Chapter Text
It is the function of art to renew our perception.
What we are familiar with we cease to see.
The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic,
We see a new meaning in it.
~Anais Nin
He wasn’t paid for it, nor did he wanted to be. From his perspective, it was his clients that were doing him a favour by lying on the long table that took most of his living room. As they installed themselves and removed their clothes, Feuilly felt his fingers tingle and his heartbeat accelerate in a rush of excitement. He eyed their skin, took in every wrinkle, every mole and every little imperfection; he noticed the colour, the way each hair curl, the little stains of ink. He was almost salivating by the time he approached them, hands raised in the air and blackening.
A witch. That’s what they called him. He couldn’t do much, like casting spells or curses, but he could make art drip from his fingers. He could think about an image and make that image appear on what he touched, whatever it might be, in the colour that he wanted it to be. Feuilly loved to walk around in the streets and let his fingers run on the surface of various buildings, leaving a trail of pretty little graffiti behind him. He liked to tap on the walls of his room, changing his decorum as he felt like it. First and foremost, he loved painting human skin.
There was something extremely appealing in leaving a mark on something that was breathing and living. Feuilly did not exactly know why; he suspected that it was because he loved to see his art move. However, that might also have been because his drawings seemed to have an influence on the people who bore them. Since they were coming from himself, from the depths of his mind, it was like Feuilly was sharing parts of his being with his clients. It felt like he was a little more understood each time he did it. That was such a relief.
Feuilly’s clientele was small and select. He did not trust that a lot of people would keep his secret, and he did not want to become a circus freak, or for someone to try to abuse of his strange ability. He could very well defend himself, but he preferred not to. His art was meant to express what remained buried under skin, trapped inside insecure ideas that one would have trouble making sense of. He detested using it to blind people, for instance. To hurt. It happened once before and Feuilly had been inconsolable for over two months. That is when he revealed his secret for the first time to one of his friends.
Despite being the leader of their little group of friends, Enjolras was close to very few of them. He tried to keep up with everyone’s business and hobbies, but he could be a little too focus on work to enjoy a lot of spare time. On this regard, he resembled Feuilly, who worked five days a week and did volunteer work whenever he could. That must have been part of why they got along so well. So, instead of going to his best friend Bahorel, Feuilly went to Enjolras, teary eyed, and blurted out that he had been a bad person and that he was tired of keeping everything in just in case someone would notice him and start threatening him.
Enjolras’ reaction upon seeing what Feuilly could do was an ecstatic sigh. He practically had stars in his eyes. He immediately promised Feuilly that he would tell no one, that he would protect his identity, and that Feuilly had no ground being ashamed of what he was. Enjolras assured him that it was magnificent, a gift of nature, and that he could do great things with it. That prompted Feuilly to ask if Enjolras would like a tattoo. The blonde man’s smile faltered a little, and he said no, but that he knew that some of their friends wouldn’t mind.
Frankly, Feuilly had been fretful and reluctant to talk to their group about his special talent. Some of them were blabber mouths, and others had loved ones with whom they shared absolutely everything: keeping secrets was not their fort. They were rather anal about being honest and upfront about the things that mattered. Still, he decided that it couldn’t hurt to tell Grantaire, who talked an awful lot, but was rarely listened to. He was the first that Enjolras proposed, for some reason. Grantaire already had his fair share of tattoos, but surely he’d want more. Surely, he’d accept Feuilly as he was.
He did. In fact, Grantaire’s first gesture was to promptly ask for a demonstration. He was shaking, standing next to Enjolras, his eyes wide open and his mouth crooked into a disbelieving smirk. Yet, he looked absolutely envious and excited, even while pretending that he needed a solid proof of what Feuilly could do. Enthralled by the stocky man’s behaviour, Feuilly made him remove his sweatshirt and put his hand over Grantaire’s heart. The image of a red, pulsing heart slowly formed on Grantaire’s chest, and Feuilly felt warm and gleeful; the relief was so strong that he thought it was almost sexual in nature. When he was done and he saw the heart almost beating on Grantaire’s skin, he seized his friend’s chubby face, stared into his bemused, incredulous eyes, and kissed him on the mouth.
Grantaire gasped into his mouth and Feuilly heard Enjolras hiccuped in surprise. Then, something happened and Grantaire clung to him forcefully, kissing him back with a fervour that Feuilly did not know he was capable of. He felt warm, and he tasted of chocolate and cigarettes, which made sense since Grantaire was a smoker and a sweet-tooth. Feuilly put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and little lines of smoke appeared on his skin. Grantaire shuddered and pulled away. He was red in the face and looked confused. Feuilly turned his head to look at Enjolras. The latter hadn’t moved. He just stood there, arms crossed, his cheeks red and his eyes to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Feuilly said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Enjolras cleared his throat and Grantaire shakily put his sweatshirt back on.
“It’s nothing,” Grantaire murmured. “I... you are fantastic. That’s... the heart is beautiful.”
He did not know what to say, and neither did Feuilly, but when they parted, they felt a little closer to each other.
