Page 70 of Hurt

He didn’t know which one was the real Grant and which one was a mask he wore.

Kurt reached out, and his fingers stroked along the glossy wood of his guitar. Under the pads of his fingers, he knew every grain of wood, every swirl and indent. The slight gauge from when Noah had tried to use it as a boat when he was a kid, and a slight crack from the time Kurt had forgotten to lock the case properly, and it bounced out in a parking lot.

Ezra had opened the scabs on his back, and there was a stinging pain every time he moved, but he was grateful for the pain. It helped him focus. Kept him grounded when he felt his heart accelerate, and he wanted to panic.

No one knew. Kurt would have died before telling anyone about his sins. His shame. But Grant knew. And he didn’t know how to feel about it. The tiny part of his heart that held on to any kind of hope for affection was doused. There was no way anyone would look at him after finding out what he had done.

His back was an acute pain, but the pain in his heart was dull. Something he felt all the time, but it was worse today. He had almost let Grant kiss him, but the man had recoiled. Kurt didn’t blame him. Most days, he wanted to get out of his own skin, but he was trapped in a cage of his own making. He didn’t know how to escape. He didn’t know if he even deserved it.

What would he do with that kind of freedom, anyway?

Footsteps scuffed against the floor, and he opened his eyes to see a pair of fancy dress shoes. A heavy suit jacket was laid over him, and he was ready to knock it aside when he smelled something familiar—a particular smell that he couldn’t name, but his heart seemed to know.

Grant knelt down with a squeak of leather shoes. The look of fury was gone from his face, and that familiar smile was back.

“What’s with you and your jacket?” Kurt asked irritably.

Grant shrugged. “It’s the only way I can comfort you.”

Kurt stared at him. Why would he want to comfort him? Why did Grant even care? He was nobody. The Weavers were on the brink of war with the Vega Cabal. There were so many things he needed to be thinking about rather than comforting Kurt.

There was a distance between them. Grant had made sure he didn’t feel trapped, and there was a clear exit.

“Do you want to play?”

He finally looked away from Grant’s befuddling face and glanced down at the guitar. Did he? Not really. The guitar was the thing that gave him comfort, and yet also served as a constant reminder of all his faults. His own personal cross to bear. He couldn’t bear to throw it away. It was like a toxic relationship.

Kurt didn’t feel like explaining his complicated relationship with the guitar to Grant.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” he finally blurted out. His voice wavered a little, and he hated the way his chest tightened.

Grant inhaled and clasped his hands in front of him. “No.”

“Why not?” Kurt couldn’t tell if his disinterest made him feel better or worse.

“Because you don’t want me to,” Grant explained patiently, like it was the most obvious thing in the world that he wouldn’t do something Kurt didn’t want.

“I never want to do anything you’ll hate, Wanyin.”

The pressure in his chest increased, and Kurt gasped. He had not realized he was holding his breath. Hiding his face in the jacket around him, he tried to breathe. He couldn’t get past the lump in his throat.

Grant wasn’t disgusted with him. He didn’t think he was used and dirty.

Peeking out from under the jacket, he found Grant watching him with non-judgmental eyes.

“Can you…” Kurt started, but his voice was trembling. Pushing the jacket off, he reached out with a shaking left hand. “Could you touch me? I just…”

He just wanted to feel someone’s comforting touch. To know he wasn’t stained and ruined. It was silly, and even as he asked, he thought Grant would laugh at him.

Warm fingers wrapped around his hand. He was holding it loosely—Kurt could pull away if he wanted. There was strength in his hand, but he was being gentle. The callouses on Grant’s palms scratched against his skin, and it felt like he was in sensory overload.

It wasnice.

Kurt went out of his way, consciously and unconsciously, to never be touched. He hated it when people brushed past him and would rather take a fist to the face than be hugged. But Grant’s hand in his was pleasant. It was clean and easy. He could feel the life under his skin, but it didn’t frighten him.

Grant looked like he wanted to say something, but he was holding back. Kurt thought he wanted to demand answers, but he held back. This lean, powerful man was restraining himself because he wanted Kurt to feel comfortable.

Regretfully, he pulled his hand out from Grant’s.