Chapter Text
One month, one more lesson at Grantaire’s, and a lot of individual practice sessions later, the only reason Enjolras is coming out of the apartment is to go to class. The season of partial exams had begun. The only things he did was shutting himself in his room, going to the bathroom, eat, study, revise, do homework, and sit silently on the sofa looking like a petrified mantis, staring at nothing. It was driving Combeferre up the wall.
“Enjolras,” he knocks on the door to his friend’s room. “Enjolras, open the door.”
“What is it?”
“Open the door, now.”
“Why? I’m busy.”
“We’re going suit shopping.”
“What?”
“What are you planning on wearing for our wedding?” Combeferre asks pointedly.
“A suit.”
“Do you have a suit?”
“Yes.”
“I know for a fact that you don’t, so open the door, and get ready. Ten minutes.”
A groan can be heard from inside the room, then some muffled steps, and finally, Enjolras opens the door, looking very much worse for wear: his blue shirt is rumpled and hangs off on one shoulder, his hair looks like a rats nest that witnessed a vicious murder, he has a three-day stubble, and his eyes are outlined with dark purple bags. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” he mumbles as he pads into the bathroom.
“When was the last time you slept?” his friend asks worriedly, following him. Enjolras takes off his shirt slowly as if it pains him, and Combeferre can count his vertebrae when he bends down to pick up a towel. “And when was the last time you ate?”
“I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” Enjolras ignores him and closes the door in his face before turning on the water and stripping the rest of his clothes. He sits on the toilet, resting his head on his hands and breathes deeply. His mind assaults him immediately. He’s tired; he’s slept very little in the last three days, but really, he can’t be blamed. It’s only partials, but he’s still exhausted; his hands are stiff, he can’t remember what it felt to not have a headache, and he can’t remember the last time his shoulders didn’t feel tense. The last time he’d eaten was the previous night, and it had been a loaded cup of bitter, black, unsweetened disgusting coffee and chocolate chips. Tomorrow is his Economy exam. He’s not ready for it. There’s a History paper pending that’s he’s been putting off for days. He hasn’t been called back by the organization that offered to sponsor the fundraising the Amis are planning. He remembers he has a headache and suddenly that headache multiplies tenfold. The bathroom is filling with steam and the heat is starting to feel oppressing.
He stands up and gets under the spray, exhaling heavily when the water hit his shoulders. He lets his head fall back, and soon he’s leaning completely on the cold tiles, eyes closed, doing nothing.
“Enjolras, you’ve been in there fifteen minutes,” Combeferre calls from outside and he silently thanks the man for not knocking. “Did you just get in?” he doesn’t answer; he’s too tired for that crap. “Okay, relax and do whatever in there, but know that you are getting out of this place today, regardless of your exam tomorrow.” Fuck you, Combeferre. “I’m hoping that’s exclusively Courf’s job.”
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Sorry.”
“Just take your damn beauty bath,” he says exasperated, and Enjolras can hear the moment he stomps away. Enjolras lazily takes his shampoo, struggles to pop it open, and has no strength to squeeze the product into his hand. He sighs and tips his head back again. He hears noise outside the bathroom. Someone probably deemed it a good time for visits. Well, fuck them, he thought. Fuck, fuck fucking, fucking…
“Fuck, fucker, fuck, fucking fuck, fuck, fuck –”
“What exactly are you doing in there, Apollo?” Grantaire’s unmistakable voice says from outside. Enjolras is startled and drops the shampoo, cursing. “You really must be stressed out,” he sounds sincere. No shit. “Your aversion to swearing is as strong as your obsession with revising. Which is why we’re going out tonight.”
The universe is doing its best at ruining his life, and it’s succeeding. “Fuck off, Grantaire,” he growls, and squirts way too much shampoo directly on his head, and rubs with excessive force; he washes his face with the same foam, and rubs different body parts without much care. He rinses his hair and turns off the water, doesn’t bother drying his sopping hair or dripping body, wraps a towel around his waist, and storms out of the bathroom and into his room, where he shuts himself in once more. Grantaire stares at the closed door from where he’s been reclining on the wall adjacent to the bathroom door, and to his credit, his lips are only very slightly parted.
“What a drama queen,” Courfeyrac says from the floor in front of the sofa, where his books are already spread all over the coffee table and they’d just gotten here not five minutes ago – their internet stopped working and Courfeyrac was freaking out because he couldn’t study. Combeferre was sitting on the sofa, lazily stroking his fingers through Courf’s curls while reading something on his laptop.
“He’s having a hard time with Economy,” grants the Psychology major.
“Fifty bucks says he locked himself in there and he’s back to studying.”
“I don’t doubt that in the least.”
