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He's owned a wallet with a chain since the day that damn tattoo showed up.
If there's one thing Enjolras doesn't need, it's a soul mate. The concept is so ridiculous to him that he can't even begin to put it into words. And then there's the fact that, no, fuck, he just doesn't have time for that shit. The entire world is so obsessed with the tattoos, turning eighteenth birthdays into some sort of sacred event just to see what those magical words will be. That's part of the problem, though it's just one of many and certainly the one he can't fix. If more people were concerned with things that will actually change their lives and not this silly soul mate business, maybe the world would be a better place. As it stands, Enjolras has to keep focused and stay devoted to the cause because he's definitely in the minority. A soul mate would just get in the way.
So he is never, ever dropping that fucking wallet.
-----
Of course Grantaire's tattoo would say something like that.
The others he's seen have been sweet or romantic, cute, quirky, and even funny. He's even seen some that are simply an ambiguous greeting, and that would be preferable to what's on his forearm. But, no. His is just outright rejection. And why shouldn't it be? The rest of his life has fallen right in line with that theme. It started with his father, and then teachers and potential employers and people he's asked out on dates after taking a few shots of liquid courage all followed suit. He doesn't exactly go around feeling sorry for himself, make no mistake. But Grantaire just thinks it's so very hilarious that his supposed soul mate starts their happily-ever-after out by saying that they don't want any part of him.
He just can't wait for that day to arrive.
-----
Enjolras is rushing out the door of the Admin building. Another appointment at the Counseling Center. Another pointless session with a counselor who tries to give him counsel about why, while it's encouraged to participate in classes, it might not be the best idea to get into angry, loud confrontations with his professors. Enjolras has sat through this bullshit before and it always ends the same: with him coolly asking the counselor to review his GPA and, when his 4.0 effectively shuts down the argument that it's hurting his academic standings, he hotly informs them that colleges should be places that encourage and foster free thinking and challenges to the status quo. And then he promptly leaves.
The only problem is this particular session, while not going any different, has just made him late for his meeting with the others. He can already hear Combeferre's cluck of the tongue, can see him looking at his watch and then over his glasses at Enjolras. And Courfeyrac will just laugh and say another date with a counselor, chief? because his best friends know him entirely too well. Jehan will tell him to ignore them and come check out the latest flyer he's working on, and Marius will breeze in even later than him so that Enjolras will have an excuse to turn the focus on him.
If he can just make it across campus and get there.
He breaks into something of a jog, now. He doesn't just hate being late if he can possibly help it, though he does. They only have the meeting room in the Library Resource Center for a two hour block, and it isn't always easy to coordinate everyone's schedules so they can actually all meet at once.
So Enjolras mutters sorry and excuse me i'm in a hurry as he darts and weaves and half-runs around the other students going to classes or the food court or home to dorms. He isn't trying to be rude, but it's inevitable that he brushes up against or jostles another person here or there.
But Enjolras makes his fatal mistake that day when he doesn't actually stop but only turns around while still running backwards to make sure the girl he just elbowed is okay. She says she is and then her eyes widen and the warning of hey look out! dies on her lips just as the collision happens.
-----
Grantaire isn't having the best afternoon.
He left his sketchbook in the subway car in his haste to get off at his stop - which was the wrong stop anyway as he'd been too engrossed in his drawing to realize he'd missed his. Thankfully, it was brand new and the sketch of the woman sleeping across from him was the only one in it. Still, good sketchbooks don't grow on trees. Missing his stop made him late to his first class because he had to walk an extra mile and half, and being late for his first class subsequently set the rest of his schedule off.
So Grantaire is in a little bit of a hurry as he briskly walks across campus to get to his Life Drawing class on time. Or at least somewhat closer to on time than he'd arrived at his last three classes. He is making pretty good time, too, though he has to multitask a little. Grantaire has an assignment due and he knows he didn't leave it at home. He flips open his satchel as he walks, rooting around inside and searching for the folder with his finished pieces in it. He distinctly remembers putting it on top of the kitchen counter, right next to the coffeemaker so he couldn't forget it. And... he didn't have time to make coffee today.
"Fuck," Grantaire curses under his breath. He angrily closes his bag, raking a hand through his hair. It's just one more thing he didn't need to go wrong. As he's raising his gaze back to the path before him, Grantaire sees a red blur coming right at him.
-----
"Oh, shit, I am so sorry," Enjolras says, hands on the guy's arms to help steady him. They'd nearly toppled over, both of them, but somehow managed to stay on their feet. Enjolras did knock a folder of papers out of his hands, though, and so he crouches to help gather them at rapid speed.
He shoves the messy stack into the guy's hands and jogs off again. "Really, really sorry!" he calls over his shoulder.
-----
Grantaire avoids the red blur at the very last second by spinning to the side, more agile on his feet than anyone would expect from years of dance lessons - though he likes to attribute it to the boxing he also took up in his teens.
The guy right behind takes the full force of the hit. It happens so quick. Grantaire doesn't even get a good look at the red t-shirt clad man, He just sees a mass of thick, blond hair darting off in a matter of seconds. Grantaire doesn't really have the time, but the hit-and-run left a few papers on the ground and the poor victim still looks so bewildered. So he goes to help him. He picks up a few papers and underneath finds a wallet. When he hands it to the guy, though, he shakes his head and says it isn't his.
