{Cary}

As a result, Cary expected to manage the drywall job alone. But when he pulled up to the address he'd texted away with a hope and a prayer, there was a battered Corolla parked across the street. Kurt Visser was leaning against his car, waiting, his long hair tucked under a camouflage hunting cap. He'd changed into a paint-spattered pair of jeans and boots--clearly he'd done this before. Relieved, Cary dug around in the backseat of his truck for a spare pair of work gloves.

"Thanks for coming." Handing them over, Cary checked the other man's face in the shadow of his cap.

Kurt nodded, his mouth neutral as he tugged the gloves on. Embroidered into the front of his cap was the charming sentiment: 'God hates fags.'

Cary's nostrils flared like he smelled something bad. "That hat's not coming on my worksite."

Kurt's eyebrows flicked up and he took the cap off to look at it. "It's ironic."

"It's offensive," Cary said. He dug around in the backseat of his truck, and tossed Kurt a different cap, something Jon's kid sisters had left behind last time they visited.

Kurt caught it neatly out of the air and laughed out loud at the purple 'My Little Pony' on the front. "I never took you for a 'brony.'"

"You can burn the other one."

"But my brother gave it to me." Kurt tucked his hair under the sparkly pink and purple cap, his eyes narrow under the brim. "He has a matching one."

Cary decided to ignore this, nudging his chin at the house. "Basement is framed up. We're hanging the drywall today and mudding. Back tomorrow for more mud and sanding between another framing job. Grab the tool box from my truck."

Kurt worked amiably alongside him, quick to take orders, to apologize when his end slipped, to notice when the sheet was crooked. He sweated through his shirt in the close basement air, the fabric sticking to the jutting bones of his shoulders, but he didn't slow down and he didn't stop until Cary stopped. Cary respected a person who knew how to work.

On the curb, as the light vanished from the sky, Cary peeled off the $250 and held it out.

Swiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, Kurt flicked Cary a look. "We worked half a day--that's too much."

"It's tomorrow in advance," Cary improvised. "You're hired if you want the job. Hard to find someone who'll keep up to me. My last guy drank his paycheck and showed up still drunk. I had to fire him."

Kurt folded the money away, looking aside. "I won't do that." He handed Cary his pony cap back. "I'm going to a meeting tonight. I was almost four months sober--I'll get it back."

"Tough to go it alone," Cary commented.

Kurt shrugged, lifting his hand and swaggering away.

{Jon}

River House group home was an ordinary bungalow in a residential neighbourhood. When Jon arrived on shift that evening, two of his staff were talking quietly in the office off the hall as they finished filling out their paperwork.

"Mornin' boss," Angel said, giving him a small smile. Her pixie hair cut was sticking up in all directions and dyed grass green today, combining with her smooth brown skin to give her the appearance of a forest sprite gone urban-punk.

Angel was one of the only staff actually younger than her manager, but Jon thought the older staff were mostly over it. Jon worked harder than any of them, handled the conference calls with social workers and difficult family members, and listened patiently to the staff's grievances without letting them get away with shit. It probably didn't hurt that he covered more than half the graveyard shifts no one else wanted to work.

"Dusty's up," Angel said, "Waiting for you to say good night."

Jon laughed softly. "Of course he is. Anything I need to know tonight before you go?" He glanced between them both.

The other man, Patrick, shook his head. "A good quiet day--you'll see it in the notes."

Jon padded through the house, noting the tidy living room and kitchen, the folded laundry on top of the dryer. A good quiet day meant some of his night cleaning chores had already been done. He rapped a knuckle on Dusty's bedroom door, and the boy's sleepy voice answered, "Is that my Pops?"

"Yeah it is," Jon said, a smile tugging his mouth. Dusty had explained to him at length one day when they were riding in the car that he wasn't calling anyone 'Dad', and that 'Pops' was for the Freezie Pops Jon kept in the fridge at their house. However he'd been very earnest in his insistence that even though other staff might give him Freezie Pops, it was Jon's name only, no one else. This house was the most home-like place Dusty had ever known in his nine years of life; he'd been here almost as far back as he could remember, and Jon had been there all those years, first as a support worker and now as the house manager.

