Chapter Text
“Grantaire!!” Bossuet yelled, stumbling into R’s bedroom and causing him to groan and roll-over out of sleep.
“What? Jesus Christ, its midnight!” Bossuet just nodded and took a multitude of deep breaths, “What do you want, baldy? I have a chem exam in the morning, in case you forgot.” Grantaire did like Bossuet a lot, don’t let the insults fool you; they’d been roommates at their boarding school all the two years since Bossuet had transferred in. The two of them had hit it off immediately, having the same witty sense of humor and the same love for alcohol and shit horror movies. It was moments like these, late at night, where Grantaire wished he had better friends, ones with more logical sleeping schedules.
“Yes, its midnight on April the 24th and even you aren’t so much of a dickhead to forget what that means.” Grantaire sat up and rubbed his eyes, now focusing on Bossuet, who was sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed and holding his wrists tight against his heart.
“Oh shit, you’re eighteen now, aren’t you?”
“Yeeessss,” Bossuet groaned, “And why couldn’t I have just gotten an easy one like every other fucking person on this planet?” Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. At the age of eighteen, every person is magically procured with a tattoo of the first words that their soulmate would say to them. It was a pretty simple process, actually. A lot of people were resentful towards the whole process, obviously. Since it was ‘dictating who they were to spend the rest of their lives with’ and ‘what if I want to fall in love with someone else’ and ‘don’t judge me for not picking to force myself into a relationship with my soul mate’. These protestations usually changed when said people actually meet their soulmates, but people still enjoy finding something to protest about. Grantaire didn’t really care about the whole stigma thing (although he occasionally saw the reasoning behind it which was still plagued by the futility of the whole thing) instead choosing to wait to deal with it until he was eighteen, which would be happening sooner than he’d like. Bossuet wasn’t the first of his friends to get their tattoo. Jehan had got his a couple months ago, but Eponine, Bahorel, and Grantaire were still waiting. Grantaire had about a week left, Bahorel two months, and Eponine five, which she wasn’t very happy about. Now, Bossuet did have terrible luck, but R couldn’t think of a way in which he could screw-up the tattoo thing. Literally all he had to do was find the tattoo and read it and wait.
“What’s confusing about it? Let me see.”
“Wait… You speak Greek right?” Bossuet questioned slowly, making Grantaire more confused.
“Um, a little? Not well, I’m better at Latin. Marius does though, if you need him to translate something for you. Why do you ask?” On other occasions he would have been able to figure it out, but it was midnight. He’d just moments ago been in the middle of his first good-night’s-sleep in months. Bossuet thrust both wrists out unceremoniously and Grantaire looked down with a raised eyebrow.
“Whoa, you have two? I didn’t even know that was a thing.” Bossuet pouted and glared.
“Polyamory is a real thing, asshole. Don’t bash on me and my future lovers.” Grantaire just rolled his eyes and smiled, not saying anything more as he continued to read the scrawl. On his left was the Greek: θα πρέπει πραγματικά να είναι πιο προσεκτικοί, αγάπη, in a writing that he obviously could tell was a woman’s, even with the little he knew of the Greek language.
“Okay, so it’s late and again, I’m not that good at Greek so we should definitely go to Marius and figure out how to pronounce this and shit, but I think it says ‘you really need to be more careful, love’.”
“That sounds about right.” He mumbled bitterly and Grantaire laughed out loud.
“If it helps, it’s definitely a girl’s hand-writing.”
“Why would that help?”
“I don’t know. It could help narrow it down.”
“I think that the speaking in GREEK thing will be enough. Believe it or not I don’t talk to a lot of Greek people on a daily basis. What about the other one? That’s the one that’s worrying me.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure. That could be a boy or a girl’s handwriting.” Bossuet smacked Grantaire on the arm, probably hurting his own hand more than Grantaire.
“That’s not what I meant, shithead! Are you reading it?” He was; it said: I’m dying. No more, no less, just those two words in neat scrawl going horizontal and across his right wrist where the Greek had been vertical and all the way up to the crease in his left elbow.
“That could mean anything ‘Suet, don’t let your imagination get away from you.” Grantaire said to reason with him, to be somewhat reassuring, but he knew Bossuet wouldn’t listen.
“Grantaire!! One of my soulmates could be dying! What if I meet them as they’re bleeding out on the street, having just been in a knife-fight? Or I walk into a patient’s waiting room and they look at me and say their dying and I look at their chart and they have like leukemia or something?”
“Are you planning on becoming a doctor? Why would you have access to their chart?” Grantaire asked facetiously, but Bossuet just ignored him.
