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There's a special sort of excitement, expectation and fear whenever you're facing away from the stage. Your ear tries its best to decipher whether it's a boy or a girl, how good their voice really is, whether it has a future or not. Meanwhile, your imagination tries to form a shape, to create a face, a standard of what they might look like. They never look like you imagine. Most of the time, they're not as good. Some of the time, they're far better than what your imagination could ever create. Grantaire knows this is one of those times.
Hours go by, and soon enough the day is about to end, and you've got to be incredibly picky because your team has to win, and sometimes the voice is good, but it isn't enough, it isn't special, and so the red button remains untouched. It's difficult, seeing the disappointment and tears, but life isn't easy, and Grantaire's learnt that the hard way. It still hurts, though, when a girl's dreams spiral down and he knows Éponine is holding back a sob, because she knows what it is like to have doors slammed at your face, and Jehan gives out hugs because he knows disappointment first-hand, they're old friends, and Bahorel is always encouraging them to go on, to chase their dreams because they'll get there, he can feel it in the hairs at back of his neck (the ones that can tell when it's going to rain because he's secretly a witch from New Orleans, or so he says). Grantaire never has something good or worthy to contribute, no, he's like, the Simon Cowell of their group. He's honest, he's crude, and yet, unlike Uncle Simon, he can't stand the sight of crying, and sometimes he lies and tells them what they want to hear, makes them laugh and cheers them up with pointless jokes, because at least his humor remains untouched by his self-loathing.
It's been a long day, one full of tears and smiles and let downs and Grantaire is so tired and he just wants to go home and get pissed drunk, and maybe he'll call Montparnasse and release some tension, or maybe he'll put on a worn out beanie and go to Montmartre to sketch strangers and tourists for free. He wants to sleep for a hundred years, and he's about to start now, but then he hears those strong footsteps, and he's not sure how footsteps can be passionate but they fucking are, and Grantaire is intrigued, and yes, curiosity killed the cat, but Grantaire's got nine lives and always falls on his feet.
And boy, he fell hard.
At first, he hears his voice. It's not rough and raspy and low like his own, much less like Bahorel's. It's not as soft as silk and high like Jehan's. It's not a girl's voice either. It's sweet and warm, like hot chocolate on a cold dark winter night, and it's masculine enough to charm its way into a girl's pants. It's balanced and husky and Grantaire loves it, and the boy isn't even half-way through the second verse before he's pressing down the red button in front of him, winking at Éponine, whose hand is itching to push it as well.
Grantaire's chair wheels around and fuck, that's not fair. He's a god, he's an angel, he's the devil. Grantaire's breath has been knocked out of his lungs and his mouth is slack but he doesn't care, because Apollo is grinning at him and sure, it's also aimed at the crowd, but then he's looking straight at Grantaire when he sings "I love you" and it's so soft and intense and Grantaire wants to cry.
Jehan's chair turns as well and the possesive growl that has slipped passed Grantaire's lips is not human. Éponine seems to want to torture him as well, because a few seconds later she's hitting the button with such force and the palm of her hand is totally going to get a bruise. The boy is grinning as he sings, seeming to enjoy the suffering Grantaire is going through, just like everyone else, and oh, the joy, Bahorel has turned around, too. That's it. He hates his friends. He loathes them. What is this feeling, so sudden and new? Loathing, unadulterated loathing.
Apollo is still singing, reaching such beautiful notes and wow, Grantaire is agog, he is aghast. It's perfect and the song sounds beautiful coming from those full lips and somehow We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together sounds as passionate as Celine Dione in the 2-Disc set of the Titanic soundtrack. And he's owning that song, he's doing it better than the southern beauty (no, she's the beast) could ever do it and he stops singing and shit—
"So he calls me up, you all know, right? He's like, I still love you," he rolls his eyes and it's so unbelievably sexy Grantaire is drooling in his seat. "And I'm like, listen, you know what? This is exhausting. We are never getting back together, like, ever!"
The audience is clapping, laughing, cheering, they love him, and why wouldn't they? He's beautiful, he's an angel, he is a marble statue brought to life. Éponine is clapping and singing along, and Jehan is sending Grantaire pointed looks, but he ignores them and grabs a pen from Bahorel's shirt and the napkin placed under his glass of water and quickly scribbles down before the song ends.
"You know what?" He's breaking near the finale, charming the audience (along with Grantaire) and Éponine is cackling like a hyena and damn, this guy could sell arenas. "Talk to your friends, and they're gonna talk to me, 'cause I'm not talking to you anymore, okay? Good."
