Chapter Text
Enjolras never went to the concerts. He was just too damn busy to take a night off. Even if the band was made up of some of his closest friends. According to Courfeyrac, the fact that he had yet to see them play was an appalling lapse.
“They’re really good, and the fact that you’ve never shown the slightest interest in their music is really shitty. You’re their friend, Enjolras, and tonight is a big show for them.” Enjolras sighed and scrubbed at his eyes, rubbing too hard so that bursts of colour danced across his eyelids, like so many galaxies across the night sky.
“Bahorel and Feuilly and Jehan, yeah, but Grantaire and I can barely speak a civil word to each other.” To be quite honest, Enjolras suspected that the other members of Moonshine forced their dark haired singer to come with them to Les Amis meetings. He frequently spent them seated at the bar with Eponine settled in his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist and her face buried in his neck. Jehan had explained that the two of them had a long history and a complicated relationship, but that they didn’t sleep together anymore because they were both in love with other people. She was his muse, and he was her home, and they needed each other. Enjolras hadn’t inquired further.
On the nights when Eponine was working behind the bar with Musichetta, the two of them laughing and chattering away in Spanish, Grantaire would engage with the actual meeting. At best, he was a distraction. Enjolras couldn’t for the life of him figure out what Grantaire was trying to accomplish by being there, since his only contribution seemed to be making jokes and sarcastic commentary that everyone but Enjolras found hilarious. When the golden haired leader inevitably became frustrated with the singer’s defeatist attitude and asked what he suggested, the latter would shrug disinterestedly and say something like,
“I don’t know, I’m just a musician- an inherently selfish creature, if I’m being completely honest. I’m not trying to fix the world, Apollo- I’ll leave that to you. I don’t know how to fix anything.” Then he would give a twisted grin and go outside for a cigarette, leaving Enjolras infuriated.
“He think’s he’s so edgy, with half his head shaved and his tattoos and his cigarettes and his guitar and his stupid fucking cynical opinions. Does he even own anything that isn’t black?” he’d ranted to Combeferre on more than one occasion. This of course would prompt the latter to remind him that it was none of his business how other people chose to express themselves.
Some nights Grantaire would spend the whole meeting playing guitar quietly in a corner. Although others flocked to him to listen and request one song or another, Enjolras usually tried to ignore the music that drifted across the room and interfered with his discussion sessions. The Musain was much too small for a formal live setup, but Musichetta was fairly forgiving of these impromptu acoustic shows. So Enjolras had to put up with the distraction of a mournful, lilting voice, mumbling lyrics that he was never quite close enough to hear. When Courfeyrac asked with some exasperation whether Enjolras had ever even listened to one of Grantaire’s songs, Enjolras was forced to admit that he hadn’t.
“See, that’s just fucking ridiculous. You’re coming tonight. Grantaire’s music- you’ll understand when you listen. Hell, maybe you’ll even start to understand the man himself and stop making excuses about why you can’t be friends.”
So it was settled.
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Though it was only late afternoon when Enjolras arrived with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the Corinth was already packed, filled with people drinking and talking animatedly. It was dimly lit and had an eclectic aesthetic that combined industrial bareness with Victorian elegance. Clusters of luxurious couches were pushed against graffiti covered concrete walls, and beautiful chandeliers hung from exposed pipes in the ceiling. The Corinth was a fairly small venue, but something of an institution. It had been bought years ago by an ex-con who was renowned for booking bands that would go on to become wildly successful. The devoted following that Moonshine Mafia seemed to have developed surprised Enjolras, although he knew that they had been playing together for years.
Eponine came to greet them, kissing Courfeyrac on the cheek and nodding equably at Combeferre. She turned to Enjolras then and crossed her arms, pursing her lips before saying shortly,
“You’ve never come to a gig before. Thought this sort of thing was beneath you.” Enjolras almost protested before realising abruptly that she was right, in a way. It had never seemed worth his time. He suddenly felt ashamed and understood why Courfeyrac had been so frustrated with him. Eponine made a humming noise as though she knew exactly what he was thinking, before turning on her heel and commanding them to follow her. As she led the way to the backstage area, Enjolras mused that Eponine was a no-bullshit-tolerated sort of person.
