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Grantaire was not having a good night.
He’d tried to work up the courage to fuck, but it hadn’t worked well. The problem had been that he’d almost kind of liked the bastard he’d set up a hook up with, in a twisted way. Which, of course, had made him think. Made him hope. Made him call off their planned hook up and drink himself to oblivion instead, every inch of skin covered just in case drink made him stupid.
So far, business as usual. Nobody had commented on his behaviour. Things had been going well.
And then Courfeyrac had fallen in love.
Courfeyrac collected marks like nobody Grantaire had ever seen before. He was like a mural. He walked around freely offering his touch to anyone and everyone who he met, delighting at every new smudge of colour. At the way his entire body screamed to the world “I love everyone and everyone loves me.”
Grantaire tried not to begrudge him the marks, but it was damn hard sometimes.
His new love had refused to touch him. He’d picked badly when he went and decided to add her to his collection. Her skin was almost entirely unmarked. Just the usual two handprints on her shoulders, one from her mother and one from her father. Her handprint was probably around their hearts where it should be, baby fingers holding them together forever.
She’d chatted happily with Courfeyrac but when he’d offered her his skin, offered to let her touch him and leave a mark, or to leave one himself, she’d called him a pervert and walked away.
She didn’t even slap him. Bossuet had the most glorious slap mark across his cheek from the first time he’d met Musichetta. And marks from the rest of the Aims, of course, though Musichetta and Joly’s marks were brightest. The only one he was missing was Grantaire.
Everyone had stopped asking him by now. They knew there was only one answer.
Upon rejection, Courfeyrac had reacted with his usual achingly sincere drama. He’d sworn he’d never try for connection again, flopped dramatically across Enjolras and Combeferre, and demanded they help him drink to forget his troubles.
On a better day, Grantaire would have left then. He’d have seen the warning signs and run. This wasn’t a better day. He was hurting and disappointed and too drunk: he stayed.
It was hard not to feel bitter at Courfeyrac but he tried. After all, it wasn’t Courfeyrac’s fault that he was so loved. That so many people had touched him and left the mark of the love that was or might have been on his skin. None of it was his fault.
Grantaire mostly distracted himself with Bahorel. Bahorel had been the only one (other than Enjolras, of course) who’d accepted Grantaire’s refusal to try to share marks immediately and without it affecting their growing friendship. He didn’t get why, but he respected it. He had the Amis as a snake down his spine, one hand after the other. He called them his backbone, like he didn’t have enough of that already. Grantaire was glad his hand wasn’t in there, he’d probably cause the whole thing to tumble.
He drank and he hated himself and he tried to forget.
Until nature called and ruined it all.
He stumbled, drunk, into the bathroom. Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras were already there, heads bent together in discussion. Grantaire ignored them. Stumbled into a stall. Did what he needed to.
When he came out they were still there, talking in whispers. Tears were hanging artistically on Courfeyrac’s lashes.
Grantaire didn’t mean to react but he must have snorted or something because suddenly three pairs of eyes were boring into him. He tried to ignore them, hunched further over the sink.
“No, come on,” Courfeyrac said, his voice slurred with alcohol. “Don’t just think it and not say anything.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” Courfeyrac demanded, taking a step forward. “God, I can just…”
“Courf, you’re drunk. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
Grantaire smiled at Combeferre, glad for the interjection of sense. He didn’t dare to look at Enjolras to see what his face was doing.
“No, he’s thinks he’s so much better than us because he doesn’t touch. Wearing those fucking long sleeves even in summer…”
“Courf.”
“No,” Grantaire found himself saying. “Let him be angry at me if he wants. Better to be angry at me then some woman he just met.”
“We had a connection!”
“Well, maybe she didn’t want a connection with you. You can’t force people to love you.”
“I wouldn’t have forced anything. I just wanted to know. Not all of us can hide ourselves away like you.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know you’re a fucking coward. Afraid to let yourself care about someone. What, did one of your parents not mark or something and now you’re all woe is me? Enjolras only has one parent mark, grow up!”
“Courf,” Enjolras said, but it was too late. Grantaire could feel his blood boiling. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and off. It was far from graceful but he struggled out of it then reached for his fly.
“R, you don’t have too…”
But his trousers were already down. He stood there, trousers around his ankles, boxers low on his hips. He turned slowly so they could see him.
Completely unmarked.
“Grantaire…”
“Well, you’ve always wanted to fucking know, haven’t you? And now you do. My own parents didn’t love me. Nobody ever fucking has. My parents thought it was a skin defect or something but no doctors have ever been able to find anything wrong. And you want to know the best part? I fucking mark everyone. Everyone I’ve ever touched. I mean, other than the people I’ve genuinely hated. So that’s why I don’t, alright. I can’t...I can’t do that again. Know that I’m giving my whole damn self and not getting anything and I just…”
“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, and he was crying now. Real tears, like all his fucking tears were because he genuinely did love everyone. Fuck it all.
