Chapter Text
Enjolras doesn't do dates. He sucks at them. He either bores the person to the point of contemplating suicide with a butter knife, or intimidates them into running away and straight into a car. Enjolras doesn't date. Period.
Which is exactly why when Grantaire asked him out on national fucking television, he googled every magazine article about dating, stalking Cosmopolitan and going as far as researching Sugarscape in thirty solid minutes. He memorized '10 Easy Steps To Get Your Man' and 'Do & Don't: The Complete Guide To Succesfully Dating'.
"You've never watched Lord Of The Rings?"
This totally wasn't on the articles.
"Is that bad?" Enjolras raises a challenging brow. Grantaire's not going to back down.
"Bad? It's a fucking sin, Enjolras!" Grantaire exclaims, outraged. He jumps off the couch, moving to crouch in front of the coffee table where he kept at least two hundred movies piled up. Enjolras bites his lip. Okay, don't panic. Grantaire doesn't think Enjolras is stupid. Grantaire doesn't think Enjolras is boring. Oh my god, what if Grantaire does think he's boring?
A box is placed in front of the blonde. He raises his eyes, suspicious, only to be met with Grantaire's blue excited ones.
"We're having a marathon."
This was definitely not on the articles.
-
It is a complete mystery how they ended up sprawled all over Grantaire's California king-sized bed, wrapped up in a dozen of layers (and holy shit, Grantaire's covers are actual cotton and fluffy, Enjolras feels like he's on Cosette's freaking castle on a cloud), limbs tangled as they observe Frodo spilling his existential issues to Sam. Paris is cold outside, the winter getting stronger and meaner, the perfect occasion for a night in. The room is dark and warm, illuminated by the light emanating from the 76' inch flat screen in front of them. Unbeknownst to Grantaire, Enjolras hates those things. He loathes them more than he loathes Cosette on a daily basis (and he detests his darling sister every day of his life). They are an unnecessary luxury — most luxuries are unnecessary, anyway — and unreasonably expensive. Why waste so much money to play Angry Birds in 3D when you could donate the same amount to charity?
But the thing is, Enjolras knows Grantaire donates to charity, and a fair amount of money per organization at that. Enjolras knows Grantaire gives free tickets to orphanages for his concert, since apparently they won't accept anything else from him (boys and girls love him, anyway). He knows Grantaire works at a community centre serving soup for the homeless in the winter. He knows Grantaire gives free hugs to the people in Paris during Christmas. Enjolras knows, which sounds incredibly creepy but hey, Grantaire is a celebrity, these stuff isn't secret. Grantaire is a famous performer and Enjolras has been head over heels for him since the very moment he heard him sing Dancing Queen with Jean Prouvaire at the Palais du Luxembourg during Red Nose Day on Combeferre's TV.
That was about four years ago and Enjolras is still crushing on this man, thank you very much.
Back to the flat screen issue, yes, Enjolras despised such luxuries. But right now, laying next to Grantaire on the bed (ohmygod, he's on Grantaire's fucking bed) in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers (and how the fuck did he end up like this?) watching Orlando Bloom become Daenerys Targaryen, he really had to reconsider his life choices. He could practically count each of Sean Bean's wrinkles. The TV was great. Grantaire was forgiven.
It is very hard to concentrate on a movie when the singer you've been ranting to your best friend about on the phone for the last three years is laughing openly beside you, eyes closed and head thrown back, crooked teeth and crooked nose making him look childish and adorable. Enjolras knows Grantaire isn't handsome, not by society's standards, not by anyone's standards, but there is something so different, so human, that makes Grantaire beautiful, that makes him attractive to Enjolras.
Also, his eyes are the bluest blue he's ever seen.
Oh, look. There they are.
Enjolras peels his eyes off Grantaire, cursing himself for getting caught staring like a lovesick school girl.
Oh, god. He was turning into Marius.
"We can stop watching if you want," he hears Grantaire mutter.
Enjolras shakes his head, "No, it's alright. I'd like to know what happens to Frodo in the end."
"It's your call," Grantaire insists. Enjolras isn't having any of that.
"You know, the rights of the hobbits are highly overlooked. Size should not be an important factor when deciding—"
Grantaire laughs.
-
It smells of coffee.
Good coffee.
