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It had been happening for as long as anyone could remember. Maybe even before the term “soul mates” was invented. It was kind of a prickly process, anyway. Literally on one hand, because sometimes your skin would feel prickly up to a week before it actually appeared; and metaphorically on the other hand, because, you know, all the controversy. Like, what was a “soul mate,” really? Was it really ethical to have more than one? How can it be platonic and romantic? What if it changed? What if your soul mate died before you met them? What if you weren’t your soul mate’s soul mate? What about people faking it by tattooing themselves? Could you reject your soul mate?
The philosophy majors had whole department courses on it, but most of the public didn’t care that much. It was interesting to think about, sure, but it was kind of a waste to philosophize past the point of turning eighteen. Because once you were eighteen, you joined the ranks of everyone else with the tattoo, bearing the first words your soul mate would ever speak to you, and nuances kind of became unimportant. It became more relevant to actually start keeping an eye out for The One. (Or two, or seven, or none – it varied, but a majority of people had just one.)
Once you were college-aged, with your peers also past the age of maturity, it became standard issue to ask about the tattoos when you were getting to know a group of people. You always went for the oldest first – because they would have had theirs the longest, and might have met their soul mate already, and if so you wanted to hear the stories. (The funnier or more meet-cute the better.) For this reason, Bahorel, as a tall and broad and scruff-bearing fellow whose relatively older age tended to be readily apparent, always got asked before anyone else. He tried to make it quick and nonchalant, so as not to disappoint.
Why?
He didn’t have one.
Spent probably about the full year of being eighteen searching for it all over. Bottom of his feet, behind his ear, in his nostrils, you name it, he’d checked it. But after so long, he eventually just had to conclude it wasn’t there, and wasn’t going to be. He’d never been a romantic guy, particularly. There it was, then – guess he’d be happily living out his life with no one at all.
It wasn’t unheard of, really. Some people just… didn’t have a soul mate. Maybe they’d perished too early to meet them, or maybe there just was no one for them, or maybe it was a glitch or just bad luck.
“I don’t know about luck,” butted in the shorter bald kid among the scattered people at the mixer he was reluctantly explaining to. “I’ve got about the worst there is, I think. Luck, I mean – though my word is pretty unfortunate too.”
“Yeah?” challenged Bahorel. “What’s yours?”
Bossuet turned around and tugged down his shirt collar to reveal an unusually bold stamped ‘HEY.’
Bahorel winced. Okay, that was always pretty shitty.
It was through Bossuet that Bahorel met Grantaire, mostly because Bossuet was eager to show off the one person he knew “who has a tattoo more grimace-inducing than even me,” as he said proudly. The grumpy, underfed-looking straggler was bullied into taking his shirt off, which he finally did with a groaning sigh, then turned around to reveal one of the longer first words Bahorel had ever seen:
'WELL FIRST, I'D JUST LIKE TO POINT OUT THAT IT'S REALLY RUDE TO JUST INTERRUPT SOMEONE OUT OF TURN. SECOND, I THINK MAYBE THERE'S BEEN SOME KIND OF MISUNDERSTANDING HERE; YOU SEE, WE'RE A NON-PROFIT, STUDENT RUN ORGANIZATION FOR ACTIVISM, NOT DEBATE. I'M SURE YOU COULD FIND A CLUB BETTER SUITED TO YOUR INTERESTS SOMEWHERE ON CAMPUS AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO GET THE IMPRESSION THAT YOU AREN'T WANTED; WE DO WANT TO ENCOURAGE DISCUSSION AND RESPECT THE BELIEFS AND ARGUMENTS OF OTHERS, HOWEVER, IF YOU'RE GOING TO CONSTANTLY HECKLE MY FRIENDS FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT I'D BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO – UM, ARE YOU OKAY? WHAT'S GOING ON – WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?'
“Motherfucker,” breathed Bahorel in horrified awe. “D’you think that’s all in one breath?”
“I’m hoping it’s a fucking joke,” muttered Grantaire darkly, tugging his shirt back on.
Bossuet couldn’t stop giggling.
Grantaire, in turn, was the one who introduced them both to the best local bars, shops, and coffee chains, including the artsy Café Musain, where Bahorel got to witness his very first soul mate meeting. Ironically, in a turn of the fates, it was Bossuet.
Both Bahorel and Grantaire were skeptical when Bossuet rushed back from the counter of the café to their booth in the back corner. “I think I’ve just met them,” he breathed in a hushed, excited tone.
“You mean your…?”
“Yeah.”
Grantaire was frowning, looking at who was currently manning the counter. “Dude, ‘Chetta? I’m gonna go ahead and cut you off right there, bud. She and me go way back, and I’m sorry to say, but she’s already spoken for. Spectacles on her right.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m almost sure of it.” Bossuet was practically beaming, Grantaire frowning, and Bahorel just curious as all hell.
“Let me guess,” drawled Grantaire. “She said ‘hey’?”
“No,” said Bossuet. “They both did.”
Grantaire’s skeptical expression dropped slack. “Motherfucker.”
“What did you say back?” prompted Bahorel, already squinting towards the counter to see if he could see the cashiers in question’s words.
