Grantaire has always known that dancers are damn-near supernatural creatures, but this is a whole new level.
There’s something loud, pulsing and percussive blasting from the speakers, and it rattles every single bone in his body. Èponine is already on the floor, hunched over, back flattened, dreads pulled up into a disastrously messy bun that threatens to fall out of place at any given moment. Some trail down her back, dark tendrils that blend in with the dark fabric of her leotard but she doesn’t seem to care. She hasn’t started moving yet, but Grantaire has seen her dance before. He doesn’t doubt her talent.
The music starts over, haunting and jarred as Èponine tosses herself upwards, controlled, careless, shoulders moving in sharp succession. He swears he can see each defined muscle twisting and moving, flexed and pliant. She shifts, and Grantaire can’t help the proud smile that etches itself onto his brims. He’s just so goddamn pleased to see her throwing herself into something like this, something so incredibly artistic.
He watches, in awe, as her jagged movements shift into something smooth and flowing, and he can catch a glimpse of something tortured, something anguished and tormented and bitter written into her features. It keeps him hanging on. Her expressions add a whole other element to her performance, she knows it well. Grantaire’s seen her practising, he’s seen her performing. It looks so real that, for a moment, he forgets that it’s all simply an act.
He’s so caught up in his own thoughts, loud and dizzying, that he doesn’t notice the other figure moving in perfect sync with Èponine.
He has to stifle a choked gasp when he lays eyes on her partner.
He’s got to be somewhere near six feet tall, and there’s fire set in his jawline and Christ, Grantaire would know that face anywhere. Memories of high school have sat in the backseat of his mind for so long, dormant; biting their tongues, they’ve been waiting to crawl into shotgun and here they are, washing over him in waves of something that feels a little bit like lust but feels more like nausea that rocks him straight down to the core and has his knuckles whitening.
When he starts moving, in time with the heavy beat and the shift of Èponine’s slender frame, Grantaire practically has to bite through his lower lip, because that’s not fair. He can see sheaths of muscle sliding, twisting, moving in perfect rhythm. The emotion in his movements isn’t scripted at all, it’s as real as anything and it’s stunning. He mirrors Eponine, but there’s something markedly different in the way their features shift as they dance.
(He can see now why Èponine has danced with him before. He’s every ounce as good as she is, if not better.
He’s been there from the beginning, Grantaire realises with what feels like a sharp right hook to the gut. He missed Enjolras thrusting a long, muscular arm forth towards the sky and pulling the world down with a swift jerk. He hates himself for missing something like that.)
They work well together, anyone can see that. Èponine has enough trust to wrap herself around him, Enjolras is comfortable enough to let her. They have the kind of undeniable chemistry that dancers can only dream about on sticky summer nights, legs folding into pliés and chassés and grands battements. The only time they glance furtively over at each other is to see if they’re in sync — they are, they know it, but they still check anyway.
Their routine ends with Èponine limp in Enjolras’ arms, body crumpled disdainfully against the sprung floor, his gaze stricken as he stares down in choreographed anguish. It takes a lot for Grantaire not to burst out into spontaneous applause.
The two linger around each other for a moment, muttering in subdued tones about arm placement and body tension, and Grantaire has to fight the sudden nostalgic twitch that strikes his chest when he remembers what the terms mean.
When Èponine clears away, Cosette is waiting with what looks to be a basket full of bandaids, juice, bottles of water and granola bars and Grantaire realizes, stomach plummeting sharply, that Enjolras is alone, arranging his limbs into what he can only assume is a starting position.
He's curled into himself, right arm grabbing at his left hip, torso curling inwards and shoulders hunching. On anyone else, it'd look ridiculous. On Enjolras, though, it works. Grantaire doesn’t exactly understand how. He looks like a statue, perfectly carved and puzzling in its beauty.
His movements begin; dramatic, slow, syrupy in every sense of the word. He drags his arms behind the rest of the body, elongated to the fingertip and there's something anticlimactic about the whole thing. Grantaire half-expected him to explode, to bring the entire world crumbling down.
He has to admit, there’s something beautiful about the gap in between each drawn-out shift. It keeps him on edge.
