his toe. "Are you? You're staying to eat, yes?"

There had to be a catch, Kurt just couldn't figure out what it was yet. "No I'm not shit. But I'm not stay—"

"You're staying," Jon said flatly. "I made you toast."

Baffled, Kurt eased into the third chair at the table, sliding his phone out where it was digging into his hip. Cary's eyes crinkled as he poured him a tall glass of orange juice. "You look like you need to hydrate."

Kurt leaned out of the way as Jon set the pan full of bacon on the table, eggs piled next to the rashers. Jon's toned bicep had lines of text curving across his bare skin and Kurt wished he could get a closer look. He would have pegged Cary as a tattoo guy, and in fact the other man's broad left arm was sleeved in an intricate, colourful mountain scene. That Jon had ink surprised him.

A plate of toast slid in front of him and Jon thumped jars down one by one beside it. "Peanut butter, almond butter, honey--we just don't have jam. We don't eat sugar."

"You don't eat sugar," Cary said. "I don't eat sugar when you're here."

Jon rolled his eyes at him. "And that is why I'm faster than you."

"Nothing to do with this 6'6" ass I haul around," Cary said. "You're built speedy."

Kurt watched them banter, sensing the years of friendship that was behind them and their genuine liking for each other. It made his chest feel hollow and it wasn't just from hunger.

"If you cut sugar, there would be a little less ass to haul." Jon lifted his hands innocently. "I'm not saying—I'm just saying." He settled in the only remaining chair between them.

Kurt picked up his toast to crunch down on the first bite when Jon's quiet voice interrupted him. "Father God, thank you for giving us food and a safe home. We love you, amen."

Kurt snapped his open mouth closed and quickly took a bite of toast to cover his dismay. He hadn't heard someone his own age say a prayer in years, not since he'd used football as an excuse to drop out of church.

"So—Cary said it was a great show last night." Jon seemed to be trying to recover his balance. "Do you play many gigs around town?"

Kurt gulped his orange juice, feeling Cary watching them both. "A few, yeah." Not as many as he would have liked. "We play again next month at the Barns. We're trying to broaden our fan base to be more than just—that queer alt-country band." He held Jon's eyes, half-smiling to cover that he was still stung by Jon's words.

"Sure." Jon's mouth curved in a tentative smile back. "I totally get that."

"You didn't want to stay to the end?" The rest of his questions buzzed on his tongue. Why did you leave? Was it something I said? Why did you come in the first place?

"I worked a twelve the night before and I just—kinda crashed half way." Jon's voice was soft and his fingers brushed crumbs from the table to his now-empty plate. "Sorry. I'll come to your next show if my work schedule permits. I'm really glad to see you still doing music." His hazel eyes touched Kurt's, just for a second. "That seems very you. More than football, even."

Kurt grinned. "I'd love that. Maybe you could catch a nap before you come this time."

Jon's mouth curved in a wry smile. "Coffee is my life right now."

Cary was scraping the rest of the eggs and bacon onto his plate. "I assume you don't want—" he gestured to the steaming, greasy pile and Kurt quickly shook his head.

"Care," Jon said, "I'll love you forever if you make me a bulletproof coffee right now."

Cary huffed a laugh and got up. "A coffee for you, Klassen?"

Kurt eased his shoulders, feeling his headache receding a little. "Sure." He wrestled with himself, not wanting to stand on their hospitality any more than he was already. But it needed to be said at some point. "It's not Klassen anymore."

The look Cary gave him was weighted. "Oh?"

"It's Visser. My grandma's name. The only member of my family I want anything to do with now." And since she was dead, she couldn't protest.

"Got it," Cary said gruffly. Fragments of the other man's shitty history of childhood abuse floated up in Kurt's memory, and it occurred to him just how much of his story Cary Douglas might get.

Jon said lightly, "So your jersey says 'Visser' now—I guess that's why we haven't seen you on the field."

Kurt's heart gave a little leap. "You've been to games?"

Jon shrugged, relaxed back in his chair now, his legs stretched out beside Kurt's and his bare ankles crossed."Cary's a fan." 

"Don't pretend you don't love football," Cary said. 

