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Grantaire’s ass is halfway to the couch, his water bottle already unscrewed, when the Eponine sticks her head into the break room with an urgent look.
“Grantaire,” she says. “There’s a crazy guy at the front yelling for us to let him in. He won’t go away.”
He groans, straightening back up. The occasional aggressive or inebriated customer is nothing out of the ordinary, but this guy must be a real handful if Eponine comes calling. Still, he grouses as he heads out of the room. “Come on, Ep. Couldn’t give me a second after the six-hour monstrosity I just powered through?”
“Sorry, boss.”
They stroll to the front of the shop, Grantaire waving a reassuring hand at the other artists and their clients. If he’s learned anything since christening R’s Tattoo’s, it’s that a little reassurance does wonders. In fact, it’s shocking how many sticky situations he’s taped up with a bit of bravado.
Indeed, there’s a guy pacing at the counter. His blonde hair is slicked with sweat, the side of his face purpled and swelling, and he sports a red corduroy jacket that is ripped in several places and spattered with - oh god, is that blood?
The man turns his manic stare onto Grantaire. “I want a slot,” he declares. Straight on, he looks even worse, with the remains of a nosebleed crusted on his upper lip.
“Sure,” Grantaire replies, swallowing down his unease. “Ep, when’s our next opening?”
“Thursday,” she says readily.
“Okay,” Grantaire begins. “So we can-"
“I need one right now,” the man growls. “I can pay upfront, whatever it is, I - I just really, really, can’t forget this, I need my friends to-“ he cuts himself off, inhaling heavily. “Please,” he exhales, with the pained inflection of someone who has never in their life asked nicely for anything.
The guy is clearly hopped up on adrenaline and fresh out of a fight. But at the same time, he doesn’t seem drunk - Grantaire can’t catch a whiff of alcohol off him, and he’s got the finest nose for the stuff. Regardless, by all means, he should throw him out. The shell-shock stare alone is getting creepy. He sighs, and steps nearer to the guy, trying to sidle him towards the door.
“Get out," Grantaire says. Lowly, he mutters, "I’ll meet you at the back door. Be quiet about it.” The man’s eyes widen, and then he's slamming out the door wordlessly. The bell jingles gently, and the entire shop relaxes. Eponine raises an eyebrow and purses her burgundy lips. “I’ve got it,” Grantaire says lightly, swinging around the counter on his way back to the break room. She doesn’t look any more convinced than he feels. Knowing his weakness for pathos, he doesn’t blame her
A clap of thunder sounds as he pushes back the curtain. Within seconds, the pattering of rain on windows begins. By the time he heaves open the employee door, a downpour has gathered. He waits there, foot propping the door, peering down the length of the strip mall, until he hears wet footsteps jog by.
“Hey,” he calls, leaning out the doorway. The footsteps backtrack, bringing the sopping-wet stranger to his door. The man squints at him through the droplets of water falling down his brows. Grantaire leans the door open and he steps in.
“Jacket?” he asks, extending an arm. He doesn’t know why he’s being so nice, but he’s already invited the guy in. He seems reluctant to part with the blood-red thing, but its clearly soaked up water like a sponge, so he peels it off and hands it over. Grantaire gingerly hangs it on a hook, before turning to lean against the table. “So,” he says. “Explain.”
“What’s your name?” the man asks.
He blinks, feeling caught off guard. “R,” he says. “As in R’s Tattoos. And you?”
The man narrows his eyes. “You can call me E.” His voice, quieter now, is noticeably hoarse.
“Okay, Mr. E,” Grantaire says. “What’s this tattoo you want, and why do you want it now?”
“If you’re not going to do it, I can leave,” the man says coldly.
Grantaire sighs. “I probably can. That’s why you’re here. But I’d like to know why, and what.”
“It’s an… emergency,” the man concedes. "I want a phrase,” he adds.
“What phrase?”
“Vive la Republique.” Despite the scratchiness of his voice, the words came out low and resonant.
Grantiare looks at him and sighs, rubbing his temples. “I’d better turn on some music.” He gets up, reaching for the switch on the enormous vintage radio he keeps on the fridge. “Any preferences?”
“No."
“How big, and where?” The radio chatters as he turns the knob.
“Maybe… ten centimeters. Across my back.”
“Upper or lower?”
“Upper.”
Grantaire settles on a rock station. “I’ll do it in here if that’s alright with you,” he says, turning back. "No need to alarm the other patrons.”
“That’s fine.” He seems less manic than before, at least.
Grantaire’s mind turns, and he feels the rising of too many questions that he knows to wait to ask. “Sit here,” he gestures to the table. “I’ll get you the forms.”
He fetches the paperwork and a pen from the front desk, as well as a font book, and passes them to ‘E’. While he writes, Grantaire grabs a set of equipment, pulls the spare chair from the closet, and sets about to forcing its sticky hinges open.
“What font?” he asks, setting out the ink caps. From the radio, the glittering percussion of Pink Floyd drifts over.