Bossuet and Joly were already there, laughing on a set of tattered old couches and drinking bourbon with Bahorel and Jehan as Feuilly fiddled with his bass. Eponine threw herself down beside them, propping her feet up on Bahorel’s lap and stealing a sip of his drink. The other newcomers soon followed suit until they were tangled together in a happy pile, teasing Enjolras that they were about to “pop his gig-going cherry”. (Bahorel’s words)
“Where’s Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, glancing around for the fourth member of the band.
“I’ll go get him.” Feuilly said, setting down his instrument and disappearing through a closed door into a conjoined room. After a few moments he reappeared alone, explaining that Grantaire needed a few more moments. This seemed to be fairly routine, as most of the group simply nodded and fell into conversation. However, before long Enjolras found himself needing the bathroom, and Feuilly pointed him in the direction of the door he had gone through earlier. He swung open the door and found Grantaire standing with his forehead pressed against the mirror, eyes closed and apparently lost in thought.
“Grantaire? What are you doing?” At the sound of his name, the singer turned to face Enjolras, reaching up a hand to brush dark curls out of his eyes. Up close, the shadows under his liquid black eyes seemed even more pronounced than usual, and his skin was sallow, as though he wasn’t seeing enough sunlight. He looked exhausted. Nonetheless, his eyes seemed to sparkle as he replied,
“I think the real question is what are you doing here, Apollo? You’ve never bothered to grace one of our shows with your presence before. To what- or to whom, more pertinently- do we owe the pleasure?” Enjolras blushed with embarrassment at his astuteness and admitted,
“Courfeyrac convinced me to come, I’m sorry I haven’t before.” Grantaire threw back his head in a genuine laugh, declaring,
“I knew it! I mean, I thought it might have been your cricket-conscience Jiminy Combeferre who shamed you into coming, but I knew that someone had to have forced your hand.” When Enjolras blushed a deeper shade of red, Grantaire surprised him by reaching out a hand to touch his cheek. His fingertips were rough against Enjolras’ skin, calloused from years of holding down guitar strings.
“Ah, but don’t apologise for anything which produces such a lovely flush. You know I only tease you to see you turn that gorgeous shade.” Enjolras pulled away from his hand, frowning and asking,
“Oh, so that’s why you enjoy antagonising me so much. I always wondered why you got such pleasure out of shooting me down the way you do.” As always, Grantaire seemed immune to Enjolras’ anger, simply smirking and murmuring,
“Well wonder no more, Apollo. But what’s your excuse?” Before Enjolras could figure out what he meant, Grantaire had brushed past him and out the door to be enthusiastically greeted by the others. When Enjolras re-joined the group Grantaire was cheerfully serenading Eponine.
“Now you’re never gonna quit it if you don’t start smoking it,
That’s what she said.
She said we’re dressed in black from head to toe,
With guns hidden under our petticoats.
And we’re never gonna quit it, no we’re never gonna quit it, no.”
Enjolras laughed along with the rest, thinking that he had never heard Eponine described so well. At that moment a beautiful blonde woman in 5-inch heels strode into the room, listening intently to a young man wearing a headset attached to a radio pack on his belt. After a moment she grinned and announced to the room at large,
“Marius tells me we’re ready for sound check. Its show time, boys.” Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Joly cheered and Bahorel strode across the room to kiss her full on the mouth. She laughed and nudged him away good-naturedly, insisting,
“I’m serious, let’s go, let’s go- civilians to front of house.” Those who weren’t in the band filed out of the room dutifully, clapping the four band members on the back and wishing them good luck. Eponine explained that the blonde woman was Cosette Fauchelevent, the Corinth’s manager and the daughter of its owner, while Marius was the stage manager. It was Eponine who had gotten the boys this gig, as she used to work as a bartender at the Corinth and knew both Marius and Cosette well. When Enjolras asked why she had left the job, her mouth twisted in a wry smile and she replied enigmatically that she had always had a bad tendency towards masochism, and it was a habit she was trying to break. Enjolras didn’t push the subject.