When the beat kicks in, frustratingly loud, angry and aggressive, Grantaire swears that his jaw drops. He can almost hear it clatter on the worn sprung floor.
Enjolras looked angelic before, elegant movements and forlorn nostalgia written into carved marble features. He could've embodied everything pure in the world — a white dove, maybe, launching into flight.
He starts to speed up, and whatever resemblance he has to a dove (a fucking dove, Grantaire thinks) is gone.
He manages to keep control whilst fucking losing it at the same time, pirouetting so fast, so scarily that Grantaire can feel himself plummeting into nausea just watching. He can't even keep count; all he sees is a whir of scrappily-tied blonde locks, and piercing hazel hues that seem to be aimed in his direction.
He's running, leaping, twisting into a million shapes that Grantaire swears he's never even seen before. He memorises them as they appear, because they’re too damn beautiful to forget.
Enjolras is a whirlwind, and it's terrifying. He seems to have no control over long limbs at all, but whenever he stops moving Grantaire spots the way he holds himself together, abdominals pulling upright and inner thighs contorting to push forth. His arms rest stiff when he's not throwing them forward, or gripping at himself, or latching onto some invisible barre like a lifeline. He does it with such a fervor that to the outsider, it looks like there's actually something there that he's anchored himself to.
(God, Grantaire thinks. Ballet's written into Enjolras' muscle memory. Anyone can tell.)
He's speeding up now, drawing to a crescendo of a conclusion, and Grantaire catches a glimmer of emotion that he swears he's seen before — it’s a hybrid of uncontrolled rage and the blackest kind of melancholy, and it’s heartbreaking. It's clearly not meant to be part of the routine, because he wipes it off of those ridiculous features within seconds of their presence, but it was there and god, it strikes against something Grantaire’s kept buried ever since he dropped out of high school and never looked back.
It's there and then, gaze locked firmly on Enjolras, that Grantaire realises exactly where he knows that look from.
*
They’re eighteen, and Enjolras has him pinned against a wall. All Grantaire can do is watch the way his jaw clenches, tight and abrasive and hot, so hot that he can’t breathe. Enjolras’ breath is laboured as he stares down, eyebrows cocked and lips pursed like he’s ready to spit venom at any given moment.
(He’s never realised before how tall Enjolras is. He’s about a head taller.)
His lips are moving, but Grantaire can’t focus on what he’s saying. The words aren’t important — something about a common cause, fighting for the same reason — but the way they curl off those fucking lips is something else. They twist and contort into shapes Grantaire’s never seen before, shapes that burn into the backs of his eyelids. He doesn’t want to look away.
“- You’re not listening to me.”
He’s right. Grantaire isn’t listening at all. He’s mapping out the way Enjolras’ features shift, from mildly inconvenienced to damn-near homicidal, furious glint ablaze in his eyes, and it’s too much.
Instead of spitting a witty retort, Grantaire surges forward and kisses him.
*
So, the last time Grantaire saw Enjolras, he was storming away after he’d pinned Grantaire to a wall and done unspeakable things with his tongue and now he’s standing outside with Èponine and God, Grantaire needs a drink and it better be soon rather than later.
He’s got no time to deal with his eighteen-year-old crush surging through twenty-five year old veins.
For a moment, he kind of hopes Enjolras will stray away, turn tails towards another road and disappear into the horizon and Grantaire will never have to face him again, will never have to think about the way his lips curl when he gets angry again.
Instead, karma’s unkind and Grantaire decides this is definitely penance for all the times he’s conveniently “forgotten” to do something charitable.
Apparently, Enjolras has been living with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta for the past few months. Grantaire learns that when Èponine drags him out to the van, cigarette bobbing animatedly from the side of her mouth as she gestures towards the beat-up old vehicle. Enjolras looks surprisingly sheepish about the whole thing — hands jammed into the pockets of sweatpants, brows knit together, chewing carefully at the corner of his bottom lip. He doesn’t look like he’s worried about the van itself, but more the dizzying crowd of people that are filing in.
