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It’s late when Bahorel comes home.
Which is nothing unusual, really. He works at a bar, Grantaire is used to not seeing him until the early hours of the morning, when he comes home covered in sweat and alcohol. Sometimes Grantaire is awake, like he is now, sketching away on a new design that refuses to leave his head, infomercials playing in the background as insomnia kicks his ass.
So Bahorel coming home late isn’t remarkable.
The blood is.
Grantaire can’t tell whose it is, but it’s matted into Bahorel’s hair, congealing across his face and neck, dried and cracked across his the back of his hands. Grantaire raises an eyebrow, because Bahorel’s upright, and that’s good , but what the fuck?
“What the fuck?” Grantaire asks, tossing his sketchbook aside and rolling to his feet. Bahorel shrugs, a lazy slump to his shoulder, and he reaches up to run a hand through his hair automatically. His fingers catch in bloody knots, and Bahorel snarls, pulling and tugging as if he’d rather shave his whole head then deal with his current situation.
“ Bahorel, ” Grantaire insists, grabbing at Bahorel’s hands to stop the pulling. He comes up to Bahorel’s chin, tucks under it nicely when they’re pressed together, but that doesn’t stop him looking up and staring Bahorel down until he explains.
“ Some fucker at the bar tried to start shit,” Bahorel explains with a casual shrug, like bar fights aren’t a big deal. To Bahorel, Grantaire supposes, they’re not. He probably sees them on a daily basis, though he usually doesn’t get involved. “ Normally I let security deal with the assholes, but he was starting shit with me, something about me flirting with his girlfriend, I don’t fucking know.”
Grantaire tugs on Bahorel’s arm, pulling him over to the couch. The bleeding seems to have mostly stopped, but Grantaire would rather look for himself and make sure nothing’s in serious need of bandaging or stitches.
“Did you mention you’re gay as fuck?” Grantaire asks, gently parting Bahorel’s hair. The ends are starting to curl, damp from sweat and blood. Grantaire’s thankful at least that most of his head is shaved; it makes looking for wounds a fuck load easier.
“Amazingly, he didn’t believe me,” Bahorel says, gesturing emphatically with his hands, though he keeps his head still for Grantaire’s searching fingers. “He seemed to think that was an excuse to avoid a confrontation.”
He tilts his head back, grinning wolfishly up at Grantaire, “Like I need an excuse to avoid a confrontation.”
“You’re gonna get yourself killed that way,” Grantaire says, shoving at Bahorel’s head with a laugh, though the thought makes his heart clench in his chest. He clears his throat, shoving the idea of Bahorel dying to the back of his mind, “The good news is, you don’t seem to have a concussion.”
“Mm, that’s good, I’m glad I live with a qualified doctor,” Bahorel jokes, getting to his feet and making his way to the bathroom. He clenches his fists as he walks, the look on his face clear aggravation from the dried blood, coating and itching his knuckles.
“ Hey, listen, I have some basic first aid knowledge, you know,” Grantaire says as he follows Bahorel’s burly form into their tiny bathroom. It’s pretty clear Bahorel’s not gonna be able to patch up both hands without help, even if Grantaire knows he’ll insists he can do it himself, asshole . “I have a piece of paper and everything. Bloodborne pathogens, completely certified.”
“Is that the certificate you can take for twenty-five euros online?” Bahorel replies, knocking the tap with his elbow. Grantaire grabs his wrist in a loose grip, maneuvering Bahorel’s hand under the water and rubbing at the crusted blood with his thumb.
“ Next time you’re in my chair, I’m just gonna let you bleed to death,” Grantaire says in response, pressing his thumb down against one of the grazes breaking up Bahorel’s skin. Bahorel hisses in response and elbows Grantaire hard, and Grantaire looks up with a raised eyebrow, “Seriously, you’ll take a bottle to the face and get your dick pierced, but that hurts? It’s a cut , you giant fucking baby.”
Bahorel opens his mouth, but Grantaire cuts him off sharply, “Ask me to kiss it better and I swear to god, I will leave you. Permanently.”
