Beguile

24 The confession

Kurt forced me down onto the ground, his grip tight on my shoulders.

"You hate me, don't you?". His eyes bore into mine as if he could read every hateful thought I'd ever had about him. "Is that it? You fucking hate me?"

"You think you're so innocent, don't you?" he continued, his voice rising. "Acting all pure and sweet, while you're nothing but a fucking whore. Always whining and crying, but what do you really want? Lucas, is that it? You want to fuck him?"

I tried to move but he held me back down. The dirt digging onto my back.

"I hate you too," he spat, his voice laced with disgust. "You're nothing but a slut. Spreading your legs for every man who looks your way"

"And you know what?" he said suddenly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "If that's how you are, why not give me a chance too? If you're so fucking eager to spread your legs for anyone who'll take you, why not let me have a piece of you?"

His voice, once laced with raw venom, suddenly cracked, and I saw something shift in his eyes—tears brimming, threatening to spill. As if realizing the weight of his words, he let me go with a sudden, almost violent movement, as though I had burned him. He recoiled, his shoulders hunched, his face buried in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice muffled and trembling. "I didn't mean any of that. I'm sorry."

"It's just... the loud water, it must've messed with my head. I didn't mean it."

The excuse felt thin, a flimsy veil trying to cover the depth of what he had just said. The way he clung to it, as if it were the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart, only made it more apparent how little it excused his anger and cruelty.

But despite the hollowness of his apology, something in me shifted. I approached him, my steps hesitant but determined. He tried to stop me, his hands waving in a half-hearted attempt to push me away, but I wouldn't be deterred.

I reached out, wrapping my arms around him in a hug. "It's okay," I murmured into his shoulder. "It's okay."

He finally glanced at the burn on my shoulder, his eyes lingering on the forming bruise. The guilt that consumed him was palpable, searing through his facade of anger and self-loathing. His sniffling grew more desperate as he tried to stem the flow of his tears. "I didn't mean to," he said, his voice breaking with each word. "I don't want you hurt. I didn't want this."

He collapsed onto his knees in front of me, his head bowed and shoulders shaking. His vulnerability was raw and unfiltered, and I could see the deep shame etched into every line of his face. "I'm sorry," he repeated, the words nearly lost in his muffled sobs. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

As he knelt there, his posture reflecting complete surrender, he looked up at me with pained eyes. "If you want to get back at me... you can do anything," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Burn me, hit me—anything. Just please, don't hate me."

Seeing him in such a state of penance, I couldn't shake the disturbing realization of who he was when he hurt Lucas. This was the same desperate, broken figure that Lucas had faced, and it made me wonder: What had Lucas done to make Kurt react like this? What kind of exchange had there been, and what did it cost him?

Though I didn't want to dwell on it, the memory of that conversation by the river lingered in the back of my mind. I had been barely conscious then, wavering between reality and dreams, but the words felt too vivid to dismiss. Even if it had been a dream, why not use it now to comfort Kurt? To show him that I didn't hate him?

Slowly, I cupped his tear-streaked cheeks, rubbing gentle circles to wipe away his tears. He looked up at me, his eyes red and swollen, utterly beautiful in his raw vulnerability. The frowns and anger he usually wore as armor were gone, leaving him exposed. Every breath he took was shaky, his lips parting slightly as if he couldn't fully catch his breath. It was endearing, almost painfully so. I realized then that I wanted to see more of him like this—unshielded, real.