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The stage was black as night, but Enjolras could navigate between the amps and over the wires as if it were bright as day. He’d done this a million times, but performing never got old. The excited murmurs of the crowd thrummed through the air. The resonant plucks on Combeferre’s bass were as steady as his heart. The sporadic chords on Courfeyrac’s guitar stirred up the room like bolts of lightning.
As soon as the spotlight hit him, Enjolras raised a flag in the air.
Which flag changed every concert, representing whatever cause felt the most appropriate at the time. Today, it was France’s bleu, blanc, et rouge. Their audience knew by now that the meaning wasn’t patriotism for the band’s home county but a recollection of its rebellious history. This flag said, “Remember revolution, remember guillotines, remember that we will not stay silent.”
The crowd roared. The music swelled. Enjolras took a moment to soak it in. The people, the message, the song were all one. They were the starving masses waiting for music to feast upon.
And so, he sang.
Everything was hot and sweaty and smoky after a show, but the rush of adrenaline drowned it all out, making the band bounce and chatter as they grabbed their things from the green room. Courf was hyping up the party they were going to, saying something about a bouncy castle, foam, and a live boa constrictor, which Enjolras was hoping were separate features.
“Change of plans!” Valjean said as he burst into the room.
Eponine halted the anxious tapping of her drumsticks to look to Combeferre first—the man shrugged—then back at their manager.
Valjean barely looked up from his phone, using a second one in his other hand to direct them. “No pausing for the fans tonight. Straight into the car and back to the hotel. Quick as possible.”
“What about autographs? Selfies? Adoring praise?” Courfeyrac asked.
“We owe our fans something. We aren’t too good for them,” Enjolras tacked on, his arms crossed over his bare chest.
Combeferre had already swapped his sunglasses for regular glasses, so his words appeared all the more analytical. “What’s happened?”
A couple of pings lit up the man’s phone in quick succession and he cursed. “Not entirely sure. Just don’t answer any questions and be quick.” Not leaving any time for follow up, Valjean exited the room and the band was left to worry what world-shattering event had happened in the past two hours.
As always, Eponine huffed and left the room without a word. She hadn’t even bothered to fix her streaking makeup or cover her barely there dress. The boys followed her lead. If they were going to face the unknown, they were going to do it together.
They couldn’t have guessed what was in store.
Sunburst flashes greeted them at the backdoor. Enjolras went blind, stumbling through a crowd that shouted things he could barely understand. This was clearly not the fans—theirs were blessedly patient and kind—but a swarm of paparazzi seeking to pick apart their entire lives for the sake of a headline. Enjolras wished he’d put on a jacket.
Les Amis de l’ABC were a popular band, but they weren’t that big. Their refusal to sign with a major label, create palatable songs for the masses, or engage in any promo for their albums had solidified their role as an underground act. If that wasn’t enough, their outspoken politics and involvement in far-left rallies, protests, and riots had scared away anyone who would dare try to make them mainstream.
They would never be a household name. But Les Amis had become indie darlings, having proven their talent despite their refusal to play the music industry’s game. They’d given interviews. There had been photo shoots. But that recognition was for a niche crowd. No paparazzi waited outside their homes, followed them out shopping, or looked through their trash. Except for their limited fan base, people didn’t recognize the Amis. They were mostly anonymous—and that was how Enjolras liked it.
This roar was so different from what he’d just experienced on stage that it pricked at his skin like a million grabbing nails, tearing at his flesh. The words hurled at him barely cut through his repulsion.
“—feel about the song?”
“How did he convince you—”
“—going to be featured on the album?”
“Do you feel like you’re going mainstream?”
“—autograph?”
With Valjean and the venue’s security doing their best to hold back the crowds, the Amis had been snaking through an ever-tightening mass of bodies and lights and cameras. All he could think was, What the fuck is going on? He wanted to get the hell out of there. But that lone voice shook Enjolras out his stupor.
Like most of their fans, this young woman and her friends were dressed in leather chokers with heavy eyeliner that couldn’t survive the sweat of the concert. Eyes brightened as he stepped away to greet them.
