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“R,” Enjolras says, lifting a hand to poke his boyfriend’s cheek. His head is currently resting in Grantaire’s lap as he marks up a score. Music filters through the expensive speaker on their bedside table.
Grantaire glances away from his phone to look into Enjolras’s eyes and ask, “What’s up?”
“Will you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is and how much time I need to dedicate to practicing it.” After dating for a year, they’re so in tune to each other, pun unintended, that Grantaire can predict exactly what his boyfriend wants. “Just kidding, of course. I’ll do anything for you.”
It’s true. Grantaire loves Enjolras a ridiculous amount and would accompany him for anything and everything. He scratches Enjolras’s scalp lightly, and he makes a satisfied sound, not unlike Marshmallow, who is purring away in the corner.
“I love you, did you know that?” Enjolras asks, smiling up at him.
“Oh really? You don’t tell me nearly enough,” Grantaire replies. “I love you more. Now, what did you need?”
Enjolras gestures vaguely towards the speaker. Ah, that explains everything. “Will you play?”
“Fuck yeah.” This would be another thing crossed off of Grantaire’s bucket list.
“R, you should know that I love you a ridiculous amount.”
Grantaire waves him off. “You just asked me if I’d like to play one of Schumann’s most famous pieces with you and a few of our friends. Of course, I’d say yes. Besides, it should be fun.”
Enjolras sits up and puts his music down before drawing Grantaire into his lap and kissing him. Grantaire turns to straddle him, a leg on either side of Enjolras’s waist and practically falls forward into his arms. Yelping, Enjolras tips backwards against the pillows, but instead of bracing himself with his arms like a sane person, his hands find Grantaire’s butt instead. Since when is that the logical move to make?
“Squishy.”
Groaning at his boyfriend’s antics, Grantaire only rubs his cheek against Enjolras’s chest before dissolving into giggles when Enjolras squeezes his ass playfully. He reaches out to pick up the score and smiles at the words penciled in, saying, “ASK R TO PLAY,” in all caps with a little heart next to it. Grantaire will have one hell of a time flipping through and reading the rest of Enjolras’s little comments later, but for now, he has more important things to attend to.
Such as kissing his boyfriend.
Grantaire presses his lips against the underside of Enjolras’s very defined jaw before tucking his head in the crook of his neck. Lying on top of Enjolras like this is undoubtedly his second favorite position to be. The first is obviously sharing a bench with him with their backs touching while they play a duet or whatever.
“Comfortable?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Very. You make such a good pillow,” Grantaire replies. His boyfriend’s hands are still resting on his ass. It’s fine. They provide some warmth. “Wait, did you steal my erasable colored pencils?”
Enjolras has the gall to look sheepish. “Maybe? They’re nice and write really smoothly?”
“My red one is a literal stump now,” Grantaire grumps. “But what’s mine is yours anyway, so go ahead.”
He only kind of regrets saying that when Enjolras squishes his butt again. Yeah, that ass is his too.
“Oi, R, Enj, stop making heart-eyes at each other!” Courfeyrac yells.
Enjolras shrugs, like the asshole cellist he is. This is why Grantaire loves him so much. He hides his dumb smile behind his score.
“R, I can see you grinning over there. Enj, I’m really tempted to have you and ‘Chetta switch places.”
Meanwhile, Montparnasse leans over to whisper into Grantaire’s ear, “Don’t worry about Courfeyrac. He’s just jealous that you and Enj get to spend even more time together. Too bad he’s dating a brass player.”
“Anyway, before we get sidetracked,” Grantaire says, “can we start from letter R again?”
Musichetta snorts. “We were talking about one R in particular already, but okay.”
Grantaire sticks his tongue out at her and looks at Courfeyrac, waiting for his gesture. They begin at letter R, like Grantaire requested.
One thing to take note of—pun also unintended—is that just running through a piece is difficult, even for a pianist of Grantaire’s caliber. The piece itself is exciting to play, but it’s also extremely lengthy, so he’s breathing heavily by the last movement. Allegro, ma non troppo is beginning to sound a bit more ma non troppo than allegro.
Still, there is nothing quite like the thrill Grantaire gets from playing exciting music with his friends. It takes all of Grantaire’s energy not to just rush a little. Even after so many years of being a pianist and getting his bachelor’s in piano performance, some habits are hard to break. Thankfully, he has his cat and his old frenemy, the metronome, to keep him honest.
“Courf, we need to make sure we’re breathing at the same time,” Grantaire says. “Eye contact is important too at the fermata part.”
“Psst, Enj, it sounds like your boyfriend is hitting on me,” Courfeyrac teases in response, lowering his voice to a faux whisper.
Enjolras rolls his eyes, puts his cello down carefully onto its side, and walks around the back of the piano to pull Grantaire into a kiss.
“Okay, okay, that’s really gross.” Courfeyrac waves his bow around, like he’s trying to dispel the gay atmosphere.
“Don’t be homophobic, Courf,” Musichetta replies cheerfully. “We’re in their apartment. They can do whatever they want.”
Meanwhile, Grantaire pulls his boyfriend into another kiss, just because he can. Enjolras sits down on the bench next to him, hooking his chin over Grantaire’s shoulder, and wheedles, “My lap is a little empty…”
Grantaire promptly shifts until he’s perched right in between Enjolras’s arms. It’s not the most comfortable position, but it’s warm. His boyfriend is like a giant blond teddy bear with abs.
“Enjolras, instead of having our lovely pianist in your lap, perhaps your cello might be a better idea,” Montparnasse snarks.
“Shush. I have a permit.” Enjolras takes Grantaire’s score off the stand and hands it over. “Starting at the little fugue part.”
“It just says ‘I do what I want.’”
“Yeah,” Grantaire replies. “I’m the one giving the cue.”
Scratch teddy bear. Enjolras is a fucking memelord. Maybe that’s the consequence of living with Combeferre and Courfeyrac for so long. Grantaire truly adores him more than anything else in the world. He tries hiding his smile in his boyfriend’s shirt.
Enjolras offers his hand, and Grantaire slaps it in a high five. They make a great team sometimes- no, all of the time.
Grantaire groans, slamming his head down on the keys. Enjolras visibly winces from the clash of notes out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m playing so many wrong notes, goddamnit. And the performance is in, what, a week?”
Enjolras leans in to hug him and pat his shoulder sympathetically. “I think you’re playing beautifully as always, my love. I would know because I’m sitting right in front of the piano.”
Whining, Grantaire buries his face in his boyfriend’s chest. Enjolras strokes his hair like he’s a cat in desperate need of petting. Speaking of cats, Marshmallow has taken up residence on the island in the kitchen next to the stack of sheet music.
“You’re just being nice. It doesn’t change that I’m still playing a bunch of wrong notes.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Enjolras says, “I’m too busy focusing on my own wrong notes to care about yours. And don’t even come for my perfect pitch. I’m too busy hyping you up at the moment.”
Grantaire laughs, feeling inexplicably lighter at his boyfriend’s words. Enjolras is The Best™.
However, he isn’t done. “A lot can change in one week too. You have me and the others, and we’re all super understanding that you have the most notes out of all of us, and holy hell, it’s just really impressive that you’re able to play as well as you do in the first place. I think we’re going to do amazingly, and it’ll all be because of you.”
Great. Sniffling, Grantaire says, “You can’t just say stuff like that! I’m crying, and it’s your fault. It's all your fault.”
“I’ll happily take the blame. I love you.” To prove his point, Enjolras squishes him and rubs his cheek against the top of his head, grinning.
“I love you more.”
A week later, the audience applauds while they take their bows after a successful concert.