Page 100 of Hurt

There were a million things he wanted to tell him—but they would all fall flat. Words were useless. Anyone could use them. They were baseless two-dimensional things without any reality behind them. Grant had given him words before, and what good had they done?

Grant removed the knife from the sheath on his thigh and laid the blade against his palm. With little effort, the razor-sharp edge sliced through his skin. Beads of blood welled up and spilled from the cut, trickling down his wrist and dripping to the floor below him.

Opening his fingers, he dropped the blade at Kurt’s feet. He looked down at the bloody steel and then met Grant’s eyes for the first time that night.

“I won’t promise you anything. I won’t swear on my ancestors, on my name, or on my feelings for you. I won’t give you something so trite.” He slapped the bloody palm over his dirty shirt, right above his heart. “I willshowyou that as long as this blood runs through my veins, I will protect you and your family.”

He showed him the blood smeared on his palm, and Kurt swallowed.

Standing in front of Kurt, Grant knelt on one knee. “You don’t have to tell me anything. You don’t owe me anything, Wanyin, and I’m not asking for anything.”

Kurt was trembling. “Look at this.” He lifted his wrists and showed the identical scars. Two marks that ran so much deeper than skin.

“This is me, Grant. I’m ugly and used. I’ve been broken so many times that I can’t be fixed.”

“Do you think I’m so weak?” Grant snapped. His tone was harsh, and he knew the look on his face was cold.

“That I’m afraid of a few jagged edges?”

Kurt looked like he was about to shout something, but Grant beat him to the punch.

“You say you’re like these scars? Fine. You are. But you know what these scars mean? It means you did heal. It might not be perfect, and they might be ugly, but you are whole.”

Tentatively, he reached for one of Kurt’s wrists. A bloody finger extended and traced the scar. It was such a feather-light touch that his nerves weren’t even sure they were connecting.

“I cannot fight this war for you. But when you have nightmares, I will turn on the light to chase them away. When your demons are screaming, I will help you cover your ears. And when you can’t find yourself, I will help you look.”

Kurt’s lip trembled, and a tear spilled down his cheek. “Why?”

Why did he care? Grant had never really asked himself that. Does he love Kurt? He had never loved before, so he wasn’t sure. He admired him for surviving. For having the strength to stand under all that weight. For having the courage to sacrifice himself to protect others.

Even when Kurt thought he was broken, there was a light in him that Grant was drawn to. It might be dim right now, so dim that even Kurt didn’t see it. But Grant did.

Maybe that’s what love was—an undefinable mixture of things that couldn’t be explained, but also didn’t need to be.

Grant moved slowly, reaching for that tear sliding down Kurt’s cheek. He brushed away the drop, letting his thumb linger for just a moment before retreating and giving him space.

Kurt looked down at the droplet in surprise. He touched the wet track left behind and inhaled sharply.

“I can’t explain what draws me to you, Wanyin. But from the moment I met you, I’ve had music in my soul. I can’t go back to the silence.”

More tears followed that. So many that Kurt had to bury his face in the sleeves of the shirt he was wearing. Every wracking sob caused him pain, and he winced through the crying. Grant watched him without comment, his heart breaking with every painful gasp and tear that soaked through the shirt.

“Can I?” he asked.

Kurt sniffed once, then nodded.

Grant gently cupped his face, swiping at the tears that fell with his thumbs. The salt stung the open wound on his palm, but he relished the sting. Proof that he had been allowed this tentative touch.

“I’m afraid,” Kurt said when the tears subsided. “That you will…that you won’t look at me like this anymore.”

Grant used one hand to push the wet hair from Kurt’s face.

“Tell me about every painful scar and memory, and let me love them all equally.”

Sitting in Grant’s cabin with the stink of death on his shirt and a tendril of trust so faint it was hardly there, Kurt did.

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