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Bahorel starts the conversation with a cup of coffee.
He sits it down in front of Grantaire, then takes the seat opposite. Grantaire keeps thinking how tired Bahorel looks, and he sympathises, because he feels the same tiredness right down to his bones.
It's his fault.
Grantaire knows, objectively, that he can't control his brain chemistry. He knows, objectively, that his actions are not entirely his responsibility, but that doesn't change the rising guilt and paranoia that makes him avoid eye contact. He sips his coffee, watches the whorls in the cup, and exhales, making the steam plume.
"What happened?" Bahorel asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. So many people think of him as a brute, loud and thuggish, solving his problems with fists and fights. Grantaire knows better, he sees Bahorel like this, subdued and thoughtful, insightful to perfection. He reads Grantaire like an open book, and Grantaire couldn't hide from him if he tried.
"I," Grantaire starts, and falters, because he doesn't know where to start. He doesn't know how to explain the driving need to push people away before they can hurt him, before he can hurt them. "I have depression."
Bahorel doesn't mock him. He doesn't say no shit, dumbass. This isn't the place. He just nods, and waits for Grantaire to continue.
"I used to drown it in alcohol. Find comfort or whatever the fuck I was seeking at the bottom of bottle. You never saw that part of me. Imagine the night I relapsed, but every fucking night. I buried my thoughts until I didn't think anymore, and it helped," Grantaire says slowly, breathing out and in, because he hasn't talked about this to anyone in a long time. It isn't that he doesn't want to talk, it's that people don't want to know.
The words still hurt coming out.
"But you stopped," Bahorel says, a fact, because Grantaire has. He stopped, even though it doesn't feel like it. He stopped, even though it's a daily struggle not to pick up a bottle again and take the easy way out of his problems. Everyone tells him he's made such progress, but Grantaire can't see that. He doesn't know what progress looks like.
"Yeah, I guess, I don't know," Grantaire says, and scratches at his chest, over the date inked into his skin. "Except stopping didn't make it go away. Making a life and a career for myself didn't make it go away. Falling in love didn't make it go away."
He slips it out, quiet and low, and Bahorel has the sense not to look surprised. Grantaire knows he isn't. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, but they both know Grantaire is only saying words that have been unspoken for a long time. Too long, really. Grantaire doesn’t think they’re fooling anyone anymore, so it’s hardly worth fooling themselves as well. He’s past the point of caring if Bahorel says them back, he’s too exhausted right now to think of the consequences of saying them. After the past twenty four hours, if Bahorel is not already about to leave, Grantaire doesn’t think that some ridiculous admission of obvious feelings is going to be the breaking point.
"Does it help?" Bahorel asks, cautious. Grantaire hates that Bahorel thinks he isn't good for Grantaire, even just for a moment. He hates that cautiousness.
"What, being in love?" Grantaire asks, then shrugs. "It helps having the support, to be open without judgment. I'm constantly worried that you'll open your eyes one day and see what you've landed in bed with--"
Bahorel cuts him off, shaking his head, "I saw that the day I met you, the only thing that's changed is that I know I was right."
Grantaire has to swallow past the lump in his throat. This is stupid. He feels so stupid because he loves and is loved. He has been for a while, not an instantaneous thing, but a slow progression built upon a strong friendship. He’s not just Bahorel’s tattooist, not anymore. Some days Grantaire doubts he ever was just that. Bahorel is a blind idiot who supports him despite it all and Grantaire doesn't know how to handle that. He feels the warmth of emotions radiating from his chest, and Grantaire doesn’t know how to handle that, because right now Grantaire hardly knows how to handle himself. He’s trying to explain why he’s the way he is, and Bahorel is understanding and Grantaire just can’t…
Just can’t.
"You realise that I don't want to behave the way I do, right?" Grantaire says, rolling his lip between his teeth. He craves a cigarette. "But I feel like a wrecking ball, destroying everything around me until I'm left with nothing.
“But you're made of fucking steel or something," Grantaire continues. He hasn't talked this much in a long time. The words stutter leaving his throat, and Grantaire’s not entirely sure he’s actually making sense. He hopes his meaning is clear, even if his words aren’t. "You refuse to be destroyed by me. I push you away and you pull me in and you're an idiot."