The audience seemed to anticipate that the show was about to start, gravitating towards the dance floor. As the roadies came out and began the sound check Enjolras and the others settled in for the night in a corner filled with comfortable couches. The excitement in the room was palpable. When the lights on the stage brightened and the band emerged there was roar of approval. The band’s responses were fairly characteristic, with Feuilly giving a small smile before ducking behind his bass, Bahorel pumping a fist in the air, and Jehan laughing delightedly and clapping his hands. The tiny redheaded guitarist was the only band member who had deigned to wear colour, with flowers woven into his hair and a floral shirt open over his bare chest. Grantaire meanwhile, went straight for the microphone, never missing an opportunity to make himself heard.
“Look at you beautiful lot! I bet you’re fucking itching for a dance, aren’t you?” Grantaire shouted into the microphone as the others picked up their instruments. The crowd cheered enthusiastically in response. Grantaire grinned broadly.
“Well then we’d better get going. You heard them boys, no more dicking around!” He meant it. Without another moment’s pause, Bahorel counted them in and they burst into a catchy, upbeat song. It was the one Grantaire had been singing to Eponine backstage- something about chocolate. Soon enough Courfeyrac was grabbing her hands and dragging her to the dance floor, where they seemed to pogo up and down inexhaustibly for the next 30 minutes, screaming along to the lyrics.
Unexpectedly, Enjolras realised he was enjoying himself. Moonshine Mafia was a quirky mixture of electro-pop and grunge, and Grantaire was an incredible showman, seeming to give himself over entirely to the music and to the crowd. Several songs in, a wine bottle materialised in his hand out of nowhere and he proceeded to drink straight out of the bottle, swigging between sentences and songs. Enjolras’ shock must have shown on his face at some point, because Bossuet laughed and asked,
“Concerned about the lack of professionalism? Don’t worry; no one here gives a shit- honestly the crowd sorts of expects it from Grantaire at this point. Its part of his whole sad rock star image.” Enjolras thought he understood, although Grantaire’s lyrics told of a lifestyle that Enjolras couldn’t possibly relate to. Encounters with prostitutes, a fatalistic romance which Joly explained was inspired by Eponine’s toxic ex-boyfriend Montparnasse, sex in the back of cars, drug addiction, sex with people he didn’t care about, sex with people who didn’t care about him; all were recounted in a tone of flippant honesty with bright, infectious rhythms to cover the self loathing in the words. But there were other songs too, songs when the band disappeared backstage and Grantaire sat alone at the piano, playing so softly and with such emotion that it was painful to watch. During one of these, Eponine elbowed her way to the front of the crowd and stood at the base of the stage as Grantaire poured his heart out, his eyes locked on her.
“I know it’s me that’s supposed to love you.
And when I’m home you know I got you.
Is there somebody who can watch you?”
As his voice broke over the words, Enjolras gazed around the crowd, seeing several people apparently in tears. With a jolt, he remembered Courfeyrac telling him about Grantaire’s sister. The sister who had died in a car crash, long before Grantaire met any of their friends except Eponine. The sister he had left behind when the two of them ran away from home at 16, promising to come back once they’d saved enough money. The sister he felt he had failed. Eponine had been true to her word, taking her younger brother and sister away from their abusive parents once she cleaned up her act, left Montparnasse and found them a place where they could all live together. But Grantaire had been too late too save his sister.
The song that was hardest for Enjolras to hear came later. Before playing it Grantaire took an extra long swig from his wine bottle and grinned roguishly.
“I recently commented to a rather disapproving friend with a Messiah complex” (at this he winked in the general direction of the audience, knowing that Enjolras was out there somewhere, although he couldn’t possibly see him) “that I couldn’t help him in his quest to save the world, because I can’t even save myself. And besides, I’m a musician with a rock star complex- a self-obsessed bastard, essentially. So, true to form, here’s a song called ‘Me’.”
It was a dreamy, hazy sort of song. Jehan put down his guitar in favour of the synthesizer, Bahorel created a quiet, hypnotic momentum on the drums, and meanwhile Grantaire swayed in front of the microphone stand, eyes closed, bottle clutched in hand.
“I nearly killed somebody, don’t you mind.
I think I did something terrible to your body, don’t you mind.
I gave you something you can never give back, don’t you mind, don’t you mind.
