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Enjolras was lucky he had a backbone of steel or he would never have made it as a concert pianist. Or rather, it was more likely that this backbone of steel is precisely the reason he was one of the foremost concert pianists in the world. That and his stubbornness, which was almost as well-known as his deft and light touch on the keys, especially among conductors. The days were long, the hours grueling, and often the last thing that Enjolras wanted to do was sit on that cushioned stool that knew him so well and make music once more. And today, standing in his crisp freshly dry-cleaned suit, he dreaded the performance that was to start. He could hear the crowd buzzing outside, and as he peeked out from behind the curtain, he saw a large mass of people mingling through the red cushioned seats, talking and laughing. Probably trying to impress each other with how many composers they could critique without ever having touched an instrument, Enjolras thought cynically. It wasn’t that he was nervous. Enjolras was never nervous, and certainly not about playing the piano. It was that the thought of having to socialize with people after the performance, people who were all scraping to impress him by speaking abstract music theory, making him want to tear his hair out.
It hadn’t always been this way. When he was young and had first discovered that he had a talent for producing emotion out of so many gleaming keys, he had been overjoyed. He spent hours in front of them, losing himself in music. He hadn’t ever looked at practicing as a chore; he had always loved those hours he had to himself, stroking those smooth ivory keys. He hadn’t really considered becoming a professional pianist until his eighth grade piano teacher Mabeuf had encouraged him to think about it, to go on tour and do various performances, to work with his local symphony. It had been hard, but it hadn’t been a struggle. Anyone who heard Enjolras play could tell he had a natural talent, and there was no question of them wanting to continue his path. His difficulties did not stem from piano playing; they stemmed from the culture surrounding the piano. From his youth, to his inexperience, to his penchant for picking eccentric composers to perform, the music world was shaken up by Enjolras’ refusal to stick to convention.
This event was one that had been unavoidably cliché. He was doing a short Christmas tour performing Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, accompanied by symphonies dotted throughout the country, and even the world. Tonight he was in Paris. Enjolras would complain more, but he had to admit that though The Nutcracker was too commodified for the time of Christmas, he truly and sincerely loved Tchaikovsky’s genius. Now there was a man who didn’t give a rat’s ass about the “rules” of classical music and composed primarily from his human experience in order to make some of the most incredibly moving and evocative music ever played. So though Enjolras loved Tchaikovsky, he just hated that every Christmas the classical world trotted out the tired Nutcracker and then put it back in its box to gather dust until the next winter. Tchaikovsky had written such transformative music, and he was remembered for a toy that came to life to visit a Sugar Plum Fairy. He was such a brilliant three dimensional person, and the consumerism of art had made him two dimensional, flat, and worn-out. He shook himself. He needed to get out of this headspace before the concert. He always didn’t play as well when he was in his head. He checked his watch. Soon he’d be stepping out on the stage, and seating himself before an expensive piano as the entire room filled with costly clothes and extravagant jewelry held their breath in anticipation. He headed back to the dressing room. On nights like this, he wished Combeferre hadn’t made him quit smoking.
* * *
The afterparty was about as dull as Enjolras had expected. For a blessed two hours he had practically forgotten the audience was there and immersed himself in Tchaikovsky’s bold chords and tender melodies, only resurfacing at the thunderous and yet politely refined applause that followed his final piece. Then it had been back to the reality of old white people who were bowing and scraping and using large words to impress him. That wasn’t even the worst. Enjolras detested those who knew nothing about music giving overly loud commentary on music that they had clearly read from the
Le Monde
or some other critique because it was incongruent with what they thought or said. This party had all of his least favorite things, people who wanted him to meet old friends, who asked him about his inspiration, who probed his opinion on the “death of appreciation of the fine arts that is currently occurring.”
When Enjolras saw Combeferre from across the room, he almost melted in relief at a familiar face. He excused himself politely from his insipid conversation and made a beeline towards Combeferre, who was speaking with one of the cellists in Paris’s orchestra. Seeing Enjolras coming his way, he also disentangled himself from his conversation and met him halfway, champagne flute clutched elegantly between his fingers. “Thank God you’re here,” Enjolras breathed, feeling the anxiety in his chest loosen at just the sight of his face - calm brown eyes framed by neat horn-rimmed glasses, smile lines beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.
“That bad tonight?” Combeferre inquired coolly, taking a neat swig from his champagne flute in a way that looked elegant but conveyed to Enjolras that he too was tired of the elitism and racism that he had faced that night.
