Work Text:
I slept there the night you said ‘I think I’m
falling in love with you,’ igniting a great unendurable
belongingness, like a match in a forest fire.
I burned so long so quiet you must have wondered
if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do.
- Annelyse Gelman
Enjolras gets his mark the day he falls off his bicycle.
He’s barely scratched by the fall, just two stinging scrapes on the hand he’d put out to soften the descent, but the car that comes with in an inch of hitting him is enough to jolt whatever cosmic force creates soul tattoos to sear a name into his wrist. His nanny runs over, horrified at the near miss, but Enjolras just holds up his wrist to examine the letter scorched into his skin.
R, it reads in black. Stark and bold, kind of hastily written as though done as an afterthought.
Enjolras stares at the name of his soulmate, perplexed. What kind of name is R?
-
Grantaire gets his mark the day his father puts him in hospital.
He’s been hit before, obviously; this wasn’t exactly a new occurrence, him being beaten around by his asshole of a father. But it was the first time that he’d woken up in hospital because of his injuries, which is apparently enough to warrant the name of his soulmate being revealed to him. He doesn’t notice anything’s different, at first. Other than being hooked up to bleeping machines and a grim-looking social worker gesticulating to a nurse outside his door, the situation is rather familiar. The dull throb of his bruises not masked by whatever drugs they’ve given him is a well-known pain, so it takes him a moment to notice the odd tugging in his wrist. Raising his arm as far as it can go whilst still attached to an IV, R’s eyebrows raise in surprise at the elegant red script that sits neatly on his wrist.
Enjolras, he mouths. He brushes his thumb over the word reverently, and his cracked lips flicker into the ghost of a smile.
-
They’re in the Musain when they meet, and Enjolras hates him.
As the gorgeous – of course, of course his soulmate would be gorgeous, beauty incarnate, a Greek statue brought to life – man gives him a look of pure disgust, Grantaire is suddenly grateful that he’d taken to wearing a wristband over his soulmark a couple of years back. The thought that this angelic being could have discovered that the unkempt cynic who has decided to deride what were clearly deeply held ideals evokes a thrill of terror in Grantaire. Enjolras turns back to his friends, ignoring Grantaire completely, and the artist feels relief wash through him. The thread of sadness that weaves through is overshadowed by the knowledge that Enjolras wouldn’t want him if he knew what they were to each other. Better that he never knows.
So Grantaire starts to go by Grantaire – never R, never that scruffy cursive that’s burned into Enjolras’ skin like a brand – and Les Amis never question it. They didn’t know him before, and none of them have seen his work, so they don’t put together the fact that Grantaire is Enjolras’ R. Besides that, they assume that Grantaire would have declared it to the world if the man he is so clearly in love with were his soulmate. Because he never does, they assume that the name hidden under the leather on his wrist belongs to someone else.
-
Enjolras never covers his tattoo if he can help it. His shirt sleeves are generally worn rolled up, and even when wrapped up through winter his fingers slip under the glove on his left hand just to touch it softly. It’s odd that the man so distant from the thought of love finds comfort in caressing the mark of another; the invisible weight of his soulmate’s name acts as a reassurance to himself that there is always someone, something worth fighting for, that no one is meant to be without love. Of course, he isn’t without love in his life: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, his friends and comrades exude plenty of love to be contented with. But even though he does not desperately crave the romantic love he knows is possible with his soulmate, the thought that it is possible spurs him to create a better world.
When he was younger he used to fantasise about his soulmate. He’d sooth himself to sleep with thoughts of some handsome revolutionary leader, or else a dashing private detective. Perhaps a poli-sci student like himself, all black-rimmed glasses and deep voice. Maybe a politician in a silver suit who wants to do some good with his life.
Maybe he doesn’t know what his R does, but Enjolras knows with conviction what he is: a kind heart, a gentle soul, and a world of possibility.
Loving him will be easy.
-
It was so much easier when Enjolras hated him.
