Chapter Text
Friday 7th May - 11:12
Something in the air between them was bothering Floréal, but she couldn’t for the life of her put her finger on what it was.
They’d arrived for Enjolras’s tattoo only slightly late – a bona fide miracle where Grantaire’s timekeeping is concerned – and set up in the front room, full of windows and adjacent to the reception area (separated only by a beaded curtain that had apparently been hand made by Jehan. Kid’s got skills apparently. Weird, obscure skills.) When she had raised an eyebrow at Grantaire's choice of venue he just answered by saying the natural lighting in the front was better than the artificial stuff in the back.
Right.
In reality, there was no noticeable difference and anyone with a working set of eyes could’ve told you that.
Of course, being the wonderful friend that she is, Floréal said nothing about that, just made an ‘oh, really?’ face and walked away. Privately, she figured that she deserved some kind of medal for avoiding the temptation that was revealing just how many times she’d heard him whine about how golden Enjolras’s hair looks in the sunlight. At the very least, she deserved a raise.
From the moment the bell jingled over the door, she could tell something had changed, but exactly whether the change was good or bad was still unclear. Hell, it was probably a bit of both. Nothing the Grantaire siblings did seemed to be simple.
God, was she really going to marry into this family? Then again that is exactly the kind of questionable decision that a Grantaire would make. Great.
The change wasn’t immediately obvious, only clear in the way they moved around each other and talked gently, privately. All sounds good, right? Wrong. The blushing was unbearable.
Needing someone to understand her frustration, she wandered to the backroom, fishing her phone out of her back pocket as she went. “Something’s off with them,” she said as the line came to life.
On the other end of the call, Combeferre just sighed and said, “I know.”
“I mean,” she began, falling back onto the sofa, I’ve seen R in relationships before, granted I’ve never seen R in a relationship with him, but he’s never this…” she waved her free hand about, trying to find the right word, “blushy.” Then she finally put her finger on what was bothering her. “Oh, fucking hell,” she exclaimed louder than she had meant. “They still have no idea, do they?”
Despite her less than subtle exclamation, when she stuck her head around the doorframe into the reception area - it was surprisingly easy to snoop through the beads - to see if either of the men had heard her, neither of them were bothered by anything outside of their private, little bubble. Gross.
Combeferre sighed down the line again, this time so hard that, just for a second, Floréal was sure she could feel air coming out of the phone speaker. “I thought they’d figured it out the other night. I mean,” he said with a small, humourless laugh, “they were napping on the sofa together! Enj was basically on top of him!”
He paused and Floréal could picture his having taken his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose like an exhausted maths teacher. “Fuck” he said after a moment, “I just don’t have the energy to deal with this anymore.”
Floréal huffed a slightly bitter laugh. “Like either of us have a say in that.”
“Courf has been campaigning for years for us to just lock them in a room until they figure it out, but I’m not down with setting up a homicide.”
Floréal hummed her agreement. “Plus,” she said with a laugh, “what lawyer would rep any of you in court? Rel? Good luck with that dude.”
Combeferre laughed on the other end and then groaned suddenly. “Fuck, break’s over. Lumbar punctures and verbal abuse await. See ya.”
“Have fun,” she deadpanned, then quickly added a “Later” just as all at once the call disconnected, the bell above the door jingled suddenly, and she remembered she had a consultation coming in for another “medium-sized tattoo”, or whatever the fuck that meant.
***
Still Friday - 12:47
Apparently “medium-sized” these days meant a five centimetres square flower inside a slightly art-deco looking triangle, otherwise known as every other tattoo she did on young white women in 2017. Still, it would be easy, and the woman seemed nice enough. She couldn’t complain too much.
With the client out of the door and the down-payment in the register, Floréal settled back into her chair at the desk with every intention of getting some good headway into the book she’d been meaning to read since she bought it a year and a half ago.
Apparently, ‘every intention’ did not account for her terrible attention span, great hearing, and affinity for gossip. “Want a break?” she heard Grantaire ask softly followed by a barely audible hum of agreement. Her cue to go and snoop. The book was on the desk and she was out of her chair in barely a moment.
Grantaire had been hiding the design from her for weeks and she was just about dying from curiosity. It was pretty gratifying, though, when she found out that she wasn’t the only one it was being kept secret from. Joly had come in a few days before, dragging his laughing lovers behind him and demanding Floréal check their tattoos to make sure they were healing properly – it had been a month. Their tattoos were fine. When Floréal had asked them what Grantaire had planned for Enjolras’s tattoo, they’d looked even more baffled than Grantaire when she’d watched Risa explain stamp duty to him almost fifteen years before. Good times.
Now, finally having the opportunity to see it even halfway done was too tempting to miss.
Just before she stepped through the beads, Grantaire shuffled out of the room, stretching his back as he went. “If you’re planning on bullying him,” he said as he passed her, “just know that he’s decaffeinated, so get ready to have statistics spouted at you in the most pissed off way you’ve ever heard.”
If he had bothered to turn around to look at her as he spoke – though, Floréal had the sneaking suspicion that he didn’t because he was still fucking blushing – he would’ve seen the amused way she raised her eyebrows at his retreating form. Well, she thought, this should be interesting.