“What if I join the army and I SHOOT HIM and he dies in my arms and that’s the first and last thing he says to me.” Grantaire tried to butt in to say that was ridiculous, but apparently Bossuet was on a roll, “OR what if they’re some sort of serial killer, like in Sherlock, and they find out that they’re dying and so they just like to outlive people for the hell of it and so they sneak into my bed at night like some sort of invisible shadow and then when I notice their blade pressed to my neck,” why are you so sure they’re a knife person, why not a gun? Grantaire wanted to ask, but Bossuet didn’t give him a chance too as he was speaking so rapidly, “I open my eyes and gasp out ‘why are you doing this?’ and they just whisper ‘I’m dying’ and then BAM, they kill me dead.” Bossuet’s eyes were really wide by the end of his speech and he was nodding his head like he expected Grantaire to agree, but the cynic couldn’t help but crack-up laughing.
“No,” R said simply, putting a comforting hand on Bossuet’s shoulder, “That was enviably creative, I’ll give you that. But that isn’t going to happen. I promise. There’s no use dwelling on it, man. We’ll go talk to Marius in the morning, but until then you’ve just got to relax. Go back to sleep, ‘Suet.” He agrees reluctantly and instead of going back to his own bed he goes with curling up next to Grantaire, who wouldn’t complain about it even if he wanted to, because it was finally quiet.
The next day, Bossuet practically dragged Grantaire up and out of their dorm room. Had it been anyone else or any other situation less in important, Grantaire would’ve told him to fuck off and let him sleep in a little more, but Bossuet was his best friend and loyalty and morals and all that shit. And Grantaire was the only one who really knew Marius, other than Eponine (who no one dared to wake up earlier than necessary) and so he knew where the boy would be in the morning. He usually studied in the library before classes, because he was a HUGE DORK. Seriously, Grantaire had never met a bigger nerd. He was a nice kid, cute enough, but man that guy cared too much about his studies.
“Hey, Pontmercy!” Grantaire whispered, taking the seat across from him.
“Oh, hey, R! You’re up early.” Marius said with a chuckle. He was in first period chemistry with him, so he was well aware of Grantaire’s tendency to show up twenty-thirty minutes late, “What’s up?” he asked, setting his history book down on the table.
“Um, I have a favor to ask. Can you tell us how to pronounce this? Oh, this is Bossuet, by the way, my roommate.” Bossuet smiled and waved slightly and then thrust his wrist forward. Marius took it and squinted down at the writing.
“Yeah, I’ve seen you guys around campus together. Congratulations, and happy birthday I assume?” Bossuet nodded and smiled, but Marius was still avidly staring at the tattoo.
“Do you know how to pronounce it?” Bossuet said nervously.
“I do, actually. However, I think there is someone who could teach you better than I could. Do you guys mind coming with me?” Marius gathered up his books and stood quickly, looking at the two of them expectantly. Bossuet looked to Grantaire like he thought this guy was crazy, but R just shrugged his shoulders and stood up. They followed Marius to a part of the campus that R barely ever visited since it was so far from their dorm. He took them into a classroom labelled “Lamarque” that had a group of about four boys sitting and talking rather loudly. Grantaire recognized Feuilly and Courfeyrac, but the other two he’d never seen before. The second they looked up at them, though, one of the one’s he didn’t know stood up dramatically and walked over to Marius. He put one hand on his shoulder and faced all three of them.
“Joly? Is something wrong?” Marius asked with a grin, staring in between Bossuet and the boy, making Grantaire suspicious. Joly nodded dramatically.
“I’m dying.” He said with literally no expression or emotion. Grantaire gasped and looked over at Bossuet who was practically beaming. Lucky bastard, Grantaire thought, he’s literally been eighteen for six hours and he has already met his damn soulmate. And he was cute too, tall and lanky with chocolate brown eyes and long, messy brown hair. Grantaire stared at his best friend, waiting for his reaction. After a couple of seconds of Marius looking very smug and Bossuet looking very happy and everyone else looking very confused, he just started laughing. Laughing, really loudly.
“Why are you laughing at me?” Bossuet just kept laughing, until his eyes watered and he almost doubled over, leaving Joly looking increasingly indignant, “What? What is so funny? Combeferre, make him stop!” Bossuet waved his hands in the air and then took a moment, considering his words, as if he right now had control over what would be tattooed on Joly’s skin.
“Okay, I can’t mess this up, give me a minute,” he seemed to be thinking a little bit more even as Joly gasped loudly, bringing a hand to his mouth like an actual damsel-in-distress, before his face dropped and he groaned, “Oh shit, no! Those words sucked, lemme try again, wait a- damn it, I fucked it up! Grantaire!” he turned to his best friend petulantly, as if somehow he could make it better, but Grantaire just shrugged. Bossuet’s shoulders dropped, he perked up again quickly as Joly wrapped his arms tightly around his neck in a giant hug.
