He'd die without Grantaire. It was that simple. Grantaire was his salvation, his light, his logic, his sanity. He was truly his better half.

And he loved Grantaire.

Too often he would come home and call up Grantaire because he'd gotten in another fight with Fiyero, which was the main source of his stress, or some drunks at a bar had made a pass at him, or another school had rejected him, or maybe he was just slipping into another phase of drunken, nicotine induced depression.

Grantaire would be at his apartment in minutes. He'd open the door and there he was, dark, curly hair disheveled from sleep or lack of care as to what it looked like, blue eyes boring into his with a look of concern, lips twitched into a worried half smile, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

He'd let Grantaire in and shut the door, lean his back against it, and watch him. Sometimes Grantaire would open his arms and he'd rush into them, just let Grantaire hold him and tell him that it was okay, that he was okay, that he loved him, over and over. Sometimes they would kiss; their kisses were polar opposites, either frantic and passionate or slow and gentle. Sometimes he was just a little too rough with Grantaire, but then again, he never complained.

Sometimes their kisses led straight to the bedroom. Sometimes he let Grantaire take control, let Grantaire take care of him. Sometimes he took that control himself, and those were always wild nights.

Sometimes they would just lay there in silence, and he would just let Grantaire hold him, keep his arms tight around him, tangle their legs together, weave his fingers through his hair. Sometimes, as they would lie there, he'd tilt his head upward to look at Grantaire, and he'd lean up to kiss him. Those kisses were his favorite by far. They were slow, gentle, meaningful, passionate, and all at once. They overwhelmed him peacefully, they left him stricken with emotion, and he couldn't get enough of those moments. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes they would remain like this for hours, alternating between cuddling and kissing, reveling and experiencing.

No matter where they ended up, sometimes he would try and count how many times they said "I love you."

He always lost count.