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The thing about Jehan is that he needs touch.
For a long time, Grantaire is wary of the way Jehan constantly touches the people around him- a brush of fingers over his wrist, the way he leans over mid-conversation to re-arrange a lock of Grantaire’s hair.
Until one of Grantaire’s one-night stands sneaks out in the night, and Jehan comes into his room in the morning to find him alone and small in his bed, the shadows under his eyes so stark he looks as though his eyes have been gouged out. Jehan climbs in beside him without a word, to fill the space that Grantaire needs filled.
The thing about Grantaire is that he needs touch, too.
The touches he gets from the men he brings home never seem to help, although they don’t always hurt. Jehan hears him often, drawn-out moans and screams and once the start of an all-too-familiar name turned immediately into meaningless noise, and Jehan thinks sometimes he just makes noise to try and drown himself out. The thing about Grantaire is he needs to be touched by someone who loves him.
He makes less noise when he’s with Jehan. Jehan touches his hair and his neck and his shoulders, and Grantaire shudders and begs him, oh so quietly, please, please don’t stop. The first time they kiss, a tear rolls silently down his cheek and between their lips. Jehan tastes it, and the stale alcohol on his tongue. He fists his hands into Grantaire’s hair and holds him as the ache goes out of his shoulders. Grantaire buries his face in Jehan’s neck and whispers a name that belongs to neither of them into his skin.
‘Courfeyrac’, whispers Jehan, because it’s easier to share a secret when you’re not the only one doing it. Grantaire huffs a laugh against his collarbone. ‘I know’, he whispers back, and it’s true, he does know. They both do.