“I’ve had several people look away and clear their throats or straight up leave every time I even allude to the fact that Tchaikovsky was gay.”
“I see. Pretty bad, then.”
“I need to get out of here,” Enjolras said, more to himself than Combeferre.
“Want to go catch a drink at some hole in the wall bar where no one knows shit about classical music?” Combeferre quirked his brow. Enjolras calculated quickly - he had definitely spent enough time at this party to argue that he hadn’t skived it off.
“Give me ten minutes to change and get my shit. Meet me in your car by the green room.”
“It sounds like this is a high-stake diamond robbery.” Combeferre set his now empty champagne glass on a nearby table, nonchalantly, as if he planned on spending the entire evening here. Sometimes Enjolras truly and deeply loved Combeferre.
“You haven’t met Javert,” Enjolras said soberly.
* * * Combeferre drove them through the rain-washed streets of Paris after the hasty getaway that had included creeping through the parking lot without their lights on, despite the fact that Combeferre had adamantly wanted to obey the law. Combeferre was himself a classical musician and a fellow Frenchman. He played the viola, and though Enjolras knew relatively little about the viola, he loved the way that Combeferre played it. He was currently at the Lyons Symphony, but had come to Paris just to see Enjolras. They had played together in the Berlin Symphony for several years, and had bonded over their position as outsiders, fed up with the snobbery and elitism that pervaded the entire institution. One night they had openly admitted to each other how often they had almost left the music world behind because of the exhausting pace that it set for everyone, but more importantly because of the micro aggressions they saw daily. They had vowed together on that night to tough it out together - to stay to welcome the other “outsiders” that would come. And they had been fast friends ever since.
They found a little bar at a safe distance from the symphony hall, and ordered some drinks. They settled in, shedding their various layers. Enjolras was relieved and also impressed to see that Combeferre had managed to change out of his well-tailored suit and into a sweater and jeans. It made them more inconspicuous.
“So - how are you finding Lyons?” Enjolras asked without preamble. He was curious. Combeferre had been there about three months, and Enjolras was itching to hear about it.
Combeferre toyed with his drink, poking the straw at the ice that was sticking to the sides. “It’s alright. It’s always a little hard in the beginning. It’s nice to be in France again, quite honestly.”
“I can believe it. France has its problems, but I would take it over Berlin most days.” And it was true. Enjolras like Berlin, but something about France made the fire reignite in his blood.
Combeferre grinned. “I almost forgot how much you love France.”
“Impossible. I’m told I’m very memorable.”
“And modest too.” Combeferre shot back, before closing his mouth around his straw for a pull.
“My enviable qualities aside, how is it besides being in France?”
“Better than Berlin I think. Don’t get me wrong - the social circles like the donors and the regulars - they are more snobbish. But the people in the actual symphony and the conductor are much better than they were in Berlin.”
“There’s always a trade-off,” Enjolras commented, rolling his eyes slightly.
Combeferre shrugged. “I’d rather get shit from people I only have to see once a month than every day.”
“Yes, but since they are the ones with the money, we let them think they’re right and let them act however they want even though they don’t know shit! It just means the institution of classical music never changes because none of us ever get the courage to tell a few rich people off now and again!” Combeferre shot him a look, and Enjolras deflated. “Yeah, I know. Not tonight.”
“Tell me about how it’s going on your end,” Combeferre said, switching the subject.
Enjolras exhaled loudly. “I feel so exhausted and worn out. I think my music has lost some of its edge because I’ve let all these toxic experiences associated with my playing seep into it.”
“What do you mean to do about it?” Combeferre met Enjolras’ gaze steadily across the table, both an acknowledgment of the difficulty it had taken for Enjolras to utter those words and a steady encouragement.
“I don’t know. Why do you think I will do something about it?” Enjolras asked, surprised.
“Because you’re a man of action. You see a problem - you do something.”
“It’s just such a big problem,” Enjolras said, trailing off. “Maybe I just need a different scene.”
Combeferre sat up straighter. “Wait! I know just the thing!” His face was alight with possibility, and Enjolras felt himself being drawn in.
Enjolras shot him a confused look. “What do you mean?”
“When does your tour finish?”
“Next week. And don’t get me wrong - I am counting the days.” And he was. Just six more days and then he was blissfully free of the Nutcracker. Javert already had a lot of plans for things to do next, but nothing had yet been finalized.
“Well….” Combeferre lowered his gaze, stirring his drink with a straw, collecting his words carefully. Enjolras could tell he wasn’t sure how he would take this suggestion.