“I meant what I said, ey,” Grantaire says, finally snapping out of the spell. “I can take him out somewhere, even if it’s just a diner where he can glare and shout.”
“Really, you can do it?” Combeferre looks up at him with a Bambi expression in his face. “Because I don’t think I want to stand through it.” Grantaire nods and ‘Ferre’s Bambi expression is now ‘Harry Potter at Diagon Alley for the first time’. “Thank you, Grantaire.”
The man shrugs and goes to the kitchen to grab a knife. “You two can get some time alone like that.”
“I love you, man,” Courfeyrac mumbles.
“Yeah, I’m the bestest best man ever,” he replies distractedly as he walks to Enjolras’ room with purpose.
“Whoa, man, what are you doing walking to Enjolras with a knife?”
“Breaking in.” He starts to maneuver with the lock as quietly as he can, until he can hear a soft click. He sets the knife on the floor and opens the door. Immediately, Enjolras looks up from the bed like a deer in caught in the headlights and his grip on the book tightens. He’s wearing nothing but some white boxers. His position is laughably vulnerable.
“Enjolras.”
“Grantaire.”
“Enjolras, close the book.”
“No.” Enjolras protests. Grantaire dives. “No!”
Grantaire is on the bed on all fours, trying to reach Enjolras’ right hand, which is gripping the book. The other man curls up as far away from him as he can, holding the book above. He looks genuinely scared. Grantaire takes ahold of his right ankle and pulls.
“No! Grantaire, stop!” he struggles and tries to free his leg, but he’s weak and tired. There’s really not much he can do, so he gives up and lets it happen. Grantaire manages to pull his entire mass towards him so that Enjolras slides down the bed. Enjolras stubbornly gets the book as far from reach as he can, so really, it’s his fault, when he later thinks about it (and think about it he does). Grantaire frees his right ankle but instead pins his bony hip to the mattress, and uses this as leverage to climb up and trap Enjolras’ left arm with his left hand, before stretching up and taking the book with his right hand – to be fair, Enjolras’ grip on it had slackened – so Grantaire’s stretched shirt and straining neck are directly above Enjolras’ face. He freezes. His mind helpfully supplies him with the fact that, yes, Grantaire indeed climbed all over him and is now straddling his hips.
Grantaire carefully gets off the bed and turns around to place the book on the other side of the room, and actively hides his blush. Enjolras is still wide-eyed and doesn’t speak. When the brunet is sure he’s not blushing anymore, he turns to Enjolras with a pointed look, hands on his hips. He doesn’t have to say anything.
“I’m coming, I’m coming…” Enjolras gives in, sits up and looks for some shirt or whatever is lying on the floor. Grantaire is trying not to stare, really, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get to see Enjolras with stubble or in his boxers again, so he discreetly glances up every few seconds. “I have no clean shirts,” Enjolras says after a few moments.
“You must have one clean shirt.”
“Combeferre forgets to do the laundry, so I have to do it and I haven’t had the time lately.”
“With lately you mean…”
“More than a week.”
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. “Still, I know you can’t run out of shirts in one week; you’re fooling no one. There must be something in the closet.” Enjolras gets up and to the closet before Grantaire can, and grabs a blue button-up. He grabs some random dark jeans from the floor and puts them on, pointedly looking away. Grantaire throws the towel to him and it lands on his head. “Your hair is wet.”
Enjolras ignores him and looks for his gel.
Over the course of last month, Enjolras and Grantaire spent a lot of time together, given that Courfeyrac visits constantly and makes him tag along. In those times, Grantaire learns that Enjolras is allergic to many rodents, Enjolras learns that Grantaire plays piano and guitar, and sings; he also learns that he likes Grantaire, quite a lot, for that matter, and that his eyes are prettier in person than in his mind.
They’re not the closest of friends, and sometimes they’ll still be hesitant, but for the most part, they’re comfortable and at ease around each other, and it’s much simpler than it should be.
Except when Enjolras lets his mind wonder and then it’s not that simple. He’s… confused. He’s not sure what comes over him sometimes, and he doesn’t like to dwell on it, so, for the majority of the time, he manages to ignore it.
He runs the gel through his hair with his fingers, not really caring about the final result.
“Wallet.”
The blond quietly grabs his wallet and shoves it in his back pocket. He looks at Grantaire expectantly. “And where are we going, exactly?”
“We are going to get dinner, you are going to eat a lot, and then we’re doing whatever will distract you enough so you won’t want to come back here in two days. Only then will I bring you back.”
“I like Combeferre more,” he says without bite.
“You’re doing it, anyways, so protesting does no good,” he walks out of the bedroom, Enjolras on his heels. “We’re leaving now, guys.”
