Page 172 of Hurt

Kurt felt his nose curl. “Please. Please tell me you puked all over the bed last night.”

Willow had the decency to blush hotly.

“OHMYGOD!” Kurt jerked his feet up from the mattress and gagged. “That’s why you called me over here?!”

“I am sick!” Willow protested.

“What? With Dicked Downitis?!” he scoffed. “Roland…he…ugh oh god. I can’t even finish that sentence.”

He clapped his hands over his head and thought about everything but Roland bending hissisterover not six inches from where he was sitting—puppies, kittens, warzones, the way Noah used to drool all over everything within a three-foot radius. Anything but the mental images that were threatening to sear into his mind.

Willow was laughing, a hand clasped over her mouth and her shoulders shaking. There was a savage sort of glee in her eyes as she watched Kurt meltdown.

“I can’t know these things!” he shouted as he stood up and stormed over to the bathroom.

“What are you looking for?” Willow asked when she heard cabinets flung open and things banging around.

“Bleach!” Kurt yelled back. “I just haven’t decided if I’m going to drink it or pour it into my eyes.”

He settled for a can of air freshener that he sprayed liberally across the room. It wasn’t good enough, and he wasn’t sure what a Mediterranean Breeze was supposed to smell like, but it was floral and pleasant enough.

They watched TV for the remainder of the morning. Watching the shit daytime TV brought him back to all the times they told his mom they were walking to school, only to hide in the bushes around the corner and sneak back into the house once everyone left. The wayward teenagers would spend the day eating peanut butter and cackling at the success of their master plan.

That was before. Before his parents died and he had to drop out of school. Before, his days were filled with pain and anxiety when he literally had to fish for the coins in couch cushions to make sure there was food in the fridge.

Sometimes he would sit up at night in Grant’s loft with the quilt tucked around him and look out into the darkness. It was difficult not to get nostalgic at times like that. To think about what could have been. If one thing had changed—if his parents hadn’t gotten on that flight, if Hazel and Michael had taken a different flight, if the pilot had made a different decision, if the weather was better.

Or maybe if Kurt had been a little stronger. Been a little better. Would things have turned out this way?

He looked down at the thick leather bands on his wrists. Even after everyone knew about the scars, he still couldn’t bring himself not to wear them.

“Hey,” Willow called from the bed. “Don’t do that.”

Kurt looked up. “Do what?”

“Disappear.”

“I’m right here,” Kurt protested.

“Are you?” Willow lifted an eyebrow, and all Kurt could think wasJesus, they’re even starting to mimic each other.

He thought about the question, though. As much as he wanted to deny it, Willow was right. Sometimes Kurt did check out. It was like suddenly falling into a deep well—he drifted lower and lower until he was too far down, and he couldn’t find his way back up before his breath ran out.

Grant noticed it, too. He was just too polite to say anything about it. He pretended to be aloof about the whole situation, carefully distant so as not to put any kind of pressure on Kurt. But it was impossible to miss the books stacked on his desk, the ones written by doctors with a million letters after their names. He would peruse the books when he didn’t think Kurt was looking, diligently taking notes, and letting his own work fall to the side.

Most nights, Kurt would pretend to go to bed but would actually curl up in the corner of the loft and look down between the railings to watch Grant.

From the height, he could see the little frown on his face as he annotated what he had just written. He could see the way he had a subconscious preference for a specific pen, tossing several perfectly usable ones aside before he found the one he really wanted. Those were the moments when Grant would put the mask down, set the cool smile he carefully flashed at Kurt and let the weight of the day drag on him. He would rub his eyes and let his shoulders slump.

It was during those moments that Kurt would really wonder why he was there. Why Grant wanted him there. Why him, of all people? And when would he get tired of it all?

Of him?

“Yeah,” Kurt said after a moment. “I’m here.”

Willow dragged her knees up to her chest. She rested her chin on them and watched Kurt with wide gray eyes.

“You promised not to lie anymore.”