Archive of Our Own

It’s really just Grantaire’s luck that he gets stuck with the biggest asshole to accompany. It hasn’t even been ten minutes, and Enjolras has already commented on Grantaire not being able to keep up, Grantaire rushing, Grantaire’s nails being audible against the keys, Grantaire’s piano not being perfectly in tune, et cetera. Okay, yes, Enjolras probably understands that Grantaire isn’t a professional—that’s what it means to be a college student, for fuck’s sake—so there’s no need to be unbearable about it. Besides, who gave Enjolras the right to act so lofty and arrogant? He is no more Yo-Yo Ma than Grantaire is Valentina Lisitsa or Lang Lang.

The saddest part is that when Grantaire first laid eyes on Enjolras, he definitely stopped breathing for a solid minute or two. He’s average height at best when he tries, but Enjolras is tall. He also looked like Grantaire’s sex dreams come to life, so there was that. But then Enjolras opened his mouth and made a scathing remark about how disorganized Grantaire’s sheet music was, and all thoughts and daydreams about being fucked against his piano flew out the window.

Grantaire questions if it was a good idea to let him into his apartment after all. It just so happens that the hottest guys always seem to be the worst people in existence. Why did he agree to do this gig again? Oh right, because Joly asked, and it’s physically impossible to say no to him.

Even if it means putting up with Enjolras.

For two whole fucking months.

Grantaire needs to get drunk after this. He should charge more just because he’s being forced to deal with Enjolras. At least he won’t have to see his stupidly handsome face between rehearsals, and his cat will be there to soothe him should he get too riled up. Marshmallow is a saint with the voice of an angel, and she claims Enjolras’s cello case for her own, screeching every time he plays a note out of tune. It’s not often, and he has perfect pitch, which Grantaire will forever be jealous of, but it does happen once in a while.

“Are you even paying attention?” Enjolras’s gorgeous voice—no—interrupts Grantaire’s silent moaning. The cello is casually resting against his knees, and his arm is extended while his hand is firmly wrapped around its neck as he raises a blond eyebrow at him. Grantaire wonders what it would feel like wrapped around his neck—Jesus-fucking-Christ.

He wants to die. “Of course I am, Your Highness. Are you paying attention?” His retort earns him a glare and a scowl, and he thinks smugly, Good.

“Let’s just start at letter A again,” Enjolras grumbles. A is for “asshole”.

“Fine.”

Of all the things he claims to hate about Enjolras, Grantaire can’t bring himself to hate the way he plays. The control he has over his instrument is astounding, and he doesn’t just play it—he makes love to it. Grantaire seriously can’t help the sexual thoughts invading his mind, and in his distracted state, he misses a beat.

Obviously, Enjolras catches it and rolls his eyes. Marshmallow meows condescendingly. Grantaire feels suitably chastised… by his cat, not by Enjolras. He stares at the mini crochet bees on his bookshelf in desolation. The bees are inspired by composers, complete with little wigs, and in a way, they help Grantaire keep track of his sheet music.

“Fuck off. Let’s start where you come in again,” he says, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. Whether it’s out of anger or embarrassment, he has no idea. And I’ll try not to let my mind wander too much, remains unspoken.

Enjolras sniffs to cue him in, which is a demonstration of good musicianship, but does he have to do it so loudly? The corner of Grantaire’s mouth twitches at the thought of Enjolras sucking up everything inside his nose just by breathing. It honestly helps him ignore the way the sleeves of Enjolras’s button-up shirt—how pretentious—are rolled up to his elbows and the way he expertly fingers the notes. Grantaire kind of wishes he could be the cello. Except he doesn’t. Not at all.

Beethoven has never sounded better. It’s honestly quite a surprise that Enjolras isn’t already giving concerts around the world because the man has some serious talent. Grantaire harbors an irrational hatred for child prodigies, which must be why he feels a little belligerent towards him. Every note that comes from Enjolras’s cello is given special care and lots of vibrato, but when he does have a slight intonation problem, Marshmallow makes sure everyone in the room knows.

Never before has Grantaire been so grateful he plays piano. He doesn’t think he could deal with the nitpicking that his string and wind instrumentalist friends get from their professors about playing in tune. Instead, he gets to take a million music theory classes and sometimes plays in the orchestra at the conservatory.

Playing in the orchestra doesn’t take up much of his time, so he never actually met Enjolras or even really cared about his existence until their conductor called him out for rushing that one time. Grantaire was texting Joly and Bossuet at the time anyway. He’s reminded that he should probably ask Lamarque if the orchestra would accompany him for his own recital.

Right now, he’s desperately trying to sight-read the accompaniment without sounding like utter garbage. Taking the job was a massive oversight on his part, and printing out the scores only yesterday was just another bad decision. Sight-reading on piano absolutely sucks, and it doesn’t help that Grantaire considers himself horrible at it. It’s just his luck that these pieces aren’t ones where he can miss a few notes in the left hand either.

Enjolras can go die in a hole for forcing Grantaire to play a sonata that’s more of a duet than a solo with accompaniment. He kind of wants to cry. It’s making him question declaring piano performance to be his major.

The hour seems to drag by, but Marshmallow remains peaceful for the majority of it, so Grantaire can rest assured that this whole endeavor isn’t completely fruitless. When the clock hits the hour mark, he abruptly lifts his hands from the keyboard in the middle of a phrase, causing Enjolras to look at him in confusion, and practically slumps against his piano.

Truth be told, the only good thing about having wealthy parents is that they can afford for him to have his own Steinway. They wouldn’t settle for anything less, and Grantaire supposes that using and loving the instrument is much better than letting it gather dust as a piece of furniture. Actually, the notion of someone owning a grand piano for the sole purpose of decoration fills him with fury.

“We’re done for today,” he says before Enjolras can open his mouth to speak.

“Be more prepared next week,” Enjolras retorts, loosening his bow and lifting the leg of his chair to pick his rock stop up. At least he had the courtesy to use one instead of drilling a hole into Grantaire’s apartment floor like some cellists have dared to in the past.

“I have my own recital too, y’know. Unfortunately for you, Beethoven and Dvořák and Popper can wait.”

“I’m paying you to accompany me.”

Grantaire throws his hands up in exasperation. Money is the least of his concerns at the moment, something that is very rare for a student. “I don’t even matter when it comes to whether you graduate or not! For someone who all my friends seem to sing praises about, you really are a selfish asshole, you know that?”

“At least I had the courtesy to come prepared. I hardly think it’s selfish to expect adequacy,” Enjolras replies, blue gaze hardening. Marshmallow hooks a claw in his trouser leg and meows, narrowing her eyes.

“Whatever. Insult me all you want,” Grantaire mutters, trying not to let the words get to him. At least his cat has his back. The atmosphere is tense as Enjolras puts his cello back in its case—it’s dark red with pride stickers plastered all over it, which makes him seem a little more human—and shoves his sheet music into his messenger bag.

Grantaire resolutely does not stare when Enjolras easily slings his instrument over one shoulder and walks out of the apartment, but not before bending down to pet Marshmallow’s fluffy head. She purrs. Traitor.

Instead, he doesn’t even bother waiting for the door to close before calling Éponine and digging into his alcohol stash. He’ll have to erase the past hour from his mind with cheap liquor. He doesn’t consider himself an alcoholic, by any means, but drinking is a good way to destress after coping with his brain for too long. Toeing off his slippers, he flops onto his couch.

Thankfully, Éponine picks up right away. “What do you want?” She sounds grumpy. That’s a good sign.

“Will you be a good lesbian best friend and do this gay boy a favor by coming over, so I can whine about my day?” Grantaire asks, untucking his musician pun T-shirt from his mom jeans. It’s the one that reads, “Suck my pianist,” so that may not have been the most tasteful first impression on Enjolras, but he can’t bring himself to care when his outfits are always so cute.

“You and I are both bisexual, idiot.”

Grantaire waves his hand in dismissal before remembering that his friend cannot, in fact, see him. “Technicalities. Please?”

Éponine sighs in exasperation and replies, “Already on my way.”

“You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“The door’s unlocked!” Grantaire calls out, still faceplanted on his couch, when he hears someone knock.

To his surprise, it’s not his friend who walks in but Enjolras. He groans and buries his face into one of the pillows, curling up into a fetal position. The last thing he needs to see right now is Enjolras’s lofty brow or whatever the fuck people use to describe him. Marshmallow pats his head comfortingly, as if she can read his mind.

“Are you okay?”

“What are you even doing here?” Grantaire asks in response, voice muffled by the cushion.

He doesn’t need to look at him to know that Enjolras is rolling his eyes. “I left my keys.”

Grantaire makes a noncommittal sound and still refuses to look at him. After a moment, he hears footsteps approach the couch, so he grumbles, “Go away, Enjolras.”

“Wow, unless I suddenly turned into a hot blond dude in the past few seconds, I’m pretty sure I’m not Enjolras.”

Turning around to look at Éponine and widening his eyes piteously, Grantaire whimpers, “He’s not hot. He’s so mean.”

“Really?” Éponine asks incredulously. “We’re talking about my stand partner, right?”

Grantaire curls up into a ball and buries his face back into his pillow to make room for his friend on the couch. “Mhm. Like, yeah, I get that I’m a shitty person and an even shittier pianist, but did he have to insult me like that?”

“Shush, R. You are neither of those. You’re talented and amazing, and I will be having words with him.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll just complain a bit and deal and then complain a bit more.”

Éponine pokes his buttcheek, making him squirm. “You were my friend first, and I don’t give a fuck if there’s tension between me and Enjolras, so if he dares insult you again, a very aggressive chewing-out is going to be the last of his worries.”

“But it’s not even his fault. He knows his music. I don’t,” Grantaire complains. “I’m a horrible person, who procrastinates on practicing and practices to procrastinate. I prac-rastinate.”

“You’re also busy with your own stuff.”

“See? That’s what I said!”

“Then I don’t know why he’s being unreasonable.” She pulls Grantaire upright and hugs him tightly, squeezing his middle. “Either way, you’re not to blame.”

“Have you and the rest of the gang told him about me? Is that why he hates me already?”

“Well, Musichetta did bring you up a few times in conversation. Maybe Enjolras overheard, considering he sits right next to me in rehearsal, but we mostly talked about how adorable and sexy you are.”

Grantaire sighs. “So I just ruined his expectations, is what you’re telling me.”

Éponine raises an eyebrow and asks, “What, were you hoping he would find you adorable? Or sexy?” She gasps, appalled. “Do you find him sexy?”

“I told you. He’s not hot.”

“R, sweetheart, even if you were blind, you’d be able to tell that he looks like an archangel or, like, a demon about to lure everyone into hell.”

“Bad ‘Ponine! I hate him, remember? I couldn’t even stand one hour with him.” For the most part, Grantaire hates that he now has an image of Enjolras in black stuck in his mind. “I’m gonna get really drunk now, so you have to hold me accountable.”

“I gotchu.”

Grantaire supposes that he’s never come across two nice stand partners. One of them always has to be an asshole. And in this case, it’s not Éponine.

Grantaire would be lying if he said he wasn’t practicing the stupid accompaniment to Enjolras’s solo recital pieces with a fervor that he didn’t even know he was in possession of. Of course, his own Liszt concerto won’t practice itself, but it’s in the polishing stage now, which essentially means that he’s listening to Martha Argerich’s recording on repeat. And memorization.

Oh God. Memorization.

It’s the bane of Grantaire’s existence. He never memorizes something on purpose. It always comes to him when he’s too lazy to turn a page or when he drifts off. Thankfully, accompanying Enjolras won’t require him to memorize any music, but getting the notes down is something else entirely. He will be prepared this time, if only to knock Enjolras down a few pegs.

Nonetheless, Grantaire still feels his stomach turn into a blender when he counts down the minutes to Enjolras’s arrival. This is stupid, he tells himself. The only other time he ever gets this nervous is during recitals and the competitions he attended back in lycée. His hands are even turning clammy in anticipation.

“Get a fucking grip,” Grantaire mutters under his breath. “Enjolras isn’t a scary panel of judges. He’s just a… a potato. A really tall and hands- no. A stupid potato.”

A telltale knock sounds. Seriously, is Enjolras trying to bust his door down? Grantaire, with Marshmallow at his ankles, takes his time in answering it, practically dragging his feet. He opens the door reluctantly, stepping aside to let Enjolras’s absurdly tall frame in.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras greets, neither politely nor rudely. In that moment, Grantaire despises his name and how it sounds in such a flat tone of voice. He notices that Enjolras’s eyes immediately fall to his chest, so he covers it self-consciously by crossing his arms.

Maybe it’s because his shirt has, “Music puns are my forte,” emblazoned across the front in Times New Roman font. Whatever. If Enjolras can’t properly appreciate the T-shirts, that’s just another thing to hate him for.

“Pot- Enjolras.” Grantaire catches himself just in time, ignoring the weird look he receives.

Enjolras rolls his sleeves up—he should really stop doing that for the sake of Grantaire’s sanity—before taking his cello out and beginning the long and tedious process of tightening and rosining his bow. Grantaire loves playing piano because it doesn’t require all that, but as a result, he’s forced to wait. Because he accompanies Éponine and the rest of his friends sometimes, he already has a chair and a music stand pulled up next to his bench.