Grantaire folds the napkin and continues admiring the man in front of him, convinced he is, once again, drunk off his ass and passed out in an alley, dreaming about the perfect human being. The song ends perfectly, and Grantaire is snapped out of his staring by the loud cheering. He quickly snatches the paper from the table and runs up to the man and sweet baby Jesus on a bike, he's even more beautiful up close, with his high cheekbones painted a pretty crimson, and the light freckles covering his nose, almost invisible in that pale face, are so impossibly cute Grantaire wants to lick them and he so looks adorably confused, his lips forming a straight line now, almost a frown, and yes, he's absolutely going to paint that expression as soon as he gets home, and then he's going to paint that shocked, flushed face of his when he opens the napkin he's just been handed. Grantaire winks at him, returning to his seat as he mouths Call me.
Éponine's mouth is hanging open, and Jehan is looking so pleased with himself it's ridiculous, and Bahorel is laughing so obnoxiously loud it should be illegal. He sits back on his chair and shamelessly grins at the blonde man.
"Did it hurt?"
His brows furrow. "What?"
Éponine covers her face with her hands, wailing ohmygodohmygod over and over. Grantaire's grin turns wild.
"When you fell from heaven?"
The crowd is roaring with laughter, and there might be a few cat-calls. He doesn't care. Apollo is blushing and glaring down at him with those eyes carving holes in his soul and Grantaire is melting inside, and he loves it.
"Are you from Tennessee?"
Jehan is dying from second-hand embarrassment, "Castiel, save us from this disgrace—"
"'Cause you're the only ten I see," Grantaire winks again, drawing another fierce glare from the blonde, but those beautiful rosy cheeks are now as bright as the traffic lights at midnight and Grantaire is enjoying this way too much.
"I'm from Paris, thank you," he replies dryly.
"Are you wearing space pants?"
"Okay!" Éponine shouts loudly over the crowd's uproar. "Let's get serious, please, before I—"
"Cause your ass is out of this world!"
"—strangle Grantaire with my leather belt."
Grantaire turns to the girl and smirks, "Kinky."
Éponine looks ready to cry. Jehan, being the sensible man that he is, switched subjects. He asks, "What's your name?"
The blonde man smiles politely, "Enjolras."
Grantaire suppresses a dreamy sigh, covering it up with another joke, "Could've fooled me, I thought it was Apollo."
"Don't call me that," Enjolras snaps and goodbye, cute little puppy, hello, hot vengeful god.
"Why not? I think it suits you," Grantaire's grin is wild and daring, and he's playing with fire, he knows that, but he doesn't mind being the Human Torch for a while. "God of the sun, the music, incredibly beautiful. Ring a bell?"
"Gods were cruel, egocentric and selfish. They did not care about anything but their own beings, believing themselves too superior to help humans in need," Enjolras argues, his eyes burning bright with passion, and Grantaire realizes this is what Enjolras really does, what he loves to do. There is a flame in those blue eyes that only appears when he sings and when he fights. Grantaire's impressed. "So don't ever compare me to them."
He's got this urge, this desire to push his buttons, see how far he can get, "And what makes you so much better?"
Enjolras looks taken aback, as if people never argue further once he's made his point across and, considering how intimidating he looks when he's passionate, he doesn't doubt that's the case. But Grantaire isn't like everyone else, and he doesn't mind pushing a bit more, kicking down the walls, cracking the surface. Enjolras clears his throat, collecting his thoughts, and then Grantaire smirks, challenging him, and the fire is back on full force.
"I'm human," he replies in a carefully calm voice, and Grantaire can see how hard it is to hold back. "And I care about humans. That's what makes me different, I didn't say I was better than anyone."
Grantaire's face breaks into a grin as he folds his hands in his lap, "How old are you, Saint-Just?"
His eyes narrow slightly, "Twenty-six."
Bahorel whistles, "Dude, I'm barely a year older and you look twice as young as I do."
"Adds up to the sex-appeal," Éponine comments. Grantaire agrees with a nod of his head. "Okay, I have a question that's been nagging me for a while; why did you pick this song?"
"It was kind of a test," Enjolras admits, looking a bit embarrassed. "A friend said Taylor Swift's songs would only objectify women and sound derogatory if sung by a man. I wanted to prove him wrong."
"Wait a clock-tick," Grantaire says abruptly, earning a glare from Éponine for the reference. "Are you actually a boy or a girl?"
Enjolras looks so incredibly offended, yet completely unimpressed, like he's been asked this before (countless of times) and his words are tight and dripping with venom and something else Grantaire can't quite pinpoint, "I'm a boy, sorry to disappoint."
