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Jean didn’t know how he ended up at Trant’s apartment. One moment he had been at the bar, angry and upset, face and knuckles smarting as security tossed him out onto the street and the next he was knocking at Trant’s door. He knew he looked like shit. He’d been drinking heavily for the better part of the last couple of hours and judging by the pain in his face he had a nasty bruise, and as Trant failed to come to the door and he knocked again anxiety shot through his drunken, pain-filled haze. He shouldn’t have come here, should have just gone home and not forced anyone to deal with his shit.
He stumbled back, nearly ready to bolt back down the hallway, but then the door opened and he stilled like a deer in headlights. Trant blinked sleepily at him, a tired, confused smile on his face that quickly faded when he saw the state Jean was in.
“Jean? Why are you here ?” he asked.
Jean took a step back, kicking himself, anxiety clawing at his chest, “Sorry, it’s late. Fucking-sorry, I should go-”
“No!” Trant stepped forward, grabbing him by his wrist, “Come in; you don’t look like you’re in any state to be alone.”
He pulled him inside and ushered him to the couch, telling him under no uncertain terms to stay put while he got a first aid kit. Jean’s vision swam and he put his head in his hands, ignoring, relishing even, the pain that shot through his face. He pushed his hands harder against his bruising face, letting the pain chase away some of the drunken haze that lay over him like a dizzying blanket. It ached, but he had endured far worse, and this wasn’t the pain of a gunshot wound. This was a refreshing, clarifying pain, and one he could only blame himself for.
He didn’t notice Trant had returned until he was being gently pushed back against the couch and a cool, soft cloth was dabbing at his face. It came away bloody, and Jean looked at his hands to find a similar red on his fingers. He hadn’t noticed he was bleeding. He glanced at Trant, a sudden guilt washing over him at the worried, pensive look in his eyes. He wasn’t judging him; Jean knew he would never, but still, he felt like he was being crushed by that gaze. He felt as if any moment Trant was going to stand up and tell him to leave, that he couldn’t deal with this, that he was sick and tired of cleaning up after Jean’s shit.
He didn’t, of course. Trant would never say that. Even when he was angry, even when he was upset, Trant would take care of Jean however he needed. He cleaned Jean’s face and knuckles with gentle efficiency and with each silent moment Jean only felt worse and worse. Anxiety wrapped his chest in a vice-like grip, quickening his breath. His vision tunnelled and he was dimly aware of Trant speaking calmly to him, instructing him to breathe, his hand squeezing his arm firmly in a grounding grip. He focused on that, that pressure, that assurance that Trant was there and wasn’t leaving until his breaths slowed and his heartbeat settled.
Jean didn’t realise he was crying until Trant wiped a tear from his cheek. He sniffed, wiping his eyes and wincing at the pain that shot through him at the motion. Trant quickly grabbed his hand, pulling it away, “Careful.”
Jean looked at him, and the worry in his eyes made his heartache. He really didn’t deserve this. He showed up on Trant’s doorstep in the middle of the night, bloody and bruised and certainly not deserving any sort of kindness, and still Trant had taken him in, forgone sleep to clean him up and care for him. He felt tears well in his eyes again, “Fucking…I’m sorry, Trant. I don’t…I don’t fucking deserve this. You don’t fucking deserve this. You are so kind and I’m just an idiot that can’t even go one weekend without getting shit-faced drunk and starting a fight.”
“Shh,” Trant hushed him, brow furrowed, “Don’t say that. You’re not an idiot.”
“Yes, I fucking am,” Jean hissed, “A drunk, depressed idiot who gets high and drinks so he doesn’t have to think about how fucked up he is, and then can’t even take care of himself so he has to force other people to clean up after his damn shit-”
Trant grabbed his arm firmly, cutting him off, “Don’t say that!”
Suddenly there was an intensity in Trant’s eyes that Jean had never seen before, a tightness in his jaw and a furrow in his brow, as near to anger as Jean had ever seen in the soft-spoken man. Jean slowly closed his mouth.