“How’d you like the show?” he asked, plucking the marker from her hand to sign the notebook held out for him. She struggled for words before finally babbling about how amazing it was. She loved him. He’d changed her life. Enjolras smiled and posed for a group photo.
He thanked her for coming out, and just as he was stepping away, she called, “Why’d you let him ruin your song?”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. But all the cameras were now zooming in, flashes were going double time, and there was a yank on his arm as he was pulled back, back, back until he was sprawling unceremoniously on the laps on Courf and Ferre, the car already pulling away.
“Sign any tits, Enj?” Eponine asked.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growled. “I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
Valjean hit play on his phone, and the soft strings of an acoustic guitar slowly filled the tense hotel room. Despite not being the kind of music Enjolras typically listened to, the melody was strangely familiar, so he nodded along. A low, honeyed voice crooned close to the mic. It was intimate and soft. Otherworldly.
The song was more than familiar. It was his.
“Is that R?” Eponine asked, putting special emphasis on the artist’s name. “Covering our song?”
My song. Mine.
“It is,” Valjean confirmed.
Except, it wasn’t, not exactly. “I Rise” was a song he’d written for their concept album From the Barricade We Take Our Bow, where the Amis had imagined fictional revolutionaries fighting an ultimately doomed battle. This power ballad was at the heart of the album, which called for the young freedom fighters to never give up in the face of adversity, to get up and keep getting up, despite all obstacles. To rise, rise, rise.
R, internationally famed singer that he supposedly was, apparently didn’t like that hopeful message and had changed the pronouns. Instead of “I Rise,” it was now “You Rise.” Instead of a battle choir, it was a dawdling, draining ballad that was removed from the action.
It was a love song. Enjolras wanted to vomit.
Valjean continued, “He just dropped this single today, and it’s been getting good reviews. Really good, actually.”
“How good can they be? Didn’t this guy only have one real hit ten years ago?” Courf asked from his position sprawled on Enjolras’s bed. “This won’t even make a splash, right?”
As if they hadn’t been swarmed by paparazzi the second it released.
“You have to remember that R only produces an album once every, like, five years. He takes his time to get the songs and the theming right. And they’re huge critical successes, even if they don’t make it onto the Billboard Top 100,” Eponine rattled off. When the boys looked at her, she straightened her spine. “What? I’m a fan.”
“If he’s so meticulous about his work,” Enjolras growled, “then why did he steal one of our songs?”
“Woah, woah, no one said steal,” Valjean said, hands raised. The song had finished by now and looped to the start, the hum serving as an additional layer of soothing comfort that worked just as well on Enjolras as their manager did. “We’re looking into it. No need to jump to accusations.”
Combeferre asked, “So we don’t know if we gave permission?”
“No, of course we didn’t give permission,” Enjolras spat. “But R is too big of a name for us to slap a lawsuit on him, so we’re just supposed to suck it up. Did I get that right?”
The reason Valjean succeeded as their manager was for times like this. While most people crumbled in the face of Enjolras’s wrath, Jean Valjean straightened his spine and replied slowly, “If Musain Records wants to accuse R of anything, we need to be absolutely certain. No lawsuit made in haste will ever win. So we need a united front on this one. No one says anything to the press while we investigate. For now, you’re honored that R knows you exist and likes your song. Nothing more.”
The next morning, or afternoon really, Enjolras rolled over in bed and immediately started scrolling through his phone. The news articles for their band produced a record number of results that he knew would never be matched, and since he refused to look at social media, he could only imagine how much more chatter there was online.
All the articles seemed focused on just explaining who the hell Les Amis de l’ABC even were. Running through their list of credentials, or infamous moments, helped tell the tale of why R covering a song by them was so out of left field. They were not the nostalgic choice or the undiscovered talent. They were a statement. Enjolras supposed that gave the tiniest mark in R’s favor. Unless, of course, R thought no one would notice that he stole from a largely unknown band.
At the very least, every single article seemed to be using photos from the mob of paparazzi last night, meaning Enjolras’s shirt was off and his top-surgery scars were on full display. He was glad he hadn’t put a jacket on after all.