I’m sorry but I’d rather be getting high than watching my family die.”
At this point Grantaire opened his eyes and pulled the microphone out of the stand, beginning to wander aimlessly around the stage and taking long sips from the bottle. There was a sort of reckless despair in the way he threw his arms up, a gesture of helplessness and hopelessness as he sang the words,
“Oh, I was thinking bout killing myself, don’t you mind.
I love you, don’t you mind, don’t you mind.”
With those last words Grantaire near doubled over, leaning on his knees and pressing his face into his hands. He was crying. Enjolras felt his stomach twist, and ached with sadness that he could do nothing to comfort the weeping artist. Grantaire’s honesty was brutal, unrelenting; to lay out your lowest moments, the moments of weakness and exhaustion the way he did was unfathomable to Enjolras, who always sought to maintain a veneer of control. No matter how tired he was or how hopeless he sometimes felt, it was his job to be an inspiration; an example of unfailing commitment to the cause. For the first time he began to realise that maybe Grantaire’s job was to show people that it was ok if they didn’t measure up to that standard. He wore the dark circles under his eyes with pride, as if to say, “Yes, I’m tired, and sad, and I’ve done things that I’m ashamed of. And sometimes I hate myself and sometimes I want to give up, and maybe sometimes you feel the same. And that’s ok. Because we’re all in this together. And if I can keep on living through it then so can you.”
When the song ended Grantaire acted as though nothing had happened, leading the band into another upbeat one. In what seemed like no time at all he was announcing their last song, and even Enjolras found himself dragged onto the dance floor by Courfeyrac. There was no way he was getting up without Combeferre, so all the Amis spent the next 3 minutes throwing their bodies around like they were being electrocuted, while those who knew the words happily shouted along. It was loud and sweaty and hot, and to Enjolras’ very great surprise, he enjoyed himself. Then the show was over and the band was exiting the stage, laughing and waving at the cheering audience as they did.
“Come on!” Eponine said in Enjolras’ ear, tugging on his hand. He glanced around the room, where the other audience members seemed to be settling back at the bar and around the room.
“Where are we going?” he asked. She rolled her eyes at him.
“Afterparty at Jehan’s, you square.”
“Did you just call me a square?”
“Shut up.”
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Luckily, by the time they got to Jehan’s house the others were already there, since Courfeyrac had caused a considerable delay by insisting that they buy every type of alcohol and snack food under the sun. Jehan informed them that Cosette and Marius would be coming later once they had finished everything they needed to do at the Corinth. Soon drinks were being poured and Courfeyrac was pushing one into Enjolras’ hand. He glanced around and spotted Grantaire leaning against the kitchen counter, the ever-present wine glass in his hand. The dark haired singer noticed the attention and cocked his head as if to say, well? Enjolras approached him cautiously, nervous for some reason he couldn’t explain.
“So… You came, you saw. What did you think?” Grantaire asked, trying to sound nonchalant but not quite succeeding. His eyes gave him away.
“You were completely captivating.” Enjolras blurted out. Grantaire looked startled. Enjolras cursed silently and hurried to explain himself.
“The band, I mean. I really like your music, and your sound. You’re all so talented, and I’ve never even paid attention, which was shitty. But yeah, you guys were awesome tonight… I felt like a proud dance mum.” Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras went on.
“But I also meant you, in particular. Your lyrics… I think I get it. Or at least, I’m trying to… to understand where you’re coming from, and what you’re trying to do. And I think it’s important.” Enjolras forced himself to shut up then, before he made a complete fool of himself. Grantaire studied Enjolras’ face, as though looking for some sign of insincerity. After a moment he gave a small smile and murmured,
“Thanks, I guess. I hope you’re right.” He paused, before grinning his signature grin and raising his glass to Enjolras, a challenge in his eyes.
“Cheers?” Enjolras felt his face break into a broad smile in response. Of course it wasn’t the first time that he and Grantaire had spoken without it turning into an argument, but he thought that it might be the first time they had ever truly seen one another. Courfeyrac had been right; the music was the key to understanding the man. Enjolras glanced down at his glass. How many times had alcohol been a point of contention between the two of them? With a grin, he raised his glass to match Grantaire’s.
“Cheers.”