“Don’t ever say that, Jean,” He repeated, “Because I care about you. And I would drop everything to help you. Please, don’t trivialise that by thinking that I have to take care of you or that I am obliged to. I take care of you because I care about you, you stupid man.”
Jean was silent, taken aback. He felt warmth creep up the back of his neck and he opened and closed his mouth a few times before simply nodding. Trant didn’t let go of Jean’s arm, but his grip softened and he sat back with a sigh. He picked up the cloth again and continued to dab at Jean’s face gently. There was silence, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was more tired as exhaustion caught up with them, and wasn’t broken until Trant was packing up his first aid kit.
“So I’m not allowed to call myself an idiot, but you can call me stupid?” Jean asked, an almost smile on his face.
Trant paused, glancing at him, “I can call you stupid when you are stupid. You can’t call yourself an idiot just for being human.”
He clicked the first aid kit shut, getting to his feet, “You can stay over tonight if you’d like. I’m sure I have some sleeping clothes you could borrow.”
Jean hesitated, shoulders tensing, “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”
“I know, Jean. But please,” Trant said softly, laying a hand on Jean’s shoulder, “please, stay.”
Jean looked at him, not quite meeting his eye, but close enough, and Trant squeezed his shoulder gently, crouching in front of him, “I want you to be safe. I would feel better if you were here. I worry, you know.”
The message was clear: if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me. And damn Jean, but all he really wanted was to make Trant happy. With a sigh, he nodded and Trant smiled, “Wonderful. Do you want to shower? I can get you a towel.”
Jean was going to say no, even opened his mouth to do so, but hesitated. He smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and his face hurt like a bitch, and damn him but a shower did sound good. He nodded, “Yeah. Thanks.”
Trant nodded, beginning to leave before hesitating. He looked at Jean, tilting his head, before holding his arms out, “Hug?”
Jean stared at him, a blush creeping into his cheeks, “I’m not a kid, Trant.”
“Oh, right,” Trant awkwardly lowered his arms, something flashing in his eyes, “Sorry.”
Jean hesitated, surprised by the disappointment in Trant’s eyes, feeling bad almost immediately. Trant once again made to leave, and on a sudden impulse, he stood, grabbing Trant and wrapping his arms around him tightly. Trant was still for only a moment before one arm wrapped around him and the other came up to cradle the back of his neck and fuck it felt good. He held on tighter, turning his head into the crook of Trant’s neck and shoulder, ignoring the way it made his cheek flare up in pain. Trant smelled good, like clean laundry and lemons, and Jean couldn’t bring himself to pull away as a soft sob once again shook his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, Trant’s hand on the back of his neck, the other rubbing slow trails up and down his spine as he cried quietly, but eventually his tears slowed and he pulled back wiping his eyes with an embarrassed scowl.
Trant’s hand twitched at his side as if he wanted to reach out for Jean, but then it fell still and he smiled gently, “Go take a shower. I’ll get some clothes and a towel for you.”
Jean nodded, watching him go. He stood there a moment longer, still able to feel Trant’s arms around him, his breath tickling his neck, the smell of laundry and lemons in his nose a stark contrast to the scent of cigarettes that always followed Jean around. It was amazing how safe he had felt in that moment held tightly by Trant, how warm it was. He sighed, clenching and unclenching his fists slowly before turning quickly on his heel and heading to the bathroom. He was still too drunk to think about this.
But, later, after his shower as he lay in the dark in the spare bedroom, dressed in a pair of Trant’s shirt and pants, and that same smell filled his nose, it was all he could think about. When Jean closed his eyes, clutching a pillow close to his chest, he could almost imagine Trant was there beside him, holding him tightly. He exhaled heavily, rolling onto his back. One day, he liked to imagine. Maybe one day. At that moment, however, he was drunk, and Trant was in another room, a wall separating them, and he was fucking exhausted. He closed his eyes and after what felt like hours, was maybe really just minutes, he dropped off to sleep.