When Enjolras finally looks at him expectantly, Grantaire gives him an a minor chord to tune to, holding it down with the damper pedal while he stares off into space. He pops his knuckles and receives a semi-distasteful expression.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s bad for you,” Enjolras says, and it really sounds like he believes that.

“Actually, according to Joly, who cares about shit like that much more than you ever could, whenever someone pops their joints, they’re just releasing the build-up of fluid,” Grantaire smugly bites back and arches his back to pop it too. Okay, so maybe that movement is a little slutty. Oh well. Sue him.

Enjolras’s mouth pinches in annoyance.

This time, Grantaire is prepared, and he savors the impressed look on Enjolras’s face when he doesn’t just fake a particularly difficult passage. Marshmallow purrs from her place in Enjolras’s cello case. It’s honestly a wonder that one week of practice was all it took to get him on track and his fingers to move dexterously across the keyboard.

Grantaire has to admit that playing music at tempo or at least at a faster tempo than he did in his unprepared state is much more… exciting. That, and he can also smugly say, “You’re rushing, Enjolras.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just dragging?”

Lips thinning into an unamused line, Grantaire reaches over to his admittedly messy pile of sheet music and plucks the metronome from the top, clicking it on. He quirks an eyebrow at Enjolras and sets his hands back on the keys, waiting for his cue.

As it turns out, Enjolras was indeed rushing, but Grantaire admits that he might also have been dragging the slightest bit. Nobody will ever know. Either way, he’s plenty smug about having something to lord over Enjolras.

With more notes under his fingers, Grantaire feels his heart race at the fact that they don’t sound like complete crap. Well, Enjolras sounds godly and looks… godly… to Grantaire’s great chagrin, but the atmosphere doesn’t feel nearly as tense. Beethoven almost sounds acceptable.

It’s still lacking something though.

Marshmallow meows in agreement.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t play a wrong note that time,” Enjolras tells the cat. Fuck, that shouldn’t be adorable.

“Meow.”

Grantaire makes a sound that’s a cross between a snort and a laugh, causing Enjolras to turn to look at him and raise a questioning eyebrow. He averts his gaze deliberately, refusing to acknowledge the fact that Enjolras was talking to his cat.

“You, er, sound better,” Enjolras says at last. It would sound genuine, but the tone he speaks with strikes a little weirdly. He shouldn’t have to force himself to give him a compliment.

“I’m glad you’ve lowered your standards enough, Your Highness,” Grantaire bites back, huffing.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise and turns back around, settling his cello back against his chest. “Dvořák?”

“Ugh, fine.”

“You could afford to sound a little more enthusiastic.”

Grantaire exhales deeply and flips the music in his binder a little more aggressively than he should. Why should he be enthusiastic? Enjolras has literally never given him a single reason to be enthusiastic about this. Hmph.

Instead of making a witty remark, Grantaire shakes his head and makes a dejected face at his own reflection in the glossy black veneer of his instrument. He looks pathetic. Oh well. At least he sounds okay when he plays the opening notes of the concerto.

There is one thing about Enjolras that Grantaire would consider himself jealous of. Enjolras’s hands are large. Grantaire’s hands are not. He can barely reach a tenth on a good day, which means that he has to either roll the chords that are too big or just take notes out altogether. It’s inconvenient, and more than once, he finds himself staring wistfully at Enjolras’s long fingers, which easily block fifths and then some on his cello.

Grantaire wonders what else those hands can do… no. He promises that he doesn’t have a hand kink. It’s just that he can’t help but stare and feel the envy bubble up in him. It’s totally unfair. He focuses on the music again, and instead of sinking heavily into the keys and squinting at the notes like they’ll suddenly play themselves, he allows the phrases to flow from his fingertips.

Of the three pieces that Grantaire is accompanying Enjolras for, the Popper is undeniably the easiest for him. For Enjolras, not so much. It’s crazy how ridiculously fast it is, for one, but the accuracy with which he hits every note is insane. His bow turns into a blur as he braces his thumb against the fingerboard of his cello. As someone who has accompanied a few string players and rehearses with an orchestra, Grantaire is educated enough to know how difficult the piece is and tries not to rush his chords. He wonders how calloused Enjolras’s fingers have to be at this point.

That is yet another reason why Grantaire will be infinitely grateful he plays piano.

Once again, the clock strikes the hour, but Grantaire brings himself to finish playing the section they were working on before standing up. Enjolras looks at him, and there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t seem like loathing. Grantaire isn’t sure if he wants to find out what exactly it is.

When Enjolras finishes packing up and has a foot out the door, he glances back over his shoulder and says, “Thank you, Grantaire. You too, uh, Cat Whose Name I’m Still Unaware Of.”

“Marshmallow,” Grantaire mumbles, curious as to why Enjolras is suddenly being polite. “Stupid, I know.”

“It fits,” Enjolras replies before he disappears into the hallway.

Meanwhile, Grantaire is left a little lost, and he stares at his cat, who just raises one paw to her face and licks it. “Why does he have to be so weird?”

“Meow.”

“Thanks.”

Huffing, Grantaire takes his own music out again to maybe practice some more. By that, he means that he’ll play through one page and work on it for the rest of eternity. Yeah. And then, as he eats dinner, he will pull up The Aristocats on his laptop to be motivated to practice his scales and arpeggios.

It’s almost dark when Grantaire realizes his problem. The thing about living in an apartment complex is that he has bitchy neighbors who whine when he practices late at night. Which was a massive oversight when he scheduled this week’s rehearsal with Enjolras.

Apparently Enjolras had a whole thing with his quartet after orchestra rehearsal—seriously, how many things is he involved in?—so he had Musichetta inform Grantaire of this last minute change. It’s a good thing Grantaire practices twenty-four-seven when he doesn’t feel like sleeping. It’s not forty hours a day, but he makes do. It’s also a good thing that he had the sense to get Enjolras’s number from Éponine and has been using it to communicate with him, albeit via passive aggressive text messages.

He pulls his phone out to send Enjolras a quick text because he fucking can.

R: neighbors will complain. meet me in a practice room on campus

Because Enjolras is the kind of punctual idiot who replies at the speed of light, Grantaire’s phone buzzes with a new message.

asshole cellist 😒: Ok.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. For someone who somehow pulls entire motivational speeches out of thin air before concerts, Enjolras is certainly partial to single-word responses over text. It’s like he’s depending on Grantaire to carry a conversation, which he will, mind you, but it really feels awkward. Enjolras also texts like an old man with perfect grammar. Grantaire will have to ask Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta if Enjolras is that frigid when he is talking to them.

They have so many mutual friends—aka every queer person in the orchestra—but Enjolras seems to despise Grantaire for a reason unknown to him. After a moment of hesitation, he plucks the grumpy Beethoven bee… Bee-thoven, if you will… from his piano for emotional support and stuffs him unceremoniously with the rest of his belongings before feeding his cat.

R: see you there in ten

Grantaire legs it all the way to campus after grabbing his backpack, which essentially only holds his binder of sheet music and a pencil case stuffed to the brim with every writing utensil known to humankind. He has a variety of pencils—cute mechanical pencils with little kittens printed on them, erasable colored pencils, and wooden pencils, even though pencil sharpeners are kind of homophobic—ballpoint pens, ink pens, highlighters, highlighter tape, you name it. Maybe it’s become a habit to carry such a thing around since it’s been drilled into him from the beginning that showing up to rehearsal without a writing utensil is synonymous to arriving unprepared, but he has a sneaking suspicion that it has to do with the fact that he likes to turn his sheet music into a coloring book.

What can he say? The colors are pretty. And they help him keep track of what he worked out when. Besides, his professors seem to find it amusing, especially when he doodles little angry faces and hearts around the notes accordingly.

If anything, Grantaire thinks his sheet music looks prettier than Enjolras’s. Dull pencil markings? Bleh. Boring. His handwriting is practically illegible too. Even Combeferre, who has the unique ability to decipher any script in existence, has to squint to read Enjolras’s. Grantaire’s handwriting, on the other hand, pun unintended, is neat and perfect and beautiful. His professors adore him for it.

Back at the conservatory, Grantaire is dismayed to find that the larger practice rooms are all occupied by students who either have to cram-practice or can’t sleep. In a way, Grantaire is both. All the Steinways on campus have been taken, which is a feat in itself, so he walks into one of the smaller rooms, heaving a bit to get the soundproof door open.

Because Grantaire sucks at planning ahead and checking the weather, he totally forgot to wear gloves or a sweatshirt with pockets—it still has a pun on it though—so his hands are basically icicles. He couldn’t even shove them into the back pockets of his skinny jeans either. Which is why his next message to Enjolras, telling him which room he’s in, is riddled with typos, but everything turns out okay because a familiar cello case floats into view.

“Have you warmed up already?” Enjolras asks. If Grantaire is being totally honest with himself, seeing him in that black coat is quite the revelation.

In the middle of blowing on his hands to get them to thaw, Grantaire almost whimpers when Enjolras ducks into the practice room and effectively fills his entire line of vision. “No, stupid, it’s fucking cold outside.”

Enjolras exhales through his nose very audibly and, without a moment of hesitation, bends down to grab Grantaire’s hands and sandwich them between his own, caressing them gently. It makes Grantaire go red in the face, but the warmth is delicious. In fact, he might’ve actually moaned a little in relief. Who knew such an asshole could be so considerate? However, it doesn’t look like Enjolras is quite enjoying this arrangement, if the weird expression on his face is anything to go by. Grantaire is suddenly too aware of the mere centimeters of space between them, and he squirms awkwardly.

As Enjolras almost reluctantly releases his hands, Grantaire notices a slight problem.

“Um,” he starts and then stands up, “this bench was the only one in the room. You can have it.”

“I can try to find another,” Enjolras replies, “or I can just stand up to play.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grantaire scoffs. “All the other rooms are taken, and aren’t we preparing your recital? You’re not fucking standing up to play.” He pauses before making an executive decision and pushing the bench out a little more. “It’s big enough for both of us. Just sniff louder than you usually do to cue me and stuff.”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose, which, unfair. He has no right to be annoyed when Grantaire is the one doing all the problem solving around here and tolerating him.

It takes a bit of squishing for Enjolras to properly unpack and then sit down, and only then does Grantaire realize the sheer proximity. Hoo boy. This rehearsal is not going to be fun for him. Then again, it never is.

When Enjolras cues, his back brushes up against Grantaire’s, making him stiffen up in surprise and nearly miss his own entrance. God, why did he think this was a good idea? Enjolras is like a space heater, practically radiating warmth. This does not bode well for Grantaire, especially since that’s all he can think about.

In the span of half an hour, Grantaire loses count of the number of times Enjolras’s elbow bumps into his own, how many times he nearly scoots right off the bench, and how often he gets distracted by Enjolras’s body heat. More often than not, he finds himself leaning into it, and he cannot be blamed for that. It’s not his fault that Enjolras is so hot… temperature-wise.

Grantaire wants to scream.

When his head inevitably makes contact with Enjolras’s shoulder, he does actually scream. Well, it's more like a squeak, but it's loud enough to startle himself. His fingers somehow continued playing as he dozed off. Muscle memory, folks. Works like a charm. Face flaming, Grantaire covers it with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that if he can’t see Enjolras, everything will be okay.

“It’s been a long day,” Enjolras says quietly, interrupting his mini freak-out session. “You can take a quick nap.”

Nap? Where in this miniscule practice room is there space for Grantaire to take a nap? Why is Enjolras suggesting that he take a nap? What the fuck is his life anymore?

“Sweetheart, I’m sure you’re plenty aware, but there is no room for me to lie down and take a nap,” Grantaire replies, using the pet name sarcastically. He has no idea where it came from, but he would never use it to describe Enjolras with a fully conscious mind.

Enjolras must be equally as tired because he puts his cello down and suggests, “You can just continue as you were and use me as a pillow. I don’t mind.”

Oooookay, where did the Enjolras who despised Grantaire go? Is this some sort of trick? A trap, perhaps? Glancing at him, Grantaire tilts his head curiously at the funny expression on his face. Maybe it’s because it’s late at night, and Enjolras is feeling a little more generous. Whatever.

However, Enjolras’s shoulder is looking really appealing right now. Before Grantaire can protest, he yawns, rubbing his eyes. The fact that he supposedly hates Enjolras is the last thing on his mind at the moment. In fact, Grantaire thinks he even makes a little content noise as he tips backwards and lets his head fall against Enjolras.

And, oh, Enjolras is so nice to nap on. Grantaire nearly whines when the warmth seeps into his body, and he unconsciously cuddles closer, effectively diminishing what little space was between them to nothing. The bizarre thing is that Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind, adjusting so Grantaire can be more comfortable. Perfectly content, he lets sleep take him.

Grantaire doesn’t know how long he naps for, but his subconscious informs him that his pillow is miraculously heated. He doesn’t remember the ones on his bed being this comfortable, so he burrows into it, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric. A quiet laugh comes from the pillow, and it rumbles against Grantaire’s ear.

Making a confused sound, Grantaire blinks his eyes open, eyelashes sticking together incredibly attractively. He looks up and locks eyes with Enjolras’s, staring at him groggily for a whole minute before his mind finally registers his position. Somehow, he’s made his way into Enjolras’s lap and has been curled up against him the entire time, and Enjolras didn’t even push him off or anything. Oh God, he must’ve felt so uncomfortable.