“Alright.”
“Have fun!”
“Don’t be so hard on him, Enjolras.”
“Bring back something for me.”
“No.” Grantaire holds the door open and Enjolras goes trough, shoulders slumped. The Art student keeps glancing at him every now and then on their way to Enjolras’ car. Enjolras somehow manages not to flush, but it is kind of getting to him.
“Is there something on my face?” he finally blurts out when he gets into the car. Grantaire, knowing that he’s been caught, doesn’t bother with discretion anymore and stares openly.
“I’ve never seen you with stubble. I didn’t even know you could grow stubble.”
Enjolras glares and starts the car, but he’s definitely blushing now. “Of course I grow stubble,” he rakes his nails across his cheeks self-consciously and scrunches up his nose at the noise, “I just don’t like it.” He gets out of the parking lot and into the street.
It’s really hot. “It doesn’t look bad.”
“Right.” He shifts in his seat. “So, where are we going?”
“Denny’s.”
“Denny’s? It’s seven in the afternoon.”
“Denny’s doesn’t only serve breakfast, Enjolras,” he says, patronizing.
“I know that,” he defends himself. They look at each other from the corner of their eyes and make accidental eye contact. They giggle. “They’re famous for their breakfasts, though; I’m not sure about their dinners.”
“Where do you want to go, then, princess?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Princess.” Enjolras rolls his eyes.
“Wherever. Applebee’s.”
“The family restaurant? The new neighborhood? That’s so romantic,” Grantaire rolls his eyes right back at him. “To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t say Olive Garden.”
“You are a very difficult person to deal with.”
“And you’re a princess. You can’t even try to deny it. You’re Merida. Oh, god, you’re literally a modern-day version of Merida.”
“Let’s just go to Denny’s,” Enjolras sighs.
“Who do you think I am? I’m thinking Jack Frost.”
“Because he’s an annoying, obnoxious, irresponsible, reckless, attention-seeking immortal whose only point is to ruin the others’ plans?” he provides, dryly.
“Excuse me, that was really uncalled for,” Grantaire turns to him. “I’m not even offended, but you do not talk about Jack Frost like that.”
“Why are we even talking about Disney characters?”
“Jack Frost is DreamWorks.”
“Oh, my god.”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s all over technicalities all the time.”
“Three minutes, just three minutes, three minutes…” Enjolras mutters to himself repeatedly.
“This evening is going to be so much fun.”
And in that moment, Enjolras wonders how he ever even thought he wouldn’t be too averse to spending time with Grantaire. Then the man turns to him with that wide, unashamed grin, and the thought goes flying out of his mind.
During the course of dinner, their feet bump five times and only two of them are accidental, though neither of them would admit to it; they stare at each other constantly, but both of them are too oblivious to notice; Enjolras’ head stops hurting and he feels less tired.
Enjolras notices a lot of things. He notices how Grantaire’s hands constantly move when he talks, even more so when he’s recounting experiences; he notices how he smiles all the time, but sometimes the smile will shift so that somehow, you can tell it apart from the default. He notices how he tips his head to the side and plays with his woven bracelets when he’s listening, and how he is genuinely interested in what Enjolras tells him about himself. He notices how his throat moves when he swallows and how kind he is to the waiter. He notices the waiter mistaking his kindness for flirting and he notices her flirting back. He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t like it.
When the waiter comes with the check and tries to hand it to Grantaire with a wide smile (a smile that Grantaire dismisses), Enjolras takes it from her with a sour smile and looks at Grantaire intently, who looks at him bemusedly. The waiter just stands there, waiting.
“I’m paying,” Enjolras says as he grabs his wallet and takes out his card.
“No, I’m paying,” Grantaire argues and takes out his wallet as well.
“I’m paying. I needed to get out and you got me out. I’m repaying you.”
“Come on, you didn’t even want to come.”
“Don’t be stupid, of course I did.”
“Then take this as your birthday prese –”
Enjolras puts his hands over Grantaire’s, which startles both men equally, but thankfully shuts Grantaire up. “R, let me.” That shuts him up even more.
“Okay.”
The smile Enjolras gives the girl along with the check and his card is cold and smug. The girl just rolls her eyes amusedly and walks away. They’re in the parking lot soon after.
“Where to?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire looks up at him, surprised.
“You don’t want to go home yet?”
“Not particularly, no,” he smiles, but then remembers all he has to do and grimaces; his head immediately starts protesting – hard. Grantaire notices and jumps to the rescue.
“Nope, no. Stop doing that face. I’m driving; here, give me the keys,” he unlocks the car and gets in. “Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.”
Enjolras gets into the passenger seat. “We’re not really going shopping, are we?”
