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songbird-musing · 5 years

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Virtuoso: Chapter Three - Verses

Enjolras is Saint-Michel Academy’s brightest young composer. He runs the orchestra, the Musician’s Rights board, chairs the scholarship program, teaches free classical music to children, and is in the middle of his dissertation. He has never been anything less than a prodigy, until his teacher forces him to write a pop song.

Enter the effortlessly cool Grantaire, with his smudged eyeliner and lovely guitar-playing fingers. He really digs Enjolras’ “vibe,” whatever that means.

There's wooing, and revelry, and all sorts of things that don't quite suit Enjolras' sensibilities.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Verses

“So, are you conducting at any upcoming concerts?” Grantaire asked, lit only by a flickering outdoor lamp.

“Not anything official... I’m performing a cello solo and some ensemble stuff at the showcase next week, though,” their faces were blistered by the heat from the tea.

“Wait... What is your main instrument?” Grantaire filled his lungs with smoke, “Can you play the whole orchestra?” he joked.

“Pretty much,” Enjolras scuffed his toes against the floor, “Pushy parents...” he paused, “I’m grateful, though. I don’t know where I’d be without music.”

“Do you not think you’d have found it anyway?” Grantaire asked, eyes closed, lips parted.

“What? Music?” Enjolras tucked his hands under his jacket to warm them. “Who knows? I’d probably have ended up as a lawyer, or a banker or something.”

“What... like ninety percent of the Saint-Michel graduates?” he slumped his head to the side and traced a bird through the sky with a half-amused tilt to his mouth. “Anyway, I don’t believe that for a second. You’d have found it... it’s who you are.”

Enjolras watched him closely, mouth suddenly dry.

“Do you want...?” Grantaire asked, tilting the cigarette towards him.

“Oh no... I don’t smoke.”

“Tobacco?”

“Anything,” Enjolras answered, lungs recoiling at the scent.

“Man of strong morals,” he said, yawning slightly. “I’m afraid I have none.” He kicked the end of his cigarette into an overflowing pile. “Let’s finish this masterpiece.”

A laugh bubbled in Enjolras’ chest and burst through, clattering loudly in the patch of cobblestones.

“Grantaire,” he asked, and the boy turned around with a look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected Enjolras to even know his name. “Why are you even at Saint-Michel’s?” He stood, hands still warming beneath his arms. “Surely there’s a contemporary school of music you could study at?”

“Um,” said Grantaire, turning slightly red. Enjolras couldn’t tell whether he was blushing, or if it were just the sunset bouncing off his cheeks. “I’m performing at the showcase next week, so maybe, if you stick around, you’ll see why.”

They stepped back inside, the air gracefully far warmer.

“What does that mean?” Enjolras asked, itching for Grantaire’s answer. “Do you play like the oboe or something?”

“You’ll see...” Grantaire lifted a corner of his mouth and Enjolras inexplicably had to drop his gaze, a strange feeling stirring in his chest. “Can’t give away all my mystery at once,” he leaned in, “My mystery is all I have going for me.”

“Very mysterious,” said Enjolras in a small voice, laugh curling the edge of his breath. His senses snapped from the moment as a shrill ringing screeched from Grantaire’s phone.

“Oh,” the sound poured from his lips like carelessly spilled water, his eyes glazed. “I didn’t realise it was so late.” He threw his phone roughly onto the bed and stretched his limbs out.

“Plans for the evening?” Enjolras asked, hovering by the keyboard, fingers longing for the keys.

“I forgot all about it...” Grantaire cursed, grabbing a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, patterned with an unexpectedly intricate Victorian design in forest green. “I could call it off...” but the words eked from him, as if cancelling his plans was not on his mind at all.

“No, of course not... Um... I’ll just...” Enjolras cleared his throat, making for his scarf. “Nice shirt.”

“It’s my wooing shirt,” Grantaire laughed, mirth smeared in his eyes.

“Oh, you’re going on a date?” Enjolras said with a smile, shouldering his coat.

Grantaire laughed again, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “A date...” he made quick work of the buttons on the shirt he was wearing. “Sure... let’s call it that.”

With a swift movement, he slithered from the material of his top and threw it onto a lump of clothing. Enjolras caught a glimpse of his russet shoulders, marked with delicate black ink and masses of freckles before he turned to the door, cheeks heating.

“I’ll head off then,” he said, blinking a little too rapidly.