“Well, what?” Enjolras said, slightly curious, but also impatient. “Out with it.”
“One of my friends, Courfeyrac. I think I have mentioned him to you.” Combeferre met Enjolras’ eyes as he racked his brain. Then it came to him.
“Kind of short? Curly hair? Everything he says is a rainbow?” Enjolras asked.
“You could say that, I suppose,” Combeferre laughed. “He’d love that description.”
“What about him?” Enjolras asked, his curiosity only heightening.
“He’s a ballet dancer at the Ballet de l'Opéra national de Paris.”
Enjolras whistled. “Good for him. That takes hard work. Isn’t it the oldest ballet company in France?”
Combeferre nodded, his smile fading from his face. “And he puts the hard work in - he’s amazing. But anyways, I was talking to him earlier and he said that they are looking for a pianist for their upcoming performance. They want a live pianist. It’s a performance of Giselle, but they wanted to try something a little different. They haven’t found anyone yet, so Courfeyrac said to keep my ear out for any dissatisfied concert pianists who wanted to try something new.”
Enjolras considered it. It was an interesting thought, and he always wanted to fly in the face of convention. But also, he wasn’t sure how much of the ballet world he could take either. That industry wasn’t exactly welcoming – it went through dancers more quickly than pointe shoes. “I don’t know.” Enjolras said simply.
Combeferre nodded. “Just think about it. I mean, it can hardly hurt your career. You’re one of the best pianists in the world.”
Enjolras blushed slightly. He wasn’t modest, but it made him uncomfortable when people made those kinds of comments to him. They moved on to different and lighter topics, but he kept the thought in the back of his mind even after he and Combeferre parted ways and he went back to his empty and muffled hotel room, feeling almost separate from the world that continued to move around him.
The next day as he disembarked from his plane on to the soil of Copenhagen, he gave Combeferre a call. It looked like Enjolras was about to enter the world and tradition of ballet. He didn’t let himself think about it too much. He just wanted a change of pace, to be able to stay in one place for an extended period of time, avoiding the public eye for a couple of months. Or so he told himself. At the pit of his stomach he felt a clench of nerves that he hadn’t felt in years. He could only hope it was a good sign.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Enjolras clutched his messenger bag like it was a shield, his scuffed converse nervously tapping a rhythm he couldn’t name as he allowed himself to smoke one cigarette to calm himself down. He could see the tiny ballet studio from across the street - had stopped right across from it and found himself unable to cross the street and enter. He was a little early so he had ducked into a small corner shop and bought a cigarette with trembling fingers. The act of smoking calmed him immensely, releasing tension he didn’t even know he had. What Combeferre didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. Besides, he was going to throw the pack away first chance he got. It was his first day - he should get cut some slack for that. Enjolras couldn’t even remember the last time he had done something different. It seemed that everything in his life had followed a pattern, almost always the same drill: play the piano and enthrall the audience. Whether it was a competition, a symphony, an audition - it was always the same process. But this time it was different. This time he would not be the only contender; he’d be working with dancers, notorious for being temperamental. He wondered what Combeferre had talked him into, not for the first or the last time. He finished his cigarette, and regretfully dropped the butt on the ground, crushing it with his heel. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and crossed the street, not allowing himself a moment of hesitation before opening the door with a confidence he did not feel. He approached the receptionist and asked for directions. She was businesslike, professional, and did not treat Enjolras like a celebrity. He was relieved; it was refreshing to be treated as normal once more, a good reminder of how small the classical music scene was, even though it often brushed shoulders with ballet. He was directed to a small studio towards the back. He entered the mirrored room with a small and simple piano in the corner. A couple dancers were there warming up, various articles of clothing thrown on top of their tights, their bodies contorting into impossible positions. Enjolras hesitated in the doorway. A slight dancer’s eyes alighted on him and a smile immediately came to their face. They made their way over and stuck their hand out to shake Enjolras’. “Hi! I’m Jehan! You’re Enjolras?” Their voice had a pleasant musicality about it. Enjolras nodded. “We spoke over the phone, I believe.” Jehan smiled even more brightly and nodded even more enthusiastically. “Yes! I am so honored that you would work with us! I’ve been to a few of your performances and you are brilliant! You’re a little shorter than I expected.” Enjolras huffed a laugh. “Are you the choreographer?” Jehan made an extensive gesture with their arms. “Indeed I am. Make yourself at home. I don’t know if you need to warm up or anything or if you’ve already starting working on the pieces for the performance, but I was hoping you could play some of the pieces on the piano for a short warmup before we start.” Enjolras nodded. This was business, familiar territory. “Of course I can.” Jehan nodded and excused