“No, doofus, that was a reference. You’re doing the suit shopping with Combeferre.”
He sighs. His head throbs when Grantaire turns on the car and goes on reverse. “Does everybody know every singular detail of my life?”
“Not all of them,” he grants and enters the street. “It’s not your fault. Combeferre tells Courfeyrac everything and Courfeyrac tells everyone everything.”
“Oh, fuck me.”
Grantaire looks at him for a moment before looking back to the road. “Well, there’s something I never thought I’d hear you say.”
Enjolras, the dear, takes a few seconds to get it, but then he chuckles. “I mean –”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, before looking serious again. “You know, you really need to learn how to relax when you need to.”
“It’s very difficult to acknowledge that you need to relax.”
“Step number one: denial.”
“You’re making it sound like I have a problem.”
“You do have a problem.” They’re silent for a few minutes. Both are pleased to find that it’s completely comfortable. Enjolras’ headache is once again receding.
“Where are we going?”
“I honestly haven’t the slightest. I’m just driving.” Enjolras thinks of the waste of gas that ‘just driving’ is, but he doesn’t think he really cares right now. He yawns and realizes just how tired he is. Grantaire glances at him and smiles softly. “Wanna go home?”
“Not yet.”
“Good, because I don’t care,” he says. “Though I’ll have to change directions…” Enjolras groans when Grantaire does a U-turn, but says nothing. He has an idea.
“R…”
“Yes?” Grantaire prompts and his pulse flutters. He can count in one hand the amount of times Enjolras has called him ‘R’, and two of those have been today. Granted, the man is half unconscious right now, but still.
“Do you think we could practice tomorrow?” What?, Grantaire thinks. “I know it’s a Friday, but I think I liked dancing, and I’d like to do it again.”
Oh. He blushes a little. “Um, yeah, sure,” he says. “Although you don’t know what you’re saying right now.”
“I always know what I’m saying.”
“Lieees,” he grins. “Call me tomorrow if you still want to, yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“No prob.”
They get to the apartment quickly enough after that to find the couple curled up on the big sofa, Courfeyrac snoring softly against Combeferre’s chest, who’s looking at his sleeping face tenderly and running his fingers through the curls, like he always seems to be doing. He looks up when the best men walk in and his smile widens when he sees how tired and content Enjolras looks. Grantaire winks at him and Combeferre nods in gratitude. The exchange goes by unnoticed by the blond undead.
“Hi, ‘Ferre. Goodnight. Goodnight, Grantaire. Thank you. Bye.”
“Night. Sleep well.”
“Yeah.” He disappears to his room, but thankfully leaves the door open as he goes about his pre-bed routine, assuring the pair that he will not be studying anymore.
“How did he do?” asked Combeferre quietly. Grantaire shrugged.
“It was easier and more enjoyable than I expected.” He fidgets. Combeferre is staring at him. “What?”
“You should take him out more often. On a date.”
“Let’s not get into this.”
“No, wait. He enjoys it. He might be reluctant at first, but he always comes home happy,” he continues. “Last week I even heard him humming when he came home.”
“He couldn’t like me like that, ‘Ferre,” he sighs tiredly. “Look, I’m just trying to be a good friend.”
“And you’re doing a remarkable good job at it,” he points out. “He sincerely enjoys your company. That’s why I’m telling you, you should give it a try.”
“Goodnight, Combeferre. See you tomorrow.” Combeferre sighs as Grantaire turns around and closes the door behind him.
“Bye.”
Enjolras comes back from brushing his teeth. “Is Grantaire gone?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay.” He walks into his bedroom and drops onto his bed like he does every time he spends time with Grantaire. He falls asleep almost immediately. He doesn’t call Grantaire the next day.
Grantaire, however, calls him one week later.
“Hello?” Enjolras picks up.
“Enjolras! Do you feel like dancing today?” Grantaire says excitedly. He has to wait a few seconds for a response.
“Um, sure.” He hears shuffling from the other side of the line. “Why do you ask?”
“I have a friend, Tonya, she has a dancing studio. She says we can use it anytime!”
“Um… your place was just fine,” Enjolras replies and Grantaire scoffs. “I mean, I don’t think more space is necessary.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve never been to a dancing studio. Just today, if you want to, but please, please let’s go.”
“You really want to go?”
“Desperately, to be honest. And I’m just calling you because Azelma doesn’t want to dance with me.”
Enjolras shifts. “Alright, I guess. Where is it?”
“You’ll do it?” Grantaire’s grip on his phone strengthens. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. It’s been so long since I danced in an actual dance studio. You’re gonna love it. I promise. I guarantee it.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome.”
“And we can play music in there!”