Enjolras blinks. The bed is warm, but he's alone. He sits up, slowly. The shirt is still there, as well as his boxers, but he's wrapped in different covers like a cocoon, the top layer strangely different than the rest. It stands out, and Enjolras supposes it's handmade, what with the different patches all over the fabric and the thickness of each patch. He wonders if Grantaire made it, but it seems very unlikely, so it must've been a gift.
The smell is stronger now, filling the room. The shades are closed, what little light shines over Paris trying to break through the dark green curtains. Enjolras throws off the covers, slowly raising from the bed. God, that smell is wonderful. He finds his shoes near the door, lying there in different directions. He ignores them, tiptoeing carefully down the hallway and into the kitchen. It's not just coffe now that he smells. There's something else, something sweet.
He finds Grantaire in a t-shirt two sizes too big (which obviously isn't his and now Enjolras's chest is clenching because whose is it?) and neon green boxers. Enjolras quickly looks down to check his own. Checkered red and black. Good. At least they're not The Boxers (Courfeyrac likes to be dramatic and named his Captain America underwear with capital letters). He leans on the doorframe, watching the muscles of Grantaire's back flex every time he flips the crêpe. Enjolras wants that shirt off the picture.
"You could just come say hello instead of standing there like a creep," Grantaire's head turns, grin wide on his face.
Enjolras can feel his face flushing. He clears his throat, trying to hide a smile, "You looked busy. I didn't want to interrupt you."
"I'm almost done," Grantaire shrugs and Enjolras takes two, four, six steps and then he's right behind Grantaire and it'd take just one more little step to wrap his arms around his waist and rest his head on his shoulder. Enjolras bites his lip, hesitant.
He takes a chance.
Grantaire stiffens in his arms and Enjolras has a mini mental breakdown. But then he relaxes and leans into the touch and Enjolras wants to beam, because yes, this is incredibly domestic, but you can't judge him. He feels like one of those awful Beliebers who have just hugged Zayn Malik. Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Whatever. Enjolras has wanted this domesticity with Grantaire for years now, and he's basking in this moment of glory, so don't spoil it. It may be creepy and it may be pitiful and it may also be sad, but Enjolras hardly cares about what people have to say about him (unless it's about his activism, cause then he's all ears).
"Smells good," he whispers into Grantaire's ear. The older man chuckles softly.
"Thanks," he replies. "It's Chanel No. 5."
Enjolras rolls his eyes, "Are you always this cocky in the morning?"
"Define cocky," Grantaire snorts.
Enjolras groans, untangling himself from the man, "You're impossible."
"So I've been told," Grantaire grins. Enjolras mentally kicks himself for blushing. Again. "Are you staying for breakfast?"
"That depends on the quality of this coffee," Enjolras jokes, grabbing the red mug from the counter and raising it to his lips, taking a tentative sip. His eyes widen.
This shit is good.
Grantaire smirks, "You were saying?"
Enjolras clears his throat, composing himself, "It's alright."
He hears a chuckle and bites his lip, ordering himself to keep cool, but it's very hard because Grantaire makes great coffee and fucking crêpes and he can already picture how every morning with Grantaire would go, his imagination vivid as though he were already living it.
The silence drags on, both men sipping their coffee quietly and taking bites from their plates every now and then. Enjolras looks up from the table, slowly, eyes raking over Grantaire's torso, his collarbones, his stubble, his eyes.
Shit, his eyes.
"S-So, uh," he stutters under Grantaire's knowing grin. "When did we fall asleep?"
Grantaire laughs, "You were out like a light halfway through the second movie. I turned the thing off so you could rest."
"Oh," don't blush. "Right."
Don't blush.
Don't blush.
Fuck.
"It's alright," Grantaire waves him off, "You were bored, it was a shitty date."
"I wasn't bored, it was quite entertaining," Enjolras argues weakly, still caught on the word date.
Don't ask.
Don't ask.
"So this was a date?"
Why the fuck does he even bother?
"It was whatever you want it to be."
Enjolras hesitates, "What if I want it to be a date?"
Grantaire smiles, "Then yes, it was a date."
Enjolras can't help but smile back.
His phone is vibrating on the kitchen counter (okay, he totally doesn't remember leaving it there) and Enjolras grabs it hastily. It's a text. He checks the time and fuckfuckfuck, he's dead.
Cosette [09:27 a.m]: WHERE THE HELL R?U?????
His eyes raise to check the time. It reads 11:34. Yeah, he's dead.