"Sweaty men in tight pants running into each other and falling down? I guess fifty percent of that is my scene," Jon said, his mouth quirking. A laugh rang out of Kurt's chest. Jon shot up from the table. "Where's this coffee at?"  

Cary smacked away his attempts to mess with the pour-over system he was nursing on the stove-top. "Back off—it needs a minute. You'll fuck it up like you do every time."

Jon subsided back into his chair, an easy grin on his face. "Diva. If your contracting business falls through you have a beautiful future at Starbucks."

Cary stuck out his tongue, startlingly pink against his dark beard. "Starbucks is for cis-het white chicks." 

"Oooh," Jon said. "Careful now. That's a little close to home for you, isn't it?"

It'd been so long since he'd laughed this hard, Kurt's stomach was hurting.

"Your coffee." Cary set a mug down beside Jon with a flourish. "Queen."

Jon smacked his solid bicep, his ears pink. "Shut it."

But he was trying not to smile and Kurt covered his grin with his hand as he watched them. How the hell had he not been friends with these two in high school?

Cary set a mug of frothy brew in front of him and Kurt slurped the drink, puzzling over the flavors. Tumeric? Coconut? "You two always like this?" he asked. "Can I move in?"

Jon snorted. "When we're not throttling each other."

"You can move in when you can hold your own against Jon." Cary gave Kurt a crinkly-eyed look through the steam of his mug. "He's a black belt in Jujitsu."

"Oh for fuck sake." Jon was pink to his hairline now. "Shut up, Cary. You just love to bring that up."

Cary was all innocence. "He needs to know what he's up against."

"Do you really have a black belt?" Kurt asked.

"Ugggh." Jon buried his face in his mug. "No sparring before I'm finished my coffee."

"Isn't that what you've been doing all morning?" Kurt drawled, unable to resist.

"Don't start." Jon shot him a narrow, pleased look that made Kurt's skin feel too tight.

At the same time, Cary said: "You'll fit right in." His teeth showed in his beard. " I'll teach you some blocks so you survive the first minute. He's quick, I told you already."

"I don't remember you being interested in athletics in high school," Kurt said.

Jon gave Cary a level look, as if to say, This is why we don't tell that story. "I wasn't. It was my dad's idea. I think he got tired of his gay son coming home with bruises."

Jon's eyes touched Kurt's just for a second. "I never could blend like you. Assholes like your brother always found me. Dad enrolled me in a self-defence class one year and I just kind of—took it to the next level. It's part of my—" He gestured over the front of his body and Kurt tried not to let his eyes linger on his lap. "—my sobriety. Part of what keeps me in a good headspace. Like football is for you, I imagine."

Kurt forced a laugh. "Oh—I don't play anymore." He managed to keep the smile hanging on his face while Jon turned his full attention on him, the question plain. "I lost the scholarship. Uh—well first, my brother broke my arm with a bat—and then someone outed me to the team—and then the coach made a bullshit reason to keep a queer out of the locker room. And then I lost the scholarship. I actually don't attend U of A anymore." He tagged the last part on.

Jon sucked in his breath. "Jesus, Kurt—"

Kurt let himself look Jon full in the face without the cover of a smile, storing away the sound of Jon's voice saying his name for later. Just for a second, then he waved Jon's concern away. "I'm over it."

"When?" Cary asked gruffly.

Kurt's face flinched involuntarily. "Last January. Turns out student loans don't cover for students with rich-ass parents. Even ones that disown their kids."

The room felt heavy and it weighed on his stomach. "I should quit bugging you—I've taken up enough of your day," Kurt said. Jon had his eyes pinned on his coffee mug, restlessly turning it in circles. The loose lightness that had been in his face was gone; his body practically hummed with tension.

Kurt stood, pouring the last half of the mug down his throat, unwilling to leave a single delicious drop behind. "Thanks," he said to Cary, setting the mug back on the table gently. His hand passed so close to Jon's shoulder, he longed to just touch him and confirm that he was real. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to go.

"You still good to work?" Cary rumbled.

Kurt stopped short but didn't turn. "I mean—yeah, if you'll have me. I'm pretty out of shape but I'll give you what I got."