“I thought you said music wasn’t necessary?”
“It’s a dance studio. One does not simply go to a dance studio and not dance to music.”
“So, where is it?” Enjolras asks for the second time. Grantaire’s excitement over this opportunity is palpable, and it makes him smile, even if he’s a little hesitant.
“I can pick you up, if you’d like? Or we can just meet somewhere, or whatever. You choose. You get everything you want today for doing this.”
“Where are you?”
“In the dance studio.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m going there, then. Now, where is it?”
“On the corner of 7th and Gauss Avenue; you won’t miss it. The studio is called Coppelia. And if someone tries to stop you, just tell them you’re with me and they’ll let you in. When can you come?”
“Right now, I suppose,” he replies as he looks at his watch. “How long have you been there?”
“Two hours. I actually came to visit Tonya but then she told me to stay and we’ve been practicing, and it’s awesome. It’s been so long since I danced…” Enjolras smiles. “Okay, see you soon. Bye!” Grantaire hangs up suddenly and Enjolras is still wondering what the hell just happened. Who is he to refuse, though; he’d asked Grantaire if they could practice again sometime this week. He doesn’t know why, exactly, when Grantaire had already told him he’s good for the wedding.
He changes into looser clothes and grabs his keys.
“Where are you going?” Combeferre asks. He’s doing an assignment, because Combeferre doesn’t study for exams. Enjolras resents him for that. He was studying himself for his last exam when Grantaire called.
“Grantaire. Dancing. Apparently, he got a dancing studio to himself.”
“And he called you first?” he raises his eyebrows.
“Azelma, then me.” Combeferre hums in response before turning back to his work. “See you later, ‘Ferre.”
“Good luck.”
Enjolras has no problem finding the dancing studio, or getting in. When he sees the room Grantaire is in, he stops short in his tracks. He’s waltzing with a woman in a ballet uniform. The dance isn’t anything like he’d taught Enjolras: they turn as they glide across the room and the steps are much smaller and quicker, and neither of them is stepping on their heels. It also looks more graceful than it has any right to be. He just stands there, outside the room, looking through the glass wall.
The waltz, because even he knows it’s a waltz, is considerably fast and sounds obscure, but it’s beautiful. Everything about the dance is beautiful. Grantaire is grinning, and his graceful partner looks like she’s floating. The woman spots him and smiles. She says something to Grantaire, who turns his head towards him and beams. He guides the woman into a turn and cuts the dance short. He walks towards the entrance, where Enjolras is still frozen in place.
“Hi! Glad you could make it,” he says and takes Enjolras by his left forearm. “Enjolras, this is Tonya Antipova, the owner of this studio and childhood friend.”
Enjolras offers his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m not Russian; my father is.”
“Right.”
“Tonya’s a brilliant dancer; she can dance just about everything, and she was kind enough to let us use her dance studio.”
“It’s nothing,” she says. “Just make sure to lock every single door you encounter on your way out.”
“No problem. Keep in touch? I want to meet little Lara.”
“Oh, you’ll love her. She likes to play around on the piano. Maybe you could help her with that,” she smiles. “I’ll see you around, Grantaire. Nice meeting you, Enjolras.” She grabs three heavy-looking big bags and sees her way out.
He looks around the big room. The wall opposite to the glass wall is a giant mirror with a ballet barre, which makes the room look even larger. The wall to his left is painted a dark plum, where there’s an intimidating collection of CDs and various dancing props. The wall to his right is a window. The room is illuminated by soft artificial light, despite of the light getting in from the window. The floors are of hard wood, but he notices it’s not slippery.
He motions to Tonya, who’s closing the door to the studio. “I feel inadequate now,” he says and Grantaire laughs.
“Nah, don’t worry; she’s been dancing all her life.”
“It looked beautiful. And the music was beautiful. Who was it?”
“Shostakovich.”
Enjolras blinks. “Why did I even ask?” Grantaire giggles. “I only know Mozart and Vivaldi.”
“And Strauss.”
“Strauss?”
“He composed The Blue Danube,” he winks and Enjolras blushes, remembering what had happened the last time he’d mentioned The Blue Danube. Grantaire just laughs and starts skipping around and humming. Enjolras follows him with his eyes.
“You’re awfully excited today.”
“Come on, let’s dance,” Grantaire says. “When was the last time you practiced?”
“Er… a week ago.”
“But you remember the box step?” Enjolras shrugs and does it. Grantaire snorts. “I may be awfully excited, but you’re awfully stiff. You were studying when I called you, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Great; this’ll take your mind off things. You’re gonna have to relax first. You wanna skip around?”
“Do I want to what?”
“Skip. Like Little Red Riding Hood skipping through the forest.”