"What? No, I didn't mean it like that," Grantaire apologizes quickly. Well, this is going smoothly. Let's move forward. "How in love are you with France?"
Enjolras blinks. "What?"
Grantaire checks him up and down, slowly dragging his eyes over Enjolras's body to make a point, but quite enjoying the view, thank you. The blonde looks down, confused, and blushes when he realizes. His jacket is red, his t-shirt white (also pretty tight, Grantaire thinks, and he suddenly loves V-necks because damn, collarbones) and his jeans (also incredibly fucking tight, Grantaire is dying) are a navy blue. His worn out converse are, as expected, red. He's a fucking human flag.
"Do I have competition?" Grantaire jokes and Enjolras snorts, crossing his arms against his chest.
"Cut the flirting," Bahorel begs.
Grantaire waves him off. "Did you know she wrote that song for me?"
"Man, you've got one hell of a confidence problem," Bahorel snorts.
"No, I'm serious," Grantaire laughs. "We used to fight all the freaking time 'cause she couldn't understand that I loved cock, and she didn't stop crawling back until I had to spell it out for her."
Jehan interrupts with a glare, "You mean when you shoved your tongue down my throat—"
"Yes, that one time."
"—without my consent—"
"I already apologized!"
"—in front of my parents—"
"In my defence, your dad was way too busy watching the World Cup."
"—when you could've just kissed Montparnasse instead!"
Éponine laughs, "'Parnasse is the booty call, it wouldn't have worked, he fucks everything that moves."
"Language, 'Ponine," Grantaire snickers. "Let's keep it PG related."
"Can we go back to the show now?" Bahorel groans, exasperated.
"Right," Jehan settles down, taking a deep breath. He may be extremely shy, polite, awkward and self-conscious, but Jean Prouvaire is the fucking Hulk when he wants to be. "Enjolras, I think you have a wonderful voice. You owned that song, you enchanted the public. Your looks also favor you, and even though there are loads of tiny mistakes that can be easily mended, I think you could go very far if you pursue this career, and I'd love to be the one to take you there."
Enjolras's face breaks into a gentle smile, "Thank you, Jehan."
Bahorel chuckles, "See, I don't usually go for voices like yours, or with that style, but I want to sell arenas with you, I want you at the top, and I can get you there, kiddo. It's your choice now."
"Well, I can take you higher than the Empire State," Éponine shrugged. "Whatever you want, you'll get it. Want Broadway? I'll make you the king of Broadway. Want the O2? I'll get you there, too. Just name it. What do you want to do with your music?"
Enjolras bites his bottom lip, unsure, and Grantaire wants to kiss it and bite it and this isn't healthy. Then the man speaks up.
"I want to make people listen," he says, hesitantly. "I love the rush of adrenaline that singing brings you, and I think you can transmit a lot through music. Me and my friends—we want to make a difference. I think that, if I gained enough fame, perhaps I could bring some attention to our charity work, our campaigns, get people to listen to us without getting beaten up by cops at rallies for equality. The government is corrupt enough as it is, and politicians can't be bothered to donate a sou to the less fortunate. If they don't get off their high horses to help out, then we must take matters into our own hands."
Enjolras looks fierce, determined, and Grantaire can see the flame from before. He's speaking before his brain has registered it, "You think people will listen once you're famous?"
"It's a possibility," Enjolras remarks. "Currently, we're doing our best to collect money for the victims of the typhoon in the Philippines, but I believe that, with enough advertisement, we could gather a bigger amount of money, and therefore help more people."
Grantaire nods along, considering the idea. Enjolras seems to genuinely believe that people would donate out of the goodness of their heart. Grantaire, on the other hand, knows that most of the people who would donate would be teenage girls (a.k.a their parents) who are blinded by Enjolras's beauty and will follow along with everything he says like a hunter follows the Winchester Gospel.
"What if they're not doing it to help out, but only because you're famous and hot and girls take your word as a direct command?" Fuck, he can never keep his mouth shut. "Would you count that as a success?"
"I highly doubt that'd be the case," Enjolras argues and Jesus, Grantaire can't believe how a man can be so blind and hopeful and he wants to craddle him into his arms, he's too cute. "But even so, children would be saved because of them. So yes, I do count that as success." Grantaire nods slowly, resigned. Enjolras is way too fucking good for him.
"Okay," is his response. Enjolras looks shocked, and his astonishment increases with the artist's following words. "You should pick Jehan."