"I'm not gonna deny that," Bahorel says, running a hand through his hair. It hangs to the side, frazzled and tangled from fingers worrying at it. Grantaire knows the care Bahorel puts into his hair, and he can only imagine how he must've pulled at it all night. The ends curl, flicking into his face. Grantaire wants to smooth it out, soothe away the lines on Bahorel's face, take away every hurt that Grantaire has inflicted upon him. Bahorel breathes in, his chest rising, before murmuring an admission, "You scared me."
"I know," Grantaire says. Because he does. "I can't promise it won't happen again, I can't promise anything."
He feels infinitely worn out, stretched thin until he's just tattooed bones. He has a white knuckle grip on his coffee cup, to stop the shaking. Bahorel reaches over the small space between them and works his fingers free with ease. It amazes Grantaire to see the differences in their hands. Bahorel's are strong, dark-skinned and as large as the rest of him. Grantaire's are smaller, pale, but like every other part of his life, he slots between Bahorel's fingers like he was made to fit there.
"This is the part where you tell me you're not going to leave me," Grantaire says, voice lifting as he tries to force a joke. His lips stretch, but his smile feels like a grimace.
"No," Bahorel says, but continues before Grantaire can interrupt. "If that reassuring bullshit worked you would've been better a long time ago. Telling you what I'm going to do is pointless."
"So what the hell are you going to do?" Grantaire asks, thoroughly confused now.
"I'm going to ask you what you need from me," Bahorel says, and gives Grantaire's hand a reassuring squeeze. Grantaire’s voice falters, his ability to take words and craft soliloquies abandons him, and he feels completely fucking adrift.
“I just need you to--” Grantaire says, stops, because what does he need? “I don’t need you to promise me anything. I’d prefer it if you don’t leave, but promises feel like obligations and that won’t help. If you want to leave, leave. If you don’t, though, don’t promise me you won’t, just… don’t.”
He’s not entirely sure he’s making sense. It’s frustrating.
“This isn’t coming out how I want it to,” He continues, though he doesn’t look away from Bahorel’s face. “Just don’t treat me any different. That’s all I ask. I don’t want you to be on eggshells around me worrying that you might fuck up and say something that will upset me. Because you probably will, but that’s okay.”
Bahorel’s coffee sits untouched. He’s listening.
Grantaire deflates, sitting back in his chair and exhaling slowly. He feels like he’s released a build-up of tension, all the words that have been choking on his tongue are out, and Bahorel can see them and see him. Bahorel can pass his judgment now, decide whether Grantaire is worth his time and energy, or whether he’s not worth the hassle. Grantaire closes his eyes, and he feels like a man waiting at the gallows.
Bahorel loosens his hand, fingers slipping free from Grantaire’s, and there’s the sound of his chair scraping on the hardwood floor. Grantaire’s heart feels like it’s ricocheting around his ribcage, pounding a staccato that floods his ears. Grantaire doesn’t need to open his eyes to see what’s happening, his imagination vividly supplies Bahorel walking over to the sink, tipping out his coffee and leaving.
Instead, there’s the heavy footsteps of Bahorel walking around the table. Grantaire can feel the warm radiating from him as he gets into Grantaire’s personal space. His arm curls around Grantaire’s shoulders, hand splaying out over his chest, over the date, over his heart. Grantaire doubts it’s intentional, but it makes his heart stutter nonetheless. Bahorel leans down until his lips press against the crown of Grantaire’s head, breathing in against his hair. Grantaire feels the tension loosening from his body, and he leans back into Bahorel’s comforting warmth, feeling safe and anchored in the embrace.
“I’m not leaving you,” Bahorel says, still quiet, though Grantaire feels like he could be shouting. Bahorel says it as a fact, not a reassurance, and it lets Grantaire breathe. He raises a hand, and curls it around Bahorel’s wrist, fingers fitting against the hollow of bone as he grips and holds. Bahorel’s thumb strokes over his skin, and Grantaire pities anyone who thinks Bahorel is nothing but brute force and violence. He pities anyone who doesn’t get to see this side of him, who don’t understand why Grantaire cares for him so intrinsically.
Bahorel mumbles something, but it gets lost to Grantaire’s thoughts. He pulls himself back, and frowns, because he heard but he just needs--
“What did you say?” Grantaire asks, quietly, lifting his coffee to his lips.
“I love you, too,” Bahorel repeats.
Grantaire exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Oh,” he says, and smiles against his coffee cup, “Good.”
Grantaire knows he isn’t magically made better. He’s no better today than he was yesterday.
But he’s smiling anyway.
Because he loves.
And he is loved.