“No.”
“I don’t care. I’ll put on some music to make it less unbearable.”
“No, Grantaire, I’m not going to do that, music or not.”
“Come on, have a little fun. No shame in being silly for a few minutes,” Grantaire quips as he browses through the collection of music. “Look! They have The Blue Danube!” Enjolras groans. “Or do you prefer the Sleeping Beauty? Yes, yes; Sleeping Beauty is more adequate,” he grins at him. “This will be fun.” He puts on the CD and starts giggling when the intro starts playing loudly. Enjolras is rigid and completely unamused. They both stare at each other for about twenty seconds before Grantaire walks to Enjolras slowly, like a feline stalking his prey.
“Grantaire…”
“Come on, you know you’ll love it.” Grantaire ignores him and hugs him tightly. Enjolras is, to put it somehow, extremely startled, and he doesn’t know what to do, so he does nothing. Grantaire keeps hugging him for a while, swaying them from side to side, and when he deems it, he breaks the hug.
“Shock to the system. You’ll be much more malleable now,” he grins wickedly and takes Enjolras’ left hand in his right and starts tugging him forward. “Come, come on. You can do it.”
Enjolras doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but his legs start moving forward. Grantaire starts leading them around the classroom in a full circle. He raises his eyebrows when the dancer starts, in fact, skipping, swinging their clasped hands, and singing along to the melody. He trails behind him. He looks at the mirror and what he says makes him snort. They truly look pathetic, in a hilarious sort of way.
“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, chuckling.
“Getting you to relax,” Grantaire looks back at him with a gleeful grin, and Enjolras can’t help but smile back exasperatedly. “But you need to start skipping.”
“I know this song.”
“Duh, everybody knows this piece. Now, come on, I’ve been dragging you for, like, two minutes. Help me out.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes and just starts walking a bit faster, but so does Grantaire. The blond hurries his step again, and Grantaire quickens his skipping. He finally understands what Grantaire is doing and sighs in defeat. He starts leveraging his steps more so he can jump closer to Grantaire. The music is making him smile despite his best efforts to be annoyed. He instinctually starts skipping to the tempo of the piece and catches up with Grantaire, who beams at him. They’re both skipping around the room with their swinging hands held tight to the Sleeping Beauty Waltz. The piece finishes soon after and another, much more fast-paced piece starts immediately.
Enjolras starts laughing, which unknowingly gives more swing to his skipping. Grantaire looks delighted.
“I swear this is from the Nutcracker.”
“That’s Tchaikovsky’s Trepak, I’ll have you know.”
“But it’s from the Nutcracker.”
“It is.” Enjolras laughs again, skipping happily, and soon he’s the one dragging Grantaire along. The brunet can’t help but marvel at Enjolras. They both take turns snorting at each other. This piece is over much sooner than the last one, and another one starts, but Enjolras doesn’t get the chance to recognize it, because Grantaire leads him to the center of the classroom.
“Wanna learn some awesome waltzing, or do you want to stick to the basics?”
“I think I’d like to learn more,” Enjolras is flushed and breathing quickly.
“My amazing relaxation method works, it seems,” he grins. Enjolras bites his lip and Grantaire looks down only for a moment.
“It was… liberating.”
“Told you,” he winks. “So, you know, in the box step, what you do on ‘two’?” Enjolras nods. “Good. So what you’re gonna do is, you’re gonna turn counter-clockwise when you do that step.”
“Whoa, what?”
Grantaire puts his feet together. He moves his left foot forwards and Enjolras nods; then, as he moves his right foot inwards and to the right, he turns a quarter of a turn to his left; then he joins his left foot to his right.
“And that’s half the box,” he says. “Get it?”
“I think so,” he frowns. “And the other half?”
Grantaire moves his right foot back normally; as he moves his left foot inwards and to the left, he turns another quarter of a turn to his left; then he joins his right foot to his left.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, easy enough.”
“Wanna try it with me?”
Enjolras smiles widely. “Yes.” Grantaire tries not to blush. He has no idea how nice that sounds. As if his smile and his willingness wasn’t enough, he’s also the one who makes the move to get close. He places his right hand on Grantaire’s shoulder blade from under his arm and takes his right hand in his. Grantaire takes a bit more to react and put his left hand over Enjolras’ bicep. They’re both breathing slowly.
“So,” Enjolras says, and this time he doesn’t look down to his feet, like their last two practice sessions, “left foot forward.”
“Then you turn to your left as you move your right foot.”
He does so, and then joins his feet. He does the second half of the box with no problem, and Grantaire following flawlessly. He looks around. “We’ve moved.”
Grantaire laughs. “That’s what the turn does.”