"What?" Enjolras exclaims, and Jehan follows right after. Grantaire just shrugs.
"You both would do wonders together, whereas you and I would probably argue all the time. Our differences are far larger and it appears to me it goes deeper than music genres and into your beliefs and my non-existent ones," Grantaire explains. "I'm not saying it'd be impossible to work together, I actually think we could make something as beautiful as you, given enough time, but it'd be extremely hard, and one of us would probably give up somewhere along the way."
"I've never been known for giving up," Enjolras begins to argue, but Grantaire interrupts him.
"I never said it would be you. I'm just telling you what I think would be the wisest thing to do," and he's not lying either. He doesn't want Enjolras to give up on him, to give up on himself. It'd be too hard, too painful. "It's your call. Just make sure you're doing the right one."
Enjolras seems at a loss of words, something Grantaire guesses it's a rare occurrence. He looks down, lost in his own thoughts. Éponine's head whips around and she's searching Grantaire's eyes, demanding to know why he just ended something before it had a chance to begin. He refuses to acknowledge her, staring straight ahead, bracing himself for the inevitable rejection.
"So," Bahorel breaks the silence. "What's it gonna be?"
Enjolras looks hesitant, but decided. He's made his choice. His lips part, that beautiful voice filling the silent room once more, "Just so you know, I believe you all to be exceptional singers and I'd love to be able to choose all of you."
"Oh, just pick him already!" Éponine shouted, jumping on her seat. "He's got a big enough of a crush as it is."
Grantaire's glare could match Enjolras's. Éponine shrugs.
"Jehan," Enjolras begins and Grantaire knows he shouldn't be surprised, he shouldn't be disappointed, but he is. "It'd be wonderful to work with you, I'd be honored, but..."
For the first time in Grantaire's miserable twenty-nine years of existence, there is hope.
Enjolras's eyes shift to Grantaire and the corner of his mouth turns upward, "I do like a challenge."
Éponine is cheering loudly and Grantaire is paralyzed. It is Christmas, it's his birthday, it's April's Fools. Enjolras is smiling shyly and Grantaire is blinking and then he's laughing, and he's happy and maybe the universe isn't really conspiring against him.
"Shit, I think you broke him," Bahorel jokes when Grantaire continues to laugh non-stop.
He shakes his head, laughs reduced to chuckles, and when he raises his eyes to look at the blonde, he's even more surprised to see him smiling and blushing and this is new to Grantaire, and he can't help but jump off his seat and throw himself at Enjolras, who almost falls over, taken aback. Grantaire quickly gets off, sensing his discomfort and bounces up and down, the audience clapping and laughing and he feels alive beside Enjolras, and it's new and it's real and it's good.
He whips around, smile still in place as he asks, "Can I kiss you?"
Enjolras stares, heat rising to his face before he glares, but it doesn't look so convincing. "I don't kiss on the first date," he replies.
Grantaire returns back to his seat, flushed and giddy and this isn't him, but he doesn't really give a shit right now. "Technically, this isn't a date."
Enjolras shrugs. Grantaire smiles wildly at him and the younger man blushes under his stare. Grantaire maintains eye contact, biting his bottom lip before saying, "Do you have a map?"
Éponine shrieks, full-on Lydia Martin.
"Cause I keep getting lost in your eyes."
Enjolras glowers and proceeds to walk off the stage, fuming and bright red on the way out. Before he's completely gone, Grantaire calls out.
"I'm addicted to yes and I'm allergic to no. What's it gonna be?"
He can hear Enjolras letting out a groan, causing Grantaire to smile as he calls again, "You better have a license, cause you're driving me crazy!"
--
Enjolras is seconds away from passing out. He feels light as a feather, and he's so happy, and maybe a tad bit annoyed at Grantaire's crappy pick-up lines, but it's okay, it's more than okay. He made it. He really did. Life is good, life is great, life is beautiful, long live France.
He pushes the doors to the waiting room open and there's a tiny bundle of limbs and golden hair throwing itself at Enjolras and he stumbles backwards, going deaf from the squeals that are emanating from said bundle. He cracks one blue eye open, landing on Combeferre, whose smile is blinding and Enjolras smiles back. It's a good day to be alive.
The bundle climbs off him, red faced and giddy. It speaks, "I'm so proud of you, baby brother."
"I'm older than you," Enjolras grunts. The bundle shakes her head.
"Whatever. He turned around!" the bundle is bouncing up and down. "He was the first to do so and shit, Enjolras, he flirted with you throughout the whole thing!"
"Doesn't mean anything," he waves her off. He wishes it meant something. "He probably does that with everyone."