“I- I’m sorry…?” Grantaire tries, untangling himself and immediately missing being wrapped up in Enjolras’s arms. He is loath to admit that he has never felt safer than in that moment, even though Enjolras had every opportunity to take photos or whatever for blackmail purposes.

However, according to their friends, he isn’t the type of person to do that, no matter how much of an asshole he can be sometimes. Since when did he get promoted to being an asshole only some of the time instead of all of the time? Grantaire mentally shrugs. Enjolras let him sleep during precious rehearsal time, so he deserves that title.

“Like I said, don’t worry about it,” he replies, bending down to pick his cello back up while Grantaire straightens his sweatshirt—an adorable dark green one that has a fermata on it with the words, “Hold me,” printed under it. How appropriate. Perhaps Enjolras was only following directions.

“Okay,” Grantaire says slowly, voice still containing a flustered note. “Did I snore?”

The corner of Enjolras’s mouth twitches in amusement, or so Grantaire thinks. “Just a little. It hovered around an E and then went up a minor third before coming back down.”

Speechless, Grantaire opens and closes his mouth a few times before narrowing his eyes. Finally snapping out of his stupor, he grumbles something along the lines of, “Goddamn asshole with perfect pitch. Next, I’ll find out that I breathe in B-flat major or some shit.”

Truth be told, that doesn’t make much sense, but it startles a laugh from his companion. Grantaire distracts himself by rapidly flipping the pages in his binder until he gets to the Beethoven sonata, but Enjolras puts a hand on his, effectively covering the entirety of it. 

“Huh?” Grantaire asks, bewildered.

“It’s alright. We can pick this up another time.”

“No, we have to rehearse,” he protests. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Enjolras shakes his head stubbornly. “We still have five rehearsals.”

“That’s not enough! I can’t-”

“Stop, R.” Huh, that’s the first time he has used Grantaire’s nickname. “I have to admit that I shouldn’t have judged you straight away because, even with that fuck-up of a first rehearsal, your learning curve is a lot steeper than I originally expected, and you pulled yourself together rather quickly. Just relax. Even fall asleep again, if you want.”

Stuck between a rock and a hard place—the rock being the impending doom that will be Enjolras’s solo recital and the hard place being Enjolras himself, which, judging by his chest might not be entirely inaccurate—Grantaire weighs his options before finally deciding to put his stuff away. He sounds horrible when he’s tired anyway, he tries rationalizing. Better just take one for the team… hey, since when did he refer to them as a team in his mind?

Turning around, so his back isn’t pressed weirdly against Enjolras’s and to properly sit next to him on the piano bench, Grantaire tucks his hands into his sleeves and glances up at him, curious.

Bach. Of course it’s Bach.

To be completely honest, Grantaire strongly dislikes playing Baroque music because he doesn’t have the opportunity to express himself like he does with Chopin or Prokofiev. Bach, in his book, is great for technique.

Regardless, when Enjolras plays Bach, each note is played like every single one of them is special, like the world depends on them being absolutely perfect.

Despite feeling like he’s about to fall asleep again at any moment, Grantaire forces his eyes to remain open. For two reasons. First and foremost, he won’t make a fool of himself in Enjolras’s presence again, and secondly, he would be remiss not to listen to him play without stressing about his own part.

Grantaire swings his legs a little, watching Enjolras close his eyes and emote with his eyebrows. That seems to be a cellist thing, to make constipated expressions when they play. Grantaire finds himself wanting to touch the furrow between his brows and smooth it away, and he definitely does not take the time to admire how beautiful Enjolras’s face actually is. He doesn’t admire his high cheekbones or sharp jawline or the admittedly adorable freckles on the bridge of his nose. Grantaire’s cheeks turn hot, and he hopes that Enjolras doesn’t notice his blatant staring. He promises to himself that he’ll do Marshmallow’s job of screeching at any slightly wobbly notes, but he has a niggling feeling that he won’t be able to bring himself to do it.

True to Enjolras’s words, he allows himself to relax and enjoy the fluidity and ease with which Enjolras plays the double stops in the allemande. Grantaire feels like a little kid going to his first concert again. Extracting Bee-thoven from his backpack, he squishes him in his hands like a stress ball just to have something to do with them.

Meanwhile, Enjolras continues playing, completely ignorant of Grantaire’s emotional roller coaster.

When the clock indicates that they’ve been in the practice room for longer than Grantaire initially anticipated, he touches Enjolras’s shoulder and looks pointedly at the wall. Bee-thoven remains firmly in his clutch. Until Grantaire presses him into Enjolras’s hands and quickly babbles, “GoodbyethanksforthenapandthemusicIgottago.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something, but Grantaire is already out the door, blushing furiously at his own stupidity and clumsy self.

“Last night was weird as fuck,” Grantaire says, plopping into the chair next to his friend. He’s one of the first few people here and has a bit of time before the orchestra rehearsal starts, so he takes the opportunity to socialize. He realizes that he should really be warming up to play his concerto, but it’s whatever.

“Did you sleep with Enjolras?” Joly asks nonchalantly, not even pausing in putting his oboe together.

Grantaire looks at him, horrified. “No! What the hell, Joly?!”

“You’re wearing the same clothes that you wore yesterday.”

“Jolyyyyy,” he whines, “I was practicing, which is admittedly very sexy of me, but I assure you that nothing fun happened in the practice room.”

“Fun?” Joly raises his eyebrows questioningly, and Grantaire pouts.

“Okay, not fun, per se, because I’m supposed to hate Enjolras.” He pauses. “Also I didn’t sleep with him. I slept on him.”

Joly gasps and startles, nearly dropping his little cup of water. “You what?!”

Grantaire shrugs. “It was cozy in the practice room, and Enjolras is, like, really hot—in terms of temperature, by the way—and I was a little sleep-deprived. So I fell asleep.”

“And Enjolras was okay with that?”

“Yup. He even offered his shoulder. He was probably also really out of it because why else would he let me conk out when we have so much stuff to do still?”

Joly doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth pinches as he wets his reed in the water and fixes it into his instrument before playing a few warm-ups. Cosette sits down behind them, setting her clarinet case by her chair before she leans forward.

“So… what’s the tea?” she asks, propping her chin up in her hands and resting her elbows on her thighs.

“R slept with Enjolras,” Joly says nonchalantly, like he’s talking about the weather.

Grantaire groans, burying his face in his arms and slumping against the back of the chair in frustration. Cosette gasps, but it sounds a tad… fake. Like she isn’t surprised at all to hear that, however false it may be. “You did?”

“No! Stop telling people that!” Grantaire exclaims. “We practiced and then we slept. Well, I slept. Enjolras practiced. Oh, what’s gotten into me?”

“Feelings?” Cosette replies helpfully.

“I don’t like him,” he says unconvincingly. “He makes me feel strange.”

"Hate to break it to you, R, but those are still feelings," she points out.

"Yes, but-"

The door opens, capturing Grantaire’s attention, and Enjolras walks in, accompanied by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and talking enthusiastically about something that requires him to gesticulate in the air. Unlike Grantaire, Enjolras doesn’t look like a general mess. He turns to peer up into the risers, where Grantaire is sitting, and even smiles a little.

Grantaire nearly falls out of his chair in surprise.

However, he catches himself just in time and brings his legs up onto the chair, hugging his knees to his chest to hide the blush spreading across his face. Joly and Cosette both laugh at him, so he makes an indignant expression.

“You’re adorable, R,” Joly declares. “Love you.”

“I’m not adorable,” Grantaire mumbles. “Love you too.”

Glancing over in the general direction of the podium again to catch a glimpse of Enjolras, Grantaire feels more than a little dismayed to find him warming up instead. Enjolras only pauses every once in a while to turn to his right and talk to Éponine.

Grantaire convinces himself that he isn’t jealous or disappointed. Just because he’s Enjolras’s mediocre accompanist doesn’t mean that he should have his attention to himself. Just because they spent one night in a practice room together doesn’t mean anything changes between them. At that thought, Grantaire feels the energy from the massive coffee he drank earlier—and by massive, he means a mason jar full of coffee that required him to hop up onto the counter to make—slowly slink out of him.

Sighing a little, he ignores the concerned looks Joly and Cosette exchange as he slumps back to the piano and promptly turns into a shrimp. Nothing will ever manage to correct his posture, not since he had to sit through the orchestra playing forty minutes’ worth of Stravinsky without him, and he made the foolish decision for his spine to remain ramrod straight. Seriously, his back at that moment was straighter than he is, not that that's a very high bar to cross.

Grantaire flips through his music before whipping out his phone to check for new text messages. There’s one from Musichetta in the group chat asking what he was whining about to Joly.

R: ill tell you guys later

viola mom 🎼: gotcha. istg if it has to do with Enjolras…

R: no haha what r u talking abt

viola mom 🎼: 🙄

flat trumpet 🤪: omg R did u and Enj fuck?

flat trumpet 🤪: Ferre seems to think you guys fucked

What the fuck? Grantaire has no idea how much Enjolras discloses to his closest friends, but gossiping seems a bit out of character for someone as calm as Combeferre. On the other hand, the man has been known to roll his eyes and bust out some meme songs on his trombone once in a while at Courfeyrac’s request before adjusting his glasses and nonchalantly setting his instrument down. Oh, and there was that one time Combeferre and his section started playing “Imperial March” in the middle of Prokofiev, so he’s kind of a wild card.

Utterly lost in his mixed emotions, Grantaire sends a chain of messages into the chat.

R: m’dudes

R: chetta ur literally right under lamarque’s nose

R: put ur phone away

R: u too boss

R: jfc the only responsible one here is joly

R: and me

R: LMAO jk im not responsible *cries in single*

R: … glad to see u guys heeded my instruction 😘

Rehearsal consists of rehearsing his concerto, exactly a hundred and thirty-nine measures that Grantaire plays in “The Firebird” Suite, a lot of zoning out in his thoughts, a dangerous thing to do, and staring at Enjolras… also a dangerous thing to do. When he’s accompanying Enjolras, he never takes the time to properly ogle, and he hasn’t done it in the past because the only string players he really paid any attention to were Éponine and Musichetta.

When Grantaire says that cellists are the most attractive people (see: Éponine), he means it. The cello is objectively one of the most beautiful instruments in terms of timbre, and hot people—Grantaire begrudgingly admits to himself that Enjolras is hot people—playing it just makes them exponentially more attractive. Big wood between legs, his mind supplies unhelpfully, recalling the video where two guys described instruments using four words.

Grantaire wants to scream. This was all so much easier when he only despised Enjolras instead of whatever state of limbo he's in right now. He should be immune to attractive people because literally every single one of his friends is attractive, but Enjolras had to go out of his way to be nice to him last night, and now he’s conflicted. If Grantaire’s love language isn’t subtle acts of service, he doesn’t know what it is, and letting Grantaire use him as a pillow is probably the best thing he could have done to win him over.

In the two hours that they have rehearsal for, Grantaire makes eye contact with Enjolras a grand total of six times, which is honestly six more times than he had anticipated. To be fair, he doesn’t even know if Enjolras was looking at him specifically or the back in general, but every time Lamarque stops to talk to Feuilly, Enjolras’s gaze wanders in Grantaire’s direction. Feuilly often complains about being the best on timpani and how much he hates that he has to play other percussion instruments too, and Grantaire pretends to understand and nod along.

The last time he tried playing an organ, it sounded like the Phantom of the Opera fell, screaming and on fire, along with the chandelier. Don’t even get him started on his attempt at the harpsichord.

Grantaire, tacet for the rest of the rehearsal, leans back as much as he can on a bench without a back, and closes his eyes to listen to the orchestra. Tchaikovsky symphonies might be some of his favorite ones, which is Grantaire’s completely unbiased opinion, regardless of how gay Tchaikovsky was. Either way, he loves the repertoire that Lamarque selects, and their college orchestra sounds like a professional philharmonic.

He also loves watching Enjolras play and scowl at the music before turning around in his chair to talk to the rest of his section. Who would win? One incredibly talented musician or some notes on a page? Grantaire’s inner thoughts are very amusing to him, and he finds himself grinning stupidly as Enjolras’s eyebrows nearly form an angry “V”. It’s almost scary.

(It’s actually very, very scary. Grantaire just doesn’t have the heart to admit that when he still remembers how cuddly Enjolras was last night.)

Grantaire hovers in the back to chat with Feuilly for a moment before leaving with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. And then he has to defend himself from their accusations of spending over an hour with Enjolras last night when he so clearly stated that he could not handle his presence.

asshole cellist 🤔: Your recital is next week, right?

R: yeah… ?

asshole cellist 🤔: I’ll be there.

Grantaire reads and rereads the message, wondering who might’ve put Enjolras up to that. He is, in no way, obligated to attend Grantaire’s senior recital.

R: u dont have to

asshole cellist 🤔: Shush, R. I’m literally in the orchestra.

R: rude :0

asshole cellist 🤔: I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.

Shaking his head, Grantaire reminds himself that Enjolras can be a little dense sometimes.

R: of course i am. srsly tho u dont have to stay

R: youll probs be doing urself a favor actually ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

asshole cellist 🤔: I don’t believe that for a second. You’re a brilliant pianist.

Grantaire’s heart might beat a little faster at the praise. He quickly types out a response.