Grantaire really doesn’t have much time to think about it, though, because before he can even realise it, the van is filling up. Gavroche takes shotgun, as usual, flipping through Grantaire’s iPod and criticising some of his choices. It’s kind of a ritual. Sometimes, Gavroche mutters little offhand comments in French. He rarely speaks the language to Grantaire, but it’s vaguely comforting when he does.
(“... Vraiment? Ce? ... Dégoûtant.”
“Oh, leave off. They’re brilliant. You’re just too young to understand, gamin.”
“Whatever you say, vieil homme.”)
The whole van is alive, really, with different languages; Eponine and Cosette mutter back and forth in soft Spanish. Èponine’s is a little more fractured, and she trips up on her pronunciation of some words but Cosette doesn't care, never seems to so much as notice. Instead, she smooths a hand over her cheek and continues on. Joly chats, on the phone, to his mother in loud, melodic Arabic; Grantaire himself hums soft lullabies in Hebrew that calm his nerves as he navigates winding Parisian streets.
(For the most part, he blocks out the sound of Feuilly yelling Vietnamese insults at Bahorel.
He assumes they're insults, anyway.)
“Don’t forget to pick up ‘Ferre.” Gavroche peers up from his iPod for only a second, just to catch the sideways glance that Grantaire throws him before he reaches over to ruffle his hair.
“When do I ever?”
“You did once. You would’ve left him behind if Courf hadn’t started screaming at you.”
“I like you a lot more when you’re criticising my music taste, gamin.”
“I know.”
As Grantaire flicks his gaze back to the rear-view mirror, he catches Èponine’s hues in the glass. They’re soft, warmed by the way he interacts with her brother; he can’t help but let an infectious grin creep across his features.
Just for that, he stops at a local café; they do a truly wonderful hot chocolate and he’s in a giving mood.
(Plus, the look on Enjolras’ face when he delivers a steaming cardboard cup of hot chocolate is damn near priceless. It’s like he can’t quite meet Grantaire’s steadfast gaze, but instead mutters a muted “merci” before wrapping his hands around it like it’s his lifeline.)
*
A week later, Enjolras moves into the flat above Grantaire’s.
When he’s not chauffeuring the blonde around, or watching him dance in ways that make his chest tighten in an inexplicable fashion, it’s easy to forget he even exists. He’s the quietest tenant the building has ever had, at least to Grantaire’s fairly limited knowledge. Even Jehan, literature major and part-time poet, makes more noise than the newest addition to their building.
He watches from his parted front door, legs neatly crossed, cigarette dangling from chapped lips and wine bottle propped against the doorframe, as Enjolras, Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet carry box after box up the stairs, wincing at every creak the old wood utters.
(They end up wincing the whole way up.)
On their fourth trip, Joly manages to trip and send books flying everywhere, clattering and echoing down the hall. They slide down the stairs, they fly towards the ceiling; Enjolras’ library is on display, littering the stairs and the landing for the entire building to see. One book slides conveniently into Grantaire’s lap, and he can’t help but peer down in piqued curiosity.
“Marx? Apollo, I thought Cunningham would be more your style these days.” (There’s a hint of a smug smirk in his tone, and he knows it. It’s at least a little intentional.)
The shade that Enjolras flushes is priceless — it’s a deep, deep red, and it practically takes over his cheeks. One graceful limb stretches out to retrieve it, eyes burning holes into Grantaire’s skull.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Simply a friendly question, Apollo.”
He can’t help but chuckle quietly to himself when Enjolras is the only one who fails to descend the stairs.
On the next trip up, Musichetta has an extra box piled on top of an already-looming stack, and she’s cursing in Marathi loud enough for the entire building to her. Joly follows behind, muttering in hushed Arabic that makes Bossuet cackle all the way up and down the stairs.
*
Grantaire learns three things about Enjolras.
The first thing is that he likes dancing at 3 AM, when everyone else is asleep or at least on their way to it.
Grantaire’s awake, of course; he’s got a brush tucked behind his ear and a paint tin in hand, staring at the canvas laid out in front of him. It’s messy, and the colours are nowhere near as vibrant as he wants them to be but there’s something odd, something peculiarly beautiful about how dull the muted tones look against the stark white canvas.
