Work Text:
Grantaire loves all his tattoos. He loves his shitty first tattoo, he loves his lyrics, he loves his blackwork, he loves his date, he loves his three bands. He loves all the pieces in between. He’s extremely fond of the fact that he’s turned his body into a canvas, finally happy after spending too many years feeling like he was naked inside his own skin.
But he thinks, maybe, his favourite is the shaky, badly done initial on his ankle. Grantaire has every chance to go over it, make it look better, but he never has because he thinks it’s pretty fucking perfect as is. It’s significant. Mostly he likes it, though, because all of the stupid excuses he can come up with for it’s meaning.
—
The first to ask is Courfeyrac, when the ink is still fresh. They’re sitting outside, with Bahorel, and Grantaire is barefoot with his legs kicked up on the table. That’s when Courfeyrac points to his ankle, and asks, “What’s the B stand for?”
He leans in close to look at it, and Grantaire laughs, pressing a hand to his heart in a dramatic gesture.
“It’s the initial for my one true love,” He declares. Next to him, Bahorel looks over. He’s not alarmed, but he’s definitely curious, and Courfeyrac looks the same. Grantaire can’t help but smirk, smug.
“Beer!” He crows, laughing. Bahorel shoves him, and Courfeyrac leans back.
“I thought you were sober?” He asks.
“It is better to have loved, and lost—” Grantaire starts, but the other two groan and Bahorel claps a hand over his mouth to shut him up.
—
Eponine calls him to ask.
“What does the ‘B’ stand for?” she asks, voice cracking over the line. Grantaire, one eye half cracked, looks at the time. It reads a number that is obscene, and Grantaire loves her, he does, but he doesn’t love her enough to talk to her right now.
“It’s fucking seven AM, ‘Ponine, what?” Grantaire says blearily, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes again.
“I know, I’m on my way to work,” Eponine says, and Grantaire can hear the noise of the city in the background. “And I don’t care, I want to know that the ‘B’ stands for. I saw it last night, and you didn’t tell me about it. I know all your other tattoos, and I don’t know this one, so spill.”
“It stands for ‘blow me’,” Grantaire says roughly, then hits ‘End Call’ on his phone and tosses it aside. He hears it vibrate again, almost immediately, but he ignores it in favour of pressing his face back into his pillow and passing out until the numbers on his clock are at least double digits.
—
Marius doesn’t even notice. Grantaire doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or relieved by this, but he’s definitely not surprised.
—
Enjolras asks, just once.
Since they moved past the desire to kill each other, they began actually talking and they’ve worked out that maybe they have the ability to be friends. Enjolras seems to be fascinated by tattoos, though he’s yet to get his own, so sometimes he asks about Grantaire’s.
“B?” He asks, tilting his head to study Grantaire’s ankle.
“Yes, it comes after A and before C, well done,” Grantaire says, sarcasm lacing his voice as he stirs his coffee. He’s staring at the swirl, scowling, fingers tapping out an aggravated beat against the side of the mug.
“That was a question,” Enjolras says, paying no attention Grantaire’s mood, just staring at him expectantly. “About your tattoo.”
“I gathered,” Grantaire said, looking up and smirking. “It stands for ‘Black’, the colour of despair and the world falling to shit around us. It symbolises the bleak future, and the never-ending destruction of man.”
Enjolras arches an eyebrow, slowly.
“It’s the colour of death and the absence of God. It’s the antithesis of everything you believe in. It is the reality of this world,” Grantaire continues, taking a long sip of his coffee.
“What does it really stand for?” Enjolras asks, lips pursed slightly, staring at Grantaire over his own mug.
“Not telling,” Grantaire sulks.
—
“Will you tell me about your tattoos?” Jehan asks him, pillowing his head on his arms and looking comfortable, despite the fact that Grantaire is currently inflicting pain upon him.
“Sure, what one do you wanna know about?” Grantaire asks, wiping away excess ink.
“The one on your ankle,” Jehan says, a sly tone to his voice, and Grantaire groans.
“Did your boyfriend put you up to this?” Grantaire asks, glancing up quickly to Jehan, then back down. “He did, didn’t he? Fucking… Enjolras has some serious issues with personal boundaries, you know that?”
“You don’t have to actually tell me, if it makes you uncomfortable,” Jehan offers, with a smile. “If I tell Enjolras to drop it, he will.”
Grantaire laughs, and continues with the tattoo, the sound of his gun the only noise between them for a while. Grantaire thinks Jehan’s poured his soul out to Grantaire each time he tattoos him, so Grantaire might as well do the same. It seems fair.
“It’s a name,” Grantaire offers, absolutely not meeting Jehan’s eyes. Jesus, is he fucking blushing?
“Pardon?” Jehan asks, turning his head to look at Grantaire, as best as he can.
“The B. It’s someone’s name. That’s what it means,” Grantaire says, quietly. He lifts his foot up, stopping the gun, and looks up at Jehan. Jehan shifts, sits up gingerly, and Grantaire lowers his hand to give him the room.
“I’ve heard you say it means ‘back off’ and ‘bitches’ and ‘the majestic banana slug’ and a few others I won’t repeat,” Jehan says, and Grantaire is not fucking blushing, god damn it. “But in reality, it’s someone’s name?”
“Yeah,” Grantaire says, screwing up his nose for a moment. He needs a cigarette. “It was a joke tattoo, but whatever, I’ve… I’m… I like it.”
“Oh, Grantaire,” Jehan breathes, and takes his face in his hands, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Grantaire closes his eyes, and can’t help but smile.
“Don’t tell Enjolras,” He says, a half-hearted warning.
“Of course not,” Jehan promises, but Grantaire already knows he won’t.
—
Bahorel knows exactly what it means. He never has to ask, and he never brings it up. He just grins when Grantaire comes up with excuse after excuse, and doesn’t let anyone else know the secret.
He knows it’s there, though. When he has Grantaire’s leg over his shoulder, Bahorel curls his hand around Grantaire’s ankle, and presses his thumb to the tattoo in a way that isn’t possessive, but that definitely makes Grantaire’s breath hitch in his chest. He knows it doesn’t stand for beer, or black, or anything else.
“Bahorel,” Grantaire groans, fingers sliding through Bahorel’s hair and pulling him down. Bahorel tightens his hand, for a moment, and grins into their kiss.