Chapter Text
Thirteen
If there ever were a prize for being the sourest child in the world, Grantaire would have a little golden trophy sat upon his dusty shelves. But all the boy had in his room was a book on fighters that he had checked out of the library when his mother was pleasant enough to take him, and some tap shoes he stole from inside the community centre and stowed under his simple bed.
Even at the young age of ten, Grantaire was already aware that he had very little, and there was a slim chance of his prospects in life improving. If he were even a few years older there would be an adult to tell him to aim bigger, to set goals or to reach out to the stars. But the boy had always been more fascinated with the sun in his own galaxy to pay attention to any others, and saw no reason to reach for anything that seemed outright impossible.
His parents were the sort who would do well without a child, parenthood was forced upon them by a drunken mistake, and neither of them were ready to take the responsibility a child thrust upon them. Grantaire recalled having a Grandmother who he visited from time to time, perhaps she wasn't a relative at all, just some kindly old lady who was happy to do the babysitting while his Mother complained down at the club, and his Father drank more whiskey than a man should be able to handle. But mostly, from the time he was born until he was twelve, he was alone. He spent a lot of his time at the park, watching the Mothers push their children on the swings, Fathers and sons kicking around a football. He learnt how envy felt very early on, held bitterness in his heart when he looked at broken families.
He was sat attacking the ground with a sick, when he felt something hit him in the back of his head. Grantaire was no stranger to bullies. He was an outsider, a loner, and that had always made him a target for some of the meaner kids. But usually he just glared at them fiercely enough for them to give in and walk away. But he was surprised when he turned around and wasn't faced with a crowd of boys, but a singular kid, dirtied from his toes to his crown, holding out his filthy hand, his other clutching a clop of mud. He had sandy brown hair, not as curly as Grantaire's unruly mop, but neatly shaved at both sides, a few stray curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. He was wearing navy jeans with grass staining the knees, and a bright red football shirt, a big smear of dirt over his chest. Grantaire couldn't help but think how if his Father was sober enough to catch him so dirty, he would beat him hard for it.
He himself was wearing a beat up maroon sweatshirt that his Mother had gotten from the charity shop, and black cargo-style trousers that he kept having to pull up. His black hair was a mess and needed a wash, untamed curls making his hair much wider than his head. One of the boys at school once laughed and asked him if he was a Jew, but that only confused him further, he knew far too little about religion to be anything at all. And all his Father did was curse at God, so he thought maybe religion wasn't such a clever idea anyway if all it did was make grown men shout and curse all night long.
Grantaire found himself both in awe and insanely jealous of the stranger, with his wide grin that wasn't at all intimidating. What came next however, he hadn't expected at all.
“Names Bahorel, wanna wrestle?” The kid asks, and when Grantaire holds out his hand his grip his firmer than most men. He never had a friend, nobody chose to pair up with him in school, nobody talked to him in the playground, nobody invited him over for tea. Some stranger in the park asking to fight with him was the most shocking and exciting thing that he could ever hope for. And for the young Grantaire, hope was in short supply, it most definitely wasn't something he experienced often.
When he got older, Grantaire would lean over a table grimly and claim he could count the happy moments of his childhood on one hand, on his five dirty fingers. Bahorel had a bright grin that didn't fade, and it lit a light in his new companion, a small burning flame that wouldn't be extinguished, and would only brighten in the future. And for the first time in his memory, Grantaire felt a laugh escape him as he tackled the boy to the ground and tried to force him to eat the clod of mud, both of them laughing and squirming about the grass, as young boys should do, without a care in the world.
After they had both exhausted each other with fighting and blows thrown with little fists and good intentions, they sat sharing Bahorel's sandwiches, both filthy and exhausted, but happy. Grantaire had never felt this kind of emotion before, never had a comrade, even if Bahorel was a little strange and seemed to be proud of the way his knuckles were scraped and bruised. He wondered for a second if his Mum would like him being friends with such a boy. Probably not. Which only made Grantaire more determined to make Bahorel his new best friend. His parents were like ghosts to him, his Father snoozing in the chair all night and day was less of a Dad but more of a sleeping giant never to wake. His Mother bought him clothes when she found too many holes when doing the laundry, and chided him when she noticed missing cigarettes or found wrappers from little stolen chocolate bars.