himself, going over to a few dancers that were putting talc on their pointe shoes to convey some information them. Enjolras walked across the room towards the piano, feeling curious eyes on him. He dropped his bag near the piano and scanned the room but it seemed everyone was busy getting themselves ready for rehearsal. Curious. He could have sworn someone was watching him. He shook himself and returned to the matter at hand. The piano - it’s keys were slightly yellowed and chipped. A piano with character. Enjolras smiled, pleased, until his eyes fell on the stool. No cushion. Oh well, he thought to himself, he’d just bring one tomorrow. He cracked his knuckles and sat down, running a few scales to warm up his hands before turning his attention to the sheet music before him. Jehan had picked some interesting music for warmups. He tapped out the tune of a few of the songs, nothing too difficult, but interesting enough to keep him occupied. He felt adequately prepared and sitting on a piano stool, albeit cushion-less, calmed him down. He was always at home in front of a piano. Pianos he could understand. Everything else that was happening - maybe not. While he ran through arpeggios mindlessly, he scanned the room again in order to better acclimatize himself with it. For the most part people were now ignoring him as more dancers entered and a conversational buzz entered the room. Enjolras saw the man he recognized as Courfeyrac, lithe frame accentuated by his springing copper curls. He was the center of attention, holding court of a cluster of dancers as he regaled them with some stage mishap or other. He recognized no one else. They were all young, incredibly fit, and in various states of dress and exercise. A cluster were stretching at the barre, others on the floor. A few were outside the small room, visible through the window at the water cooler, eating a last-minute snack or hydrating before their session, which would last several hours. In a corner several dancers were sewing their shoes, both old and new, making exasperated gestures over their minuscule stitches. One or two were practicing various moves in the middle lazily, marking choreography that only other dancers must have understood because to Enjolras it didn’t make much sense. It was certainly a different crowd from what he was used to. Jehan cleared their throat, and Enjolras was surprised at how quickly the room went silent. Jehan welcomed everyone cheerily, and made a few remarks about Giselle, practice times, roles, and other business before introducing Enjolras, who just waved from behind the piano but made no move to give a speech of any sort. He was happy to remain out of the spotlight which was so often shoved on him. Jehan moved briskly into warmup, instructing them in various steps before rattling off the name of the piece to Enjolras, who dutifully played the piece, one eye on the music, and the other on the dancers. Jehan walked amongst them and gave slight corrections here and there, turning out a foot more, adjusting the position of an arm, straightening the back. It was in all honesty quite fascinating. Enjolras had never seen this side of ballet before, the warming up, the eccentric fashions, the quick and hurried instructions before each warm-up exercise. The barre was interesting, but what he really liked to watch was the center part of warming up, where they moved away from the barre and did various steps across the room, going two by two. He heard Jehan say various words that he vaguely associated with ballet - plié, pas de bourrée, jeté, pirouette.
Enjolras found himself increasingly watching the dancers instead of his music, quickly finding a pattern to the music that allowed him to play it while only paying a little attention to the sheet music. It was like watching a flower bloom - the class started slowly, the dancers preparing their bodies for the beauty that was to come. As the moved through the class and away from the barre, their bodies became more expressive, their cheeks flushed, their jumps higher and more precise, becoming fully fledged dancing flowers in the center of the room. Enjolras liked ballet better this way, seeing the dancers’ faces etched with concentration, wiping sweat from their brows and stopping to stretch and perfect their form between pieces. This was the kind of ballet he could get behind - not the bite-sized perfection that was presented at all of the great performances. After seeing how much effort it took to go through all of the steps, Enjolras had much more respect for ballet dancers. In fact, he saw nothing that affirmed the conception that ballet dancers were all prima donnas and impossible to work with. He’s worked with other pianists more spoiled than this bunch, and pianists didn’t really have to sweat to perform. After about an hour, Jehan transitioned into teaching the ballerinas the choreography that they had envisioned for Giselle. Here, Enjolras saw them divide into their respective roles. Enjolras had, of course, done his research. He had read a synopsis of the story of Giselle. It was about a girl, so named, who fell in love with a noble man in disguise named Albrecht, though the local game keeper Hilarion, who was in love with her, warned her not to fall in love with a stranger. When she discoveres that Albrecht was already betrothed to a noblewoman named Bathilde, she dies of heartbreak. In the second act, Giselle meets the Wilis, ghosts of virgins who died of heartache. They take their revenge by making unsuspecting young men dance to their deaths. The Wilis chase Hilarion until he drowns himself, but when try to make Giselle