The bundle seems to want to respond, but then the TV is showing the judges again. The chairs turn back around, the four friends still laughing. Enjolras looks at Grantaire, specifically, and he can feel Combeferre's knowing eyes on him, and hear Courfeyrac's chuckles. He ignores them.
Grantaire lets out this beautiful, dreamy sigh and Enjolras's stomach is twisting and twerking like Miley Cyrus's fucking wrecking ball by now. Grantaire turns his head towards his friends, a wide smile in place.
"I think I'm in love."
Enjolras's breath catches.
"What if he's straight and he just doesn't look it?" Éponine asks. Jehan shakes his head.
"I don't think it would matter," he reassures his friend. "You've turned heads before."
"You turned mine," Bahorel points out.
"You were pathetically lonely, it doesn't count," Grantaire replies.
"Oh, so now it was pity sex?" Bahorel exclaims, looking offended, and Enjolras's stomach drops. It's like Grantaire has kissed or slept with everyone in the entire planet but him. His chest tights uncomfortably. What if it was all a charade for getting more audience or newspaper articles? What if the whole flirting was fake? What if his stupid infatuation and dumb crush are being toyed with? "Thanks for letting me know, mate."
"Anytime," Grantaire's smile is easy and Enjolras stares at those blue eyes and fuck, the camera doesn't do them justice at all. He's even better in person than in any picture in his laptop (or in his iPhone, iPad, TV, wall). "No, but seriously, guys. Would it be too creepy if I showed up on his doorstep at two in the morning wearing nothing but the French flag? 'Cause I kinda get this vibe that he'd like that, and I'm all up for roleplay and BDSM any day."
He would. Quite a lot.
Courfeyrac is shaking with laughter in a corner. Enjolras tries hard not to blush. The keyword here is try.
"I'd take you against the door if you did that," Bahorel comments slyly. Grantaire laughs, and then the image switches to another girl being interviewed, and Enjolras stops paying attention. He turns to Combeferre, who's grinning up at him and his eyes may be glistening behind the glasses.
"I knew you could do it," he wraps Enjolras in a tight embrace. "I told you he'd turn around."
Enjolras smiles, and it's an honest one. "Yeah. He did, didn't he?"
"Was he how you expected him to be?" Courfeyrac asks, camera no longer focused on them. Enjolras loves Courfeyrac, today more than ever. If it wasn't for him, Enjolras probably wouldn't be here. He owed him, big time. He's going to throw him a GoT themed party, and call him Khaleesi for two months. He'll make it up to him, that's for sure.
"Better," Enjolras admitted. "Impossibly cynical, but I don't think I mind that much. He's different."
"Are you going to call him?" Marius asks and just then does Enjolras remember he was there. It's hard to miss Marius, what with his height and freckles and Weasley parentage, but Enjolras was too caught up with what had just happened to notice him. Cosette is wrapped up in his arms, and Enjolras shrugs under his sister's challenging look.
"I don't know," he answers truthfully. "Probably not."
"What!" Courfeyrac and Cosette shriek at the same time.
Creepy.
"You have to call him," Cosette insists.
"You can't deny the fucking chemistry," Courfeyrac presses.
Epitome of creepy.
"You're soul mates!" Cosette pleads.
"You're cuter than Delena!" Courfeyrac begs.
"Call him!" Enjolras flinches at their combined shouting. He narrows his eyes at the pair.
"No."
Yes.
---
"Hello, I'm Musichetta, I'm twenty-five and those losers better turn around or I'm kicking them out of my bar."
Courfeyrac chuckles at the girl. Musichetta is an exotic woman. She's pretty, tall, with long black curls and a tanned skin to die for. She's got killer legs, dangerous curves, and huge green eyes that lure you in. He'd already be hitting on her, if only she wasn't dating Joly. And Bossuet.
"I own a bar downtown, the Corinthe," she explains to the camera. "Grantaire's a regular, spends his life in there. Éponine and I have been friends since college, and well, Bahorel and Jehan came along as well. If none of them turn around, heads will roll."
Courfeyrac is pleased with his job. He loves being a TV presenter. He likes being on camera, talking to the contestants and laughing along with their families, comforting those who didn't get in. He also likes seeing Jean Prouvaire as he thinks, brows knitted together and lips pressed in a pout and looking so damn irresistible. Yes, Courfeyrac likes his job.
Musichetta steps on the stage, guitar hanging from one shoulder. She takes a deep breath, calming herself before starting to play, strumming the chords and earning eager claps from the public. Grantaire smiles, recognizing the song immediately, having played it plenty of times before. The she begins to sing.