Other than that Grantaire was alone, but never by choice, no boy chooses to be lonely. And Grantaire could feel his heart swell when Bahorel dragged him home for some fish fingers and chips, and almost sighed with happiness when his new friends mother ruffled his hair and fussed over them both before going out with her friends. It wasn't perfect, and that word wasn't something he would ever come to know. But it was something.
It was easy for the two to be friends. If anyone could accuse Grantaire of being a sullen child in his own company, they would eat their words seeing him play with Bahorel. He was the only friend he had ever known, the kindest boy he knew existed, despite his love for settling things with his fists, even at that age. It wasn't long after they became friends that Bahorel's Mother suggested he should find an outlet after he was suspended from school for punching an older kid who touched his pencil-case. Bahorel never started fights without good reason, though even as he grew older he would misjudge who he had the ability to take on, he always fought back hard when he believed it was the right thing to do. Words couldn't solve everything, and anyone who thought that was an idiot in Bahorel's books.
Bahorel took up boxing first, then a week later he dragged Grantaire in and beat him fair and square. From that point on Grantaire had a new kind of firm determination to enjoy things. Less than a year later he joined the Tennis club. Then after that the Gymnastics society. Soon he hardly had a night free, and that suited him more than fine. He stayed after to help out, and took a paper round in the mornings to get some pocket money to pay his membership fees. He ate at the club for tea, and was home in time to put his pyjamas on and go to bed usually without so much as a hello from his parents. His routine didn't change much as he grew older, he sought no more friends and piled on activities to keep him occupied. Now he could be described as a happy and energetic teen, with plenty of hobbies. He didn't excel in school by no means. It wasn't that he was stupid, he just didn't want to try. He found no joy in fractions and alliteration, so he didn't see why he should have to learn it.
At Fourteen when they started taking Dominance classes, he saw fun in those for a little while, but they just confused him, and at that age the last thing he needed was more confusion about himself. His interests lied where his talents did, painting angry and emotional canvases in art class, thrashing all the other students in his tennis club with a flick of his strong left wrist. Pretending a stacked fourteen year old in the gym was his Father as he sent him crashing to the floor with his mitt-covered fists, and being praised for it. Sometimes only he could see his achievements. He was punished for not doing well in school, for his grades being abysmally low because he would rather skip math class to hide amongst the kilns and make clay sculptures. But he didn't care what others saw in him. They could look on him and see the scum of the earth, see nothing more than a rat. But he didn't care what other people thought and promised himself he never would. All that mattered was his own mind, clear and free of others thoughts.
******
Sixteen
Grantaire is sitting in class when it happens. Everything feels normal, he can see Bahorel trying to sneak a look at his notes. He had seen his friend texting someone with a deep frown on his face earlier, he was sure there was something he was up to, he kept making a mental note to ask; but just kept forgetting.
He barely notices the pencil snap in his hands, the end flying across the desk and leaving a big black smudge on his paper. He could feel it. Not that he knew what it felt like, he just felt confusing emotions, everything all at once and he felt like he might be sick. He feels a longing he couldn't explain if he tried, like his heart was trying to shoot of of his body, reaching for something. For someone.
He knew about the tug, he had been in the sex ed classes last term. He remembers not paying much attention, Bahorel was sat next to him the whole time mimicking oral sex to him, and Grantaire found it much more funny than the instructor. More often than not the education teachers were just there to sell the idea of abstinence before you felt the tug, both Grantaire and Bahorel had to try and keep straight faces through that, along with many of the other students.
At this age everyone was on edge and looking for a reason to either fight or scene. Grantaire was in a divided school, so he didn't have the distractions of subs, not that he saw any point in it, it wasn't as if he was about to turn into an uncontrollable beast because a submissive sat in his class without a jumper on.
“Grantaire! Jesus what are you doing!”
The voice snaps him out of his daze, but Bahorel seems to take great pleasure in clocking him in the jaw just to make sure, not hard enough to cause any damage but enough for Grantaire to groan loudly and rub his jaw, realising his other hand was gripping onto the table so hard his knuckles were white from the force.
“I uh, I don't feel too good,” He murmurs, half lying as he rubs his sore jaw, forcing himself to remove his hand from the desk and looking around to where his teacher and half of the class are staring at him.
