Work Text:
“Him,” Enjolras practically moans. He and Éponine are in a practice room together, but they aren’t actually practicing. Instead, they’re slumped backwards in their chairs with their cellos resting on the floor.
“I’m assuming you mean R,” Éponine replies. She just gets him. When Enjolras nods, she adds, “Understandable.”
“You don’t get it. He’s just so cute, and maybe I hate him just a little because of his damn shirt, but do I actually hate him for it, or do I hate him for wearing it in public?”
“Shit, Enj, I don’t need to hear about this,” she complains. “Tell me more.”
“Didn’t R already tell you everything?” Enjolras asks. “He thought I was you when I went back to fetch my keys.”
“I love that you two trust me enough not to tell the other what I hear, but I have yet to glean any information from you other than ‘he’s so cute’,” Éponine snarks back.
“You’re trustworthy. Even if you sometimes take off with my sheet music thinking that it’s yours.”
Éponine reaches over to smack his shoulder. Enjolras winces. It’s like all the small people he knows have big tempers. Éponine, Grantaire, Courfeyrac… Truth be told, Éponine might be taller than the average girl, but Enjolras still towers over her enough to consider her tiny. She’s like the sister he can poke fun at occasionally.
“What a fucking backhanded compliment,” she grumbles. “You’re lucky I love you, stand partner of four years.”
Enjolras has to smile at that. “Love you too, I think. Now, about R…”
“Forget it. He’s too precious to betray.”
“I wasn’t implying that you betray his trust,” Enjolras protests. “I just want to know what goes on inside that brain of his sometimes.”
To be entirely honest, Enjolras has always noticed their pianist. Grantaire might sit in the back with Feuilly or talk to Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, but he has never once approached Enjolras. Enjolras has never approached him either, so fair is fair, he supposes. Asking Musichetta about him might be a good idea, but quartet rehearsals are for rehearsing their program and not for socializing, especially since their recital is coming up, and the music won’t just learn itself.
Which is why Éponine is the logical choice here. They should be practicing and not loitering around in the practice room, but it’s their last year, and the professors know them well enough not to mind.
Don’t get him wrong, though. Enjolras is all for working hard and practicing an unholy forty hours a day, but his little session with Grantaire was draining, both in the sense that he had to play a shit ton and argue with his accompanist while gazing fondly at said accompanist’s adorable cat. There’s probably still white hair in his cello case. He did also gaze fondly at Grantaire when he wasn’t looking, but his brain malfunctioned enough to ruin every sentence that came out of his mouth.
“He probably hates me,” Enjolras says, slumping even further into his chair. Musicians and their bad posture, for fuck’s sake. It’s a Thing. Enjolras calls it an act of defiance or rebellion. “I said some horrible things.”
“Yeah, he did mention that, and I will grant you the wonderful gift of telling you that he thinks you hate him, ” Éponine replies. When Enjolras takes a while to process the information, she continues sarcastically, “‘Thank you, ‘Ponine. You’re the best stand partner ever, ‘Ponine.’”
“You’re welcome,” Enjolras replies absentmindedly. They stare dumbly at each other before bursting into laughter.
“You’re such an idiot, oh my fucking God.”
“‘Ponine, I’m going to die,” Enjolras announces cheerfully when his stand partner takes her seat next to him.
“What the fuck.”
“R slept on me last night. And gave me a crochet bee.”
“What the fuck.”
“I hope he doesn’t hate me anymore.” Enjolras frowns. “I played him some Bach too.”
Éponine makes a face, like just the mention of Bach personally offended her. Fair enough. Every cellist has probably played one of his six suites in any way, shape, or form, and one of Éponine’s favorite anecdotes to tell involves how her parents forced her to play every single piece in each book of sheet music they got her simply because they had to get their money’s worth. Bach was on that list.
“R fell asleep on you, so you played him Bach? In what world does that make any sense?” she asks. “Is this some sort of convoluted flirting method?”
“Uh…”
“Knowing you, it probably is.” Éponine’s phone pings in her pocket. “Fuck. Remind me to mute my phone later… Cosette says you slept with R.”
“What?”
“That’s what I was about to ask.”
Enjolras doesn’t know what kind of stories have been passed around, but he would surely be the first to know if he slept with Grantaire. Speaking of Grantaire, he glances to the back of the room to take a peek at him in his adorable green sweatshirt. The sweatshirt is simply the cutest, and if anyone questions Enjolras’s actions from the night before, he was just following directions. Meanwhile, Grantaire blushes and ducks his head, causing Enjolras to coo internally.
“Yeah, so weird misunderstandings aside, you guys are absolutely sickening, and you aren’t even dating,” Éponine concludes. Enjolras doesn’t get a chance to say anything else because Lamarque walks in right that moment, and Courfeyrac stands up to tune the orchestra.
Enjolras squishes the crochet bee in his hand.
“Enjolras!” Éponine shouts into his ear when he picks up. “Did you seriously offer to show R your fingering technique?!”
She’s loud enough that both Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s heads whip around immediately to stare at Enjolras. He shrugs. What? Fingering is an important skill to have when playing any sort of instrument! Well, maybe not for Feuilly, but the point still stands.