R: i mean if ur sure

asshole cellist 🤔: Of course. Let me do whatever I please.

R: right right autonomy and all that

asshole cellist 🤔: … yes.

asshole cellist 🤔: Aren’t you in class right now?

R: yeahhhhhhhhhhhh but ive already learned all this stuff. perks of being a pianist i guess

It’s music theory, something that has been ingrained in him since he started playing piano. He knows the church modes and figured bass like the back of his hand.

asshole cellist 🤔: Now if you’ll slowly ease your attention away from your phone, you’ll accomplish a great many things.

It takes Grantaire all his energy to let Enjolras have the last word, but he figures that he might just give him the satisfaction. Just this once, though. He can’t continue to be this weak for Enjolras’s demands. Thankfully, Grantaire is already sitting down because the thought of Enjolras commanding him to do stuff with that low and rumbly voice from that night in the practice room makes his knees feel like jelly.

Grantaire knows he’s pathetic. In fact, it’s rather fitting that he’s playing Beethoven’s Sonata “Pathétique” for his solo recital, he thinks wryly. Oh God, and he is suddenly reminded that Enjolras will be there to witness him play it along with every other piece on the program for that night. He really needs to practice.

His phone lights up with another message.

asshole cellist 🤔: Oh yeah. I still have your bee.

R: huh?

asshole cellist 🤔: The grumpy one that you gave me weeks ago? (You should be paying attention in class, by the way.)

R: fuck off

R: his name is bee-thoven

asshole cellist 🤔: Do you want him back?

Does Grantaire want him back? Technically, yes, but he also likes the idea of Enjolras keeping him as a little good luck charm.

R: nah keep him and every time u get frustrated just squish him

R: it helps

asshole cellist 🤔: Thank you, R.

Jesus Christ, it’s just a crochet bee. And how does Enjolras manage to sound genuine through even text messages? Maybe it’s the use of periods. That’s why Grantaire refuses to use proper punctuation. How else is he supposed to come off as sarcastic?

R: yeh yeh im paying attention in class rn so shush

asshole cellist 🤔: I’ll see you afterwards for rehearsal?

R: what did i say u dimwit?

R: (yeah)

asshole cellist 🤔: Great. What’s on your shirt today?

R: … i can make u a liszt of puns

R: how r u even typing that fast???

asshole cellist 🤔: I mean, I just wanted to know the one on your shirt, but okay.

asshole cellist 🤔: My fingers are longer than yours.

R: no thats literally whats on my shirt lmao also i hate u

asshole cellist 🤔: I see.

asshole cellist 🤔: Cute.

Grantaire’s face is completely red. There is absolutely no denying it now. So maybe he has a praise kink larger than Cage’s Organ Project is long, but how did Enjolras know about it?

“Something exciting going on back there?” Valjean asks him from the front of the classroom. “Unless you’re just that enthusiastic about harmonic dictations?”

Oh fuck. Grantaire sucks at those. He really should pay more attention to the class, huh. Fortunately for him, Valjean is nicer than the other professors on campus, and Grantaire actually does well in his classes. Out loud, he replies innocently, even batting his lashes, “I’m not allowed to enjoy harmonic dictations, Professeur?”

The class collectively snorts, which is truly a feat in itself, and Valjean points a warning finger at him. “Don’t get too cocky. Nobody likes harmonic dictations. That's just a rule in music theory.”

Grantaire shrugs. That’s true. Even those with perfect pitch like Enjolras wouldn’t really consider dictations their favorite aspect of music theory. And then Grantaire realizes that he was probably called out in front of the class for a reason. Oh. He’s smiling, he discovers, touching his lips. Goddamnit, Enjolras.

Marshmallow squeaks excitedly, jumping down from her perch on the piano and padding over to the door, when a familiar knock sounds. Grantaire follows, but before he can greet Enjolras, his cat places her front paws against Enjolras’s jeans.

“Did you miss me, sweet girl?” Enjolras coos, picking her up and cuddling her. Marshmallow purrs and rubs her cheek against the underside of his jaw.

Grantaire, resolutely not jealous of his own cat, places his hands on his hips and grumbles, “Hello to you too.”

“Shhh, I’m busy,” Enjolras replies before bending down to kiss Marshmallow’s forehead. “Such a good kitty.”

“To you, maybe. I treat her like the queen she is, and she still screams at me when I play wrong notes.”

“She screams at me too.”

“Touché. Good to know that my cat doesn’t play favorites,” Grantaire snarks. He feels his heart skip a beat—it’s a horrible musician—as Enjolras sets Marshmallow down gently. She immediately curls up in her rightful throne once Enjolras takes his cello out of its case.

Seriously, why is Grantaire’s cat obsessed with Enjolras? Sure, he supposes that her attachment is understandable, but this is strange behavior, even for Marshmallow. Grantaire eyes her suspiciously. She just looks smugly back at him and tucks her nose under her paws to nap.

“‘Elfentanz’ first?” Enjolras asks, sitting down and capturing Grantaire’s attention again.

Grantaire looks at him incredulously. “Are you even warmed up?”

“Yeah. I just came back from a private lesson. In fact, that’s what we worked on, so it’s still fresh in my fingers.”

Shrugging, Grantaire replies, “Your funeral.”

Enjolras sighs and takes out his endpin. “Indeed.”

By now, the music is ingrained in Grantaire’s muscles, so he just lets his fingers move and takes the opportunity to watch Enjolras instead. Technically, they aren’t playing chamber music, but they still maintain enough eye contact to stay together.

It feels intimate. Too intimate, even.

Grantaire also has a question niggling at the back of his brain that he doesn’t dare ask until they finish an almost complete run-through of the whole program. They still have to pause a couple times to talk through a few spots, and they take a brief hydration break halfway through, but for the most part, their hard work has paid off.

“So who or what convinced you to stay for the rest of my recital?” Grantaire finally asks, when Enjolras is trying to lure Marshmallow out of his cello case. It’s ridiculous how gentle his interactions with the feline are, and it’s even more ridiculous how much Grantaire adores them.

“You’re a good pianist,” Enjolras replies absently, making a pspsps sound and holding his fingers out. Marshmallow takes the bait and rubs up against his hand, purring. Hoe.

“That’s certainly a change of opinion from when we first officially met.”

“I didn’t know you then, and the first impression was not exactly the best on either of our ends. I’ve always seen you with Joly and Bossuet, but they never bothered introducing me to you. Éponine and Musichetta, too.”

Grantaire fiddles with his fingers. It’s a habit of his to fidget with something because his fingers never stay still. He’s a little confused. Does Enjolras mean that he wanted to meet him? Because that is definitely what it sounds like.

“I like to consider myself to be pretty approachable,” Grantaire remarks. “I only reserve my extreme hatred for horrible people like myself.”

“You’re not a horrible person,” Enjolras argues. “You’re talented and smart and witty. And you usually hum under your breath in the wrong key, but that’s forgivable.”

“Ugh. Sometimes, I forget that you have perfect pitch because you’re not as snobbish as some of my classmates, and then you hit me with that. I should be so offended right now.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I think I’ve been thoroughly humbled by both Professeur Myriel and your cat telling me to correct my intonation.”

“Can’t relate,” Grantaire replies smugly, grinning. “You string players act so high and mighty, but playing in tune all boils down to how good your fingering technique is.”

“I’ll show you my fingering technique,” Enjolras mutters under his breath, or that’s what it sounds like, at least. Either way, it’s enough to make the blood rush to Grantaire’s face… and south.

“Don’t be so arrogant, Enjolras,” he tries to say nonchalantly. His voice comes out a little breathier than usual. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to proposition me.”

Enjolras pauses in putting his cello away to stare down at him, and Grantaire is once again reminded of just how intimidating he can be. His blue eyes seem to burn a hole into Grantaire’s face, but Grantaire makes sure to stubbornly hold eye contact. However, after a moment, he looks away, feeling his cheeks heat up. This is stupid, he thinks, blinking a few times. There’s no way Enjolras wants him. The only people Grantaire has ever slept with had always just wanted one-night stands. He doesn’t blame them. Besides, they were never as attractive—both in looks and personality—as Enjolras anyway. Grantaire envies the person Enjolras will inevitably end up with.

“R?”

Grantaire’s smile now feels forced. “Yeah?”

“You good?” Enjolras asks, concerned. He should go back to being abrupt and scowly with Grantaire if he doesn’t want him to catch feelings.

“Yeah?” Grantaire repeats unconvincingly. “Don’t you have important stuff to do? Like making sure that Courfeyrac doesn’t play ‘Toxic’ on repeat on his violin?”

Enjolras snorts. “Priorities.” He slings his instrument onto his back in one smooth motion. “See you next week, R. At your recital.”

“Oh fuck.”

The next thing Enjolras says gives Grantaire heart palpitations.

“You’ll do great. I believe in you.”

Just take Grantaire’s heart already, won’t he?

For fuck’s sake, Joly is such a blessing. He’s the one who made sure that Grantaire’s fingers wouldn’t turn into icicles and fall off by reminding him to bring gloves. They’re black and kind of match his suit, which multiple people—read: his friends—have claimed that he looks hot in. For the most part, he just likes the green bowtie. It’s very… him.

Fiddling with it doesn’t stop his hands from breaking out in cold sweat inside his gloves, and he really wishes that he brought along Shostako-bee or Rachma-bee-noff with him to squish instead. Right now, the orchestra is warming up onstage, and Grantaire is stressing out in the wings.

He’s afraid that he’ll sit down at the piano and promptly forget everything. It’s happened before, and there’s no saying that it won’t happen again, no matter how well he knows his music forwards and backwards.

“Don’t give yourself an aneurysm,” Bossuet whispers to him before promptly tripping over nothing because the man defies physics in all known forms. “You’ll do amazingly.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there with the rest of them?” Grantaire asks, but he’s very grateful for his friend’s presence.

“They don’t need me right now. Everything will be alright, R.”

“Yeah, I just need to not have any memory slips and get my degree.”

With one last reassuring pat, Bossuet disappears out of the wings just in time for Courfeyrac to stand up and nod at Joly to give them tuning pitches. Grantaire takes another deep breath. Quite frankly, he is still a bit in awe that Lamarque readily agreed to getting the whole orchestra to accompany him for a twenty-minute concerto.

Grantaire quickly removes his gloves and stashes them somewhere backstage right before walking on and taking a bow, to everyone’s applause. His first bow of the evening, in fact. When he sits down, the first thing he does is peer through the gap created between the lid and the body of the Hamburg Steinway. Enjolras gives him a smile, and suddenly, Grantaire feels a giant weight lift off his shoulders.

The applause dies down, and he nods at Lamarque, placing his hands in his lap while the orchestra plays the first few bars. Thank God that the intro is not terribly long because Grantaire knows that he would just get distracted by how amazing his friends are and forget to come in, but he does come in on time, which is a feat in itself.

During the slow sections, he conserves his energy, knowing that it was more or less a good idea to program a piece by Liszt first in his recital. Cosette plays her solo, and Courfeyrac plays his solo, but Grantaire can’t properly enjoy them because he’s a little too busy panicking about whatever is coming next. He needs to zone out a little more, so he won’t be laser-focused on every single note he has to play.

Grantaire has a specific mindset for each piece he has to memorize. For rondos and repetitive movements, he has to concentrate a bit more, so he doesn’t end up playing in circles, but for Romantic era pieces, he can afford to lose some of that concentration and feel where the music is leading him.

For now, he listens to the orchestra when he can, closing his eyes and enjoying the thick sound of the cello section and the bright timbre of the upper woodwinds. Because the audience is made up of trained musicians and professors, no applause rings out between movements, so Grantaire moves from movement to movement without interruption. He listens for Feuilly’s triangle and plays off of him for the second half of the concerto.

Liszt was known for being very competitive and also a massive bitch with his music—fuck him for being the reason pianists memorize their programs for recitals too—but Grantaire absolutely loves his compositions. They're fun when he knows how to play them and incredibly virtuosic.

The music seems to flow straight from his fingertips, and he finishes strong, lifting his hands off the keyboard in time to sit back and listen to the last two chords of the piece. Triumphant is one word to describe it, but it’s honestly more of a relief to have made it through a whole portion of his recital without any noticeable slip-ups. There might have been a stray note here and there, but all the practicing he crammed in at the last minute was worth it.

Grantaire shakes Lamarque’s hand and then Courfeyrac’s after bowing once again to thunderous applause. The house lights go back up for the briefest intermission, in which his friends in the orchestra all hug him and cry backstage, still holding their instruments.

“Don’t congratulate me yet,” Grantaire chides. “I’ve only made it through a fraction of it.”

“And we’ll be here to witness the glory that is the rest of it without having to squint at our own music,” Musichetta retorts. “Fifty more minutes. It’ll pass by in a flash.”

“Oh God, don’t remind me.”

Enjolras and Éponine, both having put their cellos away, walk over to join the little mob. Their goal is probably to turn everyone gay, being the iconic duo they are. The two of them should wear aviator sunglasses with their concert blacks and walk in slow motion for maximum effectiveness.

Only then is Grantaire struck by just how attractive Enjolras is in concert blacks. The conservatory did too much of a good thing and changed the dress code for everyone to just wear all black for concerts, regardless of gender. Still, how dare Enjolras look so good with the top buttons of his shirt undone and his tie loose around his neck.