"Twenty-five years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill of hope for a destination."
Jehan slams his hand on the button, grin wide on his face. He could know that voice anywhere. The chair turns around and there she is, yes, it's his favorite barista, singing her favorite song on national television. He's proud.
Grantaire follows up. He's not entirely certain, he's got his doubts, but the voice is good nevertheless, so whether it is or not his Italian beauty, he wants her in his team, and bad. He cheers when he sees it is, in fact, Musichetta singing. She winks at him, her raspy voice going higher and higher. Grantaire is astounded. She's better than in open mic night, she's better than when she's alone, cleaning up the tables and kicking out the drunks. She's a star.
It doesn't take long for Éponine and Bahorel to turn around, the tiny girl squealing when her eyes finally land on her friend. And shit, Musichetta knows damn well how to handle the crowd, pointing the microphone towards the audience for them to sing along, Éponine shouting "What's going on!" at the top of her lungs.
Inside the waiting room, Bossuet and Joly are laughing together and staring lovingly at their girlfriend, who's pouring her heart and soul into this one song. Meanwhile, Courfeyrac is looking at the quiet man who's playing idly with his loose braid in the furthest chair. Jehan smiles blindingly and it's a heart-stopping sight and fuck, Courfeyrac's screwed, but that's a rom-com for another time.
Then Grantaire gets up, and Enjolras's attention is caught in that instant. The tanned man runs from his chair and up the stage, and Enjolras is pretty sure that's agains the rules, but his grin is so free and real and then he's taking hold of Musichetta's guitar and playing himself while she sings and Enjolras is too impressed and too caught up to notice Cosette's creepy mischievous smile and Marius's worried staring at his fiancé. Cosette can be scary.
Grantaire's playing, singing the back-up vocals as he swiftly moves across the stage, Musichetta's voice filling the room. They form a beautiful pair, their voices mixing just right, and it's the result of an old friendship that's gone through thick and thin, and it's marvelous and great and Enjolras is mesmerized.
The song ends, the audience stands up to clap and Musichetta is on the verge of crying, and then Grantaire is hugging her tightly and Éponine is running to crash with them, and soon enough it's a group hug and Musichetta feels loved, as do Grantaire and Éponine and Bahorel and Jehan, and it's like watching one of those private moments that you feel bad for walking in on them, but just can't look away from, because they're too beautiful and sweet and it's the good side of life, the one everyone longs for.
By the time they're all seated, Musichetta has made up her mind. "When I came here, I told myself I'd pick the one who turned around first."
Grantaire groans, dropping his head in his hands. "I hate you, Prouvaire."
"I'm all yours, Jehan," Musichetta laughs and the strawberry blonde man is running back towards the girl, sweeping her off her feet and lifting her in the air.
Bossuet is crying on Joly's shoulder.
--
Contestants go by and, after Enjolras, Grantaire has picked two young girls and one man in his late forties with a voice made to crack buildings. He's got two more spots on his team, and he's probably being a little picky, but there's only so much he can do.
There was a boy he wanted to catch, a red head with a strange love for Poland (hello, this is France speaking. Why are you wearing an 'I ❤ Poland' t-shirt?) and a nice smile. He said he was an artist, and suddenly, Grantaire wanted to chat all day about it with him, take him to exhibitions and paint on the street with him. Grantaire could sense his talent. However, his voice, as strong as it is, was not made for Grantaire's style. It's too rough, too country, too made for Bahorel, so let Feuilly go, as did Jehan, and Éponine had to battle with him for the boy. Word of advice: boobs don't always get you everywhere.
Grantaire is tired and there are only four people more to listen to, and he's seriously considering jumping off a window right now. But it'll be over soon, so he forces himself to listen anyway. He closes his eyes. He can hear the clicking of heels. A girl, or a transvestite. She (or he) halts, and the music starts.
"Whenever I see someone less fortunate than I," a soft, sweet as apple pie voice sings. Yep, definitely a girl.
Grantaire smiles and looks over to Éponine, who's grinning in her seat as well. This girl came here to impress her, Éponine, the original Wicked Witch of the West. Grantaire remembers Éponine's first show, her first appearance in Broadway in a new musical called Wicked. It was her debut, her time to shine. She left Broadway a few years ago, and there is a new Elphaba in her place now, but Éponine was linked to Wicked, always and forever. Surely, this girl must know, and so she's performing to impress her. Or so Grantaire assumes.
That doesn't mean he's not going to press that goddamn button before her.
