For Keeps

4. Fight me.

{Kurt}

That evening, the house was full of the sharp pine scent of their silver fir and by ten o'clock Cary judged the branches of their Christmas tree had opened enough to string the tree with thousands of twinkle lights. Kurt pulled carols out of his memory, his fingers finding their melodies on his guitar. When Jon returned from work, Kurt's face lit up. "Welcome home, White," he said.

Jon stood in the doorway, surveying the tree, his mouth crooked. He dragged his eyes to Kurt. "Hey love."

"There's cider if you want," Cary said, wrapping yet another strand of lights around the tree. "Stick around and enjoy the tree, Jon."

"Doesn't the house smell amazing?" Kurt said. "Did you smell it when you came in the door?"

Jon leaned his fist against the door frame and his face was flat as he looked back at Cary. "You couldn't wait two days to pull all this shit out? It's November, Cary. I really can't do Christmas right now. I needed--two more days."

"Not Christmas," Cary said gruffly, sorting through the strings in his hands. "Advent. Grieving. Waiting for the light. That's what time it is now."

Watching Jon take a steadying breath, Kurt hugged his guitar closer to his chest, feeling abruptly caught in the middle of a fight that had been going on longer than he'd lived here.

"Fuck grieving," Jon said. "I literally don't have time for this."

Cary shot him a look, his dark eyebrows drawn down low. "Maybe if people grieved when they're supposed to they could walk a little lighter the rest of the time. Take themselves less serious. Be easier to live with."

"Hey--Douglas," Kurt protested softly, watching Jon fall back a step under the weight of those words.

Jon ducked his head, touching his hand to his chest and tapping his fingers twice, before turning aside to go upstairs.

"Aw--shit," Cary said softly. "Jon, I'm sorry," he called after the other man's retreating back. Jon's feet sped up the stairs and Cary shook his head, throwing the string of lights around the top of the tree and securing them.

Putting his chin on his guitar, Kurt made the strings cry, turning every chord he'd been practising into a minor key.

"All right, all right I'm going," Cary muttered. "I'm fixing it. Gimme a minute Visser." He finished tucking in the strand of lights, then stretched his body from side to side, leaning down to try and touch his toes. He shook his legs out and rolled his shoulders, then tramped up the stairs after Jon.

Silencing his strings, Kurt heard a 'rap' on a door, and Cary's gruff voice saying: "Asshole. You want to fight me? I'm free to roll right now."

A few moments passed, then two pairs of feet stomped down the stairs. Kurt's eyes followed the two men as they filed into the basement; he'd never seen Cary in his Gi, a plain white jacket with a blue belt knotted around his waist. Heart drumming, Kurt jumped to his feet, propping his guitar on her stand and hurrying down the steps to pull up a seat on the stairs to watch.

Jon had his back to the stairs, barefoot in his black Jiujitsu pants and Gi, jumping lightly up and down on the sparring floor, then pulling up on the base of his skull where Kurt knew he carried all his stress. In the opposite corner, Cary folded to his knees to retie his belt, making the loops with quick, practised movements before shoving back to his feet. The two men met in the middle, tapping their knuckles and began to circle each other, crouched and ready. Their hands were already engaged, knuckles touching, fingers gripping wrists and sliding free, testing each other.

Kurt thought Cary might be twice Jon's weight, and he edged down a few more steps, leaning forward, completely interested in how this match was going to play out. He wished his kid-brother Nolan was here to lay bets. Five bucks on my boyfriend.