Grantaire covers his face with his hands and whines, “It’s so unfair how hot you all are.”

“And you look gorgeous!” Joly shouts around his reed from somewhere in the back, where he’s carefully putting his instrument away. A chorus of agreements follows.

That’s untrue. Grantaire hadn’t even bothered to tame his hair, knowing that his inevitable sweat would make it shine even more if he had attempted to gel it back and that doing so would be futile when his unruly curls just bounce wherever they want. He has experimented with makeup in the past, but didn’t really feel like plastering his face with product because, once again, sweat, but he did attempt mascara.

Just because Éponine said that it would make his blue eyes “pop” or whatever the fuck she meant.

“Go take your seats,” Grantaire says, rolling his eyes at his friends’ antics. He didn’t quite pay attention to see if Enjolras agrees with Joly’s statement, but it’s probably for the better because regardless of whether or not he does, it would nag at him either way.

Grantaire will be eternally thankful for the house lights dimming, so he can’t see Enjolras’s face in the back of the concert hall. Honestly, he would just spontaneously combust, and every single note he had memorized would just leave him. He plays the Scarlatti sonata with a nice Baroque touch and then “Pathétique” with as much expertise as he has. Halfway through, Grantaire thinks to himself that he might be getting a little exhausted, but he perseveres. Beethoven should be proud of him with the way he executes that piece.

If music be the food of love, play on, or however it goes, right?

At one point, Grantaire leans in, throwing his head back and pushing his chest into the piano, before realizing just how slutty the motion is. In his defense, there are definitely… worse moves that he could’ve pulled. Like Musichetta predicted, the music plays itself, and Grantaire doesn’t recall when he already moved on to the fourth and final work.

Contrary motion, his mind helpfully supplies, as he plays the last few bars of the Prokofiev. Just like that, ending on an a minor chord, Grantaire is done with his recital. His chest is heaving, and his mind is simultaneously reeling at a hundred kilometers per second and completely wiped blank.

“Holy fucking shit,” he says under his breath when he finally catches it. Nobody hears him because they’re clapping like their hands will fall off if they don’t.

Grantaire stands up, almost collapsing when his knees threaten to give out at the adrenaline rush, and the audience cheers louder when he falls into yet another bow, one hand firmly on the piano to steady himself. He still can’t process that the last hour and a half just happened.

The audience doesn’t stop clapping, so Grantaire sighs and sits back down on the bench, which he’s pretty sure has an indent from his ass, to play an encore. It’s just the toccata from Debussy’s “Pour le piano” suite because he likes Impressionism and because it’s less than four minutes long.

The applause dies down after that, and he breathes another sigh of relief. He doesn’t think he has the energy in him to play yet another piece, but he’s grateful that he has such a kind audience. Lifting his chin, Grantaire finally gazes to the back of the hall just in time to see the expression on Enjolras’s face. He looks… proud.

That sends Grantaire’s heart into overdrive.

The first thing he does when he makes his way into the hallways backstage is relocate his gloves, stuff them into his pocket, and strip out of his suit. His clothes will have to be sent to dry-cleaning, but at least he won’t have to wear them for the rest of the year.

If Grantaire does a little happy dance in his dressing room and squeals, nobody will ever know.

Or at least that’s what he wishes. A familiar voice interrupts him from behind.

“Is that what you’re always like when you get excited?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire whips around, too pumped up to be properly embarrassed. With wide eyes, he stares at the way Enjolras is just leaning against the doorframe before clocking the flowers in his hand. His tie is now completely gone, which is just illegal.

“I’m allowed to twirl around okay? Just because you’re a party pooper doesn’t mean that you get to rain on my parade,” Grantaire huffs, stepping forward to poke Enjolras in the chest.

Enjolras reaches up to protect himself from the onslaught of aggression from tiny human, and in doing so, he seems to remember that his hands aren’t empty. Grantaire releases an oof and nearly stumbles as the bouquet is practically shoved into his arms.

“Huh?”

“Flowers,” Enjolras replies simply.

“Yes, I can see that.” In fact, they’re all Grantaire can see. “Do you give all your friends flowers?”

He peers over the top to catch Enjolras scratching his neck sheepishly. “To be honest, Courfeyrac was the one who encouraged me to get them, so no would be the answer to your question.”

“And you decided on lavender roses? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate them, but… ?”

“I heard they had to do with friendship, and I found them pretty,” Enjolras says, shrugging. “Take it as a peace offering of sorts, since I’m not exactly sure where we stand in our relationship.”

Grantaire sets the flowers down on the counter to look at Enjolras without massive purple blooms blocking his line of vision. He has no idea either, to be fair, but he is nowhere near brave enough to say out loud that he might have an entirely unsubtle crush on him.

“Friends, I suppose. I don’t agree to accompany just anyone,” Grantaire settles on at last. He thinks he might see Enjolras’s face fall ever so slightly, but he waves it off as a trick of the light and his exhausted brain telling him that he’s seeing things now.

“I feel like we need to shake hands to seal the deal, but you honestly look like you could use a hug right now,” Enjolras remarks. Not one to waste such an opportunity, Grantaire immediately falls into open arms and finds himself enveloped in Enjolras’s warmth and the subtle scent of his cologne. He clutches at Enjolras’s black shirt, letting it ground him.

This is the second time that Grantaire has been in such close quarters with Enjolras, and oh, he loves it. Enjolras rocks them back and forth, his tight grip on Grantaire never relenting. Their breathing aligns as Grantaire closes his eyes and just listens to the beating of Enjolras’s heart.

His voice trembles when he mumbles, “I’m all sweaty and gross.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Still, Enjolras releases him from the embrace. “You did great.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire replies genuinely, collecting his flowers. He hesitates and stares into Enjolras’s eyes for a long moment before stepping up onto his tiptoes to brush the barest hint of a kiss against Enjolras’s cheek.

Friends do that, right?

Face as bright as a tomato, Grantaire slips out the door, leaving Enjolras and his shocked expression behind. He has no idea what made him be so impulsive, but he can always chalk it up to the heat of the moment and the overwhelming emotional roller coaster.

Burying his nose in the flowers, Grantaire inhales the sweet fragrance and calms down, letting his shoulders fall. Who allowed Enjolras to be so considerate? He asks himself once again what changed between the two of them.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are waiting in the lobby, where guests are still milling around. A few professional-looking people give Grantaire their contact information, and he smiles at them gratefully. Éponine and Cosette crash into him, ruffling his hair and planting huge, smacking kisses on his cheeks. He blushes and clutches his bouquet of roses a little closer to his chest.

“You guys are so fucking affectionate,” Grantaire complains, but he’s always been a sucker for affection, and they know it.

“Nice flowers,” Éponine remarks, grinning slyly and completely ignoring him. She taps her finger against her chin sarcastically. “I wonder who gave them to you.”

“Be gentle,” Cosette scolds her girlfriend, “he’s gay.”

Joly snorts. “R is a big boy, who is more than capable of taking care of himself… whether he actually does is a totally different question.”

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire asks, “Can I go home now? I’m tired, and I wanna sleep for a week.”

“Yeah, let’s get out of here,” Bossuet agrees. “You look like you’ll fall asleep on your face at any moment now.”

“That sounds really tempting.”

Falling asleep on his face is exactly what Grantaire does once he gets home. After feeding and petting Marshmallow, of course. Priorities.

Grantaire would like to say that he’s back at the concert hall for Musichetta, but to be honest, he’s there for Enjolras too. It would be absolutely futile to continue denying that.

He parks his ass in his seat at the back of the hall and immediately slouches. Joly laughs at him. The thing is, Grantaire wants to be completely invisible, but the way he’s dressed says otherwise. His jacket matches his pants, which match his loafers, and his silk blouse is tucked in neatly. He likes to consider himself relatively well-dressed because he color-coordinates all his outfits, but Jehan sitting next to him could also be considered well-dressed, although they refuse to match anything when they have the option.

There would be really no reason for Jehan, their favorite and calmest bassoonist, to be at a string quartet concert if not for the fact that Montparnasse is their partner. Well, that and because literally all of Grantaire’s friends are present, whether they are in the audience or performing onstage. Jehan was the one who taught Grantaire how to crochet, so he has to give credit to them for all his composer bees.

Red is a good color on Enjolras. Grantaire is rudely reminded of that fact when the quartet walks onstage. Truth be told, the color looks good on all four of them, but Grantaire finds his gaze drawn to Enjolras’s dark red button-down—between the clothes and the cello case, Grantaire is beginning to think that red might be Enjolras’s favorite color—more often than not. Oh, and to Musichetta, who looks like a goddess in that red dress. However, because Enjolras is a right bastard sometimes, he has his sleeves rolled up and no tie in sight, which really just means that Grantaire is going to faint.

“That sound you made was not human,” Bossuet whispers through the applause. “But mood.”

“Hmph.” Grantaire folds his arms and slumps further into his chair. Bossuet pats his head.

Okay, so one thing Grantaire should know like the back of his hand is that his friends are talented. Even a piece as simple as one of Mozart’s sounds as lively as Dvořák’s “American” String Quartet when it’s played by the group onstage. The Grieg is entirely something else to behold.

The fact that everything sounds cohesive is what impresses Grantaire the most. This concert also gives him the opportunity to really watch Enjolras in action without having to worry about his own part. The thing is, he discovers that there isn’t really that much of a difference between Enjolras practicing and Enjolras performing. When he played in that practice room, it sounded like he was putting on a whole concert for Grantaire.

When Enjolras plays in an ensemble, it’s also incredibly different than when he plays as a soloist. The eye contact he makes with the other members of his quartet is so incredibly intense that Grantaire is so grateful that he’s not the one being stared at. Courfeyrac, Montparnasse, and Musichetta are all stronger individuals than he will ever be.

If Enjolras stared at him like that, he would just spontaneously combust.

It’s also incredible how in tune with each other they are. Literally, with their intonation and because they move as one organism. Don’t ask Grantaire how his mind produced that metaphor, but he has heard it used multiple times in orchestra rehearsals.

Grantaire doesn’t know how to describe what he’s listening to in words, so he sits back to enjoy the music to its fullest. If he’s being completely honest with himself, string quartets aren’t his absolute favorite pieces to listen to, but he could sit in this hall and listen to his friends play twenty-four-seven.

“You look like your mind has been blown,” Joly whispers this time. Grantaire’s friends really do love him, no matter how much they poke fun at him. “It’s not because of how hot Enjolras looks, right?”

“What?”

“Please, you’ve been staring at him all night,” Bossuet interjects. “You think you’re so subtle, but it’d be more of a surprise if you genuinely weren’t interested in him.”

Grantaire wants to cry. Has he really been this obvious since the beginning? Even when he claimed to hate Enjolras?

“I’m not interested in him,” he protests in a last-ditch effort, but his voice doesn’t sound quite as convincing as he would like it to. To avoid the situation, he abruptly stands up and tells his friends, “I need to feed Marshmallow.”

“Wait, you aren’t going to stay and talk to ‘Chetta?” Joly asks. He somehow sounds sincerely disheartened that Grantaire doesn’t want to stick around.

“I’ll text in the group chat later. Tell her that she and the others did a great job for me, okay?” Grantaire does not wait for confirmation before scooting across Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel to the end of the row and escaping amongst the throng of people. He realizes that this is rather rude of him, and he’ll send them all congratulations texts or whatever later, but he can’t bring himself to speak to Enjolras face-to-face again for fear of doing something extraordinarily stupid.

And he knows that he’s being a major asshole because of it.

Enjolras went out of his way to fucking buy him flowers as a peace offering and gives him hugs, and how does Grantaire repay him? By not giving him the time of day, of course. It’s truly a wonder that he still has any friends at all.

Once Grantaire gets home and makes sure Marshmallow is fed, his phone buzzes with a new message. Speak of the devil. He reads it, and his heart hurts.

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: I couldn’t find you earlier.

R: had to leave early srry 😖

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: Was Her Royal Majesty hungry again?

Grantaire buries his face in his pillow and screams. He even sheds a few tears because Enjolras is fucking thoughtful, not just of him, but of his cat as well. This is so unfair.

R: yep. shes just needy like that

R: always wanting attention because shes actually a princess

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: Send me a pic?

R: u asking for a pic of my pussy?

R: dont have one srry

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: …

R: that was rlly passive aggressive enjolras

R: here

For the sake of his own sanity, Grantaire needs to stop accidentally flirting with Enjolras. He’s trying to be detached, Jesus Christ, not even more attached. Flopping over onto his back, he sends a photo of Marshmallow all curled up in her basket with a pink bow around her neck.

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: She’s cute. I suppose that almost makes up for you not giving me a hug after the concert.

R: ur telling me that u actually enjoy hugging me???

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: You’re really nice to hug.

Grantaire curls in on himself, tugging the covers up to his chin. He chooses to leave Enjolras on read for a moment to check his other texts.

viola mom 🎼: ok so I get that you’re kinda sorta avoiding Enjolras (how does that even work when you regularly rehearse together???) or whatever but I’m a little offended that I didn’t even get a single acknowledgement smh

R: sorry!!! i swear that i meant to find u later

R: the concert was amazing

R: also girl that dress

R: consider my jaw dropped

viola mom 🎼: you’re forgiven

viola mom 🎼: but only if you send me Marshmallow pics

R: whats with u and enjolras both asking for pictures of my cat?? do i need to start charging money for her??? should i send some to courf and parnasse too????

viola mom 🎼: 1. she’s adorable b) friend privileges = free cat pics iii- yes

R: fair enough

After delivering Marshmallow’s pictures as promised, Grantaire switches over to his conversation with Enjolras.