And suddenly Grantaire wasn’t angry any more. He was drunk and cold and tired and he was crying and naked in a stupid men’s room in a stupid cafe and he was just so damn tired of being alone.
“Please?” Courfeyrac said, holding his hand out. And Grantaire was weak. He could say no, he could. But Courfeyrac loved everyone. Maybe...just maybe…
He nodded. Courfeyrac approached slowly, seeming to contemplate. Then he reached out and lay his hand over Grantaire’s rib.
It was warm. It had been so long since Grantaire had been touched so gently.
For a moment, none of them dared to breath.
Courfeyrac lifted his hand.
His mark was there, a vivid blue handprint on Grantaire’s ribs. His first mark. The first person to touch him who genuinely loved him and cared about him and he hadn’t thought it could happen. He’d given up all hope, shut himself away. But this person. His friend.
He was laughing and crying and Courfeyrac was crying too. Grantaire looked around to see that even Combeferre and Enjolras had tears in their eyes.
“Well, come on then,” Courfeyrac said, his voice strained. “Do me.”
So Grantaire did. There was a patch of empty skin in the middle of Courfeyrac’s back and he claimed it. Left his vivid green handprint there.
And then he was gone and Combeferre was taking his place, pressing a hand onto Grantaire’s shoulder blade and showing him the mark in the mirror, taking one on his ankle in return.
Courfeyrac must have gone to spread the news because the next minute, the small bathroom was crowded by the rest of the group. Bossuet left a hand at an odd angle on his hip, Joly on his stomach. Jehan placed his at the base of Grantaire’s neck and Feuilly on his calf. Musichetta put hers on his other side and Eponine left hers just below his collarbone, where a sister’s mark might traditionally be, if he had one. Cosette and Marius placed one on either arm and Bahorel gripped him by the wrist, insisting Grantaire return the gesture so they wore each other’s marks like bracelets. A bond.
He marked each of them back. Laughing and crying and not even caring that he was still naked and in a public bathroom.
And then suddenly there was only Enjolras.
“You don’t have to,” he said, before he could get the better of his tongue.
“You don’t want me to?” He looked hurt.
“It’s not that. I…” He was scared. He couldn’t say that, though. He could almost believe the others. They’d been in his life for years now. His friends. The people he loved the most of all. He hadn’t dared to hope but now…
Enjolras. That he couldn’t even hope for. He already suspected what his own mark would look like on Enjolras’s skin. The brightest mark he’d ever leave for the brightest love he’d ever hold. Enjolras’s mark on him, though. If it even took, which wasn’t likely, it’d be a dull little thing. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.
But Enjolras was looking at him with red rimmed, sad eyes. Resigned. And Grantaire couldn’t do that to him.
“No. Let’s...let’s try.”
With some effort he lowered his arms. Let Enjolras’s eyes roll over him, pick their spot. Then Enjolras reached up and lay his hand gently over Grantaire’s heart.
Back in the day, when being markless was a sign of purity, a couple of their wedding would lay their mark here, above the heart. The only mark they’d ever have except for family.
Grantaire had the marks of his family now. He’d waited so long and here they were.
He held every muscle tense.
He didn’t dare to breath.
Enjolras lifted his hand.
The mark was vivid red. Like blood. Right there over Grantaire’s heart. Perfectly formed and just...fuck.
He was crying again and he didn’t even care because Enjolras’s arms were around him. He had to fight not to touch as Enjolras pressed him close, as the others crowded in around him. And they were all crying and touching and damn but they were all drunk and half naked and in the men’s bathroom but they loved him and he loved them.
He was loved.
He didn’t know how long they stood there crying before they let him move back again. Before Enjolras pulled his t-shirt over his head. He had all the other’s marks but the area above his heart was bare.
Grantaire didn’t dare.
But he didn’t have to. Combeferre took his wrist and raised it. Bahorel helped straighten his fingers. The others were all there, touching or nearly touching and he’d never been touched his much in his life.
Then Enjolras’s hands were there. Wrapping around Grantaire’s and Combeferre’s and Bahorel’s and pulling them forward to lie above his heart.
Grantaire closed his eyes. He didn’t dare watch.
They took his hand away.
“Hey,” Enjolras said, voice soft. “Look.”
So he did. His mark was bright. Green and vibrant and right over Enjolras’s heart. And Enjolras didn’t look angry about it, like Grantaire had imagined he would (as this was one mark he’d always known would be bright). He looked happy. He was smiling, laughing. Leaning forward and taking Grantaire’s jaw in his hands and kissing him.
Loving him.
Grantaire was loved.
He loved in return.
He loved Enjolras.
Enjolras loved him.
When the kiss broke, they stood there for a moment with their heads pressed together. He couldn’t believe it. It had to be a dream. But he knew that, in the morning, when he looked, the marks would still be there.
It was hardly going to make life easy. He could already feel how much he was going to freak out about this when he was sober.
It’s be okay, though. He loved Enjolras. Enjolras loved him.
He had to believe it. For the first time, he could see it.