Movement
Chapter Two
It's the worst sound in the world. Like when thunder roars and kids scream. But it's almost inaudible.
Kurt sits up ramrod straight in my bed, griping his chest. His back is heaving, convulsing. I reach in the dark for my sight and once donned, comprehend the full horror of the small boy.
Fuck.
I feel like if I touch him he'll crumble. But he's broken anyway. I hate the sick worry that fills my mind. Fuck it.
His back is cold, like arctic. The second my fingers make contact the earth parts, swallowing him whole.
Fuck.
Another one of those sounds sends chills down my spine, clawing it until it's threaded into the vertebrae. He cries. It's meek, terrible, devastating. He folds into my arm, a piece of crumpled paper.
Fuck.
I don't want to speak. I don't want to push him. What the hell's happened here? I felt like lifting his shirt, his hair, checking inside his ears and palms to see where the Kurt I knew had been beaten back. He was gone. What the hell happened?
Fuck.
I choke back a nervous pit of saliva. I feel like I should man up. Find the demon that's torturing him and crucify it, or something. His sob singes my thoughts. I don't dare ask him. I don't know what in God's name to do.
Fuck.
"Kurt?" The fright in my voice is disgusting. He gags on a cry. I want to rip them from his throat. Take them. Hide them. There is something majorly fucking wrong. He doesn't speak.
Fuck.
I brave the ocean, casting my flag. I need an answer. I need assurance. I need to know he's still with me. So I assert. I dominate.
"Kurt!"
He jumps. Fuck. I scared him. He acts like he's been brought above the surface, out of the water. He stares; his eyes haunt me. His lips, trembling, haunt me. His expression will always haunt me.
Fuck.
He can't speak. He's trying. His mouth is balancing on a live-wire. He might fall. A contorted syllable comes slinking out. It's deadly.
"I…"
I need to tame him. I need to fix the tear. Give me tape. Give me thread. Give me fucking glue. This needs to happen. My claws dig into his arms, groping for live. I squeeze it out of him. He falls against the pillows. They plume around him like a nuclear bomb cloud.
Fuck.
His eyes are shut. He's forcing them closed. His brow is sickly pale and furrowed in desperation. My heart is hurting. I feel like he's created a rift between us so I slide down on my side to rest next to him, always in close proximity.
Be gentle. I force myself. Cautious. He's like this piece of sea-glass that I know I'm going to drop. I'll shatter him into a thousand pieces if I don't watch my step.
"Kurt."
It's a whisper. Like so many others, it's delicate. It's an oxymoron because it's oozing urgency. His down-turned mouth quakes as he struggles for decency, for composure. Because this much pain shouldn't be allowed in one single, tiny body.
Fucking fuck.
"The snail." It's heaving. It's a fragile exclamation. He's bewildered and desperate. The snail?
I slide my arm over him, pulling him in. I'm out of answers, but I need for him to survive. So I drag him under. He lets out an exhausted breath. He's deflated.
"I stepped," He whimpers. "on it." He struggles for life. "I stepped on it." He's still crying. But the tears are silent, ethereal. They glint in the dim street light and possess me. I grapple with what he's said. It's a puzzle I can't comprehend. A snail?
"I feel like I can't breathe." He whispers.
Fuck.
He's scared. His eyes are a book I can decipher with ease. He reads of fright. They're still filled with those tears, but they slide down his cheeks, pooling at his neck. He looks at me and it's unnerving because I don't know what to do.
I don't know what to fucking do.
The kiss is surreal. I'm without words. I lay on top of him, shielding him from those monsters. His cheeks are fiery and I can feel his tears in my hands. He whimpers, clinging to my shirt. I'm sucked into the vortex and I submerge fully as I feel his heart. It's screaming. It's running. It's intoxicating.
I wrap my arms around him. They almost double over around his stick of a body. He wraps a leg around me.
"Noah." He pleads into my mouth. We can't take the pain. It's too much. So I fervently place kisses down his neck as he breathes in the oxygen he was without before. I need to know what's damaged him. I'd kill to know.
Fuck.
Well, I felt the urge to do a second chapter in the most part because of your awesome reviews. It's not long because it was meant to be an epilogue BUT I am working on the epilogue-to-be right this second. After that it's quitting time.
For this story at least.
It's in Pucks point of view if you haven't guessed. I decided to give him a definitive quirk and a curse word that rhymed with his last name seemed the perfect one to apply. I really do love these guys. Let me know if this stayed true to the form of the story. Did you like it? Hate it? Again, I would love to hear from you. Thanks for reading.
-Simplybofa