A couple of weeks after that day, Enjolras came back to Feuilly. He was alone this time. He wanted a tattoo.
“Are you sure?” Feuilly asked, surprised. “You didn’t want it the first time I proposed. Or was Grantaire your guinea pig?”
Enjolras flushed and shook his head. “I want a quote. I want you to put ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité’ on my upper back. I know it’s corny, but—”
“It’s not corny,” Feuilly assured with a tender tone. “You can take off your shirt. Wait. Come and sit on that table.”
Enjolras let Feuilly push the words into his skin. It didn’t seem to hurt him, but he shivered nonetheless. Feuilly chose a curvy writing that somehow looked self-assured. He stared as the dark letters formed and assembled on Enjolras’ back, a sensation of pure pleasure washing over him. When he was done, Enjolras sighed and threw his head back. He was trembling.
“You’re a witch,” he let out, giggling with delight. “You are bewitching.”
Feuilly smiled and, much like with Grantaire, he felt the urge to just shower Enjolras with love. He managed to refrain himself this time, but he still kissed Enjolras’ forehead. The blonde smiled and laughed again. He raised his arms and slid his hands in Feuilly’s messy hair. Enjolras had the long hands of a pianist, hands that Feuilly would have wanted for himself. He took Enjolras’ hands and put them down.
“Bring me other clients,” Feuilly murmured.
After that occurrence, Feuilly told his secret to the rest of his friends. He was still nervous, but he was now willing to take the risk, because the sensation of sharing his talent, of imprinting people he loved, was similar to euphoria. After a while, he simply became addicted to it. He couldn’t do for a week without tattooing someone. Since he couldn’t just cover his friends in images, he had to limit himself to small, sometimes barely perceptible pictures. Still, that was enough for Feuilly. It made him happy.
“It’s not simple art,” Enjolras told him one day. He was sitting naked on the table. He looked like a Greek statue. “It’s like... we really feel what you engraved in our skin, you follow me? I saw the green clover you drew on Bossuet’s wrist. It was so... realistic. But at the same time, it wasn’t like any clover I’ve ever seen. It came right from your imagination. It was beautiful.”
“Oh, that’s one of the small ones,” Feuilly said modestly.
“Yes? You would poke a dot on someone’s nose and you would find a way to make it unique. Don’t you get what I’m saying? You are special. In a great way. You... you renew little parts of us with the tip of your fingers. Bossuet had never been more lucky than after you painted that clover on him. Not that I think you put a spell on him, but... you made him more confident. That was a fantastic thing to do.”
Feuilly trembled under the weight of the compliment. He smiled to his friend, but felt like he had to change the subject. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to illustrate the rest of my back,” Enjolras declared, “I want you to think about something and print it onto me, whatever it might be. I want my skin to be a portrait of your soul.”
There was a silence during which Feuilly simply gaped at his friend. It sounded almost like a declaration of love. Whether it was platonic or romantic, Feuilly couldn’t tell, but Enjolras seemed to get shy. The blonde cleared his throat and averted his eyes.
“I mean, if that doesn’t sound too personal to you.”
Feuilly went around Enjolras and put his palms flat on Enjolras’ bach, right under the French moto. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts flow. He concentrated on the impressions that Enjolras was giving him: wild flowers resisting the strength of the wind, a crooked ace of hearts, a flock of migratory birds preparing for the fall, the tail and the scales of a poisonous snake, a raised flag... Feuilly also thought about words: passion, vehemence, righteousness, fervour, goodness. They rained from his hands and curled to the drawings. Enjolras gasped and moaned. He had never seemed more attractive. Feuilly grabbed Enjolras’ shoulders and pulled him against his chest.
“May I kiss your back,” he panted. He felt himself sweating. There was so much of him that passed from his fingers to Enjolras’ body. It was much more than he had gave any of his friends. He was exhilarated.
“Yes,” Enjolras breathed out.
Feuilly peppered Enjolras’ skin with wet little kisses. He could almost feel the tattoos pulse under his lips. His heart was beating hard. If he wasn’t careful, he would want to take Enjolras right on this table. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to with most of his clients, but his blonde leader was special to him. He did not want to use him, or to scare him away. He kissed Enjolras’ neck and pulled away.
“There’s a mirror in the bathroom,” he said. He gently massaged Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras turned his head and stared at Feuilly.
“Your eyes are glowing,” he said. Feuilly’s hand went to his face, but Enjolras kept talking. “You gave me an erection.”
Feuilly bursted into laugh. He was pleased, but a little uncomfortable.
“Enjolras, I’m flattered, but it’s just a physical reaction, and I’m not sure if—”
“I don’t want sex,” Enjolras explained. “I just needed you to touch me in... that way. Thank you. It felt amazing.”
“Yeah? Well, doing this to you felt amazing too. I’m the one who should be thanking you. Ever since you convinced me to use my ability on some people, ever since you let me do this to you, I’ve been feeling... freer. Healthier. More like myself. You said that I renewed parts of you, well you liberated my entire being, Enjolras.”
Enjolras’ smile was the most rewarding sight Feuilly could have had. He wanted to print it on his own skin.