Page 178 of Hurt

His old Bronco was filled with tools and lumber. It smelled like wood shavings and gasoline from when he didn’t tighten the can tight enough and it spilled onto the passenger seat. The callouses and cuts on his hands increased as the walls went up.

Like Murphy’s Law, the more ruined his hands, the more solid the house.

It happened slowly, so slowly that he didn’t even know it was happening. Sometime in between shoring up a sagging ceiling and replacing a window, he could breathe again. Like the staticky crackle of the radio on the floor by the ladder was loud enough to keep the demons away. His nightmares faded, still present but muted and hazy. Less definite and haunting.

He even found the courage to go into that bathroom off the hall. It had been cleaned, of course. Someone did that. But he didn’t know what he would see when he opened that door. Strangely though, as he twisted the knob and pushed the door in he didn’t feel scared. His chest didn’t seize, and the breath didn’t catch in his throat. Kurt felt a bit like someone who puffed going up the stairs the first time. By the second week of going up, they didn’t breathe as hard.

He was stronger now and that bathroom meant nothing to him. Just a small bath off the upstairs hallway with ugly tile and mold in the grout.

Without meaning to, Kurt embedded pieces of himself in the house. What started as a project so large he didn’t know where to begin, grew smaller and smaller. Until the big gaping holes in the walls were fixed and he started focusing on the intricate details. Which window looked best here and did the stairs need a new handrail or was the old one salvageable.

One day, he looked up at the house and he saw something whole.

Winter faded into spring, and then to summer. Warm light filtered through the brand-new windows Kurt had struggled to put in by himself and most of the overgrown shrubbery had been pulled and pruned. Tamed and ordered by an irate Kurt who decided that landscaping was definitely the worst part of the process.

Grant brought dinner, like he did almost every other day, and they were sitting on the dock with their feet in the water. It smelled like algae and new wood, smooth against their skin and warmed by the sun.

“What are you going to do for the gardens?” Grant asked amiably, finishing off his water.

Kurt sighed and rubbed at a crick in his neck. “As little as possible.”

Grant laughed. He was looking at Kurt a lot, small side-eye glances that made him feel strange. A turbulence in his stomach that he had never felt before.

“Why are you looking at me?” Kurt asked grouchily, scowling over at the man.

Grant laughed, as he always did, leaning back on his hands. “You’re the only thing I’m ever looking at.”

Kurt could hardly believe his gall.

He knew he looked different—his skin was tanned from working without a shirt and he had put on weight. The muscles that had wasted from being in a coma were back, maybe even ones he didn’t have before.

Strong. He felt strong.

The wood creaked and the dock shook as Grant stood. He shucked his shirt and jeans, stepping off the dock in just his boxers with the type of nonchalance that only a fucking Weaver could manage.

His dark head disappeared under the water. The only hint he was even still moving was the lily pads gently swaying as he displaced the water around them.

With a splash he erupted out of the water, sending water arcing toward Kurt and dampening his shirt.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Grant grinned at him cheekily, back swimming his way farther into the lake without taking his eyes off Kurt.

His breath caught in his chest. Not painfully this time, not out of fear. This was different. His heart was beating hard, diffusing warmth through his chest that had nothing to do with the sun.

Droplets of cool water raced down Grant’s angular face. Clinging to his skin like they didn’t want to let go, like gripping his skin was better than falling into the lake with the rest of the water. Clear droplets beaded on his lips and caught in his lashes, knocking loose when he blinked

His eyes were normally hazel but in the late afternoon sun they were warmer, the flecks of green reflecting the hazy red heat of sunset. Languidly, he stroked at the water even though the lake wasn’t that deep this close to the shore. His strokes sent little waves of water sloshing over the wide flattened lily pads and weeds.

Grant turned his head to examine something, and his inky black hair fell over his face like a waterfall, heavy with lake water.

He’s beautiful,Kurt thought with his heart in his throat.

And not just in the way the water sparkled off his face or his eyes that carried warmth with them even on the iciest days. He was beautiful in the ways Kurt couldn’t see. All the things Kurt hated about himself had blinded him to the beauty in others—to the small lip curl that Grant had when he saw something he liked, or the way he scrupulously followed recipes even though he had made the dish a thousand times. The way he could quote obscure Chinese poets and had actually read Tolstoy, and then turn around and enjoy some trash reality show.

There was beauty in the sculpt of his muscles, the way his chest tapered into a slim waist. But there was more beauty in the way he listened. He hovered close but gave Kurt space when he asked. How he ignored his own desires to make Kurt comfortable, and somehow found a way to make that comfort something he desired as well.

But the real beauty in Grant was the way he loved. Without abandon, with his whole heart. Without fear and without worry about anything else. His heart chose Kurt and he never once questioned it.