By the time Combeferre and Eponine wandered into his and Courfeyrac’s hotel room (waking Courf with a shove and coffee), Enjolras had read through ten articles. Nine misspelled at least one of their names. One deadnamed him, but he wasn’t too surprised by that based on the level of hatred in the rest of the piece; it was so aggressively conservative that he half wondered if it were a parody instead of a legitimate publication.
He knew which flag he’d be holding at tonight’s show.
Maybe the article should have bothered him, but it was exactly the kind of gut reaction he expected from that type of crowd. It was funny, even. Worthy more of mockery than contempt.
So mock is what he did. Enjolras began to recite insane passages like he was lecturing from a pulpit or speaking from a mouse hole or mumbling into a beer bottle. Courfeyrac howled. Eponine cracked a smile, tapping her drumsticks along to his words.
It gave him an idea. Enjolras texted Valjean: “Print this article for tonight.”
Enjolras read the article in its entirety. Well, read was too simple a word; he sang. Every nasty word and fear-mongering sentiment was set aflame by his wail and gyrating hips. It was nothing Les Amis would record, acting more as spoken-word poetry than a true song, but the audience ate it the fuck up, yelling and thrashing as if this were the best music they’d ever heard.
When Enjolras finished, he pulled out a lighter and lit the paper on fire, letting it fall like a dying star. The crowd fought for it. The remains ended up ripped in two, each half with a different person, but they seemed quite happy with their prize.
If legends were circulated about the performance, it would also serve as a message. Les Amis de l’ABC would not buckle under public pressure now that the microscope of fame was focused on them. They would stay true to themselves. They would not put up with the hate slung their way. They would only take this experience and make something better.
They would rise, rise, rise.
Everyone lost their minds when the telltale chords of “I Rise” started. Despite the band’s attempts to make the song bigger, louder, harder, the crowd still drowned them out. And Enjolras wouldn’t have it any other way.
The girls immediately stood out in the crowd. They wore colors other than black, for one, and each would need about a dozen more tattoos or piercings to match the average Les Amis fan. It had taken a few days for the general populace to track down their tour dates, or at least work up the courage to go, but it seemed fame or curiosity or both had finally reared its ugly head.
These new fans would need to learn that Les Amis de l’ABC weren’t the sanitized, family-friendly R. This wasn’t even going to a rock concert. They were punk—and every dangerous stereotype that went with it.
Newcomers would learn one way or another that those articles hadn’t lied.
Still, Enjolras kept an eye on the teen girls during the whole show, making sure they wouldn’t get trampled by a mosh pit or hassled by a creep (not that their fans were particularly guilty of this, but things happened). Yet the way they squealed at “I Rise” and the way the people nearby turned to them with a glare, Enjolras couldn’t predict how this night would turn out.
The crowd was particularly rowdy, as it had been ever since “You Rise.” Someone broke a few glass bottles, which meant cordoning off a section of the club. The room shook when they did a second encore.
What surprised him most of all was that the girls actually made it through the whole night and even stayed after like only their most dedicated fans did. They were respectful, though jittery with excitement. He could accept that.
As always, Enjolras took his time meeting with each of the Les Amis fans, chatting and signing autographs and blessing objects and cursing others. Whatever they requested, really. And maybe he delayed a little longer than he normally would have, but when it was time to greet the R fans, he put on the same smile he gave everyone else.
They stared. Courfeyrac called this silence “looking into the face of god,” which Enjolras thought was a bit dramatic, but it did happen a lot.
He tried to break the ice with some small talk, which got a mumbled reply before a silver marker and recently purchased CD were shoved into his hands. This happened a lot too. Honestly, he would take it over the grabby fans.
With this interaction seemingly over, he was about to turn and walk away when one of the teens spoke up. “Um! I wanted to ask! And sorry if this is prying, but you held the pride flag up at the beginning of the show, and I was just wondering if maybe, um, you were . . . gay?”
Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “I’m a lot of things.”
An activist. A lead singer. A rebel. A lyricist. A trendsetter. A pianist. A god-awful cook. An amazing poker player. An octopus wrangler (don’t ask). A secret WWE fan (please do ask). It felt so painful to boil his existence down to just his sexual preference or gender.