“I don’t care,” E replies. “Something simple.” Grantaire looks over, twisting the last wing nut tight. He hasn’t even opened the book, and is glaring resolutely at the forms, where the point of his pen digs into the paper. This continues for a few long seconds.
“You finished?” Grantaire finally asks. E doesn't reply, so he whisks the paper out from under his hand, seeing only about a dozen conspicuously empty lines before flipping it over and beckoning for the pen. "Vive la Republique, yeah?”
“Yeah.” E says, sitting up a bit straighter to look over Grantaire’s elbow as he writes.
“How’s this?” He pushes the paper over. The letters are sans serif, squareish in x-height, with a slight lean forwards. Clean, but strong, with a bit of an edge. Ten centimeters across exactly. E is nodding slowly.
“That’s perfect.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Grantaire grins, slipping into the grooves of a more comfortable routine he's practiced thousands of times. “If you could take your shirt off and sit leaning forward onto the backrest.” He goes over to wash his hands. E strips his shirt carelessly, leaving it on the table before straddling the chair. Grantaire appraises him with a scientific eye as E gingerly leans onto the chair. His visible skin is bare of ink, and judging by his careful posture, so is the rest.
“Just do it,” E said, voice muffled. “Here is fine,” he added, pointing to a spot just above his shoulder blades. "You don’t need to show me everything.”
“If you’re sure,” Grantaire retorts. E is silent. This whole debacle is ill advised, really, but he has a feeling this will play no larger of a part in it. He wipes down E’s back, still damp from the rain, with antiseptic. Another violet bruise blossoms from the front of his ribcage, and Grantaire winces sympathetically. He brushes a fingertip in its direction. “That looks pretty bad.”
E says nothing, and for a moment Grantaire wondered if he had fallen asleep. He would be far from the first, and it did look like he’d had a hell of a night. But after a minute, the steady rise and fall of his ribcage catches. “It’s for my friends,” he says quietly, and it sounds like the admittance of something.
With everything loaded, Grantaire starts up the machine. He looks at his sketch once again. Committing it to memory, he lowers needle to skin, and the music intensifies under the buzz.
“This will sting a bit."
= = = = = =
He's just starting on the third letter when the current song fades out.
“Good evening,” coos the radio host. “On this lovely, rainy night. But a warning to all you beautiful listeners out in the city tonight - the political protest we’ve all heard so much about has gone very wrong. Witnesses say that just as violence broke out around 8pm, several smoke and tear gas bombs were set off, and combined with the dark, have created conditions of very low visibility. In addition, small explosives have been detonated. Several persons remain missing, and the police are on the scene.
E’s back muscles go tense as a bowstring under his hands.
"And please, don’t be too alarmed, but consider staying in tonight - its rumored that a culprit is on the run near the 17th arrondissement. Although to be honest - that could be anywhere by now. Police are searching for a blonde man in a red jacket, but please - don’t go calling the cops on all your blonde friends with red jackets. And now…”
E’s shoulders are clenched so hard that Grantaire fears the ink will come spurting right back out.
“Hey,” Grantaire says slowly. “Don’t move.”
E scrambles out of the chair lightning fast, nearly knocking the tattoo gun from Grantaire’s hands. He backs away, eyes wide, snatching his t-shirt back up and yanking it over his head. “I’m such an idiot, I’ve really gone mad,” he hisses. “What was I thinking - oh, don’t call the police, please, I’m begging you, I can’t get arrested this time.” Grantaire is struck still, gaping at him. How could he have not put it together? There’s more than a hint of threatening desperation in E’s eyes. Grantaire wildly hypothesizes that he could probably take the guy, given his current pathetic condition, if he won’t believe a promise of silence.
But that choice is rather rapidly removed from his concern when he hears two loud bangs from the front of the shop. There are knuckles on glass and deep voices yelling “Open up! Police!” It’s almost over in that instant, but then Grantaire hears Eponine’s voice shouting for a warrant, and he feels a great wave of pride. Fuck the man. Hell yeah.
And suddenly, a second wave of adrenaline rushes over him and it’s like he knows exactly what to do.
“You stupid bastard,” he says to E. “You can’t run now. So you’ll have to hide. Here, give me that stupid coat, and those forms, I’ll put them under the floorboards. And take your shirt off again.”
======
When the police officers burst in, he’s ready with a tattoo gun buzzing in each hand. The needles deposit ink into the intricate curves of symmetrical flowers on either side of E’s back as Def Leppard blasts from the radio. “Hello?” he asks confusedly.
“We’re looking for a fugitive,” an officer says. “A man, 26 years old, with blonde hair. Last seen wearing a red jacket and white shoes. Goes by his last name, Enjolras. First name, Antoine.”
Grantaire motions to his ears, the radio and the machine. The officers nod and he sets the tools down and goes over to turn down the radio. “Angelo, you say? Angelo Etienne? Or was it Etienne Angelo? Does he have any tattoos?”