Locking his phone, he swallows the last bit of coffee left on his mug and jumps from his chair. "I'm very sorry," Enjolras apologizes. "I can't stay, I should've driven Cosette to our yoga class today like, two hours ago and—"
"You do yoga?" Grantaire's eyes are huge and and his mouth is open in shock and Enjolras stops in his haste and smirks.
"I've been doing yoga since I was seventeen."
Grantaire whimpers.
Enjolras leaves the kitchen quickly, looking for his jeans and jacket and damn, where had he last seen his shoes? Nevermind, he's got them. Cellphone safely in his pocket and hair a little less wild, Enjolras walks towards the door, finding Grantaire leaning against it with a soft smile before opening it wide.
"I'll text you later?" he intends to make it sound flirty, but it ends up hanging in the air, like a question.
Enjolras smiles back, "Yeah, I guess. Thank you for, you know, last night," his eyes widen and his face heats up. "God, that sounded wrong, I mean—"
"I know what you mean," Grantaire interrupts and Enjolras did not let out a sigh of relief. He didn't. "Good luck with Cosette."
"Thanks," he hesitates before stepping outside, debating whether or not kissing him would be a good idea. He decides against it and settles for giving Grantaire a smile before beginning to walk down the hallway.
He hasn't taken three steps before he's running back towards the other man, mind made up, and crashing his lips against Grantaire's. They're cold and chapped and the kiss is a little wet and their noses clash, but now Enjolras understands what people mean when they call a kiss sweet.
He pulls away, lips red and full and cheeks flushed. He smiles, biting his lip and giddy at how baffled Grantaire looks, and then he's leaning to whisper into Grantaire's ear and—
"You wanna find out how much I can spread my legs?"
He leaves Grantaire hot and bothered, and if his step has got a little jump to it, no one mentioned it.
--
Enjolras is glowing. He's got a smile that could light up the whole of Paris. He's giddy and he's content and he's bubbly and he's happy. Anyone can see that.
That includes Courfeyrac and Cosette.
"Did you get laid?" they both ask at the same time and yeah, it's getting creepy.
"No!" Enjolras barks. "And why is Coufeyrac here?"
"Well, since you were doing God-knows-what with Monsieur Grantaire, I had to call someone for a ride," Cosette glared at her brother.
"I'm taking yoga classes with you, now! Isn't that great?" Courfeyrac exclaims. Enjolras scowls.
"No."
There's a quiet moment, a calm moment where no one speaks.
"Shower or grower?"
"Who topped?"
Enjolras hates people.
--
December is a hasty month. The streets are swamped with people in the lookout for the perfect presents, the homeless being helped by the winter volunteers who believe it their duty to help during Christmas season when they should be helping the whole year, the shops full and flowing with new customers, Paris cold and beautiful with all the lights and decorations. It's a sight to see.
This, however, does not stop Éponine from sulking.
"Why me?" Marius asks, confused.
"Because I have no one else to take to the show next week."
"But what about Gavroche?"
"Bahorel took him," Éponine growled. "The bastard."
"Azelma?"
"Jehan."
"There's still—"
"Grantaire," Éponine wails. "It's unfair, I was Montparnasse's girlfriend before Grantaire, he should've picked me."
"I still don't understand why you want me there," Marius replies.
"Of course you don't," she sighs. "We're forced to bring someone we trust to the sing-off battles so they may help us with deciding who stays on the competition and, as you may see, everyone's already taken and I'm pretty much fucked, so."
"Éponine, I'd love to go, really," oh, and isn't that a subtle let down? "But I'm afraid I can't. Cosette is in your team, I couldn't be impartial when she goes on stage."
There we ago again. He let's her down gently and sweetly and she's got no more choice than to—
Wait, hold up.
Rewind.
"What does Cosette have to do with this?"
"She's my fiancé," Marius says carefully, as if explaining the situation to a child, and it would be very uncharacteristic if he wasn't blushing. "I'd pick her over anyone."
"Fiancé?" Éponine's voice rises an octave. "I thought your girlfriend's name was Euphrasie."
"That's Cosette's real name," Marius explains meekly. Boy, couldn't he have said it sooner? "Her mother wanted her and her brother to have names that begun with the letter E, but Cosette doesn't really like it."
"Well, uh," Éponine stutters. "It doesn't matter. I won't take your opinion into consideration when she performs. Just — please?"