“Maybe? He was riling me up as usual, so I had to get back at him somehow, right? Sure, it was my fault for taking it so far, but he asked me if I was trying to proposition him! I might’ve been, but mostly, I-” Enjolras suddenly cuts himself off. His friends have both forgotten to put food in their mouths apparently.
“Mostly, you…?” Éponine prompts.
“Mostly, I want to kiss him and cuddle him,” Enjolras whispers. He shovels a bite of pasta into his mouth and avoids meeting his friends’ eyes. Still, he’s forced to deal with Éponine cooing at him incessantly.
“You’re adorable, oh my God. You should do something about it at R’s recital next week. Just kiss him or something.”
“Are you kidding me? I can’t just kiss him! That’s like violating some sort of-”
“Okay, okay, we get it,” Éponine interrupts. “Keep wooing him with your big wood or whatever instead.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Am I wrong though? I meant your cello-”
This time, Enjolras just hangs up and immediately falls forward until his head makes contact with the table. Courfeyrac pats his head.
“He really wore mascara, huh,” Enjolras comments on the night of Grantaire's solo recital, unable to take his eyes off of him. His lashes are curled to perfection. His piano playing is great. Grantaire is actually perfect.
Éponine just snorts and turns the page like the good stand partner she is.
“Why are you buying flowers when you should be backstage tuning and warming up?” Éponine asks incredulously. “You’d better not be late for your own concert!”
“R likes lavender roses,” Enjolras replies absently. “He liked the ones I got for him after his recital. I still have like half an hour, and I walk fast.”
“Fucking tall person.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. Height has nothing to do with speed. Anyway, I’ll be there in ten. Tell ‘Chetta to stop mother henning.”
It’s so easy to find Grantaire in the audience because Joly told Musichetta, who told Enjolras where exactly they’re sitting. Seriously, how is it possible that someone can be so good at everything? Grantaire is, like, the very definition of fashionable, and he looks so, so sexy in his green silk shirt.
Enjolras wants to cuddle him again.
It is a wonder that he can still actually play his instrument, but that might have to do with his fellow string quartet members giving him meaningful glances over their music stands. He shuts out any thought that isn’t relevant to the notes on the page and expression of the music until the audience claps for the last time.
And then he’s a little disappointed that Grantaire left early.
Enjolras sighs as he loosens his bow and puts his cello away. On the way back to his apartment, he takes out his phone, first shooting a text to Éponine before opening his thread with Grantaire. He types out a message before deciding that it’s too accusational. If he said it face-to-face, his actual emotions would be conveyed, but through text messages, he doesn’t know how Grantaire would take that.
Instead, he settles on a more neutral text.
Enjolras: I couldn’t find you earlier.
The dots appear and disappear. Maybe Grantaire is trying to figure out how to respond too. He is in no way obligated to explain himself.
At last, he replies, using his cat as his reason, and Enjolras has to smile to himself. Grantaire is too damn adorable. He’s also ridiculous. Enjolras rolls his eyes fondly and saves the picture of Marshmallow to his camera roll. It’s enough compensation.
They chat a little about Marshmallow, and Grantaire disappears for a second, probably to answer Musichetta’s angry messages. Then their conversation takes a turn towards talking about hugging people, causing Enjolras’s heart to stutter when Grantaire doesn’t immediately understand what he’s trying to hint at. Grantaire can’t be that oblivious right? Surely, he knows that Enjolras holds so many damn feelings for him, most of which are romantic in nature and involve lots of cuddles.
Enjolras might even love Grantaire already, which is an extremely comforting thought to fall asleep to. Éponine must be so proud of him.
“You let R give you a lap dance.” Éponine is grinning smugly. “And then you let him sit in your lap.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious,” Enjolras grumbles as he tries tidying Grantaire’s apartment up a little. Marshmallow winds around his ankles, so he bends down to give her pats in between dumping bottles and cups into the trash.
“You also kissed him.”
“On his hand.”
“A kiss nonetheless. You really like him.”
“I love him,” Enjolras corrects, and it feels like a massive weight has been lifted off his chest and shoulders.
Éponine’s grin gradually softens into a smile. She reaches up to ruffle Enjolras’s hair and responds, “I think you should be telling that to R instead of me, but I’m happy for you. And if you ask me to play Pachelbel’s Canon at your wedding, I will do it. Out of spite.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
Because Éponine is a great friend and an amazing stand partner and cellist, Enjolras doesn’t subject her to playing Pachelbel at his wedding. There are much cooler pieces to get married to instead.
When he kisses Grantaire, sealing their pact as newlyweds, Enjolras notices his friend sobbing and clutching onto Cosette, who rubs her back soothingly while also crying her heart out.
Saps.
Like Enjolras can say anything. Instead, he gazes at his husband—his husband!—and loses himself in the depths of those blue eyes sparkling with happiness. Grantaire truly is the most beautiful. That was never in question. He’s also the most talented pianist and person Enjolras knows, even if that means he will be forced to watch The Aristocats for the rest of his life.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Grantaire asks softly, but he snakes an arm around Enjolras’s waist as he looks up at him to meet his eyes.
“Because I’m so damn lucky, and I’m going to hold onto this moment forever,” Enjolras says, unable to resist being a sappy fool. See? He’s not allowed to call Éponine a sap when he is one himself. “I’m holding onto you forever.”
“I love you.”
Enjolras smiles against Grantaire’s lips.