“One sec,” Grantaire said, “Catch!”

Enjolras was forced to confront the image of a half-shirted Grantaire and apologised fervently, missing the memory stick soaring towards him and hearing it clatter by his feet.

“Sorry for what? I have no shame regarding the human form...” he quirked an eyebrow.

“You sound like Jehan.”

“Jehan sounds like me...They used to do life modelling for me.”

“Huh?” Enjolras gaped.

“Yeah, I have the pictures somewhere. They’re very artful... Do you want to see?”

“I feel like I would have to ask Jehan first...”

“You’re such a sweet boy,” Grantaire said in a deeply southern accent. “Didn’t you see Jehan in that exhibition where they stood naked in a forest or something?”

“Oh...” Enjolras recalled it well, “The Adam and Eve thing. It was certainly an interesting take on religious gender non-conformity...” He tilted his head, “I think they still get death threats sometimes.”

Grantaire threw his head back in a laugh, and Enjolras wished he could throw such a glorious laugh around with Grantaire’s ease.

“Hang on, I’ll show you out.” He bumped open the door with his hip, towering a myriad of plates and empty cups in his hands.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” Enjolras said, voice shatteringly polite, “Seriously, Grantaire, I’m so grateful.”

Grantaire grazed his shoulder up into a shrug and brushed Enjolras’ comment away with finesse. “Ép,” he said, slamming the dirty dishes onto the table before her. She peered up from a clunky Mac, headphones nestled in her hair. She gazed at him briefly before her eyebrows slanted downwards.

“What’s with the wooing shirt?” she asked, dragging the headphones from her ears.

“Are you going to be here all night?” he asked, grabbing an apple and sinking his teeth into it.

“Yeah...?” she said after a pause, “Ugh, don’t make me leave,” she complained, “I’m literally in the middle of producing right now.”

“No, its fine,” Grantaire’s eyes were burning hazel under the setting sun, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Just tell Claque if I find any more of his masks, or creepy merchandise in my room again, he’s banned from ever coming here again. I’ve had enough. He’s doing it on purpose now, I swear...” Grantaire looked to Enjolras with a dark shade in his gaze, “I found an ornamental dagger in my pillowcase last night,” he said in way of explanation. “It’s getting beyond weird now.”

“He does it to show affection,” Éponine said, “Like a cat.”

“That’s even worse!” Grantaire said, “Like at least ten billion times worse! Tell him there is more to life than aesthetic.”

“Try to tell that to anyone in the band, my dear,” Éponine laughed. “Well, have fun guys!”

Enjolras blinked.

“Éponine!” Grantaire hissed, shaking his head frenetically. “The shirt’s not for him.”

The moment stretched out and Éponine let out a giggle, collapsing her head onto her forearms. “Oops!” she snorted, “I totally thought you were gonna...”

“Why would I make us go all the way back to his house?” Grantaire said, smirk playing on his face, “I’m a good host, Ép. You would be kicked out.”

“This is weird...” Enjolras interjected, feeling a little flushed.

“You’re right. This is weird, and it’s all your fault,” Grantaire said, pulling a face at Éponine. “Right, I better get ready.”

With a spin, Grantaire reached their front door and presented it to Enjolras with a bow. “It has been a pleasure to work with you, Enjolras. When’s the lesson we have to perform in?”

“Monday at nine,” Enjolras said, “With Valjean.”

Grantaire groaned. “Very devious of you to tell me that at the very end... Monday at nine! Okay, okay, fine. I’ll see you then. Maybe I’ll catch you before to practise.” Grantaire’s eyes were drifting away, “Seriously, though, we should hang sometime. Courf seems really cool.”

“Oh, yeah,” Enjolras said, “He really is.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Grantaire joked. Enjolras eyed the pattern of his shirt.

“No, he is! Anyway, I don’t want to keep you... Enjoy your... thing.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, giving another laugh, but peering through narrowed eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Hm?” Enjolras started, “Oh sorry... just have Beethoven on my mind.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, “Well... Good luck with that?” he leant forwards and briefly embraced Enjolras, kissing the air beside his cheeks casually. “See you later. Safe travels!”

Enjolras travelled back on the metro with a strange, roiling sensation shifting in his stomach. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the haunting melodies of Shostakovich ensnare his senses for the ride.

~*~

“House meeting!” shouted Combeferre, who perhaps called house meetings far more than necessary.