But perhaps he never did hate him, really. He said as much to Grantaire’s questioning face, explained that Grantaire merely frustrated him, but that ultimately their debates allowed him to build stronger arguments. In fact, Enjolras goes so far as to call them friends, and that’s when Grantaire knows he’s fucked.
Because he was already in love with Enjolras, has been a little in love with him since he saw his name. But there’s something different about meeting your soulmate in the flesh, hearing that idealistic bullshit spoken like a hymn to his bitter mind until he finds himself believing again. So he knew he was in love, true love, the moment they first met. Loving someone from the shadows is simpler. Being in Enjolras’ light, under that thoughtful blue gaze, is like burning alive.
It’s almost crippling, this love of his. He thinks he knows why they’re soulmates, even if no one else would dream of the two of them being perfect for each other. They’re both full of conviction, albeit of different kinds; they both love their friends dearly, and hold them sacrosanct; they both adore their soulmarks, even if they do not show it in the same way. Enjolras is to Grantaire what red is to black; a contrast, true, but united they are symbolic. Grantaire once believed in the possibility of progress as much Enjolras still does. Of all the people in the world, Grantaire knows Enjolras is the only one who could make him believe it again.
-
Grantaire is a riddle to Enjolras.
He was frustrating, at first: loud and brash and so damn rude, scorning everything Enjolras believed in. Enjolras had responded in kind, and so they’d danced that same dance a dozen times before Enjolras began to see the other man a little clearer.
And what he sees is just exquisite.
Bold and brash, soft and sweet, Grantaire is an anomaly of a man. Enjolras thinks – he knows – that he’s never met anyone like him before. His cynicism does not, as he had once thought, come from ignorance, but from experience. Instead of scoffing at Grantaire’s concerns, he now considers them carefully and seeks his advice on how to avoid falling foul of the mistakes made by those before him. Grantaire boxes, and is strong in body as well as will; Enjolras has only ever seen him violent when protecting those he holds dear, in the face of a bigot at a protest or a police officer at a riot. He has seen this sleeve-tattooed, wild-haired, broken-nosed man comforting a small child who had been lost by its mother. He has seen him cradling a runt kitten the size of a purse in his hands and nursing it to health until it is grown enough to fend for itself. He has seen this ridiculous man, this oxymoron of a human being, laugh and dance and sing so beautifully that Enjolras feels, for the first time, his breath catch in his throat in wonder.
The letter on his wrist is not forgotten, could never be; but many people find love with another who is not their soulmate. Cosette and Eponine and Marius are an example of that. Even Bahorel talks of his laughing mistress – not, as he told them long ago, his soulmate – with something far deeper than passing fancy.
R is wonderful, Enjolras knows this. He can feel it in his bones. But as Grantaire catches his gaze across the table and smiles, Enjolras thinks that perhaps he has no need of a letter to be in love.
-
It’s Jehan’s fault that they find out about the art gallery.
They had been looking through Grantaire’s not unsubstantial book collection for their well-loved copy of Du Contract Social when they come across a leaflet tucked away behind another tome. Curious, they are surprised to see that it boasts of the opening of a new art collection by Monsieur Grantaire.
The opening is tomorrow night.
They know that Grantaire hasn’t mentioned it for a reason, but after a little mental argument Jehan comes to the conclusion that what has stopped Grantaire from inviting his friends is his fear of rejection. Jehan knows this won’t be a problem in reality. They’ll kick anyone’s ass before they insult their friend’s work.
They tell the others later that evening via text, with a word of caution not to inform Grantaire of their attendance. It’ll be a surprise, but the friends all firmly agree that they want to be there to support their friend. He’s been there for all of them; it’s time they did the same.
-
It doesn’t quite hit Grantaire until he sees Enjolras staring at a portrait of Cosette.
Or more specifically, his signature in corner of the portrait. It lies there innocuous to all but Enjolras and himself: a single, solitary, scruffy letter.
R.
And suddenly Enjolras is turning around to face him, like he knew exactly where he was standing seven feet to his left, eyes wide with shock, a question on his lips –
And Grantaire runs.