“Genius.”
“If we do another box, we’ll be back to where we began.”
“I figured,” he says simply before he moves his left foot forwards and starts the box again.
They do it a few more times, each time less paused. Enjolras, relaxed as he is, moves naturally and not as rigidly as he did the past times. He also looks like he’s enjoying it, smiling slightly. Grantaire provides a tempo.
“Now try doing your steps wider,” Grantaire suggests, “so we’ll use more of the classroom and it looks more… swift-y.” Enjolras struggles at first, but after a few seconds gets the hang of it. Grantaire grins at him. “You’re surprisingly good.”
“Thanks.”
“No, like, surprisingly good. You’re a natural. This is not as easy as you think it is.”
Enjolras blushes. “You teach it so that it’s pretty easy.”
“This music is crap.”
“I thought you liked Tchaikovsky?”
“So you know it’s Tchaikovsky?” Grantaire smirks.
“Only because I’m pretty sure that’s also from the Nutcracker.”
“It is,” he chuckles. “I do like him, I’m just saying the style doesn’t fit.”
“To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed the music was still playing until you mentioned it.”
“You’re supposed to listen to the music when you waltz, and stop thinking about the actual waltzing.”
“Well, we’re having a conversation and we’re not paying attention to the waltzing.”
“You’re not thinking about what you’re doing anymore?”
“Not really,” Enjolras admits and frowns when Grantaire all but stops dancing and walks away. Before he can ask why, Grantaire explains.
“I’m looking for some slow waltzes. Maybe we can dance to actual music now, and not just a tempo.”
Enjolras looks out the window and sees it’s already dark; he doesn’t know what time it is. The light isn’t bright, like it was when he got in, but medium-strength. “Can I help?” he walks over to the stack of CDs. “Forget it, I have no idea what you’re looking for.”
“There’s an ABBA compilation album in here.”
Enjolras snorts. “But I’m pretty sure that’s not what you’re looking for.”
“I don’t know,” jokes Grantaire, “Dancing Queen is good, and Mamma Mia is not really bad.”
“Hmm, look, a piece I actually know,” murmurs Enjolras, looking at a CD tracklist.
“Which one?”
“Serenade, by Schubert,” says Enjolras, smiling softly. “Mum used to play it all the time,” he looks at Grantaire, who is looking back at him. “What?”
“That’s perfect. Give it here.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a waltz.”
“It’s waltz-able,” he says and takes the CD from him. He puts it in the player and waits for it to start. When it does, they both stay quiet for a while.
“That’s… romantic.”
“To be fair, it is called Serenade.”
“I mean, the arrangement is very romantic,” explains Enjolras. “But I guess it’s good to waltz to.”
“It’s perfect to waltz to,” Grantaire gets up, restarts the piece, and leads Enjolras back to the center of the room. “It’s perfectly slow.” They get into position, and with the music, suddenly it’s much more intimate. They both try to get past it. They start dancing a measure after the melody begins. It’s a bit slower than how they were doing before, but it’s still slightly more difficult, because they have a strict tempo to adhere to. The silence stretches on for a little bit too long.
“This is fucking awkward.”
“It is,” Enjolras agrees, “and we’ve been dancing for less than a minute.”
Grantaire chuckles softly and slides the hand on Enjolras arm further up. “Let’s just finish this.” Enjolras responds to Grantaire’s movement instinctually. He gets slightly closer to his partner and shifts his right hand also further up the shoulder blade. They keep dancing in silence for another minute, relaxed, and enjoying the movement. Enjolras looks at the mirror and likes what he sees. He catches Grantaire’s gaze in the mirror and they both smile.
The music starts to sound more melancholic than before, and Enjolras’ steps widen, causing them to use more space than before. They’re dancing in wide circles in complete harmony with the music, and their feet in sync. They turn their heads slightly so they’re looking at each other, measuring, testing. It’s not uncomfortable anymore. The piece gets slightly faster for a moment, but it’s over a minute later and they separate. The fact that they want to do it again goes unspoken.
“Mind if I lead for a bit?” asks Grantaire.
“Not at all,” he replies. “Will I have to change something?”
“Just reverse our arm positions, and you’ll have to start with the bottom half of the box.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. Grantaire restarts the piece and walks back to Enjolras. The blond automatically takes Grantaire’s left hand in his right, and places his left hand under the other man’s shoulder. Grantaire pulls him closer than before and softly places his hand around Enjolras’ waist. He frowns.
“Doesn’t it go –”
“This is easier,” he says, and starts leading the dance. Enjolras instantly feels the difference: Grantaire’s leading is smoother; his steps are wider, but more graceful. Enjolras goes along with it and tries to imitate him. He feels like he’s floating – he’s pretty sure that he’s floating, just like Tonya had been. He pulls Grantaire closer still. His own breath hitches and he hears the other man inhale deeply. They dance in silence for a while.