He’s pushing himself up to the balls of his feet when he hears it — it’s only soft, something instrumental and classical, something Grantaire might put on as white noise while he works. It’s not the worst thing that could be seeping gently through his ceiling while the rest of Paris sleeps.
He hears the first quiet thud when he’s boiling the kettle. It’s only a soft sound, really, it almost drowns in the sound of the music but it’s there.
There’s a rapid succession of little thuds as he stirs sugar and a gratuitous splash of Baileys into his coffee.
He’s curled up on a threadbare couch, sketchbook in hand and pencil shoved carelessly behind his ear, when the thuds turn into repetitive chimes that strike through the silence of his apartment.
(At least he knows it’s Enjolras. At least he has the safety in knowing that he’s probably practising, or something. If it was anyone else, he’d be claiming weird, kinky sex acts but Enjolras doesn’t seem to do much besides dance. So far, all Grantaire sees him do is board the van in the morning, bag slung over his shoulder and curls tied into a messy bun, dance, and board the van again, where he goes home to dance.
He’s nearly convinced that Enjolras is some kind of ballet robot. He can’t even remember Enjolras having any kind of relationship when they were in high school.
Granted, he can’t remember a lot of high school but he’s sure that he’d remember Enjolras dating someone.)
When the thuds grow louder, he gives up. With a shawl of his sister’s draped lazily round his shoulders, Grantaire braves the trip upstairs, coffee in hand.
He’s half-expecting Enjolras’ door to be locked tight, a thin barrier between himself and the outside world but all it takes is one gentle prod and the door gives. When he sticks his head inside, well. He’s not really sure what he’s looking at.
Enjolras (bless his soul, Grantaire thinks) cuts a striking image. Balanced on the tips of his toes, tartan pajama pants crumple around his legs and Grantaire is treated to an unwarranted view of his chest and the two rose-coloured scars that slash against mocha skin that never really seems to end.
He doesn’t even really seem to notice Grantaire is there until he sinks down on Enjolras’ couch. It’s softer than his, a little more stuffed. It’s probably new, Grantaire muses as he curls his legs underneath himself.
“Mon dieu, what — what are you doing here? What time is it?” Enjolras can’t muster the energy to look angry, it seems. Instead, he looks stunned, in a kind of sleepy, worn-out way.
“Nearly 4 AM, Apollo. You need sleep, and to start locking your doors. Anyone could get in.”
Enjolras can’t seem to find the words for a reply, and instead launches into a pirouette. Grantaire watches carefully, and when he swears he’s going to do something stupid like moan, or tell him now nice his back looks when he arches it like that, he swigs down another sip of coffee.
(The Baileys in it keeps him rational. At least that's what he's telling himself as it burns on the way down, warming the tips of his fingers and bringing a dusky rose hue to his cheeks.)
Grantaire can see why Èponine trusts him. He’s built like a god — which, really, doesn’t surprise him. Years of dancing have toned muscles into sleek, lithe shapes that writhe under Enjolras’ skin as he adjusts. He can't help but be reminded of himself when he looks at the way Enjolras is built, all toned shape. He remembers when he looked like that.
He’s in the middle of what looks to be a pas de deux minus a partner when Grantaire finally rises, one hand buried in inky locks and the other wrapped round an empty mug.
“Bonne nuit, Apollo.”
Enjolras doesn’t respond.
*
The second thing that Grantaire learns about Enjolras is that he’s good with languages.
(By good, he means ridiculous. He’s not sure if he wants Enjolras to teach him, or whether he wants to show him a better use of his mouth.
He already knows that he speaks French and English. Both languages sound delicious dripping from his lips and Grantaire’s never really thought about words sounding like sex until Enjolras had sworn after twisting an ankle, long and loud, and the sound has buried itself into his memory and manages to push its way to the front of his mind every time he even thinks about jerking off.)
Grantaire learns that Enjolras’ Spanish isn’t too bad when he interrupts Cosette and Èponine. They’re chattering, loud and animated and spread across Grantaire’s landing. He’s got no clue what they’re saying, but he can pick up certain words that sound the same in French. He figures that it’s something about the etymology, how it all stems from Latin, how —
“No, estáis equivocadas. Él no está enamorado de mí.”