Marius's freckled face relaxes into a bright smile. He nods, all awkward limbs and red-faced, "Of course."
Marius leaves and Éponine is seriously considering jumping out of the balcony.
Cosette fucking Fauchelevent.
Truth to be told, when Éponine first met the girl in the bright pink dress singing one of the songs from the very first musical she had ever taken part of, Éponine was delighted. She was instantly interested in her, and Cosette was witty and sweet and she broke Grantaire's software twice in a row. Éponine had wanted Cosette in her team, she had wanted for Cosette to win this competition. She had plans for her, big plans.
Add Marius fucking Pontmercy to the picture.
Self-destruction is what this is. Plain and simple torture is how Bahorel called it. Something not worth suffering for is how Jehan named it.
A fucking excuse to puke on my carpet is how Grantaire defined it.
Éponine's childhood had been clouded by tears and pain and blood and hunger. Her life had been dull and miserable until Grantaire came along, hauling her into the real world and sharing her misery. They had each other's backs, holding the other up and raising them when it became too much. It was co-dependency, and it was fine. They needed each other and, honestly, they wouldn't have it any other way. Heartbreak, assault, withdrawal, rehab. They'd gone through all of this together.
But you see, while Grantaire was the nicest side of her life, her counterpart, the John to her Sherlock, Marius was the light, the happiness she never experienced. He was noble, gentle, fair, sweet, caring, awkward, respectful, jumpy, funny, and downright adorable.
And he never paid attention to her.
Marius was a good friend, a great friend, actually. But he had never looked at her that way. He's never gotten that look in his eye when he's with her.
"What look?" Grantaire had asked one day.
"You'll know it when you see it," Éponine had replied in her best imitation of Mandy Milkovich.
Then one day he was bouncing up and down, a smile so wide and constant on his face it must have ached. She asked what had brightened his day, and then he dropped the bomb on her fucking Hiroshima.
"I am in love," he sighed dreamily.
And then on Nagasaki.
"In my life, she has burst like the music of angels, the light of the sun."
Grantaire had cackled like a hyena, "You sure you just weren't dropped when you were a baby?"
"Oh, no, Grantaire," he shook his head fervently. "Had you been there today you might know how it feels to be struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight."
Even Jehan had laughed at that one.
When asked her name, he said he didn't know. He had just locked eyes with her at Pont des Arts and it was like Cupid himself had stabbed an arrow in his heart. It was love, Marius was sure of it. It was disgusting, Éponine had no doubt of it.
Time passed, and Marius began sulking. Then he began stalking. Then, after six long months, he found out her name; Euphrasie. Then he started meeting her at the park near his flat. Then he got introduced to the girl's family. Then it was official, they were getting married after nine months from having seen each other for the first time, and three months of knowing each other.
This information has been brought to you via Courfeyrac.
But you see, Marius had never, not even once, mentioned that Euphrasie went by Cosette. Cosette, the sister of Enjolras. Cosette, the best performer in Éponine's fucking team.
Éponine grabs her phone from her pocket and hits speed dial number one.
"Blondie's sister is Marius Pontmercy's fucking fiancé."
"I'm bringing the ice cream. Häagen-Dasz sound good?"
"Grantaire, she's on my motherfucking team."
"I'm bringing TMPGIS, and Ashley Katchadourian better be watching that door."
--
You know you're too far gone once you start pontmercying.
[pontmercying, verb: 1. the action of sighing in a dreamy fashion when in presence of love interest. 2. to perform a number of embarrassing acts in a sequence unintentionally and irrationally. 3. to be lanky, awkward, freckled, flustered, clumsy, nervous and oblivious to sexual implications at the same time.]
For this specific extract of Courfeyrac's unauthorized auto-biography, we shall take meaning number one into consideration.
It's pathetic, honestly. He's pining for the sake of pining and he knows it, which makes it all worse. But how can Coufeyrac help it when Jean Prouvaire is sitting there, in the bright red love-seat in the studio's coffee room, scribbling furiously onto his Moleskine, his soft strawberry blonde hair pulled on a lose ponytail today, and it's disheveled and irregular and beautiful. His green eyes are narrowed in concentration, tip of his tongue (and god, that tongue) sticking out from between his lips. Courfeyrac is itching to walk over there, flop down on Jehan's lap and kiss his nose and forehead and cheeks and every single freckle he can find, but he doesn't dare disturb him, for he knows better.