Bossuet shrunk a little, scratched his ear, and admitted sheepishly: “’Hi.’”
Even a double-hey and double-hi wasn’t necessarily a sure thing, considering the frequency of the expressions, but Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta became near-instantly inseparable anyway. Much to Grantaire’s dismay, they got along famously – though most of that dissolved when he discovered that Joly, who he’d never known personally before, was a positively sporting drinking partner.
With the developing friendship between the five, Joly soon ended up inviting all of them back to his place for a holiday party, which is how they befriended Joly’s classmate Combeferre. Grantaire and Combeferre, though an unlikely pair, ended up bonding over mutual love for documentaries (if for different reasons), and Bahorel was just pleased to be introduced to a med student who probably wouldn’t panic and second-guess whether rib bruising was contagious if he ever came to him to get patched up after a fight. (No offense to Joly. The guy wasn’t really that bad, but he really could stand to take a chill pill every once in a while.)
Upon hearing this, Combeferre just chuckled and said, “After knowing Enjolras for most of my life, I have plenty of experience dealing with the aftermath of skirmishes.”
Bahorel immediately demanded to meet this Enjolras guy. Combeferre seemed surprised, but the other just grinned and shrugged.
“I love me a guy that loves a fight.”
Winter break came before he could make that sort of introduction, though. It was spent getting to know some of their other classmates: Courfeyrac, best friend of Combeferre (Bahorel had originally mistaken them for soul mates but they both shook their heads and said they were still waiting), and through Courfeyrac, a poetry aficionado called Jehan. Jehan had the curious case of at least half a dozen ‘first words’ tattoos scattered up both his wrists; through conversation, Bahorel learned that the other had no clue what it could mean.
“Multiple soul mates?” suggested Bahorel, though unconvinced sheerly by the number.
Jehan only shrugged helplessly, tugging one of his sleeves back down. “Maybe – but I’ve never felt a soul-mate draw towards anyone that’s said any of these.”
Bahorel gave a sympathetic grimace, looking at them again. “I mean, maybe you haven’t met them yet. They’re all pretty generic, near as bad as Lesgle. Heck, I’m pretty sure I said that to you when we met,” he added, pointing to one of the lines curving around his mid-left forearm: ‘YOU'RE JEHAN, RIGHT?’
Jehan looked strangely pensive after that, as though struck by a thought. Bahorel would only find out later that he’d helped the other come to the discovery that he eventually did: his ‘soul mates’ were his variety of closest friends, and indeed, Bahorel would end up being one of them.
It was before the meeting that they met Marius, who was glumly rolling an overstuffed suitcase off of a bus across the street as they walked to the bar they were supposed to meet the others at. Bossuet squinted across the street, slowed to a halt, and then started waving his arms frantically at the figure none of them had ever seen before.
“Who the fuck are you waving like a madman at?” queried Bahorel.
“That’s the guy I lost my class for!” he answered excitedly, as though that wasn’t a bad thing.
The poor brunette across the way looked extremely confused, glancing around both ways and even pointing at himself briefly, but eventually came across the way, while Grantaire and Bahorel loitered with twin expressions of disgruntlement. Still, Bossuet retained his cheer.
“Do I know you?” asked the stranger hesitantly.
“No!” said Bossuet. “But I am your guardian angel. I called your name for you in that Common Law Practices of the 1900s lecture the other day. You would have got knocked off the list otherwise, you know. Well, I was instead, since Blondeau maintained I can’t be two people at once, which I insist is a magnificent contradiction, considering my legal identity situation. But anyway – Pontmercy. Marius Pontmercy, right? What on earth would possess you to miss one of the only mandatory lectures?”
The freckled boy grew beet red, looking overcome with embarrassment. “I was getting disowned…”
Grantaire let out a low whistle.
“Bad luck!” crowed Bossuet. “I know it well.”
Courfeyrac came skirting up from around the corner, apparently having been looking out for them.
“Dudes, what are you waiting for? Our fearless leader’s started without you, didn’t you want to introduce Bahorel or something?”
The cheerful fellow explained the situation, and Courfeyrac brightened. “Well, Hell, stranger, I’ll take you in.” Despite sputtered protests, he reached for his suitcase, meaning to take the burden from him. Upon lifting it, though, he made a face. “Christ, stranger, what’ve you got in here, dumbbells?”
“Just clothes!” he insisted too-quickly. “And… and just a couple books.”
“Well how many clothes do you have?” asked Bahorel, trying out the weight for himself. “Jesus.”
The boy colored again. “Only a few! … All my shirts are long-sleeved, though?”
This made no sense to the weight, but the companions were curious enough to bite.
“… Why?”
Marius reluctantly, after much prompting, rolled up his sleeve to reveal the quote on his bicep underneath.
‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY YARD?!’
Bossuet laughed so hard they nearly had to carry him to the bar.
Grantaire had forsworn all school activities since high school due to his tattoo, but the Corinthe sold good enough drinks for cheap enough prices that Courfeyrac’s persuasion had convinced him to tag along for this event anyway. He didn’t have to participate, after all.