“I'll take him to the nurse,” Bahorel volunteers all too cheerily, hardly even waiting for the nod from their teacher before hauling Grantaire up by his elbow and dragging him out of the class. It doesn't take Grantaire long to realise their heading outside, to the little corner in the field where they smoked. He could admit that sounded much better; he would rather have a smoke than get prodded and poked by a nurse. He knew what it was. That didn't mean he wanted to run around shouting it to faculty members.
“So come on man, what the hell was that?” Bahorel asks him as he plops himself down on the grass and tosses a cigarette at Grantaire, the boy hardly catching it.
“I felt it.”
Bahorel frowns at him as he lights his cigarette. “Come again?”
Grantaire responds with a grunt, still unnecessarily rubbing his jaw before grabbing the lighter out of the other boys hand and lighting up his own cigarette, taking a long drag. They might be best friends, Bahorel might be all Grantaire had, but it didn't make it feel any less awkward to talk about these things.
“The fucking- the tug,” He grumbles. “I felt the tug.”
“Shit.”
Grantaire snorts as he looks over to his slightly wide-eyed friend. He hadn't expected a comprehensive reply, Bahorel wasn't the type to reel off advice when you had a problem. He was more likely to punch it. They sit in silence for a while, just smoking, Grantaire calming down his trembling hands. The feeling wasn't as bad as in the classroom, didn't feel crippling, didn't send him off into a daze. But it was still there. It was as if the feeling were travelling, through his body and into the pit of his stomach, resting there, not as intense, but not letting him forget it.
“You still have nearly a year left of school,” Bahorel says then as if he's trying to reason Grantaire not to follow it.
He snorts in response, running his hand through his unruly curls. “I'm not planning on missing boxing club tonight, never mind the rest of the school year,” He says, taking a drag as Bahorel stares at him with a look of plain confusion. “I'm not going on some crazy hunt to try and find someone I don't even know. I worked hard to stay in school, to stay in all my clubs. I'm not blowing it.”
Bahorel winces a little as if he wants to disagree straight out. “Aren't you curious though?”
“Not really,” He admits, shaking his head and flicking ash into the grass. “He's just a stranger. And likely just a kid like me. The idea of it... It's is just too weird.”
The silence between them wasn't painful but there was an edge of awkwardness that Grantaire could only bear for so long.
“Come on then, tell me whats wrong,” He demands of his friend. His jaw still ached, not much, but enough to remind himself that Bahorel usually solved everything with his quick right hook.
“Sorry man, but I don't get how you can not want to find them,” He says with a shrug, leaning forwards, his elbows propped up on his knees. “How can you not be excited about finding a doe-eyed kneeling sub at the end of the rainbow?”
“I've thought about switching down.”
Grantaire was sure if he was going to carry on dropping these statements, Bahorel would end up with his jaw hanging off on the ground. He didn't mean to shock or surprise him. He just felt like being honest.
“Nobody respects switches. People would hate you,” He reminds him, the genuine concern for Grantaires welbeing obvious in his voice.
Grantaire sighs. He knew that. And it was the one thing he was trying to forget. “Would you hate me?” He asks him then. Because that's what was really important. What his friend thought. He couldn't even think about it if Bahorel lost respect for him.
He got a backhand right over the back of his head, making him groan, trying his hardest to glare at him, but ending up smiling anyway. “Had to ask,” He points out with a chuckle.
“I would still love you if you cut off your cock and glued it onto your forehead,” He says with a deadly serious expression which lasted all of five seconds before both boys were lying on the grass in hysterics at the mental image. The silence remained and Grantaire was eternally grateful for it. Just a year ago they had become men together, jerking each other off, sweating and panting sat up on Bahorels bed. And after, when they had drank some stolen beer, smoked a joint and calmed down from their climaxes, they had talked about the future. And Grantaire had been so eager for a boy with soft and straight brown hair whose knees folded whenever he walked into the room, a boy who smiled sweetly and kept his legs parted for his Dominant. But it had just been a boys dream. And he couldn't bring himself to follow a dream. Because all he expected to find at the end of his rainbow was a pot full of dirt.