Jehan is writing poetry. It isn't the usual verses from Keats, or whatever attacks his mind at times so sudden he has to write on everyone's wrists. No, this is serious writing. This is Jehan doing what he loves the most at a greater scale and he just can't be disturbed. This is Jehan writing a sonnet, an ode, a poem.
As if he could sense Courfeyrac's stare, Jehan slowly raises his eyes from his work, the movement of his hand ceasing on the paper. Courfeyrac can feel himself flush and he wants to slap himself because this is no time for pontmercying. He considers giving Jehan his most charming smile and leaving, or perhaps apologizing, but then the blonde is patting the twin love-seat beside him with a warm smile and Coufeyrac melts.
And god, Jehan looks even more beautiful up close.
"Prose or poetry?" he dares ask. Jehan regards him with a slight, almost invisible smile.
"Neither, actually. Although, it could be considered poetry by some," he admits. "I met up with Dan the other day — he was in Paris for the weekend. We chatted over some coffee and decided to make something for next year."
Courfeyrac's breathing stopped. This isn't Jehan writing a sonnet. This isn't Jehan writing an ode.
This is Jehan, writing a song.
"Wait, so the collab between you and Bastille is real?" Courfeyrac tries to contain his excitement, he really tries. "It's not just rumors?"
But he can't help it. Jehan hasn't written a song in ages.
He hasn't written a song since Montparnasse happened.
"There are rumours about this already?" Jehan giggles (because he's Jean fucking Prouvaire and he can giggle all he wants to). "You can go confirm them on your tumblr now, I guess."
"I'm just another multifandom," Courfeyrac whines. "No one would believe me."
(Jehan doesn't have to know that Courfeyrac isn't just another multifandom. He doesn't need to know he's a multifandom with 50% of his blog's contents all about Jean Prouvaire and his beautiful long hair.)
"Can I see it?" Courfeyrac can't help but ask. Jehan shakes his head rapidly, hair flying from side to side as he clutches his notebook to his chest, like a teenage girl hiding her diary from her big brother. It's adorable, really.
"No!" Jehan snarls. You would think for him to be so aggressive was unusual, a bad omen, perhaps. Jehan is a calm, patient and understanding individual, that much is true, but he is very overprotective and has quite a horrid temper. He's a beautiful red rose who won't hesitate to stab his thorns into the palm of your hand. He's small and he's sweet and he's terrifying.
Courfeyrac maybe kinda loves that.
"It's not finished," Jehan explains softly. "It still needs some polishing and finishing touches I've yet to add."
Courfeyrac pouts, eyes wide and pleading. Jehan doesn't fall for it; he's made of stronger stuff. Courfeyrac clasps his hands together, but Jehan's face remains blank because he is awful.
"Please," Courfeyrac begs.
Jehan's eye twitches.
"Once it's finished, you will be the first person I show it to."
"Pinky promise?" because Coufeyrac can. Jehan stiffens a laugh, and his smile is back and bright and warm when they join their pinkies in sacred union.
"It's a promise," Jehan agrees, and Courfeyrac is staring but he doesn't care, because those eyes are green and warm and Courfeyrac is in love.
Holy shit, Courfeyrac is in love.
Shocker, he can hear a voice that sounds suspiciously like Grantaire's laugh in his head. He can't quite process the newfound information because Jehan is rising from his seat, sending Courfeyrac a last fleeting smile before going off to catch Bahorel and the FroYo he brought for the staff. This is also when Courfeyrac notices that Jehan is wearing an oversized purple jumper that makes him look skinnier than ever and the most horrid bubblegum pink jeans with awkward looking daisy patterns and — fuck, are those actual kittens on his ballerinas?
Courfeyrac rests his head on the heel of his hand and lets out a long and resigned sigh.
Sometimes, pontmercying is justified.
--
Grantaire [09:57 a.m]: GIVE ME BACK MY CAT OR I WILL HAVE THE HULK SLICE UR TITS
Enjolras [10:01 a.m]: I don't have your cat ??
Grantaire [10:03 a.m]: omhydgosd
Grantaire [10:08 a.m]: tHAT WAS FOR EPONINE IM SO SORRY
Enjolras [10:12 a.m]: You have a Hulk?