He wasn’t sure what to expect, really, but it seemed somebody was already occupying the stage at the back of the room, and they certainly didn’t look like a School Activities President (more like a singer or model, with those wild glamorous curls), so Grantaire turned a chair to listen for his amusement. He enjoyed Jehan’s open mics, after all, and everyone was sitting in this area anyway. Unfortunately, the blonde stepped down before he could hear anything, and Combeferre took the platform instead, starting to go over some sort of agenda. It wasn’t until the would-be-doctor started talking about the nancy protests and letter campaigns they were supposedly supporting that Grantaire broke.
“I’m sorry, what? This was not what I was told was happening here. Where’s the verbal sparring match? I was gonna root Bahorel on. Instead you’re saying you’re secretly some sort of charitable organization?” He gave Combeferre a betrayed look.
Almost immediately, he was interrupted by the fierce-looking blonde. Fuck, he was part of the thing? Jesus hell. It took a few seconds, though, for Grantaire to start processing his words and realize what he was saying.
“– …non-profit, student run organization for activism, not debate. I’m sure you could find a club better suited to your interests somewhere on campus and I don’t want you to get the impression that you aren’t wanted; we do want to encourage discussion and respect the beliefs and arguments of others, however, if you’re going to constantly heckle my friends for the rest of the night I’d be more than happy to- um, are you okay? What’s going on- Why are you looking at me like that?”
Bahorel and Bossuet were both staring at him in shock and awe, perfectly framing Grantaire’s next, horrified words:
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
This was what alit Combeferre’s attention, because while he had never asked Grantaire’s, he knew exactly what phrase was printed neatly on Enjolras’ left shoulderblade.
From the slow draining of color in Enjolras’ face, the other had realized it too.
“…Motherfucker,” breathed Bahorel under his breath. “Fucking incredible.”
Though Enjolras and Grantaire’s had been perhaps the most spectacular meeting he’d witnessed, others throughout the year were heartwarming. Marius, after getting enough money to move out of Courfeyrac’s couch, ended up getting to know his neighbor, who made a good friend to many of them. She could be coarse at times, but you just can’t not be sold on a girl who, the evening of the first protest she tags along at, bursts into tears in Combeferre’s clinic because he’s treating her little brother’s bruised collarbone (“He shouldn’t have been there – goddamnit Gavroche, why can’t you listen?! He never listens, I’m so sorry, his first word was no –“), suddenly clutching at her own collar that echoes that same two-letter word in stricken realization.
It was Éponine’s throwaway comment at the sight of some girl at the park, too, that prompted Marius to suddenly become smitten with a very particular walking path, and, a month later, accelerate his stalking to the point that, after a series of questionable decisions and the acquisition of an address he definitely had not acquired ethically, he finally got to hear the words shamefully born on his bicep, and to learn that the object of his affections (“Cosette,” he relayed later dreamily) had only recently developed a line of script across her shoulders reading ‘I SWEAR I'M NOT CRAZY OR DANGEROUS PLEASE DON'T CALL THE POLICE.'
(It was pointed out to him that he probably should be more ashamed of poor Cosette’s unfortunate tattoo, but he wouldn’t hear much of it, only inspired by the fact that it meant they were meant to be.)
Equally touching was a round of hot chocolates around a campfire one night, celebrating Gavroche’s recent birthday with good-natured teasing and the sharing, in honor of Éponine’s tattoo, what everyone’s first words to each other had been, in any capacity. Courfeyrac and Combeferre took the longest to figure it out, having known each other since kindergarten, but eventually managed to recall something about sharing crayons, and then Grantaire was present of mind enough to point out, “Combeferre, isn’t your tattoo about sharing?”
The two grew different eyes for each other that night.
Bahorel spent the night before the last day of classes smoking with Jehan, feeling a kinship with the other over the no-proper-soul-mate thing. They reflected on the others’ matches and words and stories, laughing and imagining how theirs might have been worse – or sillier.
The first weekend of summer, Bahorel came into the bar to meet some of his friends. There was a new face there, as well; Enjolras introduced him as Feuilly, another Ami that had been studying abroad with some specialized program across the seas, something involving charity work simultaneously. Bahorel didn’t absorb much of it, just offered friendly smiles, until Enjolras wandered away and he waited for the other to say something, sipping his drink. There passed a few seconds of awkward silence, with the newly-introduced acquaintance apparently waiting on him, too, but just as Bahorel was about to open his mouth to ask whatever first came to mind, there was a flurry of fingers in front of a hesitant expression.
Suddenly Bahorel realized what his friends had been talking about. Specialized program – working with kids with disabilities. His face contorted and he blurted “Shit, I don’t know sign language.”
To his surprise, his companion’s light eyes widened, lips parting a bit, and when Bahorel looked hesitantly confused, the other lifted his hands, remembered and dropped them again, then shrugged out of his jacket, standing and presenting his bicep to a perplexed Bahorel.
He saw his own words echoed back at him and suddenly everything made sense.
(Combeferre glanced back from the corner of the room, blinked, and looked twice – then smiled.
However or whenever it happened, it looked like everybody ended up with who they needed most eventually after all.)