He’s out the door of the gallery as fast as he can, quick enough that only Courfeyrac catches him go with a confused look on his face, but Enjolras is on his heels in seconds. He makes it half way down the street before the blonde student catches up to him, his long legs for once allowing him to lope ahead instead of falling over gracelessly. He catches Grantaire’s wrist in his hand, tightening his grip only as the shorter man makes to pull away. He won’t let him go. Not this time.
“Grantaire,” he says, a plea. The other man stops struggling at the tone of Enjolras’ voice, incapable of resisting his soulmate’s unspoken request. Instead he looks down at his feet, not moving but unwilling to engage in what he believes will be the worst moment of his life.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, voice a little stronger. The wonder in it almost knocks Grantaire sideways, so unused to hearing his name said with such delight.
With veneration.
“Enjolras,” he replies, voice breaking. He can’t- he can’t hear Enjolras refuse him. He can’t hear his own soulmate cast him aside knowing who he is.
“I should have known who you were, Grantaire. I should have worked it out long ago.”
He’d said that bit out loud, then.
“I just- oh, R,” he sighs, the hand that’s holding Grantaire’s wrist curling up to cup his arm.
“I love you.”
And that’s so much worse, isn’t it, it’s terrible, and Grantaire feels like crying, can feel the tears that had already pricked his eyes start to leak out desperately and he wants to flee, wants to get away-
Enjolras is shushing him, arms coming up to wrap the smaller man into him until their bodies are separated only by clothes, one lithe hand coming up to run rivers through his dark curls, blue eyes gazing into brown.
“R,” he says again, so soft and fond and full of something Grantaire dare not name, is too afraid to name – “Grantaire, I love you.”
And he understands, finally, he gets it. That name – his name, not some scribble in the corner of a canvas, not an imprint on the skin of a wrist – the name that means heated conversation, drunken rambling, giddy dancing, paint splattered clothes and wild tattoos, is the one Enjolras emphasises, the one he speaks like a prayer finally answered.
Enjolras hasn’t suddenly decided he wants his soulmate because it’s destiny.
Enjolras wants him.
And must have wanted him before, must have loved him at least a little while, because Enjolras would never make a spur of the moment decision like that, would never tell someone he loved them just because he thought he had to, would never say something so important if it wasn’t completely true. Enjolras loves him, Grantaire, would have loved him without ever knowing he was R, wouldn’t he, isn’t that just so Enjolras-
Enjolras is smiling such a tender smile as Grantaire has never seen before, and it’s just for him, for them. He knows he’s smiling back now, still crying a little because, hey, it’s a lot to deal with. He’s gratified a little that Enjolras’ eyes are a red-rimmed, a couple of tears having slipped out as he clutched his soulmate close – together, united, at last – the sheer joy of the moment having gotten to them both.
The taller man leans his forehead onto Grantaire’s softly. Their breaths mingle a moment and they stand still in each other’s hold, eyes fluttering millimetres apart. And then they’re kissing, the lightest touch of lips to lips, before the heat from one to the other is enough to pull them together in synchronic adoration.
-
Later, as they lie in Enjolras’ bed, tangled in each other under the white sheets, Enjolras runs his fingers reverently over the red mark on Grantaire’s wrist. They had removed the leather together earlier as they removed their clothes. Enjolras had asked if Grantaire minded. Grantaire had thrown the leather in the bin.
Now they lie together, Enjolras’ golden head pillowed on Grantaire’s chest, fingers caressing the name on Grantaire’s wrist in the same way he had done to his own for so long. It seems inconceivable him now that they could be anything but soulmates; he can feel in the beat of his heart a thousand lives where they’ve done this before, always the same, always together, no matter the consequences.
Enjolras doesn’t care to remember those lives. They’re long gone in the winds of time, swept up into the fusing hearts of stars. Only their souls have stayed on earth, battling the world to find each other again and again and again. And he knows, in the same way he knew of R’s goodness, in the same way his soul recognised Grantaire’s, that their lives together have too often been cut short. But here, as they rest in a queen-sized bed, the noise of a summer night in Paris blaring and honking and shouting its way through the window, he knows another truth:
This time will last.