“We don’t know,” the officer says gruffly, not amused. “The point is - have you seen anyone matching the description tonight? This is a dangerous situation, and we’re counting on civilian alerts.”
Grantaire shrugs. “I haven’t noticed any commotion. I’ve been cooped up here all evening, working on this fellow’s fancy designs. Haven’t seen the sky since the sun was in it.”
The officers cast another glance at E, lying facedown on the chair. E twitches nearly imperceptibly. Grantaire rushes over, exclaiming “No, no, no Isaac! You’ll hurt yourself disturbing these fresh marks!” E sighs loudly. He turns back towards the officers apologetically. “Sorry we can’t be of more help.”
The officers exchange a few looks. “Alright,” the first officer says. “We’ll leave you be. Make sure to call if you see any suspicious behavior.”
“Nice work,” the other gestures at E’s back as they leave the room. “I’ll be sure to recommend your parlor if I get the chance.”
“Thank you, officers!” Grantaire beams. “Best of luck, and do be safe!”
Even after the jingle of the bells announces their departure, Grantaire remains frozen in silence. Only when Eponine comes to the back and nods, saying “They’re gone, Grantaire,” does he relax. “You are a blessing from above,” he tells her emphatically, toeing off his shoes, “and you are getting a raise.” She only shakes her head, giving E a strange look, and then leaves to resume heading the parlor.
“So can I actually not move?” E asks.
“Well,” Grantaire hesitates. “Do you still want me to finish the tattoo you asked for?”
“I’d like that,” E says, so he turns on the machine again. In fifteen awkwardly silent minutes, the lettering is done and Grantaire disposes of all his sharps and contaminants. “I’ll wrap it,” he says, “and then you can get up. He slathers on ointment and rolls plastic wrap around E’s torso, his skin hot through the film, until there’s nothing left to do and he backs away. Then E is turning around and catching his eye with his piercing blues. He’s got no more golden curls to hide his eyes because in those twenty minutes that Eponine bought them, Grantaire buzzed it all off with the clipper he keeps for body hair. Even his bruises are hidden with the emergency makeup the staff stocks in the break room.
They burst out laughing simultaneously, the absurdity of the night catching up all with them at once. It’s not long before Grantaire can feel tears of hysterical laughter welling up in the corners of his eyes as E pulls his shoes off and tosses them back to him. Unthinking, Grantaire grabs E’s hands with his own, and E squeezes back as they draw great, heaving breaths.
“I didn’t know you could write with both hands! Oh god, I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified of what I’ll find,” E gasps.
“The way you looked when you saw the hair falling, I thought you were ready to give up and turn yourself over to the police,” Grantaire wheezes, before dissolving into fits again.
When Grantaire looks up, E’s eyes are leaking too. But soon E’s laughter becomes sobs, and they both quiet down significantly as E hunches over, face buried in his hands. Grantaire isn’t sure what to do, so he wraps a tentative arm around his shoulder. It’s clear something terrible has happened to those who fought today, but he’s still too afraid to turn the radio back on. He checked his phone, and his friends are all safe, but they were far from the scene. By the look of it, E was in the very center of it. After what seems like a blurry infinity, E speaks.
“My friends,” he whispers. “They’re all gone now. Either arrested or… gone,” he forces out. “I lead them all to it,” he says miserably, "and when it came time I was not lucky enough to fall alongside them.” Grantaire shuts his eyes and squeezes his arm tighter. It is what he expected, but not what he wanted to hear. There is nothing he can say to a loss like this.
“I am sorry,” E adds. “You must be insane to risk everything for a stranger who barged into your business.” He looks up. "I am wrong to have let you.”
At this, Grantaire turns, letting go of his shoulders to look at him face to face. “No,” Grantaire tells him firmly. "I had every opportunity to betray you. But I chose to stay.”
E looks at him with something much too close to sorrow, so Grantaire pulls him into a hug so that he won’t have to see it. They stand like that, E pressed back against the table, for a long time. Eventually, they disengage, carefully wiping at their faces.
“Come home with me,” Grantaire says. “I’ll lend you a new jacket. You can’t be walking around in that red one.
“I can’t,” he says immediately. “I’ll put you in such danger. That’s a terrible idea -“
“Well where else do you have to go?”
E is silent, running a hand over his newly shorn scalp.
“That’s what I thought. I can take care of myself - haven’t I shown that? Come with me, we’ll talk later.”
Grantaire pulls his own jacket on and grabs his keys, taking no dispute. He makes for the door, stopping at it but not turning back.
“Thank you, Grantaire,” he sighs, following.”
Grantaire startles a bit, hearing his name from E for the first time. “I never introduced myself by that name,” he muses.
“Yet somehow I noticed,” E says, a smile in his voice.
“Well, you’re welcome, Enjolras.”
“What! My disguise was impenetrable!” Enjolras mock protests.
"Yet somehow I knew,”
Grantaire grins, pushing the door open.
And the two of them step out into the night, rain still fresh in the air, as fog rises from the warm earth.
E&R