It's like seeing Enjolras all over again, except she's a girl and Grantaire isn't attracted to her, not really. She's beautiful, with those big doe eyes colored a soft blue and those rosy cheeks, her golden hair curly and cascading down her bare shoulders and wow, this is like Enjolras all over again, she even looks like him a bit. Only she's wearing a pink sundress and my, she's the perfect Galinda. Éponine turns around once she's half-way through the chorus.
"Don't be offended by my frank analysis," she winks at Grantaire and he smiles. He likes her already. "Think of it as personality dialysis."
Jehan's chair wheels around, Bahorel's following suit, and soon they're all quietly mouthing the lyrics and enjoying the petite girl. She's got a high, but powerful voice. It reminds Grantaire of Kristin Chenowerth in a way, but a little more Katie Hall.
Grantaire slides off his seat and steps up on his chair, waving his arms from side to side along the music. The girl seems to want to laugh, but she's still singing and not missing a beat. Kudos for professionalism.
"You'll be popular!" Blondie sings as she points at Éponine. "Just not quite as popular as me."
Back inside the waiting room, everyone is cheering.
Grantaire moves up to the stage and takes her by the hand, dragging her until she's seating in his chair. She laughs and presses the button. She's cute. Grantaire sits down on Bahorel's lap, offering the girl a real smile.
"Is it possible to fall in love twice in a day?" he wonders out loud.
Enjolras's chest tightens. Of fucking course.
Éponine snorts. "Perhaps if you weren't as gay as you are, I'd believe you."
Grantaire nods, "That's true," he turns to Galinda 2.0. "Sorry, already got my eye on another blonde."
Now he's blushing, and Courfeyrac's laughing.
"It's fine," she replies, raising her hand a waving it in his face. "I'm taken anyway."
"Woah," Bahorel stares. "Now that's what I call a pretty ring."
Grantaire whistles, "What's your name, lucky lady?"
"I'm called Cosette."
"That's a nice name," Jehan replies. "Are you familiar with Wicked?"
"Of course," she giggles. "I wouldn't have dressed like this if I wasn't."
"Éponine was thrilled," Grantaire whispers in her ear. "She's always wanted someone to play Shiz Academy Tea Time with. I always refuse to be Fiyero."
Bahorel pushes him off with a roll of his eyes. "You're heavy, man, get back to your seat."
Grantaire pouts and moves back towards his chair, and Cosette moves to walk away, but as soon as Grantaire's settled, he grabs her by the wrist and places her on his lap. She squeals and he laughs. "Now, darling, tell Santa Claus what's on your wishlist."
"I want a Pony," she jokes, and Grantaire smirks. Placing his arms behind her back and under her legs, he lifts her off and carries her towards Éponine. He drops Cosette on Éponine's desk and smiles.
"Here," he says. "You can borrow My Little Pony."
Éponine glares, "I'm going to shoot you in the balls."
Jehan turns his body around so he may face the blonde. "I don't know about these dorks, but I want to set things straight. I want you in my team, I'd love to take you far in this world and I believe you will have a wonderful career. I assume you want Éponine, but I wanted you to know there are other options, just in case."
Éponine growls at Jehan. "Nope, there's only me. Pick me."
"I'd say pick me but," Grantaire trails off before shrugging. "What the hell, pick me, I'll make you Queen of France and beyond. I'll take you to Pigfarts."
"But you can't go to Pigfarts, it's on Mars!" Cosette exclaimed. "You need a rocketship, do you have a rocketship, Grantaire?"
"I might love you," he replies in awe.
"I know," Cosette says seriously.
"I can't even begin to describe how many Han Solo jokes can be made from that," Jehan adds.
"I'm friends with a bunch of nerds," Bahorel laments.
"Nerd is the new cool," Éponine replies. The other three nod in return.
Face palm.
"I want to high-five you all," he says dryly. "In the face."
"Don't pick him, he's nasty," Grantaire hisses. Cosette laughs, and it's a rich sound. Grantaire wants to adopt her. "What do I have to do to get you on my team?"
"I'd love to be on your team," Cosette pouts. "But I can't, sorry."
"What!" Grantaire is outraged. "Why not?"
"Because my baby brother is already there, and I'm not going to steal the man of his dreams."
Silence.
Blinking.
More blinking.
Jaws drop.
"No fucking way," Éponine whispers.
Grantaire finally finds his voice. "Oh my god, you're shitting me," he stands up straight, eyes wild and jaw slack. "Enjolras?"
The public gives a collective gasp. Someone trained them right.
