For Us

48. Aftermath.

Trigger warning: references to sexual assault. No flashbacks.

{Kurt}

Kurt woke up face down in his bed with a splitting headache, a filthy taste in his mouth, and a body that felt like it had been pounded for steak tartar. More importantly, he woke up in the house he shared with Jon, on Jon's day off. That thought rolled him out of bed to see if a tub full of hot steamy water could make him feel more like a human and less like a trashed hotel room after a Marianas Trench concert.

Thank God for Cary's massive tub. Kurt curled on his side, hiding under the warm, scented water right up to his nose, resting his cheek on his hand until his fingers were prunes. He'd been looking forward to this day all week—had planned to whisk Jon away to the mountains to spend the day in Jasper, holding hands and shopping and hiking. He smiled and hummed to himself at the daydream. They were still doing that, just not today. He wasn't walking anywhere today.

There was a text in his phone from Cary: <Tylenol in the cabinet. Pills in my truck. Home in a couple hours>

Kurt carefully towel-dried his throbbing head. There was a knot as big as a golf ball on the back of his skull, and his headache had the thick, foggy quality he remembered from a football concussion years ago. It was not a great combination with the sloshing pain of a hangover.

He brushed his teeth and downed a couple Tylenol and as much water as he could drink, leaning on the sink with his back to the mirror. He didn't feel up to meeting Kurt Visser's eyes just now. How he looked was how he looked. Tomorrow would be better. Today just had to be endured.

Jon's room was empty, the bed neatly made, when Kurt tapped on the door. He crept in, fingering the clothes in Jon's closet. He dug one of Jon's baggy hoodies out of the laundry basket, the comforting smell of his boyfriend's body wafting up around his face as he pulled it on, and took a pair of yoga pants as well, a little short on his legs but soft as butter against his skin.

There were so many damn stairs in their house. Kurt took them slow, leaning on the wall to catch his breath, glad no one was watching. The main floor was empty, but he heard the sound of someone working the heavy bag through the open basement door. Kurt paused, rubbing his unsettled stomach. He was willing to say anything here to make this better, and he sent up a prayer to the God he didn't believe in anymore: you fucker don't take this away from me too.

He climbed slowly down the stairs, checking to see if it was Jon. The rhythmic 'smack-smack-thud' fell silent and his boyfriend glanced up at him, breathing hard, steadying the bag with one gloved hand. Sweat made Jon's hair stick up in chunks.

"Mistakes were made," Kurt drawled, smiling as he eased himself onto the couch.

Jon didn't smile, tapping the tip of his glove against the bag, watching it swing. "You need to get to an AA meeting today?"

"Mmm...feel like I need a day to just, like, recover." Kurt's insides felt like Jello and he thought he might be afraid to leave the safety of these four walls. Jon's silence was heavy on his gut and he let out his breath. "I fucked up, White. I know it--I'm sorry."

There was an edge to Jon's words. "I don't know if I'm more angry about you drinking or you spending one more night out with Nicky."

The shiver tightened his whole aching body. "I regret everything."

"I love your music, Kurt." Jon touched him with a look, his eyes darker than usual. Jerking the tape open on his gloves with his teeth, Jon dropped them; his hands were still fisted, wrapped knuckle to wrist. "I wanted to give Nicky a chance for you. But I hate the way he looks at you. I hate the way he talks to you. I hate how he touches you all the time." His face twisted and he turned it away.