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Grif has always been comfortable with his sexuality.
To be honest it’s never really been an issue; he’s mostly attracted to girls, and if he occasionally happens to catch himself watching a boy as he walks away it’s not really that different. Sex is sex after all, it’s not like he’s in love with these people, and he’s not going to see them again. So he fucks who he wants, when he wants, and ignores any comments Kai sends his way.
It’s not like she’s in any position to be throwing stones when it comes to depraved sexual habits.
It doesn’t take long for him to figure out that Simmons is not so comfortable. His past is painted clear in how he deliberately looks at women, his stuttering, stumbling responses when Grif asks if he thinks a girl is hot, how his eyes drift to men when he’s not paying attention. He brings it up a couple of times, but when Simmons reacts by squeaking out something that only loosely resembles words and running away he doesn’t push further.
He’s a dick, but not that much of a dick.
Simmons’ daddy issues are even clearer to see; everyone notices how he follows Sarge like a dog desperate for a treat. The Blues dick leader jokes about it, so Grif steals his secret biscuit supply, and laughs when he hears Church blaming Tucker.
Simmons’ is a kissass, but he’s Grif’s kissass.
When Grif catches himself thinking like that he quickly goes for a nap. He may be comfortably bi, but that doesn’t mean he wants to fuck Simmons. And he definitely doesn’t want more than fucking. That would really be weird.
That doesn’t stop him from wanting to hug Simmons when he has a panic attack.
Grif doesn’t find out about them until he’s known Simmons for over a year, a fact which he inexplicably feels guilty about. It’s not his fault Simmons went to great lengths to hide them from him, randomly disappearing sometimes, returning hours later flushed, out of breath and avoiding eye contact. Grif just assumed he was jerking off, he even teased him about it a few times, and doesn’t that make him feel like a massive dick now he knows the truth.
He doesn’t try to apologise though, that’s not his style.
And if he spends a night on google, researching how to deal with panic attacks no one needs to know.
The next time it happens it’s because Church is being an insensitive cockbite, as per usual. Grif sees Simmons start to shake, hears his breathing speed up and within moments he’s standing, pressing a hand to Simmons’ shoulder, leading him away without a words. Simmons doesn’t fight, can’t argue, not with how fast his breaths are coming, and Grif begins to worry that he’ll have to carry him if he passes out. Finally they make it to their tent and Grif guides Simmons to his bed, making him sit on the orange sheets. Simmons is trembling now, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, avoiding eye contact, breathing still frighteningly fast. Grif digs in the box by his bed, producing a carefully folded paper bag and handing it to Simmons. He looks away quickly, but he doesn’t miss the surprise and gratitude in his eyes. As Simmons begins to breath into the bag Grif looks down, unsure what to do now. The website suggested repeating reassuring statements, but that sounded too close to actual emotions for his liking. Instead he moves around to the other side of the bed, sitting down and pressing his back against Simmons’, feeling his breaths slow gradually. They sit like that for almost an hour, Grif feeling Simmons’ breathing slow and his trembling gradually cease along the length of his spine. Eventually, when Simmons has been still for a while he speaks up.
“You okay, man?” he asks. He feels Simmons’ soft laugh, he hears the bitterness,
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Grif says, “I am the king of bullshitting, I can tell when you’re trying to do it, you suck at bullshitting.”
“Well what do you want me to say, asshole,” Simmons snaps, “I’m no longer hyperventilating and panicking but I have no idea when it’ll happen again? I’m so messed up that even a stupid joke will send me into a panic attack that lasts hours?”
“Okay, you’re not okay,” Griff cries, “that’s…that’s okay.”
“Really?” Simmons’ voice is small.
“Yeah,” Griff sighs, “yeah it’s okay. It’s all okay.” He feels Simmons relax, his weight settling heavily against his back.
They sit and breathe together for a while.
Grif knows he’s not good with words, or feelings, or words about feelings, they get all tangled up in his throat, mixed with the dismissive words that form the foundation of his vocabulary. The last time he tried to use words to talk about feelings he ended up screaming at his baby sister until she left him. He wasn’t going to take that risk with Simmons, the thing they had was too big, too complicated, too essential. So they sit, and breath, and don’t speak. Their hands drift together, their fingers touch, but they don’t look down. Looking would make it real, would force them to acknowledge that they didn’t hate each other, not really.
They would have to open their eyes eventually, but for now they kept them closed, hands touching but not holding, and they breathed together.