“What’s wrong now?” asked Courf with a playful groan, “Did I eat your last avocado again?”

“The issue to discuss is a certain Courfeyrac’s attendance in this household,” said Combeferre, opening his journal and scratching down a title. He flicked to another page and nodded, “You’ve been absent five out of the past seven nights...”

Courfeyrac lounged back on the sofa, letting his mass of dark curls flop over his eyes, “Sorry, dad.”

“I feel like you shouldn’t be paying full rent,” Combeferre said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But... there is a way to rectify your missteps.”

“You can tell he’s going to be the most intense teacher in five years time,” Courfeyrac said with an eye roll to Enjolras.

“No backchat,” Enjolras quipped, quietly letting his fingers drift over the strings of his harp.

The three of them laughed in tangent.

“Seriously though, you have to give an opinion on my dissertation,” Combeferre said, throwing a chunky booklet into his friend’s hands.

“No!” Courfeyrac elongated, letting the vowel ring out through the flat. “Why am I subjected to such cruel punishment for taking advantage of my youth?”

“Love you so much!” Combeferre said, giving Enjolras a roguish wink. “We’ve sorted him out,” he said in a mock whisper, ignoring Courfeyrac’s dramatic complaints. “What’s wrong, Enj?”

“Hm?” Enjolras leant his forehead against the gilded edge of his harp.

“You’re playing Tchaikovsky again.”

“What does that mean?” Enjolras sighed, stilling his fingers.

“Darling,” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, “The last time you looked this mopey was when I said I didn’t like Bach that much.”

Enjolras instantly frowned. “You should be expelled from Saint-Michel’s, you heathen.”

“Stop deflecting,” Combeferre interjected, “Do I have to call the second house meeting of the night?”

“Do you guys think I’m not living in the student life as much as I could be?”

“Absolutely,” Courf said.

“One thousand percent,” Combeferre added, “But since when have you wanted to act like a student?”

“Has that nasty boy Grantaire been corrupting you?” Courfeyrac asked, “I’ll be having words with him.”

“I think you might have a chance with him,” Enjolras tilted his head, watching the flare of interest in Courfeyrac’s eyes.

“Nah,” he said after a moment, “It would break Jehan and I’s agreement. No sharing.”

Enjolras licked his cracked lips and his eyebrows folded. “Jehan and Grantaire...? They were a thing?”

Courfeyrac laughed lazily. “You know Jehan... Free love... There’s literally no-one in that circle that Jehan hasn’t slept with... Well, apart from Gueulemer... he’s painfully straight. We’re both trying to see who can crack him.”

“You’re awful, Courf,” Combeferre said, “Leave the poor heterosexual alone.”

“Are you going out tomorrow night, Courf?” Enjolras asked, the words tasting brassy on his tongue.

“Dunno,” he turned his wide-eyed gaze to Combeferre, “Can I go out tomorrow, dad, please?”

Combeferre grimaced. “Stop calling me dad.”

“Daddy says yes,” Courf said with an exaggerated wink.

“House meeting!” Combeferre shouted, mirth in his eyes, “The issue on the table: never do that again.” He shut his notebook and stalked away.

“Well, I’ll come with you.”

“Ooh, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac said, scandalised, “On a school night as well! You little rebel!”

~*~

After university the next day, Enjolras contemplated himself in the mirror, red shirt as stark as blood against his skin. He buttoned it to the top, but unfastened the button closest to his neck. He imagined calling it his ‘wooing shirt’ to literally anybody and almost turned as scarlet as the material. With a glimpse at his alarm, he noticed the lateness of the hour and snapped at Courfeyrac to hurry up.

“Me?” Courfeyrac gaped, “I’ve been ready for the past four hours,” he exaggerated, still shirtless and barefoot. “I’m not the one raunchily exposing a slither of neck and blushing at myself.”

“That’s not-” Enjolras blushed, “That wasn’t what I was doing!”

“Gosh! I’ve heard that Enjolras is a floozy, you know?” Courf called to no one in particular, “I once caught a glimpse of his ankles!”

“His ankles?!” Combeferre called from a distant room, sounding aghast.

“You both are the worst,” Enjolras said, still flushed. Courfeyrac grinned and ruffled a hand through Enjolras’ mass of blonde curls.

“Come on, you harlot,” he tiptoed to smack an affectionate kiss to Enjolras’ cheek, “We have some revelry to revel in.”