R: i didnt actually know u liked hugging ppl tbh

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: It truly depends on the person.

R: okayyyy well i have to know

R: y did u hate me so much?

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: Sometimes, it’s physically impossible for me to outwardly express how I’m feeling.

R: what the hell does that even mean

R: elaborate

R: my single brain cell is dormant

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: I don’t think I ever actually hated you?

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: Don’t get me wrong, I find it annoying when people aren’t prepared, but I could hardly blame you for that. It was a last minute request after all.

R: u were rlly mean tho 😫

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: Trust me when I say that I was eating every word that came out of my mouth. I still kind of hate myself for it.

R: its ok pls dont hate urself

R: wait

R: so what were u rlly feeling then???

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: …

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: I’ll keep that to myself for now.

Grantaire’s curiosity is piqued. He really wants to know how Enjolras feels, but he has to respect his privacy as well. He just hopes that Enjolras might trust him enough one day to tell him.

R: okie dokie

R: goodnight <3

He doesn’t know why he tacked a heart onto the end of that text, but now he’s blushing because of it.

asshole(?) cellist 🤔: Goodnight, R. Sleep well.

Roughly four days later, Grantaire is waiting patiently in one of the shared dressing rooms, scrolling through cat posts on Instagram while squishing Tchaikovs-bee in his other hand. Truthfully, he isn’t actually that nervous because he doesn’t have that big of a part in the concert, but he wants to keep his fingers warm.

There are people bustling around with their garment bags, Joly is in the corner playing a scale, Bossuet is making duck noises with his mouthpiece, and suddenly, Grantaire feels the urge to take a piss. Instead he finds himself pulled back into someone’s embrace the moment he enters the bathroom. He immediately recognizes the rolled-up sleeves and catches a whiff of familiar cologne.

“You really had to ambush me, huh?” Grantaire quips, but he still sinks back against Enjolras. This is awfully intimate. He wonders what Enjolras would act like with someone that he’s actually dating.

“I’m collecting my hug from a few nights ago. Also, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“We literally had rehearsal last week.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Exactly. That was a while ago.”

Grantaire turns in his arms and reaches up to straighten Enjolras’s collar, just to have something to do with his hands. “You’re really just a massive dork, huh.”

“As long as you like the hugs, I’m not going to stop,” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire makes the horrible, horrible mistake of tilting his chin up to look him in the eyes. His hands freeze, and he makes a strange gurgling noise. Enjolras has no right to be this sexy up close.

“I like hugs,” Grantaire declares, voice wobbling. I also like you, goes unspoken. He bites his lip to prevent himself from saying too much.

“Good,” Enjolras says. “You look nice, by the way.”

He should stop tossing around random and untrue compliments if he doesn’t want Grantaire to pass out. Grantaire huffs and crosses his arms over his silk shirt. “If you’re trying to get me to compliment you back, it won’t work.”

“I’m not allowed to admire you for the sake of admiring you?”

Grantaire squints at him. “It’s weird that you’re admiring me at all, if we’re being honest.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Well, tough. Deal with it.”

And then he pulls Grantaire into another hug, so all is good and right in the world. A tiny smile appears on Grantaire’s face as he rubs his cheek against Enjolras’s chest like his fucking cat does. He might even make a contented sound in the process.

“Okay, I need to go tune and rosin my bow before we have to go onstage,” Enjolras murmurs, finally releasing him.

“Mmm,” Grantaire hums. He reluctantly lets Enjolras go when he remembers that he came into the bathroom in the first place to relieve himself. “See you later.”

Running the concerto through his head again, Grantaire walks onstage and bows. Promising to play it for the orchestra concert was the only way to get Lamarque to agree to work on it in the first place, which was definitely a fun alternative to just getting an accompanist of his own.

Playing it for his recital was a little nerve-wracking—it was actually very nerve-wracking—but performing it for the second time definitely feels much better. To this day, Grantaire still has no idea how he managed to pull a whole concerto off in addition to the rest of his solo recital in addition to the accompaniment for Enjolras’s recital that he has yet to play.

The concert itself goes smoothly, but that was to be expected. They’re a talented group, if Grantaire does say so himself. He is especially happy and satisfied that they somehow managed to get an unsuspecting member of the audience to scream in surprise at the beginning of “Danse Infernale,” undoubtedly being jolted from a nap. Grantaire hides his grin behind his sheet music. Things like these are what makes being a music major worth it.

Tchaikovsky’s fifth symphony sounds brilliant, as always, which does not come as a surprise at all. Grantaire amends his previous statement. Getting to witness music in person like this is what makes being a music major worth it.  He loves that he essentially gets VIP seating to witness this incredible piece get played. Especially the finale. Grantaire has listened to it thousands of times, but he will never get sick of it. Feuilly is absolutely godly when he plays timpani, and Bossuet doesn’t even crack at the end of it!

Because all his friends are so brilliant and talented, and they all command Grantaire’s attention, he almost forgets to stare at Enjolras. Almost. Instead of scowling at his music like he usually does, Enjolras has the shadow of a smile on his face. Grantaire fixes his gaze on it for the remainder of the piece.

Their audience clearly appreciates the concert just as much as Grantaire does, giving them a standing ovation. It feels a little bittersweet that this essentially signals the end of the season and his last orchestra concert as an undergrad. His heart lurches in his chest as he stands up with his fellow musicians and recognizes just how much he’s been through with these people.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t c-

Grantaire sniffles, but nobody hears it because the applause is still ongoing. Feuilly gives him a sympathetic look. The curtains fall.

As always, backstage is ridiculously noisy afterwards. Then again, they’re all excited and pumped full of adrenaline, so Grantaire can totally understand. He bumps into at least eight people on his way to the dressing room, and they all stop to give him high fives or hugs with broad grins on their faces.

Grantaire doesn’t stop smiling, even as he’s pulled into a group hug with the rest of the gang, and his mouth ends up smushed against Jehan’s shoulder while Éponine squeezes him with an arm around his middle. The tears start flowing in earnest, and they stream down Grantaire’s face as he laughs. He smacks kisses against as many cheeks as he can reach, standing on his tiptoes to reach most of them. Courfeyrac returns them in earnest, and Combeferre bends down obligingly.

After making their way around, Grantaire’s lips linger against Enjolras’s cheek for an extra moment, and he brings his hands up to cup his face tenderly before delivering the kiss. Then, just because he can, he slings his arms around Enjolras’s neck to hug him properly. Grantaire feels long fingers clutch at the back of his shirt as Enjolras hunkers down to bury his face in Grantaire’s shoulder.

“I’m glad that this has become a tradition,” Grantaire remarks, smothered in the hug. He would be even happier if they would do this as an actual couple instead of as a couple of friends.

Wishful thinking.

Enjolras’s grip tightens on his waist like he can read Grantaire’s mind. Grantaire plays with the soft golden hairs at the nape of his neck and scratches lightly. Enjolras hums in satisfaction.

“Me too.”

Bouncing up to them, Courfeyrac exclaims, “Sorry to interrupt this beautiful moment going on, but I’m declaring a party at R’s place!”

“Did- did you just invite yourself over?” Grantaire asks, confused as to what’s going on. A party sounds fun, though. “Eh, why not. This is our last concert anyway.”

After one last round of hugs and whatnot, Enjolras glances at Grantaire over his shoulder and smiles while he exits the dressing room with Combeferre and Courfeyrac in tow to wait in the hall with everyone else… minus Joly and Bossuet because they always take the longest to pack everything up. Grantaire’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.

Joly sidles up to him and pokes his cheek. Smugly, he says, “Well, that was really cute. You two seem very comfortable with each other.”

A hot flush steals across Grantaire’s cheeks. “Thanks to you, I’ve been forced to spend a lot of time with him, okay?”

“I regret nothing. I call being your best man at your inevitable wedding, by the way.”

From the other side of the room, Bossuet yells, “No way, Joly! I will be R’s best man… wait, why is he getting married again?”

Groaning, Grantaire slumps against the wall. It was just a hug, and now his friends are overreacting and teasing him about it. He looks wistfully at the door. Don’t get him wrong, he loves Joly and Bossuet with every fiber of his being, but he wishes they would understand that Enjolras could never like him like that.

“Why the long face?” Bossuet asks, walking over with multiple trumpet cases swinging from his hands.

Grantaire promptly buries his face in Bossuet’s shoulder. He whines, “I think I might love him.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, hon!” Bossuet exclaims.

Joly nods in agreement and comes over to sandwich Grantaire between them. When Grantaire wails, Joly tilts his head and inquires, “What’s so bad about that?”

“He’ll never return my feelings. Why would he? I’m nothing notable, and he’s amazing and talented and kind to those he cares about.”

“So are you, stupid! I don’t know anyone else who would accept an accompanist gig when they’re being weighed down with their own work! You’re generous, incredible, also very talented, and if you can’t see that Enjolras cares about you, then you need to get your eyes checked!” For extra emphasis, Joly throws his arms up in exasperation. Grantaire feels suitably chastised.

But still.

“He could just care for me as a friend,” he tries weakly.

“Okay, so maybe we do need to make an appointment at the optometrist’s because you’re not seeing how Enjolras looks at you when you’re not looking. He even squishes Bee-thoven sometimes when you're not around, and he’s always smiling softly at you. Have you ever known him to smile softly at all?!” Joly asks, shaking Grantaire’s shoulders emphatically. “Because I have never seen that happen in my life until you made yourself known to him!”

“Besides,” Bossuet adds, “he was always asking us about you before you two officially met. I don’t know what happened during those first couple of weeks, but it seems like everything is fine now. ”

“We didn’t exactly get off to a great start,” Grantaire responds, shaking his head. “I was fully convinced I hated his guts, but he’s really not the horrible person I initially made him out to be.”

“And now you’re in love with him,” Joly states.

“And now I’m in love with him,” Grantaire confirms. “Now let’s go back to mine with the rest of the gang to party or whatever.”

Bossuet cheers loudly.

“That took a lot longer than expected,” Éponine announces the moment they step out into the hall. She has her black cello case on her back, the collar of her dress shirt open, and Cosette’s hand in hers.

Grantaire, being the only one without an instrument to carry, volunteers to carry their sheet music, but his hands get batted away fondly. Technically, Feuilly doesn’t have an instrument either if his stick bag isn’t counted. It’s especially funny that Bahorel, being absolutely massive in size, plays the smallest instrument while Marius, who is so close to being a literal noodle, has to roll his double bass in front of him.

Living in Paris means that they’re used to walking everywhere quickly, and the mob of musicians in black clothes and their instruments get plenty of stares. Fortunately, Grantaire only lives a few blocks away. Before he unlocks the main door, he turns to address his friends.

“Okay, so I just remembered that I have very fussy neighbors and an equally fussy kitty, so please, don’t be too noisy. I’m looking at you, Courf.”

Marshmallow is actually very well-behaved due to all the people who come over to Grantaire’s apartment for accompanist rehearsals and sometimes even private lessons when he offers them, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. There’s no telling what that fluffy white cat will do when she’s offered the chance.

Because Grantaire’s friends are civil and not barbarians, they leave their shoes—a variety of black dress shoes and heels—by the door. Trying to discern whose is whose sounds like a problem for future Grantaire. Somehow, the roses Enjolras gave him haven’t died yet, and they sit in a vase next to the shelf that has all his composer bees and sheet music on it.

After setting his instrument down, Enjolras immediately makes for the furball on the couch, reaching for Marshmallow like a lover coming back from war. Marshmallow jumps into his arms accordingly and starts purring like a generator.

“Behold!” Enjolras announces. “The only lady I will ever love!”

Grantaire snorts at everyone else’s gobsmacked expressions. Then he realizes his problem—the problem that doesn’t have to do with his heart’s tempo doubling because Enjolras loves his cat. It’s fucking adorable, but no. The real and rather pressing issue is that his apartment really has room for just his piano, his cat, and maybe a few other bodies.

“We’re going to have to squish,” Grantaire says, addressing everyone. “Also I woke up this morning and chose violence, so we’re also going to annoy my neighbors back for once.”

His statement is met with whoops and cheers.

And boy do they do precisely that. Grantaire can’t bring himself to regret tripping into Combeferre’s lap by accident while they sing an awfully loud and obnoxious a cappella rendition of “Danse Infernale”. It’s just a thing that orchestra people do. Besides, this is probably how Stravinsky wanted it to be. Those with perfect pitch—ahem, Enjolras, for example—only sound slightly better than the rest. All the choir students are rolling around in their graves right now, but Grantaire doesn’t care at all.

Or maybe it’s the alcohol thinking for him. It’s probably the alcohol. Grantaire doesn’t normally let his inhibitions go like this, but he’s with his friends (and his love), so he’s allowed to let loose.

In true party fashion, an empty bottle is placed on the rug in the center of their sloppy ellipse, and they start a hybrid game of Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare. Grantaire plops his butt down between Joly and Éponine, giggling as they squeeze him in tandem. He’s slightly tipsy, and his cheeks are definitely bright red by now.