Cosette sighs, "He was so happy when you turned around, I can't take that away from him. He's like, your biggest fan out there."
Grantaire is too shocked to blink.
"Is this a sibling thing?" Bahorel wonders. "Do you like, go around breaking his iOS every hour? Is this your hobby?"
"He's my what?"
"There was this one time when we were in England for our uncle's wedding," Cosette recalls, giggling. "You were giving this charity concert in Lyon, to help some orphanage, and when our dad forbid him from traveling back to France, he spent three hours crying. Three."
Enjolras is dying.
"And he's an ugly crier, like, sobs and tears all over the place, and he was crying on his best friend's— Combeferre's couch, and there are only so many tears a couch can take."
"You're lying," Grantaire laughs nervously, falling back on his seat. Cosette stands up to move beside him.
"I'm not."
She isn't.
"You are," he insists, whispering so that the audience won't hear. "You may be funny, and cute and smart, but don't you dare go around giving me false hope, okay?"
"Grantaire," she says softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're his lock screen."
Enjolras can't breathe. He's choking, hyperventilating, and yet he can't feel any air going to his lungs. His head is swimming, he can feel Combeferre placing both hands on each side of his head, telling him to calm down. It's a panic attack, even Courfeyrac is worried. Yet he can't see anything but Grantaire's horrified, disgusted, repulsed expression. He hates him, Grantaire hates him. He was hitting on just another fan, someone obsessed with him. Enjolras hates Cosette. He hates her. He loathes her. He damns the moment his mother gave birth to that dreadful creature.
"Does that mean I actually have a shot with him?"
Everything stops. Enjolras raises his eyes, slowly, and Grantaire doesn't look horrified, no. He looks hesitant, giddy, curious.
Hopeful.
"He's watching right now, in the waiting area."
He can breathe. Grantaire's smile works better than Lydia Martin kissing Stiles so he may 'hold his breath' (that's bullshit, they're just endgame). He can see Grantaire searching for a camera, running towards one with a wide grin.
"I get off at six," he breathes. "Why don't you meet me outside, Apollo?"
Courfeyrac hands him his phone and the wrinkled napkin. Enjolras takes it.
"So, since I'm out of the question," Grantaire starts once they've settled down and Cosette is back on stage. "Who are you gonna call?"
"Ghostbusters!" Jehan shouts.
Cosette laughs, "Well, us girls have to stick together."
Éponine shrieks. Grantaire is sick of those shrieks. But then his phone buzzes, and it's a text from an unknown number, which isn't rare, but unexpected.
Unknown: Backdoor or frontdoor? -E
He grins down at the screen, quickly typing a response before saving the number to his contacts.
Enjolras's phone also buzzes.
Grantaire: Backdoor ;) xx
--
"I didn't think you'd come," Grantaire admits.
Enjolras looks up from his phone, shoving it down his front pocket. He shrugs. "Had nothing better to do."
"Is that so?" Grantaire chuckles. "Aren't you planning to overthrow the government or something?"
"Don't make me regret my decision," Enjolras glares.
"Say there's no future for us as a pair," Grantaire sings loudly. "And though I may know, I don't care!"
"Stop," Enjolras whines.
"I bet you know all the lyrics," Grantaire laughs, "I bet your sister has made you play Fiyero before."
Enjolras blushes. Grantaire eyes widen in realization. "Oh my god," he whispers. "She makes you play Elphaba, doesn't she?"
"Can we go somewhere else?" Enjolras asks, avoiding his eyes.
"You'd still be pretty with green skin."
"Okay, I'm leaving."
"Wait," Grantaire grabs his hand, still chuckling. "I'm sorry. I'll drop it. Come on, I know this place, the Musain, they sell the best coffee in the world. They also have great music, if you'd save me a dance."
"We're not dancing in a café," Enjolras scoffs, but his eyes are glinting with amusement as they move through the streets of Paris. Grantaire hasn't let go of his hand yet.
"Oh, but a revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having."
Enjolras stops dead on his tracks, face flushed from the chilly evening air, and perhaps something more. He looks straight at Grantaire, baffled. Grantaire blinks, the street lights dancing in those dark blue eyes.
He raises a brow, "Don't tell me now that's your favorite movie."
Enjolras closes his mouth, which was formerly hanging open, fists clenching. "Shut up," he mutters, red faced and tense. He lets go of Grantaire's hand and marches down the street.
Grantaire quickly reaches him and takes hold of his hand once more, falling in step with the blonde. He smirks, "Did you cry for three hours with that, too?"
Enjolras groans.
Grantaire could get used to this.