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Enjolras is not upset.
He has no reason to be upset because all of Grantaire’s exes may be permanently inked on Grantaire’s skin, but they aren’t in Grantaire’s life anymore. He is in Grantaire’s life and he plans on being in it for a long time.
So it doesn’t matter that his name hasn’t found a place on Grantaire’s wrist.
It doesn’t.
(Except, of course, it does.)
--
Enjolras has heard of Emilia’s story. Everyone’s heard of Emilia’s story. Emilia was the first person in Grantaire’s life who had been supportive of his art, who’d ooh-ed and ahh-ed over his first painting, and had stared him down until he’d agreed to go to art school. Emilia had catalyzed a huge change of direction in Grantaire’s life, so it is understandable that Grantaire has this habit of running his thumb across the stripe of skin on his wrist that has Emilia written in a lovely cursive –Emilia’s handwriting– just right before he paints. It is a small, subtle movement that no one would take note of.
Grantaire isn’t cruel. Enjolras is sure that if Grantaire knew it bothered him, he would stop doing it. It is more likely that Grantaire himself doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it.
Enjolras notices, though. It’s not the first time he’s caught Grantaire running his fingers over her name with a small smile on his face, and it’s stupid that he feels such a strong surge of jealousy at that because he’s the one in Grantaire’s life now, so it doesn’t matter if Grantaire is never going to run his thumb across Enjolras’ name and smile fondly, it doesn’t.
(It does.)
--
Emilia isn’t the only one Grantaire thinks of from time to time. There’s also Pierre.
“He taught me how to dance,” Grantaire tells Courfeyrac, and then laughs. “For a great part of my teenage life, he was the only reason I could enjoy anything in life.”
Grantaire’s smile is a little fond and whimsical and Enjolras feels his fist clench tightly under the table, and it takes so much effort for him to unclench it even though he is not upset.
Combeferre shoots him a concerned look from beside him and Enjolras forces himself to shake his head and smile.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Combeferre tells him anyway, because Combeferre reads him better than anyone else.
“I know,” Enjolras says.
‘Do you really?’ a treacherous voice in his head whispers back.
--
Jehan’s name is one of the first names on Grantaire’s wrist, as far as Enjolras can tell.
Enjolras isn’t normally envious of Jehan, not when it is obvious that he is pining after Courfeyrac, who is uncharacteristically oblivious about all matters that concern him, but when Jehan sometimes presses his fingers to his name on Grantaire’s hand in lieu of a greeting, Enjolras wishes that he too could be able to do that. The gesture is intimate, and one that Enjolras is immensely glad that Grantaire doesn’t really share with anyone else except Jehan. He doesn’t think that he would be able to look at anyone else do it.
Jehan catches him starring one day, and must have correctly interpreted Enjolras’ expression, because he cuts back on it. Enjolras is grateful for the thought, but it proves to be unnecessary because it does nothing to cut down the fear in his heart that he mightn’t mean as much to Grantaire as everyone else seems to think he does.
--
“You are incapable of believing!” Enjolras snaps, vehement in his anger, in one of their arguments and doesn’t miss when Grantaire’s fingers fly to his wrist. His eyes are wide, shock and hurt pulsing through, and Enjolras feels the all fight seep out from him. He takes a few steps forward, feet moving of their own accord until he’s standing right in front of Grantaire. “I didn’t mean that.”
Grantaire’s gaze is locked onto where his fingers dig tightly into the side of his wrist. He doesn’t say anything.
“I didn’t mean that,” Enjolras repeats, softly, and this time, Grantaire lets his fingers loosen until Enjolras can see the word Matthieu in neat print on the side of his wrist.
“I may not believe in much,” Grantaire says quietly, and looks up at Enjolras, “but I believe in you.”
Enjolras swallows against the lump in his throat and takes Grantaire’s hand in his, brushing against Matthieu, as he does, phrasing his question without words.
“He said that once,” Grantaire explains. “Said that we had too many contradicting views, said that if I didn’t know how to keep my views to myself, we were obviously too different for each other. He meant it.”
Enjolras’ grip on Grantaire’s hand tightens minutely. “I like that we are different,” he says. “I like that your ideals don’t match mine. I like that you don’t have to believe in my ideals to believe in me.”
Grantaire’s reply is a smile, small and soft, but lights Enjolras’ heart up all the same.
--
“Christ,” Bahorel groans, moving away from Grantaire. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Grantaire laughs and at Enjolras’ arched eyebrow, says, “I was giving him advice.”
“Physically impossible advice,” Bahorel corrects. “No one is that flexible.”
“Oh, it is possible,” Grantaire drawls almost lazily, leaning back in his seat. It is at this moment where Enjolras gets a context of the conversation, and tries not to blush when Grantaire says, “And if Apollo were more amenable to my advances in public, I would gladly demonstrate.”