Grantaire [10:12 a.m]: i have a jehan and thats pretty fuckin close tbh
--
It's strange, seeing Grantaire after two weeks of silly childish texts and one spontaneous skype session. Talking to Grantaire is easy, and arguing with him is just like breathing. Enjolras has been anxious and eager all this time as he waited for this day. Combeferre's noticed, but then again, Combeferre notices everything. This doesn't stop Enjolras from being nervous. What if it was just a heat-of-the moment thing? What if Grantaire lost whatever interest he had on Enjolras?
He's standing beside a girl with green hair that could be Ramona Flowers herself (yes, he does watch movies sometimes, give him a break) and a dark-skinned guy with hair so big it surely must be a wig. Enjolras's anxious again, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He's not the only one, though. There are about twelve people in line, their styles varying as well as their age and gender and height, waiting for their coach to arrive. It's kinda disturbing.
Grantaire walks inside the room and Enjolras can feel other people tense around him. Grantaire stops before all of them and raises his head, slower than the Matrix, and Enjolras's eyes widen. He looks like the dead, with circles so dark under his puffy eyes and pale as a sheet and a nose red like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. He looks weak and tired and when he sniffs he's also adorable, but then Grantaire looks like he's trying to cough up a lung.
"Okay," his voice is raw and strained. Enjolras frowns in concern. "I'll make the pairs, you'll rehearse, yada yada."
Grantaire coughs, and it sounds wrong and nasty and Enjolras's chest is aching and he just wants to craddle Grantaire in his arms and feed him Joly's chicken soup.
"Right, so, uh, take a step forward when I call your name then move to the right," a tall man dressed in a black suit hands him a list and Grantaire clears his throat before reading out loud. "Gabrielle and Pierre, Anton and Sebastien, Floréal and Louise, Enjolras and Marie-Antoinette, Jean Paul and Amélie..."
Enjolras looked over to the girl with the green hair. She had stepped forward along with him. Ramona Flowers was Marie-Antoinette. How convenient.
"Get to know each other, go pee, whatever," Grantaire stops to sneeze loudly. "Babet will call each pair to the studio — it's next to the bathroom, by the way — if anything, you ask him. I'm out of here."
It shouldn't annoy Enjolras that Grantaire didn't bother to acknowledge his prescence. It shouldn't annoy Enjolras that after weeks of not seeing each other, Grantaire didn't look at him twice. It shouldn't annoy Enjolrad the way his heart is clenching and his stomach is turning, for Grantaire left without a second glance.
It really shouldn't annoy Enjolras, but it does.
He tries not to let his disappointment show, and turns towards Marie-Antoinette, polite smile in place and hand extended in greeting. "Hello, I'm—"
"I know who the fuck you are," she spats. Enjolras's eyes turn cold. Rude. "Stay out of my way, princess."
Enjolras glared as she walked out from the room, cigarette in hand. Okay, that was very rude. Had he done something to her? And princess, really? Enjolras has been called worse, and been often confused for a woman, but that doesn't make it any less annoying or offensive. Fuck fair fights and giving others a chance. He's going to tear her the fuck down. Enjolras strides over to where the man in black — Babet, he recalls — is leaning against a wall, chewing on his gum. Enjolras stops before him and clears his throat.
"Excuse me," Babet looks up, uninterested. His green eyes narrow as he stares Enjolras up and down. There is no indication about whether he likes what he sees or not, but there's a hint of recognition that Enjolras doesn't quite understand. "Do you happen to know where the bathroom is?"
Babet arches a brow, "Third door on the left. Grantaire's inside. Guellemere's at the door. Tell him your name, he'll let you in."
"We are no longer speaking about the bathroom, are we?" Enjolras asks carefully.
Babet's eye twitches. Enjolras leaves.
--
"Feuilly and Baptiste," Bahorel calls.
Baptiste was a nice lad. He was quiet and polite, maybe a few years younger than Feuilly himself. Feuilly couldn't see why Bahorel had paired him up with him, though. As far as he knew, their styles were completely different.
"You guys are great singers," Bahorel explains, leaning over the grand piano. "But anyone can be a singer. I need to know whether you are artists."
Feuilly nods along, not quite sure what Bahorel is implying.
"You're going to sing Killer Queen," he announces.
Baptiste's jaw drops. Feuilly's eyes widen.
"What."
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, Bahorel," Feuilly speaks slowly, as if explaining to a child why he can't grab the cookie jar. "But my voice isn't really Freddie Mercury material."