dance Albrecht to death, she instead aids him in making it to daybreak alive and in so doing, saves herself from becoming one the vengeful spirits. Enjolras had also listened to the score and watched a couple of Youtube videos of some of the more famous pieces. Enjolras was never underprepared; he made it his job to know things, especially when it came to the arts. Jehan had mentioned that they wanted to do a fresh take on the ballet, and Enjolras was intrigued to see what it would look like. A girl named Eponine was Giselle, a slim and tall dark-haired beauty with an air of mystery, who would be perfect for the part. The noblewoman Bathilde was a girl named Cosette, who seemed the exact opposite of Eponine - short and cheery and soft where Eponine seemed to be edges. The nobleman was played by Courfeyrac, who played the part of a seductive and charming stranger all too well. Hilarion was named Grantaire, a man who was on the shorter side with a stocky build, an overly large wine-colored t-shirt draping itself over his frame, and expressively honey-colored eyes framed by shocks of raven curls. The others all played roles in the ensembles, as wisps, villagers, families, even animals - to Enjolras’ surprise. Jehan had Enjolras play the first song in full, dancing throughout the room to show Eponine what her steps as Giselle would look like. Jehan’s steps were light and airy, their gestures expansive and their choreography was most certainly different than the videos that Enjolras had watched on Youtube. Where those videos tended to stick with traditional patterns and moves, with clean-cut lines and floating arms, Jehan’s choreography incorporated things that Enjolras had never seen before - less turn out, less pointe shoes, less pirouettes. Instead Jehan’s movements were natural, but in no way less impressive, contorting their body into various shapes that conveyed an array of emotions that Enjolras felt he hadn’t seen in ballet before. He had to admit that he was impressed - perhaps this hadn’t been a mistake after all. After Jehan gave them the preview, followed by a polite applause and excited murmuring, Jehan began to instruct various dancers as to their positions and their movements on different counts. Counting in eights, he first showed Grantaire and Eponine their roles in the initial scene, before Courfeyrac’s entrance, directing other dancers who’re in the background as well. Enjolras didn’t have to play much at this point, so he just observed, carefully taking in this world that he now had a window into. All too soon, rehearsal had wrapped up - three hours having flown by. They were only four eights into the first song, because Jehan had them run it over and over it again, needing to see how they all worked together so they could make both major and minor adjustments to the choreography now that they could see it clearly in front of them. The dancers wearily picked up their various accoutrements and headed towards the door in pairs of twos and threes, clearly tired. Enjolras kept his head down and collected his music, putting it into an order that made sense in his head. “You are friends with Combeferre, right?” a voice startled Enjolras, and he almost dropped his entire stack of music, ruining all of the sorting he had mostly finished. Courfeyrac stood before the piano, bag slung over one shoulder, his curls decidedly more mussed after the three hours he had just spent dancing. Enjolras smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, I am. I heard you two are close.” A smile brightened Courfeyrac’s face. “Really? He said that?” Enjolras laughed. “I don’t know if he said it, but he definitely implied it. He clearly respects the work you put into your dancing.” Courfeyrac seemed to deflate slightly. “The work I put into my dancing? I guess that’s a start,” he said, more to himself than to Enjolras. Then he seemed to remember that Enjolras was still there, in the middle of a conversation that Courfeyrac had started. “Anyway, a couple of us are going out for celebratory drinks tonight. Come with? They’re on me. Any friend of Combeferre’s is a friend of mine.” Enjolras found himself surprised at the ease in which he answered yes, the way that he already felt close to Courfeyrac even though he barely knew him. There was something so warm and open that endeared him to everyone, it seemed. Perhaps it was the freckles, Enjolras mused as he finished packing his bag, Courfeyrac still mindlessly chattering away about how he and Combeferre had met on the opening of Cinderella in Lyons. Courfeyrac took him to a bar called the Musain, apparently a favorite among dancers. A raucous cheer erupted when Courfeyrac walked in, and for the first time, Enjolras felt that perhaps he should have declined the invitation. Maybe musicians and dancers didn’t mix well. They seemed to all know each other well, and he hoped he didn’t spend the evening as the odd one out. He attempted to push his nerves aside as he found a seat beside Courfeyrac, across from the dancer he recognized as Grantaire, who was closely in conference with Eponine. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” Courfeyrac said, slinging his arm casually around the back of Enjolras’ chair - an oddly reassuring gesture to Enjolras despite the fact that physical touch wasn’t his go to. “You know me of course, from my illustrious dancing career. That’s Eponine, Grantaire, Jehan, Cosette, Feuilly, Bahorel, Musichetta, Joly, and Bahorel. You probably recognize Cosette, Eponine, and Grantaire from rehearsal. They have the lead roles with me, an honor for all of them. Musichetta is queen of the wisps, so she wasn’t at rehearsal today since we were doing Act I. She is lucky enough to be dating the company’s nutritionist, Joly, and the charming Bossuet, who works in props and scenery. Bahorel and Feuilly work in costuming. So there you have it. We are not only dancers, but we don’t discriminate in friendships. Though you will be the first musician in our motley crew. Convince Combeferre to join us?” The entire table burst into protestations at various points that Courfeyrac had made, but Enjolras just laughed. “Jehan, I have to say that your choreography is absolutely fascinating. I’ve never seen ballet quite like that. Tell me a little more about how you envision the ballet going. How are you going to change the status quo?” At this, the dancer Grantaire looked at him incredulously. “You mean you agreed to do this job without asking Jehan that question first? Aren’t you kind of a big deal? That’s all Courfeyrac has been reminding us of the last week.” Enjolras felts cheeks go hot. “I do pretty well. But I needed a change of pace, so when Combeferre told me you were looking for a pianist, it seemed like a sign. It’s only for half a year at most depending on how well ticket sales do, so I figured I’d shoot my shot.” Grantaire’s eyes, darkened in the lighting of the bar to the color of mahogany, scanned Enjolras, and he had the feeling he was being assessed. He never got to hear what Grantaire thought of him, the conclusions that he reached, if any, because Jehan enthusiastically launched into a feminist interpretation of the wisps - that they didn’t dance boys to death over resentment over their virginity or their broken hearts, but rather an anger at the patriarchal system that allowed men to take advantage of defenseless young girls, and how in the end, Giselle would not only learn to forgive, but also get to say her piece. Enjolras was enthralled - he felt the thrill of a new project coming on and found himself liking all of them, even Eponine and Grantaire, who seemed prickly and sarcastic but were also a brilliant pair. Enjolras wondered to himself if they were dating. He made a mental note to ask Courfeyrac later about some further group dynamics. That night, as he was getting ready for bed, Enjolras found himself smiling at the end of the day, and realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so much. God, Combeferre was going to be so smug. And yet, as Enjolras turned out the lights, he found that he didn’t care.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Enjolras was early today; the studio was quiet. He had come early to get somewhat adjusted to the small piano that he was going to be playing for the next couple months. He wanted to practice teasing the emotion out of its weary notes and spend some quiet time in the mirrored room that for some reason seemed to make him feel at home. His messenger bag hung loosely from his shoulder as he unlocked the door with the keys Jehan had pressed into his hands a few days ago, and let himself into the darkened reception area. Picking his way through the dimly lit room, he entered the corridor leading to the dance studio, and saw a light at the end – the light to the dance studio. He furrowed his brow at the waste of electricity until he heard the muffled sound of the piano. Curious, Enjolras crept forward until he could peer into the studio, and when he did his breath caught. Grantaire inhabited the space fully, dancing something that was from another show, perhaps Swan Lake as the music sounded like Tchaikovsky. He had, or course, known Grantaire, but hadn’t given him much of a second thought besides noting his enthusiasm for shots. But this - it was like seeing Grantaire for the first time. Enjolras had seen Grantaire dance before, but it had been while other people were dancing, and as a background role. Here, unwatched, Grantaire owned the entire room, his footing sure, his body light, leaping into the air as if it were nothing. Enjolras didn’t know much about ballet, but he knew that Grantaire was phenomenal. There was a quality to his dancing that conveyed emotions that Enjolras couldn’t even name, his heart panging in an emptiness at the sadness that echoed throughout the music and the loss mirrored in Grantaire’s movements. Enjolras had never seen such passion for an art, not even in the world of classical music. Here Grantaire was raw, his face reflecting the glorious thrill of launching his body completely into the music in a way that Enjolras didn’t even know was possible. He felt himself rooted to the floor, entranced. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but eventually the music stopped and Grantaire bent over, catching his breath, before walking over to pick up a water bottle and take a swig. He was clearly in his own headspace, as he immediately went back to marking something in the style that Enjolras recognized by now having spent enough time around dancers. They reviewed the steps in their head in a way that they could internalize it into their bodies without exhausting themselves by performing the entire dance move. Enjolras knew what the language consisted of, but he would never understand it. Enjolras waited with baited breath, to see if he would dance again, finding a need within himself to see Grantaire lose himself into the music once more in a way that Enjolras so desperately wished he could. Grantaire walked over to the stereo and fiddled with it, starting a different song, and entering a different choreography, this one tender and soft. Grantaire transformed with the music, showing a vulnerability that Enjolras had never seen before – not