Chapter Text
They’re not ones for kissing.
They’ll kiss during sex, sure. They’ll make use of their mouths while their hands are occupied, swallowing sighs and gasps. It’s reflex, an action born from the moment, maybe even an excuse. They trace lines and colours, press their lips against soul-stained skin, finding each other. They don’t kiss afterwards, though. They don’t kiss during the day, not to say hello or say goodbye.
They just don’t.
Except that as Grantaire watches Bahorel sleep, all he wants to do is kiss him.
Bahorel is sprawled out on his back, taking up most of his side of Grantaire’s bed, and then some. His faced is pressed against his own bicep, his hair a ridiculous mess, caught in the early morning light, and Grantaire can’t put a name to the feeling that’s constricting his heart right now. It’s domestic, it’s stupid, and Grantaire hates himself for it.
He feels like an idiot, even as he sits up and straddles Bahorel’s hips without grace.
Bahorel stirs then, attempting to shift beneath Grantaire’s weight and opening his eyes blearily when he’s unable to. He breathes in, then raises an eyebrow.
“What are you…?” He asks, voice heavy and rough.
“I wanna try something,” Grantaire says, a smirk on his face to hide his uncertainty. Bahorel opens his mouth to speak, and Grantaire leans forward, taking the chance, pressing their lips together. A noise comes from Bahorel’s throat, surprise, a moment of hesitation, then his fingers tangle into Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire braces his forearm against the bed, spine curved, bracketing Bahorel’s body with his own. Bahorel’s hand slides down his side, fingers feathering over his ribs, before settling against his hip. His thumb presses over love is not a victory march, and Grantaire’s heart tightens traitorously.
They’re pouring emotions into the open-mouthed kiss, but Grantaire isn’t ready to stop lying to himself. Not yet.
He’s content pretending that all they are is sex and tattoos. He’s good at these, uses them as armor, a mutually beneficial arrangement. He can ignore shared mornings, and the way Bahorel comes to the shop just to spend time with him. He pretends it’s a fluke that Bahorel knows how to make his coffee. He doesn’t think about the fact that Bahorel never drinks around him. It’s just sex and tattoos, and this is just a meaningless kiss.
They break apart, drawing in breath and Grantaire straightens himself. He’s not worried, but he watches Bahorel anyway, just in case.
“Good morning,” Bahorel says, smirk knowing, fingers flexing against his hip. There’s a softness to him, though, something Grantaire recognises but can’t name. He reaches for the bedside table, closes his fingers around his cigarettes, distracts himself.
“Want coffee?” Grantaire asks, sliding a cigarette between his lips, and leaning back against Bahorel’s thighs.
“Only if you’re making it,” Bahorel replies, and hands over the lighter with a grin.