He opened his eyes, and groaned at this mistake. A pain like a hot knife stabbed just above his eyebrow, lancing its way around to the back of his skull. It was echoed by a chorus of other pain throughout his body, and a wave of nausea. He shut his eyes.
"Kim, can you hear me?" came Harry's voice. He felt Harry's hand on his shoulder.
Nodding seemed like a bad idea, but Kim wasn't sure if he could open his mouth without vomiting. He swallowed, then whispered, "Yes."
"That's great. Wonderful. Now can we get the fuck out of here?" Jean hissed. Kim cracked his eyes open again, prepared for the pain this time.
He wasn't prepared for the pain. The light sent more spikes of pain through his forehead, down his jaw, his spine. Breathing through gritted teeth, willing himself not to throw up, he did his best to take in his surroundings. His glasses were gone. He was sitting propped up against a pile of rubble. Gunfire was sounding in the distance. The blurry forms of Harry and Jean were crouched on either side of him.
The side of his face felt sticky. He touched it with his fingers and they came away red. Moving his head as carefully as possible, he looked down. The shoulder and chest of his jacket were soaked with blood.
"Don't worry, it's a pretty small cut," said Harry. "It's just bleeding a lot."
"We need to go. Can you walk?" Jean asked gruffly, his hand on Kim's other shoulder gentler than his words.
"I think so," said Kim. He wasn't at all sure, but staying here was definitely worse than moving.
"Ok, three, two, one," said Jean, and he and Harry hoisted Kim to his feet.
He couldn't walk. It took all his concentration to stand unaided for a few seconds, and then the ground slid out from under him. He fell sideways and Harry caught him, the jostling sending fresh spikes of agony through his head. "Damn it," he said tightly, leaning heavily against Harry to stay upright. Harry put an arm around him to steady him.
"I don't think I can carry him," said Jean. Jean's breath was still wheezing, Kim noticed, so he couldn't have been out too long. The gunfire was getting closer.
"I got it," said Harry. He knelt down, pulling Kim into piggyback position, then straightened up, adjusting to Kim's weight.
It was oddly comforting to be held like this, as though he was a child. At least until Harry started running, and the burning stakes seemed like they were forcing their way behind his eyeball, and the nausea rose in his belly. He clamped his mouth shut, breathing through his nose in sharp bursts.
"Wrong way, pig," shouted a voice from above.
Kim course, the delinquent…
"Who's this fucking kid?" muttered Jean.
Kim caught a flash of Cuno's ginger hair and thought he must be peering down at them from a second-floor window. "Cuno's fuck gimp's friends are coming to make Cuno their fuck gimp. Pervert shit. But they can't catch the Cuno."
"Again, who the fuck is this kid?" said Jean.
Harry waved him off. "Cuno, can you take us to your best hideout?"
"Fuck no. No pigs allowed. But Cuno has a special pig hideout. Fucking brutality-style." There was a clatter of feet heading down the stairs and Cuno swung the door open. "Follow the Cuno."
Harry and Jean hurried inside, and Cuno dropped a board into the hooks on either side of the door. He waved at them to follow and took off through the building.
"What happened to the bino?" Cuno's voice had an edge of concern, if that was possible.
"A chunk of exploding building hit him in the head," said Harry.
"Legend shit," said Cuno. Kim could hear him grinning. "Maybe rattling his brains will fix his fucked up eyes."