They’ve been together for three weeks now, and it was Enjolras’ decision to take things slow, one that Grantaire pouts and sulks over, and one that Enjolras is determined to stick to. He doesn’t want to rush anything, not with Grantaire, but sometimes Grantaire tries his patience and his self control and God, when had it gotten so hot in here?
“I don’t even want to know where you learnt all these filthy things,” Bahorel says, making a face.
Grantaire turns his attention back to Bahorel and grins. “Her name was Sonia,” he tells Bahorel, and flips his wrist over to reveal her name, next to Jehan’s. “She was a budding gymnast.”
Enjolras feigns a phone call and leaves the Musain because he doesn’t need to hear this. He doesn’t need to see Grantaire’s face light up when he talks about other people. He doesn’t need to see Grantaire brush his fingers softly over anyone’s name.
(Except his.)
--
Rémi is an artist, like Grantaire. Juliette taught Grantaire how to cook. Geoff gave Grantaire a scar on his left foot. Marie was close to Grantaire’s mother, and kept him sane when his father passed away.
And Enjolras.
Enjolras is nothing compared to them.
--
“Hey, R,” Courfeyrac asks one night, “why didn’t you tattoo Enjolras’ name to your wrist?”
Courfeyrac doesn’t ask this loudly. It is a private conversation, one that isn’t meant for Enjolras’ ears, one that he wouldn’t even have noticed if he weren’t so sensitive to hearing his own name, especially when it comes from Courfeyrac’s lips, because it is never a good sign, but Enjolras freezes in the middle of telling Feuilly and Combeferre about their next protest and listens.
He wishes he wasn’t listening when Grantaire just laughs and says, “Why would I?”
Enjolras doesn’t need to hear the rest, doesn’t need Grantaire to reaffirm his fears, doesn’t need to have his heart broken.
--
Enjolras is sitting on a bench by the Seine when Grantaire finds him.
“Ask me,” Grantaire says. “Ask me why your name isn’t on my wrist.”
Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He thinks that if this is a segue to a breakup, and Grantaire’s goal is to break his heart into a million pieces, it is working very well.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and there is now a pleading lilt in his voice that Enjolras is powerless against. “Please.”
“Why?” he asks after a pause. The word is heavy on his tongue, his heart is beating too hard against his ribcage, his lungs feel too full and too empty all at the same time, and this, this is why he couldn’t bring himself to ask Grantaire about it in the beginning. Because if not knowing is already such a torture, what is it going to be like when Grantaire tells him what he doesn’t want to hear? “Why isn’t my name on your wrist?”
“Because your place isn’t on my wrist,” Grantaire says softly, and yes, Enjolras was right, it does hurt, it hurts a lot. But then Grantaire takes a hold of his hand and places it against his chest, right above his heart, where Enjolras can feel his heartbeat picking up. “It’s here.”
Grantaire lets his hand drop from Enjolras’, but Enjolras keeps his hand firmly pressed against Grantaire’s chest still.
“And I don’t just mean that metaphorically,” Grantaire says, just as Enjolras opens his mouth to say something. Enjolras can hear the smile in his voice now, and that’s good. That’s enough to make a smile tug up at the corner of his lips too. “I had your name tattooed on my chest two months after we met. I figured it’d never matter if you loved me back, because I was convinced that I would never feel quite as strongly for anyone else as I did with you.”
Enjolras’ lips part in surprise. “I didn’t- I thought I didn’t matter.”
“That’s not my fault,” Grantaire says with a shrug, playing up his nonchalance, trying to make this less of an issue than it is. “If you hadn’t insisted that we ‘take things slow’, you’d have seen it weeks ago.”
“Well, I didn’t know that you were walking around with my name inked on you, did I?” Enjolras asks, mimicking Grantaire’s nonchalance but fails terribly because fuck, even the thought itself is great.
“Are you saying that if I’d told you about it sooner, you wouldn’t have tried to force your let’s take things slow plan on me?” Grantaire asks, teasing. “I should’ve known you’d like the idea of me carrying your name on my skin like a brand.”
“That’s not—” Enjolras starts, but it is a token protest. That’s exactly it. He likes the idea of Grantaire being his.
“Shh,” Grantaire says. “I like the idea of you liking the idea of owning me, let me keep that fantasy.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but fists his hands in Grantaire’s t-shirt to tug him in until their lips meet in a kiss.
--
When Enjolras finally sees it, see his name marking Grantaire’s otherwise bare chest, he cannot help but to press a kiss against it.
“Mine,” he whispers, and that startles a laugh out of Grantaire, even as his eyes darken.
“You do like the idea of owning me,” Grantaire says, and while his tone is teasing, his eyes are slightly disbelieving and no, that will not do.
Enjolras presses his lips back to Grantaire’s skin, firmer this time, looks straight at Grantaire, and repeats, “Mine.”
“Yours,” Grantaire agrees, hoarsely, “for as long as you want me.”
There’s not much room for words after that.