“You alright?” Grantaire murmurs. He nods in response, not trusting his voice. He feels Grantaire’s hand sliding further up his back before he’s tipped back slightly. Enjolras’ left hand goes to Grantaire’s shoulder, where he grips slightly; his left foot leaves the ground. Grantaire helps him up, and then they’re back to waltzing again, but now all the way from his left shoulder to his hip, Enjolras is in contact with Grantaire’s right side; their cheeks rub slightly. He wonders what tango must be like, if he gets this exhilarated from waltzing.
Grantaire sways them to the sides before going back to the box, and he finds that he can go along with all the improvisations. He feels dizzy. The piece has less than a minute left, and he doesn’t want it to be over. He buries his head in Grantaire’s shoulder; the other man tenses slightly. He starts trailing his nose up his neck, slowly. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, so he closes his eyes. Grantaire’s grip on him tightens. They’re not dancing anymore, but Enjolras doesn’t notice.
“Enjolras?”
He can feel the deep vibrations in his own chest. He rubs their jaws together and noses at his cheek before brushing his lips against the other’s. They tingle, and he can’t stand the tingling, so he fixes it by kissing the pair of lips softly, small, tentative. He waits for a reaction, and his heart is pounding. He’s starting to think that maybe Grantaire didn’t feel it, so he chastely kisses him again to make his point, and this time, Grantaire does answer, equally chastely, equally small. It can hardly be called a kiss.
They kiss again, and again, and one more time, testing the waters, before Grantaire realizes that yes, this is happening. He makes a quiet noise at the back of his throat before he lets go of Enjolras’ right hand and instead cups Enjolras’ jaw tenderly, and tightening his arm around him. Enjolras’ hand on Grantaire’s shoulder travels to his neck, where it grips slightly, and his right hand slides up his chest, resting over his heart, which is pounding as hard as his own.
He stretches up and changes the angle, parting his lips and taking Grantaire’s bottom one between his. Grantaire retaliates, taking his top lip and sucking, biting, and running his tongue very softly against it. Enjolras gasps softly. Grantaire starts walking Enjolras backwards, and they keep kissing, until Enjolras’ back hits the barre and they break apart for only a second before coming back in again, this time less tentative, less sweet.
Their fronts are pushed together. Enjolras moves his hand from his chest to his back, and Grantaire does the opposite. They’re not sure who initiated it, but they find themselves sliding their tongues together, caressing; they’re breathing both deeply and harshly at the same time, and the music is still playing in the background, but neither of them notices. The only things they can hear are their heartbeats and their breaths, and distantly, the wet, suckling sounds, the barre occasionally groaning under the weight, the slide of hands on fabric.
Their embrace tightens, the kiss grows more heated; Enjolras slides his leg between Grantaire’s, and he involuntarily rocks his hips against the thigh so readily offered to him. Enjolras moans into his mouth. He finds the hem of Grantaire’s shirt and slides his fingers under it lightly, before growing bold and settling his right hand on his stomach and uses the other one to pull Grantaire’s curls. Grantaire closes any gap there might have been between them and holds Enjolras’ face in his hands. Enjolras wraps the leg between Grantaire’s on one of his calves. They exhale heavily and pull, pull at each other, trying to get closer. The need for oxygen is unavoidable now.
“Fuck,” Grantaire pants when he lifts his head and opens his eyes. Enjolras follows the kiss, but Grantaire’s hands on his face stop him. “May I ask what brought this on?”
Enjolras’ eyes snap open at Grantaire’s raspy voice, and the dancer has to do his best not to groan out loud at Enjolras’ dilated eyes and red lips. Enjolras swallows and takes a few steadying breaths before speaking honestly. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t know I wanted to kiss you until I did,” Enjolras frowns imperceptibly, like he’s speaking to himself more than to Grantaire. He just stands there for a moment.
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“But you’re fine with it?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire lets out a breathless laugh.
“Am I fine with it? You’re honestly asking me if I’m fine with it?” he looks at Enjolras incredulously.
“I don’t get it.”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for years,” he smiles. “I’ve wanted this for years. You had no idea, did you?”
“Go on a date with me,” Enjolras blurts out. They’re both taking each other in. Enjolras’ hands have migrated to Grantaire’s shoulders; Grantaire’s hands are gripping Enjolras’ t-shirt. Grantaire joins their foreheads.
“Yeah,” he whispers as he searches Enjolras’ eyes. “Yeah, let’s do this.”
Enjolras moves in again and the music is still playing.