"Good enough," Cary said. "I'll text you the address. Heading out in an hour."

Kurt picked up his guitar, glad for its familiar heft in his hand, and let himself out, the screen slapping softly. He sagged for a moment beside the door, shaky. His stomach was full of toast and good coffee and he felt so empty it hurt. Never in his life had he had a guy friend he could spend a morning with like that, safe and relaxed. Not Nicky or any of the guys he'd picked up and tried on the past couple months. Not on their best fucking day.

Jon's voice floated through the open screen, tight and furious: "What were you thinking, giving him my address?"

"—was thinking it's my address." Cary's rumble was harder to make out. "An' you need to open up your life a little—more'n just work and school and work. It wouldn't hurt you to have something fun with—"

The 'crack' made Kurt start, and he swivelled to look through the screen. Someone—something just got hit. His hand found his jeans' pocket and he realized he'd left his phone on the table. He hesitated a moment too long—Jon was speaking again.

"Kurt Visser is the last thing I need right now. He's a fucking disaster." Jon's voice was icy.

Kurt took it like a body hit, dropping back a step. Breathless, he steadied himself on the post holding up the porch overhang. Jon wasn't done.

"I'll lose my job, Cary, and you know it. Every little boy we ever had in our house will be sitting with my boss answering questions if I touched them—if I 'groomed' them—"

"That's not you," Cary growled. "No one's going to think you're a child molester just because you're gay."

Feeling returned and Kurt closed his eyes, his throat aching. His own kid brother laughed back at him, his swim trunks riding low on his skinny butt as he danced through their sprinkler. That kind of hateful shit was exactly why he would never get to play tackle football with his brother again.

And also, where the hell did Jon work?

"That's cute, but turns out it's not where I live." Jon's voice was still edged. "I would lose everything. Can you imagine what those conversations would do to Dusty? To Jordin?"

There was a gaping silence.

"So--what? You're just gonna be alone your whole life?" Cary's voice was gruff.

Jon made a helpless noise that cracked Kurt's heart a little more. "Not alone," Jon said. "I have you. I have a job that matters. I have a family that didn't fucking—disown me. It's enough, Care, okay? Just—leave it."

Kurt dug the heel of his hand into his eye, turning to go and to hell with his phone.

Jon spoke again. "Hey, is this your phone?"

"No-oh."

Kurt swivelled back to the door, too stupid to back up and look like he was leaving. When Cary pushed the screen open he was clearly standing there like a complete stalker. He dropped his aviators over his eyes, and Cary drew up, letting the screen door slap behind him. Silently, he held out the phone.

Silently, Kurt took it, his ears burning, and jogged down the steps. He peeled the rubber off his tires pulling away from the house.

{Jon}

Jon loaded all the plates backwards into the dishwasher, absorbed in replaying the look on Kurt's face when he invited him in—the way the other man's eyes lit with blue fire like Jon was interesting and desirable and worth writing angsty music about. He'd told himself for years he didn't want that or expect that, but in a private corner of his chest Jon stored up the fire of that look to keep him warm for a long time to come. He could at least have that much.

Cary was back, empty-handed, sooner than he expected. "I think he heard," Cary said abruptly.

The warm bubble of Jon's thoughts popped. "What?"

"He was standing on the porch. I think he heard what you said."

All happy feelings scraped off Jon's brain. "Did he say something? Was he upset?"

Cary lifted his hands like he didn't know, but his mouth was flat. "I think you made him cry," he said.

Jon's stomach squeezed as he ran over the words he'd let fly just moments before. "Ohh shit," he said softly. "I'm such an asshole."

"If you wanted Visser off your back, I think you got it." Cary's blunt statement shouldn't have shook him—that was what Jon wanted. Kurt was every kind of complication he didn't need. But it took an hour of kicking the shit out of the heavy punching bag in their basement before he got his headspace settled enough to write a paper and go to work. 

3720 words.

*Why do you think Jon is so protective of his privacy? Do you think he should give Kurt more of a chance?

For that matter, do you think Kurt should give Jon a chance after what he's learned here?*