“I’m sorry my first words sucked.” Bossuet apologized.
“I don’t care. You’re here! Oh, I’m Joly, by the way, it’s nice to meet you.” He said, his voice muffled by Bossuet’s neck.
“I’m Bossuet. It’s nice to meet you too. Now, more importantly, may I ask why you’re dying? Because to be honest, it kept me up all night, that tattoo. You better have a really good reason for scaring me into thinking my soulmate is fatally ill.” Joly opened his mouth to answer, but it was Feuilly who spoke first. The three other boys had migrated to the door, to better watch the scene.
“He doesn’t. He does this a lot because the bastard is a certified hypochondriac. You’ll get used to it eventually, though, I promise.”
“Oh, hush Feuilly,” Joly breathed, pulling out of the hug and grabbing Bossuet’s wrists to compare their matching Greek tattoos, “I have inevitably, because of all the alcohol I consume,” Grantaire perked up at this, suddenly approving of his best friend’s soulmate, “contracted liver disease.” The room collectively groaned, giving Grantaire the idea that stuff like this really did happen a lot, but Bossuet just stared at Joly in concern.
“Why do you think that? Did a doctor tell you?” Bossuet asked, worry blatant in his voice.
“No! Not yet, but look!” Joly thrust his hands out for Bossuet to inspect and he took them gingerly, examining them and then looking up at Joly in obvious confusion, “Don’t you see it? The ugly yellow discoloration? It’s jaundice, Bossuet!” Bossuet smiled his widest smile and brought Joly’s knuckles to his lips gently.
“I see nothing of that sort. I think they’re beautiful.” Aaaaand cue the whole room swooning, especially Joly, who stared at Bossuet (who had way more moves than Grantaire expected, props to him) with wide eyes before kissing him hard and long just as the bell started to ring. Bossuet groaned and rested his forehead against Joly’s.
“Just my luck. I find my soulmate-”
“One of your soulmates.” Grantaire deadpanned.
“-And then I immediately have to go to Advanced French.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Joly offered sweetly, grabbing Bossuet’s hand and interlacing their fingers, “I don’t have a first period, so it isn’t a problem. I usually meet here with Enjolras to tutor him with bio, but he’ll understand- oh! Enjolras, I was just talking about you!” Grantaire turned around to see a blonde Adonis walk in the room, hair wild and cheeks red from the wind. The boy, Enjolras, opened his mouth to say something but then his eyes (the most devastating shade of blue Grantaire had ever seen) caught on his. They stared at each other for a moment, Enjolras’ perfect red lips left open in an o-shape and his eyes wide. He was frozen in spot, one hand still on the door and one gripped tightly on the strap of his messenger bag. Grantaire drank it all up, memorizing the perfect curve of his jaw and the slope of his nose and the arch of his cupid’s bow and the light sprinkling of freckles dotting his sinful cheekbones. He was perfect, like something straight out of Grantaire’s dreams. Once his gaze went down the boy’s body, he realized Enjolras was probably, more accurately, straight out of one of Grantaire’s wet dreams, because his red button up shirt and tight black skinny jeans did absolutely nothing to hide his perfect body. They stared at each other for what was probably only two or three seconds before it was over.
“Holy shit.” Grantaire muttered involuntarily and this seemed to snap Enjolras out of whatever daze he was in.
“I have to go.” The boy just squeaked out and then turned around 180 degrees and booked it out of the room without as much as a hello or goodbye.
“Um, what the hell just happened?” Courfeyrac asked from much closer to Grantaire’s ear than he had remembered the boy being, causing R to jump away from him with a start.
“Jesus, Courf, how the hell would I know? And don’t do that to people, shit.”
“Well that was definitely your fault. I’ve never seen Enjolras look at anyone that way, let alone run away from something, ever. And I've known him since the seventh grade. Aren’t I right, ‘Ferre?”
“It’s true,” Combeferre said as he grabbed his backpack of the floor and got ready to leave, “Have you two... met before?” Combeferre sounded like he knew something Grantaire didn't, but R just shook his head and tried to will his blush away. He would definitely remember a face like that.
“I gotta get to class. I’ll see you later, ‘Suet.” He rushed out the door and down the hall, trying not to remember how quickly Enjolras had gotten the hell out of his sight. He felt his stomach turn upsettingly and deep down he knew that even with one look, he was already thoroughly fucked.