Courf materialized next to him and slung an arm around his shoulders, leaning in so close that his long black hair got caught in Enjolras’s mouth. “He’s prickly, for one,” he said with a wink to the girls. “But, yeah, he’s into guys. And really, aren’t we all?”
Their eyes widened, bouncing between the men as if they were waiting for something else to happen. One excitedly asked, “Are you two . . .?”
“Oh, heavens no,” Courfeyrac sighed. “I’m too good for him.”
“Most people are.”
“Ugh, and that modesty!” Courf said, becoming more and more dramatic as he played it up for the giggling girls. “He’s like this all the time. I couldn’t stand it.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “We’re literally roommates.”
The girls gasped, Courfeyrac waggled his eyebrows, and Enjolras knew it was time to move on. If he wanted to be some heartthrob featured in posters and teenage fantasies, then he would’ve gone mainstream. This was not the type of crowd he wanted to cater to.
He said as much to Courf when they were on the tour bus. “Why did you encourage those girls? Think of all the crazy notions they have and will pass on to their friends. They’ll probably make dolls of us kissing.”
The guitarist stroked his chin. “Dolls, huh? Ponine, as the resident girl, is that a common problem?”
“No.” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you do that, Enj?”
He flushed. He may have posed some wrestling action figures in compromising positions . . . But that was totally different. “No, of course not. But you know what I mean.”
“Oh, please. The fans already ship us. Which is crazy, since you and Ferre actually dated.”
It was before Enjolras realized he wasn’t a girl and before they realized a boy-girl friendship didn’t need to end in romance. Their kisses had been awkward. Their dates stilted. Ultimately, it had been a relief to go back to being just friends.
Courfeyrac continued, fixing Enjolras with a stern look. “But thanks to my intervention, at least now you won’t be a total dick in their fan fiction, Enj. You never know when to turn on that charm.”
“I don’t want to be treated like fucking One Direction.”
Combeferre finally looked up from his book. “Except no one from that group is queer. This might be the first time those fans have encountered a band that is actually diverse. Or at least out about it. We shouldn’t punish them for seeking more representation.”
Enjolras’s mind flashed back to all those times a fan had said he inspired them to come out or helped them realize their gender or made them feel seen in a world that wanted to hide them away. That was surprisingly rare in the music industry, Hollywood, or any version of celebrity, really. Even if queerness were spoken aloud, it was sanitized in order to be acceptable to the masses. Enjolras sticking the microphone into his leather shorts to simulate the dick he didn’t have while waving a communist flag wasn’t an image that most artists could get away with. But no minority group fit in a neat little box.
And yet, their excitement about his sexuality felt different.
“I’m supposed to welcome these fangirls who are more interested in seeing two boys kiss than in actual LGBTQIA causes?”
“We all start somewhere,” Ferre countered. “What talking points do you think they’ve heard outside of ‘love is love’? We’re expanding their worldview. And isn’t that the whole point of our music? We want to reach out a hand, connect people, encourage them to be better. Those girls are our raison d’être.”
As always, Combeferre was right.
An imposing government building sat at the center of a giant square, casting a long shadow over the protestors before it. The gathering was small, maybe a dozen people outside of the band’s foursome, so it was immediately obvious when the Amis rolled up. A person with a megaphone hanging limply at his side did a visible double take, fumbled the device, dropped it, and eventually jogged over.
“Oh shit. I did not think you guys would show up.”
Enjolras was not one to embarrass a stranger by commenting on the clumsy scene he’d just witnessed; instead, he shook the man’s outstretched hand. “We’re happy to lend support whenever possible. What can we do?”
Since Les Amis de l’ABC actively practiced what they preached, fans around the world would often share all kinds of events with them in the hopes that they might promote it, back it with money, or even show up, whether they were on tour or not. Enjolras wished they could go to them all. He ached to do more. Combeferre had talked him off a ledge (aka running to the airport) multiple times to point out they were helping just by making music. It was proof enough that they’d cultivated fans who cared about these events. And the band did more than pretty much any other “celebrity.” They did as much as they could. It was enough.