By Courfeyrac’s standards, revelry was measured in how blisteringly high one could become.

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it,” he drawled, after they had arrived at the party, passing a joint to Jehan, arm crossing over Enjolras’ chest as he did so. “I just think that if the moon was real then it wouldn’t be such a symbol of mystery... I’m just saying... who looks at the moon and isn’t a little bit creeped out?”

“You get creeped out by the moon?” Joly asked, head resting on Musichetta’s lap.

“Like...” said Courf, eyes drifting shut, “Like just a tiny bit...” a small cough rattled in his throat, “I just don’t trust it.”

“I think the moon is lovely,” Jehan said. Joly peered up and shared an eye-roll with Enjolras. Joly was the first violinist in the Saint-Michel orchestra, and had dealt with the whole bunch of orchestral stoners more than Enjolras had had the will to.

“You think everything is lovely, Jehan,” Enjolras said. Jehan looked at him with starry, brown eyes and slumped against the column of his neck.

Then, amidst the smoke haze of the room, time seemed to unfold far quicker than it usually did, and Jehan had led Enjolras to their room, to show him the life paintings Grantaire had mentioned.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, head a little fuzzy, “Very artful... he said they were.” The pictures captured Jehan as they looked in the current moment, lazy-eyed and oozing contentedness. “They’re incredible, Jehan.”

“Tell Grantaire... he was the one who did the hard work.”

Enjolras was not sure what came over him, but he ducked his head and felt the edge of Jehan’s lip between his own. He felt a hand leap to the back of his head, and the warm curl of fingers lace themselves through his hair. Jehan’s lips feel like a revolution – Enjolras had never kissed someone so well versed in the art of kissing. The lips on his neck made him gasp for air. He contemplated how long it had been since the skin of his neck had been worshipped so... too long. A year ago with the pretentious cellist that was too attractive for words, (Enjolras had called it off when the sex had been the only part that didn’t bore him half to death.)

“Jehan,” he mouthed, feeling mind-spinningly blissful. His hand dropped to Jehan’s waist, feeling for a seam of material. His fingers searched blindly, tracing the edge of Jehan’s hips, increasingly frantic. Enjolras broke away with a tut and stared at Jehan’s attire.

“It’s a romper,” Jehan said in explanation. Then, as Enjolras moved his hands to the zip on Jehan’s back, they said, “What are you doing, Enjolras?” Enjolras pressed his lips to Jehan’s collarbone, who laughed breathily and batted his head away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m looking for my wilder side,” Enjolras said, eyes dark.

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” Jehan said lightly, “I thought this was just a friendly make-out session.”

“You sleep with everyone,” Enjolras said, drawing back and resenting the whine that had infiltrated into his tone. In lieu of offense, Jehan merely snorted with a grin.

“Look, I’m down for casual flings aplenty, but you, my friend, are not.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

“No,” Jehan shrugged, “You wouldn’t be here if you were.”

“That makes no sense,” Enjolras frowned, “Your pseudo-deep doesn’t work on me.”

“Come on, Enj,” Jehan said, patting Enjolras good-naturedly on the chest, “If you actually wanted a hook-up, you wouldn’t have come to the one person you thought would never turn you down... I’m sorry, but I am just not dealing with the emotional nonsense you are sure to bring.”

“What?” he gaped, mouth dropping open.

“You’re a drama queen, Enjolras – you can’t even deny it...” they smiled, “Let’s not do this.” Jehan tucked the sketches back into place and stretched out their arms. “Wow,” they said with a hazy blink, “I am too high right now.”

“You always are,” muttered Enjolras.

“Don’t get grumpy with me, darling,” Jehan said, “I still love you.”

Enjolras flushed a little, still not as open with his words as Jehan could be. “Yeah, and I love you as well. Besides, I’m not grumpy with you, I’m grumpy with myself.”

“Enjolras,” Jehan tutted, “Don’t mope... I can shower you with positive affirmations, if you’d like... You’re the loveliest boy I’ve ever met, anyone would be blessed to have you, and you’re as beautiful as the sun itself... I am at once blinded by you yet cannot take my eyes from you... happy now?”

Enjolras couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his mouth. Jehan laughed and pressed a friendly kiss to his lips.

“Ugh, I’m so embarrassed,” Enjolras said, covering his face.

“About what?” Jehan said, smile lazy, “I’m so high, I’ve forgotten already.”