"Don't get your panties on a twist, Weasley," Feuilly glares. Bahorel laughs. "Artists can pull whatever genre is thrown at them. Can't do it? You can quit, if you want."
"No," he hisses. "I'm just fine."
"Good," Bahorel smirks. "You're the first duet."
"I won't disappoint," Feuilly replies bitterly.
"You better not," Bahorel's smile is mocking and so very annoying. "Wouldn't want to kick you out just as we started getting to know each other."
They stayed there, leaning over the piano with their eyes cold and glued to each other, a snarl on Feuilly's face and a shit-eating grin on Bahorel's.
Baptiste slowly slipped out of the room to avoid the unresolved sexual tension.
Four for you, Baptiste. You go, Baptiste.
--
Jehan's smile is wide and happy and cute.
Courfeyrac needs to get out of this room, like, now. Why is he here, anyway?
"I want you girls to sing a very ancient song that's really close to my heart," Jehan begins. Courfeyrac's brows furrow; knowing Jehan, these women might end up singing I Like Big Butts. "This year is this song's 10th anniversary, and I wanted you guys to make it a tribute!"
"What's the name of the song?" Clasqueous asks, amused.
Jehan grins. Musichetta's jaw drops. Clasqueous chokes on her own spit.
Courfeyrac cackles like a hyena.
Seems like they're going to be fighting over Stacy's Mom.
--
Éponine had really pondered on this. She had actually taken her time picking a song. This had been hard work.
"You're going to sing Wannabe. This isn't up for discussion."
Cosette beams, "Can I do the rap?"
For such a small little thing, this girl sure was energetic. Éponine shrugs, "That's not up to me, you ought to discuss this with your partner."
Cosette nods eagerly and turns towards the other girl, Dominique. They were quite alike, to say the least. Both tiny, both blonde, both cute. Their personalities clashed, though; whereas Cosette (or dare she say, Euphrasie) is a ball of energy and legendary fury, Dominique is quiet and shy and wouldn't hurt a fly. They are both nice and kind and sweet and lovely and Éponine wants to puke so badly.
Thankfully, rehearsals go by pretty fast. Dominique's soft voice is a great contrast to Cosette's high-pitched one. Éponine has to direct them a few times, and Dominique has to switch pitches so it fits the song, but all in all, it turns out fairly well, and Éponine is somewhat proud.
She's packing her stuff when she feels a light tap on her shoulder. Éponine turns around and finds herself face to face with the cause of her first-world problems. Cosette is smiling widely and her blonde curls frame her face and she looks like a Barbie doll taken straight from the box. Éponine feels sick.
"Éponine," she starts, voice sweet like honey. "I know we barely know each other, but you're friends with Marius, aren't you?"
"I am," she replies cautiously. "You're his girlfriend, aren't you?"
Her tongue burns from the word girlfriend.
"Fiancé, actually," she motherfucking giggles. "I wanted to know whether you're coming to our wedding."
Éponine wants to vomit. She puts on a smile, "Oh. Yeah, of course I'm going, why, uh, why do you want to know?"
"I wanted to ask you a small favor," Cosette bit her lip and adds hastily. "You can say no if you don't want to—"
"Just spit it out."
Cosette hesitates, "Would you like to be my head bridesmaid?"
"What."
"It's just, I've never had many friends, I was homeschooled, and the rest of the friends I've got are Enjolras's friends, and they're all guys—"
Well, Éponine can relate to that.
"—and you're close friends with Marius, and he adores you, and Courfeyrac's the best man already and as feminine as Enjolras looks, I can't exactly dress my brother as a girl and—"
Éponine is really going to regret this.
"When's the wedding?"
Cosette's rant stops. Her grin is immense, "New Year's Eve."
Éponine spends New Year's Eve drunk with Grantaire somewhere around Paris all the time. Seems like they're going to keep up with the tradition this year.
"I'll be there."
Cosette squeals and tackles Éponine to the ground, giggling like a maniac.
Once they're off the floor, Cosette turns to Éponine with wide eyes, "Can you make sure Grantaire attends the wedding, too?"
Now that's something new, "Uh, why?"
"Because my brother is too socially incapable of forming relationships to ask him to be his date," she rolls her eyes. "If the mountain doesn't go to Mahoma, Mahoma goes to the fucking mountain."
Such deep words.
"We'll be there."
Éponine is going home and she's going to drown herself in the bathtub to the soundtrack of Mulan.