Truthfully, the only person who hasn’t touched a single drop of alcohol is Enjolras, but even he looks more relaxed than usual.

“Hey,” Grantaire whispers loudly to Courfeyrac, reaching across Joly to do so, “why doesn’t Enjolras drink?”

“Because his alcohol tolerance is ridiculously low, and he’ll either propose to you or pass out. Take your pick,” Courfeyrac whispers back. “Don’t tell him I revealed his deepest and darkest secrets to you, okay?”

“You do realize that I can hear you, right?” Enjolras asks, and when Grantaire gives him the most innocent look that he can muster, complete with a pout and pleading eyes, his ears turn slightly pink. That’s cute. “You know what? Continue gossiping about me.”

“Anyway!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “I’m going first.”

Because Courfeyrac is actually an evil little munchkin, Musichetta is forced to reveal which of her boyfriends is better in bed, and because she’s truly an amazing person, she confidently declares that she’s the best out of the three of them. Joly and Bossuet both nod enthusiastically as she imitates dusting off her shoulders.

In the next hour or so, Grantaire is forced to regale everyone with a story about the last person he had sex with before answering a question about whether he’s ever done it against his Steinway. The answer remains to be a firm no. The next time the bottle lands on him, he’s dared to remove everything on his lower body except his underwear, which everyone now knows is printed with little cats. Three guesses as to who told him to.

Meanwhile, Enjolras remains firmly out of the firing zone. This game is probably rigged in his favor.

“Dare,” Grantaire says again, like an idiot. Combeferre grins, an expression on him that is incredibly scary and should be connected to imminent danger. “Uh oh.”

“Give Enjolras a lap dance,” is all he says, and everyone in the room freezes. Enjolras shoots his friend with a betrayed look. What exactly has he been betrayed for? Combeferre quickly adds, “Oh, and you have to sit in his lap for the rest of the game.”

“That’s two dares,” Grantaire complains.

“They go hand in hand,” Cosette replies from the other end of the ellipse. “Just do it, bitch.”

Shrugging, Grantaire stands up to plenty of wolf-whistles and then stumbles over to the person he’s in love with. He doesn’t take a seat, though, because something in his jumbled mind tells him to wait, so he just hovers over Enjolras, wondering if this is what it feels like to be tall.

“Do you concert?” Grantaire asks before he furrows his brow in confusion. “Wait, no. Do you c… c… help meeee.”

Enjolras only raises an eyebrow at him. “Consent? Sure. It’s not like I have a choice.”

He's being surprisingly agreeable. Still, Grantaire shakes his head firmly—or as firmly as he can anyway. “Concert is very important. I can always give someone else a lap dance instead.”

He must have said something wrong because Enjolras’s eyes darken. Squeaking in fear, Grantaire moves to scurry away, but instead, fingers catch his wrist, wrapping all the way around, and pull him down. He finds himself face-to-face with Enjolras, straddling his lap.

“Are you consenting?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire nods dumbly. It takes a lot more than what he’s had so far to get him properly drunk, so he likes to think that he’s mostly stable.

“It’ll work better if you face away from him,” Courfeyrac calls out while he and Joly take out their instruments. Oh God. They’re going to make him give Enjolras a lap dance to Britney Spears.

Meanwhile, Grantaire considers his options. On one hand, he won’t be able to stare at Enjolras’s face, but on the other hand, he won’t be able to stare at Enjolras’s face. It all really boils down to how Enjolras will react to this, but Grantaire won’t take his chances just to see disgust in those blue eyes, so he turns around and plants his ass in Enjolras’s lap instead.

Perhaps to steady himself, Enjolras fits his hands to Grantaire’s waist. With coordination that he didn’t even know he had, Grantaire undulates his hips and does a whole fucking routine to “Toxic” that mostly involves shaking his ass and grinding it back against Enjolras. The rest of their friends cheer him on and catcall him excitedly, but all he can concentrate on is his butt making contact with Enjolras’s clothed crotch every so often. Grantaire would like to see the expression he’s making, but the erection poking his ass seems to be pretty self-explanatory.

Enjolras’s grip tightens, but his hands don’t even move south like Grantaire kind of really wants them to. His face is red from a combination of embarrassment, arousal, and the alcohol, and everyone is staring at it.

After finishing up, Grantaire gets a round of applause, and Courfeyrac whistles as he puts his violin away. “Enj, you’re a lucky man.”

Ignoring him, Grantaire turns around to cling onto Enjolras like a koala and to complete the second half of his dare in a more comfortable position. He buries his face in Enjolras’s shoulder—his shirt smells like detergent and something distinctly him—and crosses his bare ankles behind Enjolras’s back. He hums happily when Enjolras wraps his arms around his middle and lightly runs a hand up and down his spine.

“‘Ferre, why aren’t we like that?” Courfeyrac whispers. “They’re not even a thing.”

“R, are you gonna spin?” Éponine asks.

“Mm, spin for me, and I’ll pick what they have to reveal or do,” Grantaire mumbles, slurring his speech ever so slightly. According to Bahorel, the bottle apparently lands on Jehan, who responds with “Truth.” Not removing his face from Enjolras’s person, Grantaire asks, “Would you punch ‘Parnasse in the face for a new bocal?”

“Absolutely,” Jehan responds in a heartbeat. “He can take it.”

“Hey!” their boyfriend shouts from across the ellipse.

“Shush. You’re a self-proclaimed badass. You can take it.”

Montparnasse grumbles something unintelligible and crawls over to Jehan to start playing with their braid.

Grantaire loses track of the game when the bottle doesn’t land on him anymore. There is a moment that it does, but it could be pointing to either him or the person whose lap he’s currently perched in. Enjolras takes one for the team and confidently answers, “Dare.”

“Kiss R!” Joly squeals, not even trying to hide his excitement.

After a split-second’s worth of consideration, Enjolras shrugs and responds, “Okay.”

“Hmm?” Grantaire raises his head and blinks sleepily. He was this close to drifting off too! Baffled, he allows Enjolras to lift his hand to his lips and press a kiss to the back. “Oh. Thank you.”

Grantaire doesn’t get to properly process what just occurred because he promptly falls asleep, clinging to Enjolras like a limpet. He just barely catches what sounds like, “Anytime,” before dozing off.

The next thing he knows, Grantaire is being rudely awoken by light filtering in through his music note curtains. The ones in his bedroom. There’s also a cat on his face. He groans, feeling like he has a million little Feuillys pounding away at his skull from the inside, before burrowing into his comfortable quilt until only a few curls are visible.

“Ah, you’re up.”

Grantaire sticks his head out and peeks up at Enjolras, who is holding a mug of what smells like coffee.

“‘M not up,” he mumbles, pulling the quilt over his head again. His pillow is nice and soft, his cat is nice and soft… he feels Enjolras poke his middle. He’s not very nice and soft. Unfortunately for Grantaire, his quilt has been turned ninety degrees—a goddamn travesty—so it’s not long enough to cover his face without exposing his feet.

“I’m going to tickle you then,” Enjolras threatens, fingers already poised. Grantaire just snuffles and turns over. He’s really less of a blanket burrito and more of a blanket spring roll at this point. “Okay, you asked for it.”

At first contact, Grantaire yelps and shoves his legs back into the quilt, curling up in a fetal position. The noise isn’t all that good for his raging headache.

“Meanie,” he sniffles, pouting as tears spring to his eyes. “I don’t like you anymore. Even if I gave you a lap dance last night.”

“Oh God, don’t cry.” Enjolras visibly panics before setting the coffee down next to the aspirin and water on the bedside table. Okay, so maybe he’s a godsend, and Grantaire is undeserving. Quickly, Enjolras feeds him the aspirin and water, gathers him up, quilt and all, and just holds him. He doesn’t mention last night’s activities at all.

Holy shit.

Grantaire has to forcibly hold himself back from blurting out just how much he loves him. How did he ever manage to convince himself that he somehow hated Enjolras in the past? That seems like such a long time ago and so incredibly unlikely that he’s almost certain that the Grantaire who once claimed to despise Enjolras is a totally different person.

“You’re comfy,” Grantaire whispers, like he’s telling a secret.

“Thank you…?”

“It’s a compliment, so take it. I want coffee now,” he demands, remembering to be grumpy in the morning. Enjolras is turning him into a softie.

“Alright, Your Highness,” Enjolras jokes, and Grantaire blushes at the nickname. He barely remembers when he used to refer to Enjolras with that very same one.

Grantaire clutches the mug through the blanket, not quite wanting to unravel from his burrito form quite yet. He’s still perched sideways in Enjolras’s lap as he sips at the coffee.

“You’re really cute, you know that?” Enjolras asks, leaning back on his elbows against the bed.

“‘M not cute.”

“I make the rules when it comes to my own opinions, although you being absolutely adorable is a fact.”

“Dork.”

They let a moment of comfortable silence pass by before Enjolras hums in consideration. “I wonder what’s going to happen once we all get our bachelor’s.”

“I’m coming back for my master’s,” Grantaire replies. “You?”

“Same.”

A collective exhale of relief echoes through the bedroom. Ah right, the bedroom. Grantaire asks, “Did you bring me here last night? Wait, where did you sleep?”

“Everyone else went home, but I stayed to make sure you wouldn’t choke on your own vomit. And then I crashed on the couch after propping you up against your extra pillows.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Wanna get hot chocolate later?” Enjolras suddenly asks, and for some reason, he sounds nervous about it. Why would he be nervous about hot chocolate?

“Hot chocolate sounds good,” Grantaire replies. He has nothing else to do, and it’s a Saturday. “But I’m buying.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

It’s a gorgeous smile.

“Do you still have Bee-thoven?” Grantaire asks as they quickly walk to the concert hall. Enjolras nods and reaches into one of the pockets of his coat—it looks hot on him too, to absolutely nobody’s surprise—to extract the tiny crochet bee.

“Brought him for good luck.”

“You won’t need him, to be honest. You’re really good.”

Enjolras looks at him gratefully, like that small reassurance means everything in the world to him. He reaches out and offers Grantaire a hand, which he takes immediately. Grantaire tangles their fingers together, feeling like a moment this intimate is meant for someone else.

“We’re really good, R,” Enjolras replies at last. “Marshmallow would be proud of us if she could come.”

Grantaire huffs a laugh. “You really love my cat, huh.”

“Not as much as I love y- playing cello… ?” Enjolras looks at Grantaire questioningly, like he can’t believe what just came out of his own mouth.

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Grantaire replies, not wanting to think about what he meant to say. Tugging Enjolras through the musician’s entrance, he says, “Let’s get this bread.”

Backstage, Grantaire flips through his music and stretches his fingers, popping his knuckles. He smiles at the tiny kitten he doodled in the margins of the Beethoven sonata. Meanwhile, Enjolras runs the hand not holding his cello and bow through his hair for the thousandth time, messing it up as he does so. He inhales and exhales deeply. Grantaire rolls his eyes and sighs fondly.

“Come here. Hey, don’t get rosin on my pants!” Grantaire is back in his concert blacks, but he really can’t stop staring at Enjolras in that black suit of his. It’s stupid that Enjolras still doesn’t know how to tie a tie. 

When Enjolras does as he’s told, Grantaire fixes his blond hair, fingers lingering at the ends, before fixing Enjolras’s red tie for him. He glances back up to see Enjolras grinning sheepishly at him. Grantaire bites his lip to keep himself from smiling back.

However, he’s startled when Enjolras leans down to kiss his cheek and murmur, “Thank you.”

Grantaire might faint and start seeing angels any moment now. His cheek burns where Enjolras had placed his lips, and he’s fairly certain that his face is bright red. Enjolras will have to find an emergency accompanist because Grantaire has died happily and gone to heaven.

Grantaire sits back to listen to Bach, but in his humble opinion, it sounded better that night in the cramped practice room, no matter how good the acoustics in the hall are. Or maybe it’s just because he liked being pressed up right against Enjolras. Either way, he sounds amazing, and Grantaire loves him so fucking much. He probably has a little dopey smile on his face.

The audience applauds, and Grantaire likes to think that all their friends somewhere at the back are clapping the loudest. Enjolras bows and then glances at Grantaire like he’s asking if he’s ready.

Enjolras cues them, sniffing rather loudly. Actually, his breaths echo through the entire hall because that is one thing that will never change about him, and Grantaire finds himself smiling because of it. Every single note resonates, and every single one of Enjolras’s gestures and bow strokes are meaningful. He plays his sonata with purpose, and Grantaire is more than happy to let him take the reins. However, the piece is actually more of a duet, so he keeps pace.

Grantaire plays the accompaniment joyously, feeling lighter than air. Truthfully, he just really enjoys performing with Enjolras and loves finding himself pulled in by the music, as cliché as that sounds. He’s a music major, so he has the right to be as cheesy as he wants. If he doesn’t love what he does, is it even worth doing?

Instead of having a brief intermission like most concerts and recitals do, the program simply carries right on after the Beethoven, and Enjolras plows on. It’s actually quite an Enjolras thing to do. No rest for the wicked or whatever. Grantaire certainly doesn’t mind. His stamina is quite good—it needs to be in order to play Liszt or Chopin—and his part is nothing compared to the physical activity Enjolras is doing.