Bahorel rolls his eyes, but snaps his jaw shut obediently. It doesn’t stop him glowering at Grantaire, though, or wiggling his fingers suggestively. Grantaire ignores him, he lives by a strict rule: you can’t reward a child when they thrown a tantrum, you can’t respond to Bahorel when he’s behaving like Courfeyrac.
There's antibacterial soap by the sink, for use on the constant tattoos both Grantaire and Bahorel seem to get, something Grantaire now takes a generous helping of to clean away the last of the blood and dirt. It works, the sluggish bleeding finally stopping, leaving Bahorel’s dark skin clean and surprisingly well scented.
The tap continues running, even as Grantaire reaches up for Bahorel's hair. He massages his fingers against Bahorel's scalp, before digging them in and shoving Bahorel down over the sink. Bahorel grunts, his hips digging into the edge of the cabinet as he bends at the waist to get all the way down.
"Wouldn't this be easier in the fucking shower?" He asks, tail end of the words lost as he closes his mouth to avoid getting a lungful of water.
"Not for me," Grantaire replies, smirking as he starts to rinse the blood from Bahorel's hair. Most of it's easy, the flat buzz doesn't need anymore than a light scrub to be clean. It’s the shock of tangled, curly hair that snares in Grantaire’s fingers that requires more effort, though Grantaire is careful not to pull too hard. The last thing he needs is Bahorel complaining that his beloved hair has been ripped out.
Grantaire turns his hair to the side, and Bahorel takes the chance to breath through his mouth, glaring up at Grantaire from his sideways position. “You’re enjoying this, asshole.”
“I’m cleaning you up,” Grantaire shrugs, thumb scrubbing at Bahorel’s forehead to clean off the last of the blood there. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t clean you up?”
“Pretty sure ‘drowning’ isn’t listed anywhere in the good boyfriend code,” Bahorel replies, finally standing up when Grantaire lets him free.
“ Never said I was a good boyfriend,” Grantaire scoffs, and reaches under the sink for their small first-aid kit. He grabs it, then hauls himself onto the cabinet, sitting on the edge to give himself some extra height. Bahorel steps forward automatically, fitting neatly between Grantaire’s spread thighs, and neither of them care when he drips water over Grantaire’s clothes.
With the blood gone, the cut doesn’t look all that bad. Grantaire ignores the sense of calm that comes after the worry he was also ignoring, instead focuses on pulling out a handful of his square alcohol wipes. He used to tear them open with his teeth, the same as a condom, except he very quickly learnt that isopropyl alcohol tastes terrible on the tongue. He uses his fingers to open instead. Grantaire doesn’t bother with gloves, he figures the alcohol will do the job, and if not, Bahorel will get an infection and die, and frankly, he probably deserves it.
“At least you’re not using whiskey. Or vodka,” Bahorel comments with a laugh. “That’s how I used to clean my wounds.”
“ You’re better using vodka, but that doesn’t matter,” Grantaire comments, touching the wipe to the cut on Bahorel’s head. “Since we don’t have any alcohol in this house, for obvious reasons, but we do have a first aid kit. That I bought. Because you are an overgrown man-child who can't take care of himself.”
Bahorel doesn’t flinch. Grantaire’s not sure what he’s trying to prove, so he slaps a rainbow coloured plaster across the wound instead and then kisses over it.
“All better,” Grantaire laughs.
Bahorel moves to headbutt him, except instead of pulling back, he stays there, forehead resting lightly against Grantaire’s their breaths merging together in the space between them. Grantaire reaches up and curls his hand around Bahorel’s neck, thumb resting gently against the pulse point there. He feels the distance thump, thump, thump, the sound of a resting heartbeat, where he knows earlier it would’ve been racing from adrenaline and worry.
Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief and relaxes tension he didn’t know he was carrying. Bahorel is warm.
“Let’s go play some GTA, asshole,” Bahorel murmurs, but his tone is fond, and it takes him just as long to pull back.
Grantaire lets him go, but stores the memory of his heartbeat away, just incase.