"You can come in." Dusty was sitting up in bed, his fine dark hair so tangled it didn't reach his shoulders anymore. He hated to brush it but he wanted it long like his brother, Jordin's. He held out his arms, opening and closing his chubby fingers. "Bedtime hug me."

Jon left the door open wide to the hallway, taking a knee beside Dusty's bed to wrap him gently in his arms. Dusty had figured out a long time ago that if he demanded a hug he would get a hug, and probably not any other time. Jon was well-aware how rare it was for his kids to be touched in a way that felt safe to them, so he never hesitated. He tried not to dwell on how that practice might come back to screw him over.

"Did you have a good day today?" Jon asked.

Dusty's face moved against his sweater front, nodding. Jon let him go and Dusty gave a satisfied sigh, lying back against his pillow and closing his eyes. "Make the tent," he said.

Jon tucked his blankets in more snugly, like his mom used to do for him, as he prayed a version of the prayer she prayed at bedtime. "Creator, spread your tent of peace and love over Dusty all night long and all day tomorrow, amen."

The Ministry of Social Services was of course aware they were a Christian not-for-profit group home, and they had a working understanding with the boy's social workers: they could pray or talk about Jesus if the boys asked, as long as they celebrated their Indigenous spirituality alongside those practices. It wasn't a stretch for Jon, who'd realized years ago God had to be bigger than the White cis-het picture he'd received as a child, but it made some of his more conservative staff uncomfortable to, for example, mix smudging sweet-grass with the prayer practices they were used to.

As far as Jon was concerned, they were just going to have to get over it.

It felt more complicated than usual to sit at his desk doing paperwork for his kids and staff. With the house quiet around him and most of the work of the night complete, Jon found his mind wandering to seeing Kurt onstage, hearing the throb in his voice as he sang, and then finding him on his doorstep this morning.

Finally, he gave in to the temptation and clicked the search box to find the song Kurt said he had written about them in high school. He put on headphones even though the office was empty this time of night, and laid his head on his arms to make a dark, private space to listen. As Kurt's voice to poured into his ears Jon's chest shook and tears dropped out of his eyes, all the longing he'd had at fifteen suddenly as present in his body as it had been then.

For a handful of heartbeats he let himself feel the things Kurt made him feel, his heart expanding and aching to be known and held. He couldn't imagine moving through the world the way Kurt did now, stepping into a public space his full size without seeming to care what anyone else thought of him. On his worst days, Jon felt like he was as closeted now as he had been at fifteen, having made himself as contained and inoffensive as possible so he could pass in his adult life without drawing unwanted attention to his sexuality. Watching Kurt made Jon feel as if the boundaries of his life pressed against his body until he could barely breathe.

By the time he arrived home from work, Jon was stiff from spending the day behind his desk but he knew the right thing to do. He found Cary in their basement, stretched full length on his massive couch, which had been relegated to one wall to make space for their sparring floor and punching bag. Cary's eyes flicked from the basketball game to Jon.

"Too tired to spar tonight," he said gruffly. "And I'm not doing yoga while there's a game on."

Jon shook his head. "Can I have Kurt's number? I think I need to apologize."

Cary dug out his phone and held it out so Jon could copy the contact into his.

"He'll have you if you text from your phone," Cary remarked.

"I know." Jon knuckled his dry eyes and dropped onto the end of the couch. He knew what he needed to say, just not how to say it. They had texted every day when they were teens--it hadn't been this hard then. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, opening the door to his feelings a tiny bit.

<It's Jon White. I'm sorry for today. I think you heard what I said and I didn't mean to hurt you I know how that shit can go in. I wish things were different for us>

He sent it quickly before he could change his mind. He sighed and turned off his phone, feeling a little lighter with that off his chest. "I'm going to bed."

1654 words.

*Why do you think Cary reacts the way he does to Kurt's hat?

Do you feel like you see another side to Jon in his work context? What do you notice?*