Grantaire looks up and sees the red sweater already damn near out of sight. "Shit," he says, tucking the wallet into his pocket and taking off at a run.
-----
Enjolras pushes the doors of the library open and races up the stairs to the third floor. When he makes it to the meeting room, he's twenty-five minutes late and out of breath.
"I know, I know," he pants, holding up his hands in surrender. Combeferre is looking at him just the way he expected he would. "I'm late. But I have a real good reason for—"
The door opens behind Enjolras and he whirls around, never happier to see Marius.
Only it isn't Marius at all. It's some guy in a dark green Henley, holding something out to Enjolras. His eyes widen and his hand immediately flies to his back pocket to check because, oh fuck, no, is that—
"Hey," he begins, "you dropped your wallet."
-----
The blond puts a hand over his face, groaning into his palm. "Oh god, please, no, I don’t want this," he says.
Grantaire was already definitely caught off guard by how stunningly beautiful the guy is, but now he feels like the entire damn floor just fell out from beneath his feet. His soul mate. Right here. With the most brilliantly blue eyes, a perfect cupid's bow curving his pink lips, the most delicate features, and all that glorious hair. He makes the faces of every single one of Botticelli's angels look ordinary.
-----
From the expressions on their faces alone, Courfeyrac would've known what had just happened between Enjolras and Mystery Wallet Returner. But he's seen Enjolras in his boxers (and less because what trio of friends hasn't dared each other to skinny dip in a canal at some point) and so he knows just what the tattoo on his thigh says. And judging from Mystery's face, he has Enjolras' pained protestations somewhere on his body.
"Ohhhh," he says, sliding off the tabletop he's sitting on. He grabs Combeferre's sleeve and tugs enthusiastically on it. "This is it! That's his soul mate!"
Combeferre pushes his glasses up and looks over at the two of them, Enjolras just peeking at the guy from between his fingers and the guy just gaping back at him. On the forearm of the arm that's still extended, holding Enjolras' wallet out, he can just make out the words 'don't want this' peeking out from under his pushed-up sleeve.
He sighs and closes his laptop, shoving it into his bag. "Come on, gents," he says, beckoning to the others seated around the large, round table. They're all wearing expressions ranging from elated (Jehan) to downright puzzled by the whole process (Feuilly, who hasn't met his match yet). "Clear out. We can move this to Joly's dorm room. It's closest."
There's a shuffling of papers and scraping of chair legs on the floor as they all make haste to file out. Courfeyrac slings an arm around Enjolras before he leaves, telling him whether you want it or not, baby, it's happening. He grins and pats Enjolras on the ass before Combeferre can take a hold of his arm and haul him from the room. Bossuet is the last one out, Joly's fingers linked with his and leading him through the door.
"Good luck," he says, winking at Enjolras and grinning as he shuts the door.
-----
Enjolras doesn't even know his name. Good luck, Bossuet had said. All the luck in the world can't save him from this. This is the moment he's been dreading for so long now. This is his soul mate standing across from him, not even five feet away, still holding out that fucking traitorous wallet. This is absolutely terrifying.
"So, you're, uh... you and I . We're... um," Enjolras stammers, words failing him for maybe the first time since he learned to speak. He lets out a huff of breath, reaching up to nervously tug at the end of his bushy ponytail. He gets no response, though he admittedly didn't give much to respond to. The Good Samaritan is just standing there, arm out, greenish eyes round as saucers and staring, unblinkingly, at him.
Enjolras doesn't know what else to do, so he finally takes his wallet. Just like in a damn movie, their fingertips brush when he does and Enjolras wants to look up at the sky and shout are you fucking kidding me because he swears he felt sparks pass between them. "Thanks, by the way," he says. "For bringing me this. You could've just taken it to the lost and found."
The guy shakes his head and looks down and blushes, sort of all at once, and Enjolras is shocked at how endearing he finds it. Shocked and annoyed. He has principles. He has always believed the soul mate thing was just some sort of propaganda or a tool through which the government could control the masses. It isn't real. People buy into the hype and that's the only reason it works. He is going to be the first to resist, though, because the cause is far too important to him. Much more important than dark curls that frame his interesting face almost in a halo-like manner
Well, shit.
"What's your name?" Enjolras asks. It can't hurt to at least find that out. He's still sticking to his guns. It's not like he's pledging his life to him or anything.
The other man lifts his gaze slightly, just enough so that his definitely green eyes are shaded by eyelashes that seem too long and curled to be real. Goddamn it. "Grantaire," he says. His voice is low and rich and had it been that way when he spoke before? Enjolras can't remember. "You mind if I ask yours?"
Enjolras finds that endearing, too, the way Grantaire politely asks his soul mate permission to ask his name. He is smiling before he realizes it. "Enjolras," he replies.
Grantaire rocks back on his heels and shoves his hands into his pockets, and one corner of his mouth quirks up into a hint of a bashful smile. It does something to Enjolras' chest, makes it feel oddly hollow and tingly at the same time.
And that's the exact moment he knows he's well and truly fucked.