Enjolras looks like he’s having fun. Dvořák’s concerto is massive and definitely taxing, but it’s also intense and beautiful, and under Enjolras’s fingers, it sounds like a professional recording. Even better than a professional recording. The ease and musicality and absolute joy with which he performs it is undeniably enviable, and Grantaire considers himself so lucky to be his accompanist.

As Enjolras plays “Elfentanz,” his face is split into a wide grin, and he looks over at Grantaire every once in a while to make sure they’re still together. They always are, regardless of how many times Grantaire’s heart threatens to stop beating whenever Enjolras gazes at him. The audience seems a bit awestruck even after Enjolras plays the last note. At that moment, it’s just the two of them in Grantaire’s apartment or that tiny, tiny practice room together, and nobody else matters. The hall is completely silent save for the note still reverberating until someone, likely Courfeyrac, whoops and breaks the silence.

Grantaire feels chills run down his spine at the thunderous applause. Enjolras turns to make eye contact with him, undoubtedly seeing the smile on his face that will be utterly impossible to remove from his face, which is kind of hurting already. God, he’s so fucking proud of Enjolras, and he’s so fucking in love with him. Grantaire will burst from his feelings if he doesn’t scream into his pillow anytime soon.

The applause only grows louder, and it lasts for five whole minutes. The only time that Grantaire has ever witnessed that happen was for Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring”. Enjolras deserves all of it and more, if Grantaire is being completely honest. There are tears shining in his eyes, and Grantaire, being the sympathetic crier he is, has to think about fluffy kittens to prevent the waterworks from happening.

They don’t say anything to each other as they leave the stage. In fact, Grantaire is a little wary of what Enjolras might be thinking as he wordlessly sets his cello down carefully on its side, even though his case is literally right there in the corner of the dressing room.

“Enj- HOLY SHIT!” he shrieks as he’s pulled into Enjolras’s arms and swung up into the air. This feels like a cliché rom-com moment, Grantaire thinks dazedly, as he laughs and clings to Enjolras’s shoulders.

After calming down, Grantaire, still afloat in Enjolras’s arms, cups his face tenderly and whispers, “I’m proud of you.”

Enjolras gapes at him, opening and closing his mouth a couple times. His grip around Grantaire’s waist tightens almost desperately. Slightly amused, Grantaire watches Enjolras stare back at him.

“Are you gonna let me go?” he asks at last, voice trembling. He sincerely hopes that the answer is no.

“I love you,” Enjolras blurts out, and for a moment, he looks like he wants to take those three words back from where they’re currently hanging in the air. However, his blue eyes harden with resolve and Grantaire doesn’t dare breathe. “I’m in love with you, and I’m never letting you go if you return my feelings.”

A wrecked noise tears itself from Grantaire’s throat, and he doesn’t waste a second before leaning in to kiss Enjolras with every ounce of feeling he has. It’s hot and needy, and it feels like the most satisfying cadence of a musical phrase that’s been going on for months. He wraps his legs around Enjolras’s waist, bringing himself impossibly closer while Enjolras continues kissing him like he requires Grantaire’s lips to breathe. Even when they part, Grantaire presses their foreheads together, refusing to put too much distance between them once he finally has the opportunity to kiss the love of his life.

“So,” Enjolras begins, and his eyes are filled with adoration, “do you feel the same?”

Grantaire slumps in his arms and sighs. “You insufferable asshole. You really think I kiss people I don’t absolutely fucking adore like that?!”

“I just wanted to hear you say it,” Enjolras protests.

“I love you,” Grantaire says meaningfully into the miniscule space between them. “No matter how mean you are to me. And you still have to pay me for this whole thing.”

“What if I pay you in kisses?” Enjolras asks, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Or lavender roses? They mean love at first sight, by the way.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I was just joking, but y’know, I’m never going to say no to either.”

Enjolras brings their lips together again, slowly and taking the time to savor the moment. Grantaire sighs happily against his mouth, and he moans softly when Enjolras nibbles on his bottom lip. Enjolras slipping his tongue in is enough to coax a gasp out of Grantaire’s mouth. Where had he learned to kiss like this?

“I like to think that I’m not a completely horrible person, by the way,” Enjolras replies breathlessly. It takes Grantaire a moment to understand what he means because his brain has been effectively turned to mush. However, before he can respond, Enjolras whispers, “Oh fuck, your eyes are so pretty.”

If Grantaire’s cheeks weren’t entirely red before, they certainly are now as he stutters at the praise. “T-they’re just blue.”

“They sparkle, R.”

And then Enjolras, because he’s a cheesy idiot and a dork, gazes into them while Grantaire is a little busy dying of affection.

“Well, you’re just hot in general,” he mutters, gesturing to all of him. “In fact my first thought when I saw you was that I wanted you to rail me against my piano. Well, I also thought about how tall you are. But that goes hand in hand.”

“You’re so adorable,” Enjolras coos. Grantaire makes an indignant noise. He’s not adorable, and he should be allowed to talk about his fantasies after having given Enjolras a lap dance. Negotiation is sexy, and anyone who thinks otherwise can rip that opinion out of his cold, dead hands.

“So… is that a thing we can put on the table, er, piano or nah? Because I’m totally good with cuddles and kisses and holding hands too.”

Enjolras mimes thinking about it—Grantaire can tell because there’s a smile threatening to bloom at the corner of his mouth—before finally setting Grantaire down on the counter and replying, “Yeah, I think we should do all of the above. In return, though, I have to do as your shirt said on the first day we met and suck your pianist… actually, would it be sucking my pianist… off… ?”

Grantaire can’t help the embarrassed squeal that comes from his mouth as he buries his face in his hands. He has Enjolras crowded up in between his legs, and he absolutely cannot be growing an erection in his dress pants right now. Enjolras making puns while having a discussion about sex- gah. This is so much more arousing than Grantaire can handle.

“Kiss me again,” he demands instead, stroking Enjolras’s cheekbones with his thumbs. “I love you.”

It takes another fifteen minutes and Courfeyrac slamming the door open, only to find Grantaire spread out on the counter and missing a shoe, for the two of them to finally leave the dressing room.

“Damn, R. You look like you play the violin,” Courfeyrac remarks when they emerge from the room, awfully mussed beyond repair. He’s obviously referring to the massive hickey that Enjolras has sucked onto the side of Grantaire’s neck.

They flip him off in unison.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand in his own and laces their fingers together. Not quite deeming that to be enough, Grantaire clings tightly to his arm as they walk to the lobby. He receives a smile.

Only when their friends cheer, does Grantaire threaten to let go with the intention to let Enjolras bask in the praise, but instead, he finds himself pulled closer with a hand on his waist. Oh, so Enjolras is just as clingy. This is extremely good to know. In the midst of a chorus of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, amongst the rest of their friends, going, “Aww,” Grantaire snuggles against Enjolras and tilts his chin up to accept a chaste kiss, smiling against his lips.

They’re fucking adorable.

Suffice to say, Enjolras only leaves Grantaire’s apartment to get more clothes to change into. For a week, Grantaire wakes up with his cheek pillowed on his boyfriend’s bare chest and a fluffy tail halfway into his mouth. Domestic bliss, one might call what Grantaire is living in. He bakes them muffins for breakfast and is rewarded by excited noises when he sets them in front of Enjolras.

“You’re a goddamn blessing,” Enjolras says around a mouthful, and something familiar swims into his eyes when Grantaire sits down on top of the table in front of him, clad only in a sweater he inevitably stole from Enjolras and his kitten-print underwear. It’s the same look that Grantaire received when he was about to give him a lap dance.

He boops Enjolras’s nose before brushing away some streusel from the corner of his mouth. He sticks his finger in his own mouth, letting his lips curve teasingly and laughing when the muffin falls from Enjolras’s hands. Oh, he loves the effect he has on his love.

Grantaire pushes off the table and saunters away, making sure to sway his hips more than he usually would, until he lets himself be suddenly tugged backwards into Enjolras’s chest. Turning around, he kisses the taste of his muffins off of Enjolras’s lips and yelps when he’s pushed up against his Steinway and absolutely ravished.

To Grantaire’s delight, Enjolras fucks him against the piano, on the piano bench, against every available surface in the apartment, and when they run out of new spaces to christen with their lovemaking, they just do it all over again. It’s like there’s a repeat sign and an infinite number of endings when they finish each round.

“That was a C-sharp,” Enjolras tells him matter-of-factly at a particularly loud and wanton moan.

“Okay, that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is,” Grantaire breathes, his back arching off the bed. His boyfriend is still a little shit. “Fuck me harder.”

As it turns out, he comes to the conclusion that he might have a hand kink after all because Enjolras has amazing fingering technique, and his mouth is what wet dreams are made of. Grantaire tells him that every morning, afternoon, and night in a daze when he’s deliciously fucked out and positively sore everywhere and not just his ass. It’s also nice that Enjolras always gives him plenty of cuddles in between sex. He’s ridiculously comfortable to sleep on and always laughs at the puns on Grantaire’s clothes. In fact, the green “Hold me” sweatshirt makes a reprisal, and Enjolras informs him that he has been following directions all along. He’s sweet.

On the other hand, he sometimes flips them around and tells Grantaire to ride him until he's screaming Enjolras’s name and his toes are curling from pleasure. Enjolras strokes Grantaire’s side and murmurs something about just how gorgeous and lovely he is as he throws his head back and comes with a moan, red, kiss-swollen lips parted.

“I don’t need to play my cello anymore when I can coax much more beautiful sounds out of you instead,” Enjolras remarks with a rough voice, sounding worn out too. “In fact, I’ll play you… no, that sounds so weird.”

Grantaire snorts. “Never stop being such a cheesy dickhead. I love you.”

“I love you too, peach.”

Laughing at the nickname, because Enjolras is one hundred percent referring to his butt, Grantaire curls up in a fetal position on the bed. Enjolras curves behind him accordingly and tugs him closer with an arm locked around his waist. He noses at Grantaire’s hair, and the soothing weight of him against Grantaire’s back is almost enough to make him fall asleep. However, he isn’t ready to let this week end quite yet.

Thankfully, Enjolras isn’t asleep yet, and he asks, “Tell me something about you that I don’t already know?”

Grantaire ponders this for a moment. He has to actually think about what Enjolras knows and doesn’t know.

“My favorite movie is The Aristocats,” he answers at last. When Enjolras laughs quietly, Grantaire pouts and continues, “What? No judging! It’s a movie about cats! My favorite one is Berlioz because he plays the piano, but I love them all.”

“That’s really cute, sweetheart, is all I have to say.” Enjolras using that pet name does things to Grantaire’s poor, poor heart.

“I almost named Marshmallow after Marie,” Grantaire confesses, “though I suppose it could be a nickname of sorts. She’s fluffy, white, wears a pink bow sometimes, and has the voice of an angel.”

“I love you so much.”

“Oh! And she is incredibly talented.” He gets out of bed, reluctantly slipping out of Enjolras's grasp, and swings his bare legs off the end while Enjolras makes a disgruntled noise. “Lemme show you.”

Grantaire makes his way to his piano, trying not to think about how he got fucking railed against it earlier, while Enjolras takes a seat and plucks De-bee-ssy from the shelf, turning him around in his hands. Right. Grantaire remembers that he has to give him his post-recital gift as he plays seven notes of a C Major scale. He smiles to himself at the vein threatening to pop out from Enjolras’s forehead when he doesn’t resolve it right away, but Marshmallow, being the good kitty she is, meows the last note and then goes back to licking her butt. Okay, then.

Enjolras exhales in audible relief while Grantaire giggles at the look on his face.

“Y-you looked like…” he wheezes. “You looked like you were gonna break up with me for that!”

“Never. I love you too much.”

In the corner, the red cello case with its pride stickers gains a new accessory in the form of a grumpy crochet bee with its own miniature cello, and it swings as Enjolras picks his instrument up and exits Grantaire's apartment. Temporarily, of course.

R: i love u more btw 😘💚💚💚

MY asshole cellist 🥰: Impossible. I love you most.

MY asshole cellist 🥰: Uh, between you, me, and Marshmallow. In case you were going to be snarky about there only being two of us, so I couldn’t use “most”.

MY asshole cellist 🥰: <3

Roughly a decade later, Enjolras evidently still loves Grantaire that much as they bow onstage in unison. They’re back at the concert hall to give a performance for the undergrads of the conservatory, but this time, they’ve been happily married for five years instead of dancing circles around each other.

And instead of leaving the stage like civil human beings, Enjolras holds his cello and bow by its neck and draws his husband in by the waist before dipping him into a kiss. They’re in Paris, perhaps the most clichéd romantic city, so they’re allowed to kiss onstage after a successful concert. Their audience coos, and Grantaire feels his face glow red from both the exertion and because his husband is ridiculous and ridiculously hot.

It’s also ridiculous that even after ten years of being together, he still finds himself this affected just by his husband’s proximity. Enjolras isn’t even wearing concert blacks or a fancy suit and tie this time. In fact, the two of them are wearing matching T-shirts with half notes and arrows pointing at the other person under the words, “My other half.”

Enjolras, with his arm still wrapped around Grantaire’s waist, reaches for his left hand with his own and smiles at him lovingly before running a finger over his wedding band.

Grantaire shrugs and tips his head to rest it on his husband's shoulder.

This is just the duet they play.

Fin.