She strode in – she did not flounce, shut up, Ris, I do not flounce – saying brightly, “Let me have a look at this work in progress!” Enjolras, much to her amusement, jumped at the sudden sound of her voice, but nevertheless stuck out his right arm obediently when she gestured for it.
At this point, it was colourless, just an outline on top of the transfer, but she could already tell it was going to be something special. It was a window, no brick or stone around it, just a window with its shutters opening into Enjolras’s skin – she’d have to psychoanalyse that later, after all, what’s the point in having an expensive psychology degree if you don’t use it to torment your boss. Hanging from the window frame there was a fold of fabric hanging out onto Enjolras’s skin. Beyond the shutters and draped fabric, there wasn’t much detail yet, just the barest outlines of what looked like a walking stick, a bar, a table or two, and a blob that looked like it was most likely going to turn into a stack of books or papers.
Now, Floréal had visited the Musain a fair few times, though not as many as Grantaire and his not-boyfriend, but she’d never seen it empty. Perhaps she was just getting sentimental as she approached her late thirties, but there was something of a knot in her chest as she looked at the image. It didn’t feel wrong per se, but she never again wanted to see the Musain that empty if she didn’t have to. It was far too close to the reoccurring dreams she’d had as a child, an empty café and lost strangers that made the world feel so empty and bleak. Cheerful stuff for a child, huh.
No, she shook her head, this wasn’t like that. 1. It was a tattoo, for god’s sake. And 2. It was nothing even approaching bleak. Even in black and white, it had the potential to be wonderful and Floréal immediately understood why Grantaire had drawn it.
It was perfect. She looked up at Enjolras, who had been eyeing her closely the entire time, and smiled. “It’s gonna be great,” she said around a small lump in her throat, she coughed slightly to clear it. Then added quickly with a conspiratorial smile, “Don’t tell R I said that. I’m sure his ego doesn’t need a boost.” Enjolras just hummed noncommittally.
Turning on her heels, she left just as Grantaire arrived back with two steaming mugs in hand.
***
Still Friday - 14:18
Surprising even herself, she was about a hundred and seventy pages into her book – it was actually pretty good – by the time Grantaire and his blond left their little room. Grantaire left first, holding the beads aside for Enjolras, who Floréal would bet hadn’t looked up from his new tattoo yet, to step through.
“Flo, could you, uh…” Grantaire started, waving and gesturing his hands around like Floréal was just supposed to know what that meant. “I’m gonna need a couple, um. Yeah,” he finished unceremoniously as he disappeared through the backroom to the unoccupied workshop in the back. Fortunately for him, Floréal did know what he had meant. He just shouldn’t assume that she does.
She whirled about the room with the ease of certainty brought by familiarity gained over years and collected Saniderm, ointment and pamphlets on tattoo care and the ideal kinds of moisturiser to use.
Now, if she was a worse person, she might’ve questioned Enjolras mercilessly about why exactly her future brother-in-law just ran into an unoccupied room at the first opportunity when she returned to the desk with an armful of stuff. Luckily for Enjolras, she was feeling merciful. “So,” she began instead, “let’s see the thing, then.”
Enjolras held out his arm once again and Floréal was immediately filled with vindication over just how right she had been.
It was wonderful.
The colours were perfect and she found herself hoping to any god listening that blondie would take care of it properly so the colours would stay just like that for as long as possible. The draped fabric had become the elegant folds of a red flag hitched on a hook on the window frame, highlighted beautifully by the golden light emanating from inside the café. It was one of Grantaire’s best, most careful pieces, no doubt.
The style was wonderful, too. Realistic, not too sharp, not too impressionist. Absolutely perfect for—Wait.
“You know,” she began conversationally, hardly able to suppress her sadistic glee, “the style he’s used is very similar to an artist from Toulouse in the mid-19th to 20th century. You’re from around there, aren’t you?” He nodded eagerly, seeming genuinely interested, just as Grantaire slouched back into the room. Poor bastard had always had terrible timing. “R!” she called because, frankly, it was just too tempting. “This style that you used,” she went on, “Very Enjolras, isn’t it?”
Grantaire stared at her with a clenched jaw and eyes that said ‘please, for the love of God, just don’t, I can’t do this right now’ and, as we’ve already established, Floréal was a very merciful person. Really, she should get a fucking award. “Although,” she said, thoughtfully, “I suppose that’s why you picked it.” He looked at her for a moment, as though trying to figure out whether he should be pissed at her or not. Not caring whether he’d figured it out yet, she started towards the backroom. “He’s all ready to check out, I’m gonna go contemplate tattooing myself again.”
Contrary to what the sadistic air that had settled on her just minutes ago may suggest, she wasn’t even slightly tempted to stick around in the awkward aftermath of that. Grantaire knew where she was and he could come and find her and whine if he needed to.
And he would. Of that, she was completely certain. Seriously, at this point she doubted he’d ever stop being completely devastated by Enjolras – in every way except the fun one, it seemed.
She hoped they weren’t hopeless. Her hope was beginning to feel a little hopeless, too, though. And, as much as she loved Grantaire, his devastation was waring and if Enjolras were even half as bad, Floréal seriously admired Combeferre’s patience.