on Grantaire, not on anyone, especially anyone on stage or a stranger to him. It made him feel like he was being let in on a secret, or like he was seeing something intimate, something he was not to see. Grantaire’s arms stretched, reaching for someone who wasn’t there, turned back on himself, debated, lost himself in his reverie, twirling through his thoughts. Where the previous piece was bold, with Grantaire leaping through the air in feats of unimaginable acts, this piece was unsure, timid, yet hopeful, like the first steps in falling in love. The way Grantaire was dancing made Enjolras feel as if he were experiencing the same emotions himself. When the piece ended, Grantaire was clearly finished practicing, looking exhausted, the wonder and passion leaving him as the music faded, replaced by an all too human body with limits. Enjolras found his feet moving before he knew what he was doing, found himself standing in the doorway. “You’re amazing,” he said, his voice unnaturally loud, and breaking whatever spell had come over that space, shattering the feeling of tranquil intimacy that relaxed itself into the lines of Grantaire’s body. Grantaire whirled around, startled, his eyes wide. They were a chocolate color today, Enjolras noted. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I didn’t know you were there,” Grantaire said, somewhat lamely. “I know, I’m sorry. I came a little early to get used to the piano,” Enjolras entered the studio, a little hesitantly, feeling the distance between them to be too large for his comfort. He wished he could go sit next to Grantaire and ask him a million questions, but he didn’t know Grantaire well enough yet to be that intense. So he crossed over to the piano. “That’s a thing?” Grantaire asked, a little skeptical. He sat on the floor and began to do some stretches to cool off. Enjolras laughed. “Yes. Just like ballerinas have to break in their pointe shoes, piano players have to break in their pianos.” Grantaire cocked his head to the side, considering. “I guess I never thought of it like that.” Enjolras nodded, unsure what to say next. His hands felt oddly useless, despite the fact that they were highly skilled hands on the piano. “So, how long have you been dancing?” A soft nostalgic smile crossed Grantaire’s face. “Since I was six. My father hated it. Thought it was useless and feminine. Needless to say he doesn’t really appreciate my life choices.” “Even though you’re here? In the best ballet company Paris, and some say Europe, has to offer?” Enjolras felt a wave of inexplicable rage come over him – Grantaire was so clearly talented and to have his own father not only not recognize his talent, but to write it off! Enjolras clasped his hands behind his back to hide their shaking. Grantaire laughed, a trace of bitterness coloring his face. “Like that will change years of prejudice and toxic masculinity.” Enjolras looked down, unable to meet Grantaire’s eyes, which seemed to have a question Enjolras couldn’t answer within them. “I guess you’re right.” “How long have you been playing then?” Grantaire said, changing the subject rather obviously. Enjolras didn’t know whether he should be relieved. “Since I was five. I didn’t know I wanted to do it for a living until I was fourteen, though.” “You must have been pretty good to be one of the foremost piano players of the world this young.” Enjolras looked up suddenly. “How do you know that?” Grantaire grinned a little guiltily, a dimple flashing on the right side of his mouth. “I might have looked you up. Courfeyrac was making a big deal about you, and after the first practice I was a little curious.” Enjolras groaned. “You didn’t.” Grantaire’s grin only grew broader. “Oh, yes I did. And you should know there is quite a lot of information out there.” Enjolras ran a hand over his face, mortified. “I really don’t want to know what’s out there.” Grantaire laughed. “It’s nothing too bad, but I will say there are some YouTube videos of your early performances. You were a cute kid.” Enjolras wanted to sink into the floor. “Please stop talking,” he said, but with the hint of a smile. To his surprise, Grantaire acquiesced, turning his attention to some final stretches before packing up his various leg warmers and extra flat shoes into his bag. “Well, that’s me,” he said, swinging his bag on his shoulder. “Aren’t you staying for rehearsal?” Enjolras asked, not wanting to be left alone, though before he ran into Grantaire all he wanted to do was to be alone in the studio and fill the emptiness with music. “I’ll be back. Rehearsal got moved back a couple of hours and I need to grab something to eat before I dance again. Maybe also grab a shower.” “It got moved back? How much?” “Just an hour and a half. But like I said, I need to eat something before my body starts to eat itself or I pass out.” “Wait, hold on. Could I give you my number and if rehearsals are rescheduled you could text me?” Grantaire looked a little uncertain, tapping his fingers against his thigh. Then he shrugged. “Why not? Here, let me grab it.” He dug around in his bag and handed Enjolras his phone. Enjolras entered in his number and handed it back. “Text me so I have your number,” Enjolras said. Grantaire nodded, a shy smile wreathing his face, and turned to go. “See you in a bit,” he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone. The silence seemed unnaturally loud after Grantaire’s laughter. Enjolras played a couple scales and chords to warm up, his brain working furiously and his hands automatically. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to find a new text from an unknown number.