******
Eighteen
Grantaire, like most people, had an idea of what his first time would be like. He didn't expect to lie down and make love to his submissive, it had been three years since he ignored the first tug, and he held no false beliefs that they would save themselves for each other. He had this image in his head of his submissive, imagining him to be beautiful and cowering, the envy of all, a prize for the Dominants. His assumptions annoyed him, he knew nothing about his submissive, not their gender or their looks, nothing about them at all. But he liked to imagine meekness, pretty lips, soft hair, brown perhaps. After all he needed something to fuel his morning showers.
Bahorel had felt his tug nearly a year ago, but unlike Grantaire he didn't feel the need to wait, and ran off more than eager to find what was at the end of it. He was gone a month, which reminded Grantaire of how utterly lonely he was, and how the young man was his only friend in the world. When he returned he had a boy with him, he had fierce ginger hair and a thin face, and seemed so passionate about life and about Bahorel, Grantaire found him liking the man very much. As soon as they had both enough money they had got a flat together, two tiny box bedrooms, a fridge and a shower was all the boys needed. He almost moved out when Bahorel brought his partner home with him for good, but Grantaire was out of the flat so often they both decided it wasn't an issue. He was eternally grateful for that, while it was his idea to begin with, he would feel far too lonely if he had to live alone.
But before Feuilly came to live with them, Bahorel and Grantaire were inseparable. While they had both discovered the joys of whiskey at the tender age of fifteen in Bahorel's bedroom, eighteen, being legal to enter bars changed a lot for them. Grantaire remembers that age of fifteen with warmth in his heart, everything was about experimenting. They didn't have much but each other, and both of them at that age had proclaimed they didn't need anything else.
Bahorel's Father had took off before he was born and his Mother, like Grantaire's, spent a lot more time with his friends than her teenage son. But she was much nicer, approved of Bahorel having a friend, and never made any complaints to the fact Grantaire practically lived on Bahorel's bedroom floor. They shared everything together, toked their first joint sat on Bahorel's bed, discovered a taste for cinema and rock music. Grantaire wasn't Bahorel's first kiss, but Bahorel was Grantaire's, it was drunken and rough, even at fifteen they were both Dominants fighting for control. But that always went to Bahorel, the man was born Dominant and Grantaire hadn't even begun to find himself. They touched each other in sleepy morning bliss and discovered what anothers body felt like, touches that left as many bruises as their boxing matches did. There was only friendship in it, a mutual curiosity that they both knew would never blossom into anything. Some days Grantaire thought he could fall in love with Bahorel, if he really tried. But he knew it would never be, they would never be like that.
He lived in his small flat with Bahorel, and then with Bahorel and Feuilly, a cramped damp place that served as home more than anywhere else ever had for him. He worked any job he could take, his grades were nowhere near good enough for him to even consider taking the path to college then university, though Bahorel managed to scrape his way onto a sports course, and Feuilly could move easily for him. With Bahorel's mouth it didn't take long for his business to get customers and for Feuilly to be happy being his own person again. The submissive owned his own business, that anyone would describe as admirable. He worked off a little market stall every day, buying items that were often described as scrap, and renovating them to sell on. He bought for far too much and sold for much too little, but the sub always had a smile on his face at the end of the day, and always declared that a good deed was far more rewarding than a full pocket.
Unlike the driven Feuilly and the passionate Bahorel, Grantaire had quickly lost his youthful spark. He saw no desire in spending more time in a dull classroom, and no profession called to him. Instead he spent his time working menial dead end jobs, anywhere that would take someone unqualified, and willing to put his broad shoulders to work for basic pay. He had cleaned shit stained mens rooms, he had been security for empty and mind-numbingly boring car parks, he had flipped burgers for a week.
Once he sold a painting. Just one, just two-hundred and fifty euros for it, but it was the most amazing night ever. He didn't even spend it, despite his urge to blow it all on a good night in the clubs, he had rolled up the notes in an elastic band and put it under his mattress. That money was his greatest accomplishment to date, and he was determined he would save it for something meaningful.
Whatever income didn't go on his rent though, went on the clubs. Most of the time Bahorel was his partner in crime, and he kissed submissives near the bar until his jaw ached, until they sloped off to find a conquest better for them. Grantaire was never first choice, and even when they did finally submit to choosing him, he declined. It wasn't as if he held his virginity close to his heart, as if he was keeping it for a special someone. But he had an idea. And a desperate submissive, drunk and stinking of sex and alcohol, wasn't what he had imagined. Of course Bahorel heard a completely different story. Often they parted and found each other again as the night dwindled to a stop, and Grantaire would brag of the submissives dripping off him, desperate to spend a night with the great and handsome Dominant Grantaire. Bahorel was always good enough to pretend to believe his fibs, never once calling him out on how his life really wasn't going in any direction at all.