A third voice echoes in a drawl above Èponine’s sprawled frame, and all three of them tilt their heads up to face it. Enjolras is peering down, eyebrow cocked and amusement begging to tug up the corners of his mouth.
“You speak Spanish?” Cosette doesn’t bother taking on the same questioning glance that Èponine has. Instead, she looks delighted as she hauls herself up.
“Just a little. I lived in Gibraltar when I was thirteen, it never really — what’s the expression — never wore off.” One corner of his mouth has lifted into a smirk now, and Grantaire’s ready to call it a day right there.
Cosette and Enjolras launch off into a heated conversation, words flying faster than Grantaire’s ready to deal with. Èponine can only sigh, still glancing upwards as she attempts at shuffling closer to Grantaire.
“I can teach you one day, if you’d like.” Her words distract him long enough for her to grab the bottle of rum he’s been toying with, downing a quick gulp before handing it back and wiping her mouth with the back of an inked hand. Her mouth slopes downwards, the way it always does whenever she drinks his rum.
“Nothin’ like the stuff back home, R, I’m telling you. Next time I visit, I’ll bring you a proper bottle of Jamaican rum.”
Èponine’s been promising bottles of rum for years, but Grantaire knows that the idea of going back is nowhere in her periphery. Going home means running into her parents, and Gavroche has muttered enough about the Thénardiers to know that they’re the worst kind of people.
He’ll settle for his cheap rum in the meantime, though, and he’ll offer her an apologetic smile as he wraps an arm round her shoulders.
“No problem, mon chéri. Now, translate for me. What ideological shit is our Apollo feeding her?”
*
The next time Enjolras bursts out with another language, it’s on the ride home.
Joly and Bossuet are arguing, he can tell that much. Joly’s voice is clear, high; he pronounces his words with a precision that Bossuet sometimes loses. Grantaire blames it on the different regional accents — Joly’s born-and-bred Arab, an Emirati whose parents escaped from Dubai the moment they could. Bossuet is half-Egyptian and takes pride in it, flaunting his heritage whenever he sees fit.
Half the time, though, they’re arguing about whose dialect is the proper dialect. Joly reckons it's his, but Bossuet is steadfast in his beliefs and trying to get them to give up is like talking to a brick wall. Grantaire thinks they'll carry the argument to their deaths.
He’s imagining what they could potentially be arguing about. Half of him thinks it’s something to do with Musichetta — who’s going to help her hang Diwali lights this year, or whose wallet they’ll book airlines outof when they travel back to India with her when summer hits. The other half of them thinks it’s something more trivial, like who pissed in the bathwater.
(If anyone’s pissed in the bathwater, it’s Bossuet and everyone knows it.)
The rhythmic lull of their back-and-forth bickering, different accents clashing against the same language is strangely calming. Their voices never raise, they’re muffled against the slightly less delicate sounds of the van's engine purring away.
When Enjolras speaks, Grantaire nearly crashes the goddamn van. The sounds of his own Arabic, melodic and guttural, are too much for him to handle.
“Jesus! Try a little harder to smash us into a pole next time!” Gavroche doesn’t sound particularly pleased at the way his seatbelt jars against his chest, but Grantaire really isn’t listening.
Enjolras’ tone takes on something that sounds like disgust, or maybe disdain or — he purrs a chasmic syllable that should sound like someone choking, but really, it just sounds unholy.
*
(Grantaire learns, from Èponine when they’re both drunk on cheap wine and high off cheaper pot, that Enjolras speaks French, English, Spanish, Arabic, Italian, a little bit of Russian and Japanese.
He doesn’t know what to do with that information, but he thanks Èponine for it anyway. She just nods, sagacious, as she toys with a loose dread and slowly inhales from the joint they’ve been passing back and forth.)
*
The third thing Grantaire learns about Enjolras is that he’s some kind of revolutionary on the sidelines, and that’s how Grantaire ends up at the Musain for the first time.