The Artist Formerly Known As Grantaire.
Despite himself, Enjolras felt a smile touch his lips. * * * By the time rehearsal rolled around, Enjolras was very happy with his progress with the piano. He was also inexplicably eager to get to work with rehearsal, to see the ballet begin to come together. He waved at several dancers he had come to know as the entered, and some even came over to chat with him, which Enjolras really appreciated because it felt that he was being folded into their number. Courfeyrac spent most of his time before rehearsal with Enjolras, asking a lot of questions about Combeferre. Enjolras made a mental note to tell Combeferre to come spend a weekend and introduce him to everyone. It seemed Courfeyrac would be especially appreciative of that. Enjolras noticed when Grantaire walked in – different set of tights and shirt, his bag casually slung over one shoulder, chattering happily with Eponine. “Courfeyrac?” Enjolras began. Courfeyrac stopped midstream of listing his qualifications for making a good partner, looking at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. “Yes?” He sounded apprehensive. “Oh no, does he already have a boyfriend?” Enjolras laughed and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. He’s perfectly single. But I was actually wondering if Grantaire and Eponine are together.” Courfeyrac gave him a look of disbelief, before throwing he head back and laughing. “Heavens, no. That’s precious. What would make you think that?” “They’re really close,” Enjolras stammered, his cheeks flushing red hot. Courfeyrac cocked his head to the side, watching the pair. “I guess I could see that. But no, most definitely not. Great friends, roommates even. But they are both not each other’s types. Man, they would be a disaster as a couple. Too similar as people.” “Hmmm,” Enjolras said noncommittally. He wasn’t sure why he was so relieved that they weren’t dating, but he felt a tension in his chest ease. “Why do you ask?” Courfeyrac asked suggestively. “Perhaps our dearest Eponine has caught your eye? She’s quite the catch, you know. Or perhaps it’s Grantaire? He’s a real piece of work, but that body, I tell you.” He trailed off. Enjolras made a dismissive gesture. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just figured I should know more about all of these new friends I’m making.” Grantaire looked over and caught Enjolras’ eye. He said something quickly to Eponine and headed over to them. Enjolras rubbed his hands on his pants, not sure why they were suddenly sweaty. “Hey,” Grantaire grinned. “How was your date with the piano?” Enjolras laughed. “It went better than I expected. It was pretty good for a first date.” Grantaire reached into his bag and tossed him a pain au chocolat, wrapped in crinkly paper. “I figured you might need something to eat. Playing the piano isn’t as calorie-consuming as dancing but since rehearsal will be running later due to our delay, I figured we’d better not have our piano player pass out. That would make rehearsal even more difficult. Also, imagine the headlines. The world of classical music would be at our throats.” His hair was mussed, and Enjolras couldn’t help but notice that in the sunlight, his curls had an auburn gleam. Enjolras managed to catch the pain au chocolat. “Thanks,” he said, softly, a little stunned that Grantaire would think of him enough to bring him a snack. Grantaire shrugged. “Anything for a friend.” And then he was gone, back to Eponine, back to the barre, back to dancing. Enjolras but the snack on the side of the piano, almost reverently. Courfeyrac watched the exchange, bemused. “I think it might be something like that,” he said, more to himself than Enjolras. Enjolras opened his mouth to answer but at that moment Jehan called the class to order and the moment passed, Courfeyrac bounding back to the barre. As Enjolras shuffled through his music for the first warm-up song, he pushed Courfeyrac’s words out of his head, took a breath, and dove into the music.