--
Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras did actually go to the bathroom. He had been tempted to push the other door open and walk over to Grantaire and maybe kiss him, but he didn't. He waited patiently outside, watching people go in and out, playing Subway Surfer because he just loathes Candy Crush, and even chatting for a while about his charity work with an older woman who was waiting for her turn as well.
By the time Babet finally calls Enjolras and Regina George (he has watched Mean Girls too many times with Courfeyrac, don't judge) to the studio, Enjolras has created at least four new high scores on Temple Run 2. Marie-Antoinette looks bored and irritated, and while Enjolras tends to have a blank look on his face most of the time, he's anxious and he's pretty sure his face shows it.
Guellemere closes the door behind them. Grantaire's in the middle of the room, sitting on top of the grand piano, blowing his nose with a Kleenex. There's a pile of paper balls that Enjolras I'd sure reeks of death beside him. He raises his head when he hears them come in, his eyes landing on Enjolras and Grantaire smiles and he looks relieved and happy and a little tired, but much more alive. "Well, look what the tide washed in."
Enjolras snorted, "Are you always this cocky or are you just happy to see me?"
Grantaire cackled. He's got a habit of doing that, apparently.
Marie-Antoinette groaned in disgust, "Can't we just get this shit over with?"
"Aren't you a ray of sunshine," Grantaire raised a brow. Her face remained blank. "Alright, then. My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark, start rehearsing."
"Really?" Enjolras asked, excited. He would never admit it, but that song was at the top of his playlists for rallies.
"Yeah, really," Grantaire chuckles, eyes narrowed in suspicion and his lip curled in that awful mocking smirk (the one that gives Enjolras shivers, but shh). "Why, you like it?"
Enjolras flushes pink, "Maybe I do."
"Maybe I was thinking about you when I picked it," Grantaire winks. Marie-Antoinette gags in the background.
"Stop flirting, I'm getting cavities."
They get to work.
Singing with Marie-Antoinette is surprinsingly easy. Their voices clash, and the contrast is astounding with this song. Enjolras tries to concentrate on singing, he really does, but his eyes tend to wander towards where Grantaire is sitting. He loses his composture sometimes, because when his eyes shift, Grantaire is either chewing on his bottom lip or smirking in that annoying hot fashion and sometimes he's spreading his legs so fucking wide. It's fucking unfair and Grantaire is doing all this on purpose (even while sick, how awful is this
man?) and he messes up his tempo and Marie-Antoinette growls like an angry dog. She's kinda scary. Marie leaves the studio as soon as the clock strikes seven, gathering her stuff and exiting with a gruff goodbye.
Enjolras stays back, waiting for something, anything, from Grantaire.
"Need a ride?"
Enjolras smiles tightly, "That'd be nice, thank you."
Grantaire nods and swiftly opens the door, "After you."
"What a gentleman," Enjolras rolls his eyes, a small chuckle — it's not a giggle, shut up — escaping his lips. "Are you sure you are okay with driving? You look quite bad, Grantaire."
"I'm fine," he waves him off. "Just a cold, don't get your panties on a twist."
"I'm only trying to make sure you don't pass out and crash into a tree. I don't want to die yet, I've got protests to attend, speeches to give."
"And here I thought you actually cared about me," Grantaire rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of that smirk playing on his mouth.
They reach the parking lot soon after that, and there isn't a car to be seen. Enjolras frowns. He would be lying if he said he wasn't expecting Grantaire to own one of those giant monsters that somehow make small people feel big (and okay, it'd make perfect sense; Grantaire is short). But apparently, Grantaire is full of surprises.
"So, uh," Enjolras puffs out after the silence became too much. "Where did you park your car?"
"Who said anything about a car?" That awful smirk is back and Enjolras stands there, confused, for a minute too long because then Grantaire is walking towards the back of the lot and—
Oh.
Oh no.
Grantaire climbs up the seat of his bike and throws Enjolras a helmet.
"What's a bad boy without a bike?" Grantaire jokes and Enjolras is pretty sure all color has drained from his face.
"I've never been on a bike," he beeps out and wow, impressive, Enjolras, way to go, just admit your darkest and most pathetic secrets, he's not going to laugh.
Grantaire winks, "Be spontaneous."
Well, they didn't crash and burn, if that's what you're wondering. Also, Enjolras did not squeal when Grantaire missed a red light, whoever told you that is a liar.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.