******
Twenty
Grantaire always had a fascination with skin. It was something he enjoyed privately, he didn't share the thought with Bahorel. He felt it was something he should only appreciate about submissives. But he loved the way Bahorel;s skin was darker, like creamy coffee, from a place he had never been, nor was likely to visit. He liked how his skin was tauter around his abdomens was than Grantaire's. Despite his many hobbies, he had a fondness for fried food which left him with a slight roundness, not noticeable when clothed, but undressed the ever so slight thickness of his thighs was visible, a podge daring to form at his stomach.
He was looking at skin in the club that night. He wasn't confident being on his own, even with a bottle of beer in his hand, wearing his bracelet that signified him as a single submissive; he missed Bahorel. He closed his eyes for a second and imagined his friend, forcing Feuilly on his knees and prying his pale mouth open. He was sending shivers down his own spine. He felt that feeling, deep into his stomach, it always felt stronger when he was aroused, or when he was surrounded by a lot of Dominants. The club was mixed, more so than usual. He had come here a few times with Bahorel just for drinks, watched people disappear into the back rooms and reappear utterly disheveled.
“Kneel.”
Grantaire spins around clutching his beer, staring at a man who must be in his thirties, with hands the size of Grantaire's head. “Excuse me?” He stutters, looking around to make sure the large man is surely talking to him.
“I said Kneel boy. I don't like ordering subs twice.”
Grantaire had his chance. He had always thought about it, switching down for someone bigger, Someone stronger. He knew he was Dominant by nature, and it might be frowned upon to switch down, but he didn't care. It was his choice what he wanted to do, and screw everyone else. He gives the man one last look before sinking to his knees, and closing his eyes.
**
He vomited twice when he got home. Curled up in bed in the darkness trying not to tremble, he felt disgusting. He had bruises on his hips, his lips were chapped and his scalp ached. He hadn't said no, those words never left his lips. But he wished he had. Wished he had wrenched the mans hand away from his mouth, from his head, from his entire being. He just wanted to forget, reaching for the vodka they had saved for parties, and emptied the bottle. That was the first night Grantaire had slept in darkness, no dreams, no waking with a minor hangover and a dry mouth. There was nothing but black for nearly twenty hours until he woke up screaming.
The next time he drank that much he woke up with the worst hangover of his life, but he didn't wake up scared; terrified and alone. And the third time he did it, he drank in the morning as well to push the hangover back down like a sleeping dragon, its flamed doused. And then it became more frequent. He couldn't go back to the clubs after that night, it felt raw, and he wanted to peel his skin off just thinking about setting foot in one. So he drank alone. Sometimes Bahorel would take it off him, tell him enough was enough. But they were drifting apart as friends, Bahorel didn't know what to do, didn't want to see his friend hurt, didn't want Feuilly in a harmful environment. But even still, it took him nearly a year to give up and move out, giving Grantaire more than he owed for his half of the rent, apologising and clapping him on the back more than needed. He came by to visit more than he really should have too. Argued not as much, but was still there to rub Grantaire's back as he vomited, or forced him to eat something that was good for him.
Sometimes Grantaire thought about going back to Tennis. But he had given that up years ago when he only had time for work and partying with his friends, playing sport wasn't really anything to him then, it was if he had outgrown it, but still thought he would pick it up when he found the time. But that time never came.
And soon the booze became more. Smoking a joint and drinking absinthe made him vomit even quicker, and he didn't want to sit alone in his squalor snorting coke. He didn't want that kind of buzz. And when in a drunken stupor he bought some smack off a guy in the alley outside his house, it was just another walk on the short plank.
He was spinning further and further down and didn't even want to help himself. He hadn't spoken to his parents since he left school, and after a while even Bahorel stopped coming. There was only so many times you could try help a man.
Grantaire ignored that tug in his belly, in his heart. He knew how to numb it now with a pour of a bottle and a tap on a needle. He didn't want to seek it. The only thing Grantaire was intent on seeking was darkness and nothing else.