For Us

9. The terms.

{Kurt}

They ate a feast of cold meats and fruits and cheeses cross-legged on the floor, the hardwood gleaming in the candlelight. Jon handed over his phone for Kurt to play him his favourite songs. As the night deepened, they lay with their heads together, their legs stretched in opposite directions, talking about music and lyrics and song writing.

Jon held his hand.

Kurt wove their fingers together, playing with Jon's fingertips. Jon's nails were neat and short; there were freckles faint over the back of his hand. He'd forgotten that such a simple thing could be so thrilling.

Entwined by their fingers, they ended up lying quietly while music rippled over them. Jon's hand tightened on his and Kurt held his breath.

"Can I ask you a question, Kurt?" Jon asked quietly. "Not as your practise boyfriend. Just as your friend who doesn't know anything about being 'out' as a grown up."

"Sure," Kurt said, turning his head to glance at him. "Not that I feel like a grown up," he added.

"Was that drummer a hook up? Or a boyfriend?"

Kurt rubbed his ear with his free hand, remembering a thousand hours in Nicky's apartment, the beat-down carpet he could never be sure he'd gotten clean with their second-hand vacuum, the fridge with the drawer that wouldn't slide closed because the plastic was cracked. Nicky's bed, covered in slippery satin sheets, was the only decent piece of furniture in the whole place. "Um, I would say Nicky's in his own category. I lived with him a couple years. It wasn't super pretty, to be honest. Probably why I prefer hook-ups to havin' a boyfriend now."

Jon had propped his head in his hand to listen; he wrinkled his nose, but Kurt thought his hazel eyes were more amused than angry. "Why do you prefer hook-ups?"

Kurt slung his arm behind his head, thinking that over. "Nicky was controlling. He kind of ran my life. And just took what he wanted at the end of the day." He buttoned his mouth shut; that was more than he had intended to say here. Jon's face had gone blank and his mouth was hard.

Kurt blew out his breath, digging his fingers into the hair at the back of his head for comfort. "Anyways, with a hook-up, the terms are all up front. I choose who and what I want. If they don't like it, I just call a cab and head home. Best case scenario, it's a good time and I'm free to go do my thing after. No one pulling the strings on me."

Jon sat up and Kurt opened his eyes wide to watch him unfold his hand, spread it open, and stroke his thumb along the heart line in his palm. He shivered involuntarily.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Jon said in a low voice. "Nicky."

Kurt said, "I mean—I made my own choices that kept the lights blazin' on that shit show well past what shoulda been an encore. I could've sobered up and got out years ago." He sighed. "Not gonna lie, White. If you're just askin' as my friend. I've done some shit I regret since you knew me last."

Jon's shoulders bowed, candlelight touching skin of his throat where his pulse leapt in time. "I haven't been a saint myself." The words were low and dry as sand. Moving slowly and deliberately, Jon stretched out next to Kurt and laid his head on his chest.

Heart thundering, Kurt brought his arm down to hug Jon's shoulders, afraid to startle this man into pulling away from him again. Jon's body was surprisingly weighty against him—Jon was strong. Kurt didn't dare stroke the bare skin under his hand to trace the shape of those muscles, but he imagined it.

"There's some shit under the bridge since high school, Kurt Visser," Jon whispered.

Kurt's arm tightened a little, and Jon didn't go anywhere. "Yup." It was such a hell of a long shot that he would ever be more than practise for a man like Jon.