Page 110 of Hurt

He felt a bit as if he had dived too deep and he couldn’t find the surface. Every desperate stroke brought him closer to the surface, but there was no relief. His lungs were screaming. Pain increasing until he thought he would black out. Then suddenly, his head broke the surface. Lungs that had been in agony were now expanding to let in crisp air. Lifesaving oxygen flooded cells that he was sure were already dead.

Kurt wanted to live.

Closing his eyes, he fought against the tears that seemed to come so easily now. For ten years, he couldn’t cry, and the moment he decided he wanted to live, they wouldn’t stop. Kurt had picked the scabs off his wounds and exposed the vulnerable nerves to the world. Now he had no idea how to proceed.

He had settled for hiding in Grant’s remote cabin. Away from everyone and everything, he tried not to think of anything except the squirrels rattling around in the underbrush and Grant’s passable cooking skills.

In an attempt to stop thinking about his sham of a life, he had spent the last few days observing the man.

Grant had saved his life. Without question, he had rerouted his entire life around Kurt and asked nothing in return. He was pretty sure Grant had sworn an oath of fealty to him and everything. Yet, he knew very little about him.

Perched in the loft with his face wedged between the railings of the banister, Kurt had watched Grant.

He spent a lot of time working at his desk. With an unnatural focus that bordered on obsession, the man worked. Occasionally flipping between his computer and the notes in his crisp legal pad, he spent hours sitting perfectly still.

After working, he would flip through an old-school recipe book until he found something he liked. With no music or tv, just the crack of oil in the pan to accompany him, he would cook a meal for the two of them.

Gone was the intensity of the man kneeling in front of a crying Kurt. The one who listened to his story, hazel eyes brimming with anger and pain. In its place was a tall man in an apron, bouncing around the kitchen muttering ‘baking powder is different than baking soda?’ in wonderment.

He demanded nothing from Kurt. Not conversation, not answers, not even his presence.

A few days into his stay, the loft became stifling. Kurt had shared a room for as long as he could remember, and the solitude was too much. That night he had crept down the stairs wrapped in his duvet and sat on the floor by the couch. He wasn’t ready to share a seat with Grant yet. But he wanted to be in his presence.

He wasn’t afraid of Grant. But sometimes, he would see him move out of the corner of his eye, and he would flinch. As if the presence of a larger man in his peripheral kicked in his primordial fight or flight senses, and no amount of logic would change it.

Kurt hated it. Why couldn’t his body just be grateful? Distinguish the difference between the man who had never done anything to him and the one who had hurt him? Rationally he knew it was only one man who hurt him, so why did he have this illogical fear of all of them?

He hadn’t seen Willow or Noah yet. Grant had told him they were both safe with Weavers watching over them, and he was content with that. Noah probably hated him. Willow had attempted multiple times to get in contact with him. But he couldn’t see them.

They would ask him how he was doing, and he didn’t have an answer.

He didn’t even know who he was anymore. During those moments when he wasn’t quite asleep yet, he wondered if he had actually died in the desert that night. His body had died, and he had somehow been reborn with a second chance he didn’t deserve. Everything was new, and he was left holding the pieces of his former life and told to rebuild them from memory.

The problem was that so much of his life had been a lie. Attempts to shield himself from feeling too much pain had kept him from feeling anything.

Kurt looked back on his former self and couldn’t help but feel disgusted. How could he have just allowedEzra to do that to him? Now that he was safe, it was difficult not to look back at those times and wonder why he didn’t fight back.

This new peace was surreal. Even with the vivid nightmares and flashbacks, it was a respite he didn’t deserve. He couldn’t help but feel like everything he touched was stained with his complacency.

How could he look Willow in the eye? How could he look anyone in the eye?

He was grateful to be a—ve--he just didn’t know how he was supposed to live with himself.

The house was silent. Grant had finally left. He told him he was going to work but didn’t say what that meant exactly. Two days ago, he had gone for a meet-up with the Weavers. Kurt wanted to ask how it went, but he was too afraid to know. Asking about the Vega Cabal was a little too close. Like saying their name aloud would somehow conjure the man.

In the dark of the night, Kurt would picture Ezra returning to the bar to find it empty. What would he do? Would he look for Kurt? He had always known how to find him. How would the man react when he found out he had truly defied him?

His nightmares supplied the answers.

The front door opened. A clattering of keys and shoes scuffing on the wood floors shook Kurt out of his reverie. Fighting a wave of fear, Kurt stood and walked to the top of the stairs to look down.

Grant was bent over, one hand resting on the table beside the door. His shoulders were hunched, and his harsh pants cut through the silence.

Dropping the duvet, Kurt thundered down the stairs.

“What happened?” He grabbed Grant’s shoulder to turn him around. His shirt was stained with dirt, and fresh blood was seeping across the crisp white fabric.

“Caught a stray knife,” Grant said with a wince.