Chapter Text
Ink flows freely across his skin; it has done so from the day he was born. He's long since passed the age where anyone bothers trying to explain it. Grantaire is the man with words built into his flesh, changing with each passing day. They appear whenever someone speaks of him, and they fade only when they cease to be believed by the speaker. But, much to the chagrin of many who know him, Grantaire is not the type of person to change, so most of the remarks that make their way into his skin stay there.
Worthless has been inscribed at his right shoulder for as long as he can remember, in a black deeper than the night. That was his father. Abomination encircles his left wrist in the same script. It was one of the last things his father ever said to him, back in the days when he still spoke to his son. Grantaire couldn't have been older than seven. Even when he still lived at home, Grantaire did not see much of his father. The man thought him a disappointment in every way possible, and these days, Grantaire takes great pleasure in proving him right. He thinks he might paint a self-portrait, show his parents the words that cover his skin now.
Friend is most common. It peppers his arms, his stomach, his legs. The word comes in eight colors, and the letters look as if they were written by eight different hands. Marius is purple, vibrant and noble, but quietly so. Joly is a yellow as bright as the sun, Bousset a burnt orange. Combeferre is the blue of seawater, deep and calm. Feuilly is white, tinged with red. He smiles at that; they are the colors of Poland, and Feuilly said he wishes it were as easy to embed those colors in his own skin as it is Grantaire's. Bahorel is a deep, reddish purple, somewhere between a good wine and a healing bruise. When Grantaire showed him, Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder and said he would have to talk about Grantaire more, as the color suits them both quite well. Now he bears the words a good drinker, and an even better man to fight alongside on his upper left arm. Grantaire hopes Bahorel will never stop believing that; he wears it like a badge.
The warm, rich brown of Courfeyrac is second in quantity only to Jehan's sky blue. Grantaire has never admitted it to Jehan himself, but the poet makes him feel like a summer day. He thinks that Prouvaire makes an effort to speak well of him, being aware of his condition, but he also knows that Jehan would not lie simply to make him feel better. The poetic phrases that coat his chest and creep over his hands--beautiful compliments and earnest praise; even the worst things about him sound like gold when they fall from Jehan's lips--they are words Grantaire would never once think to apply to himself, but which come effortlessly to Jehan. The clear blue pushes aside some of his father's black, but it hasn't yet washed away Enjolras' words.
Enjolras is the purest red Grantaire has ever seen. Some days he wishes he could pry the pigment out of his skin and paint with it. He would look on Enjolras' words with much more fondness if they didn't all carry the weight of his disappointment. Grantaire is perfectly aware of how little he does for the revolution Les Amis de l'ABC seem to so crave--and why would he be any other way? Their cause means nothing to him; he attends meetings for the people themselves, not to hear anything they have to say about the matter. But even if he had not his own cognizance, he would have Enjolras' words--simultaneously effortless and incredibly precise--to remind him. Incapable, faithless, an obstinate cynic: these all colored his torso. He remembers the burn of worthless climbing up his spine as the word left Enjolras' mouth. It was spoken in haste and frustration, but he could not and would not take it back. Even after all this time, Enjolras still forgets that his words leave marks on Grantaire's skin.
Talented curves around his ankle, hidden under his boots. That one has been there since the day he apprenticed himself to Gros. These days the artist prefers to call him slow, which Grantaire can't argue with given his penchant for missing assignment deadlines. But the ink across his ankle hasn't faded, which means Gros hasn't stopped believing it. Grantaire keeps the word covered, a secret for himself.
Impossible lines one of his ribs. It had been an insult coming from the sharp tongue of a beautiful woman, but he does not let that affect him. He wears it as a mark of mystery, for what is a man made of shifting ink if not impossible?
For many people--perhaps most, though he cannot be sure--he thinks this strange affliction of his would be a punishment. Perhaps it is supposed to be for him. There are certainly enough unkind words scrawled across his flesh for that. But he simply takes the hits as they come, so to speak. Whenever he feels a new word or phrase inserting itself into an empty space--Enjolras' always feel like fire, but for the rest there is simply a prickling sensation as a phantom needle presses into him--he simply makes a note of the location and reads the words once he returns home. He keeps a second mirror to read what is written on his back.
Even the insults, as permanent as they are, cannot truly touch him. Grantaire cannot count how many times drunk has been etched into him, has lost track of the number of comments made about his looks, but they all pale in comparison to the expanse of blue that is Jehan naming him a daring drinker of dreams and Courfeyrac's calling him a valued friend curling down his leg like mahogany roots.
It is perhaps fortunate that Grantaire's friends do think as well of him as they do, because Grantaire has no opinion of himself. He knows that his looks are bad, his heart is good, his hands are skilled when he wants them to be; this is all that matters. To Grantaire, most of the words that cover his skin are nothing more than decoration. But the affection of his friends is warming.