Work Text:
Grantaire had lots of tattoos.
He quite enjoyed them, too, and the story they told. He’d gotten nearly everybody drunk enough to agree to get a tattoo with him at some point, and they’d all carried the plan out in the sober morning.
For Joly, they’d agreed good-humoredly on a germ. So it happened, both getting the green thing on their stomachs. Joly checked himself for infections every day for a month after, and Grantaire simply smiled along with him.
Bossuet, having the luck he had, only found it appropriate that they get a lucky charm(the cereal, not the rabbit's feet and horse shoes) on their backs. It was clever, and Grantaire agreed without any hesitance. They walked out of the shop as walking ads for the marshmallows.
Bahorel, Grantaire’s designated boxing partner and drinking buddy, only agreed to having a wine bottle, something the artist was quick to agree to. From then on he carried his alcoholism on his back, along with all of his luck.
Grantaire’s absolute best friend, who was too pure and kind to even think about marking up, eventually approached him for a matching tattoo.
They’d eventually settled on a watercolor over a black flower on their forearms. Jehan had beamed all day after it’d happened, clearly pleased with how the tattoo had come out.
Feuilly, the working man of the group, had decided one late and drunk night that he wanted “MOM” outlined in barbed wire. Grantaire had apparently agreed, because in the morning they woke up with sore upper arms and a MOM tattoo.
Poor Marius didn’t know what was happening the he agreed to putting a black ink mountain on his back. Afterwards, he wasn’t even aware that it existed until Cosette pointed it out with a giggle. He’d reddened and found a mirror to stare into, but ended up rather fond of it in the end.
Though Combeferre was very refined and formal, even he couldn’t resist his drink being spiked by a certain anonymous brunette Amis member. During both of their drunken stupors, they decided that the spectacle tattoo that now rested on their calves was a good idea.
Courfeyrac was perfectly willing even sober, even seemed pleased when Grantaire suggested a circle with a small mark in the center. So now, in the middle of their arms, sat a black circle with a tiny C in the center.
For Grantaire, he had something for himself, too. Written in Jehan’s swirling cursive and plain black ink, the words forever lingered on the inside of his arm, above the flower and circle: I am wild.
And as for Enjolras, he already possessed a marking on his pale skin. A small rosette, France’s colors, sitting above his heart.
One day, it was a year after they began dating. Enjolras was laying in Grantaire’s arms, tracing his tattoos, when he suddenly had an idea.
“Maybe you could get one.” He said, his fingers moving across Jehan’s writing. “Like mine. The rosette.”
Grantaire glanced down at him, before nodding. “Yeah. I could.”
And now, the last and final tattoo on Grantaire’s body, was a small rosette, just over his heart.