But when their tour schedules lined up with a fan’s request, whether made in earnest—or seemingly not—Enjolras made a point of going. Of dragging his friends along.
Not that the Amis put up much of a fight. Courfeyrac would often lament that they never got to do the “tour” part of touring, but he’d always be the one shouting the loudest in a chant. Whenever they went to a new city, Eponine would send a bunch of links of cool things in the area, but she never complained about missing them. Combeferre would state that Enjolras needed a day off, but he didn’t push the matter.
They all believed in Enjolras’s causes and took them on as their own. They found their own causes and gathered the band for those too. He loved his friends so much.
When Enjolras was handed the megaphone, it was like being let off the leash. He raged. He roared. He rallied the others who had gathered, who apparently were not familiar with the band but were inspired by his words.
He did as much as he could and hoped it was enough.
Eventually, when Combeferre tapped his throat, Enjolras took the hint and turned the shouting over to the man they’d first met, who was named Bossuet. Someone pulled out speakers and started playing protest songs. Others set up chairs and pulled out snacks. They were here for the long haul, while Les Amis would always have a time limit. At least they could leave knowing this protest was in good hands.
When Valjean started messaging the group chat about sound check, they said their goodbyes. Bossuet winced and asked if he could have an autograph before they left.
“Man, my girlfriend will be so mad when she hears about this. She was already pissed she had to miss today cause of work,” he rambled as Enjolras signed the back of Bossuet’s shirt. “She loves you guys. Eponine especially. Uh, no offense to the rest of you.”
Eponine preened, which was a rare look on her. “Don’t apologize for good taste.”
The music volume was cranked up a few notches just then, and Enjolras finally noticed what song was playing: “You Rise.”
He grumbled, “Ah, this shit again.”
Bossuet turned to take the marker. “Oh, yeah, Muschietta was telling me about that. R actually covered your song? But it’s bad?”
“Oh, it’s awful,” Enjolras laughed. “Completely misses the message and sounds like a cat wailing to boot. Just goes to show that a big name doesn’t equal talent.”
“Well, I’ll take you guys over him any day,” Bossuet said with a grin and a final round of handshakes. “Seriously. You showing up today has been so surreal. Honestly, gave a huge boost to my faith in humanity.”
Before anyone could respond, chimes echoed across all their phones as Valjean was starting to get frantic. Time to go. But that also meant that their protesting wasn’t done for the day—they’d only just begun.
Sleeping on a tour bus was the worst. The beds were thin and cramped. It stank no matter how many showers they took or air fresheners they went through. Bumps in the road had surprisingly little effect; except, of course, that just made the big ones all the worse. Worst of all, the small space meant there was very little between them and Valjean’s anger.
“Band meeting!” he announced far too early for Enjolras’s liking. He would complain, but there was an edge to their manager’s voice that brooked no rebuttal.
They’d already gotten up early for the protest yesterday and performances always meant a late night, so it was only through the power of coffee that they got out of bed. Except Courfeyrac. He buried his head into a pillow while the rest drank at the dining table. Only when he heard a voice coming from Valjean’s phone did he shoot up in bed and say, “Is that Cosette? Can I talk to her? Hi, my love!”
Enjolras still didn’t understand Courf’s fascination with Musain Records’ PR person. Not that he had any problems with Cosette—she was lovely and great at her job—but their guitar player always seemed to develop deep relationships with people when Enjolras wasn’t looking.
“Hi, sweetie,” Cosette replied brightly. Valjean held the video call up, as if he were just the woman’s assistant. “It’s so good to see you. But I actually need to talk to Enjolras this morning.”
All eyes turned to him, and he quickly downed a scalding hot mouthful of coffee, strengthening himself for whatever reprimand he was about to get.
“Morning, Cos,” he mumbled.
Nothing in her expression looked anything but pleasant, but he knew she wouldn’t be talking to them unless something was wrong. Still, she maintained her same upbeat tone, “Enjolras, honey, did you happen to tell one of your fans that you hated R’s cover of ‘I Rise’? Even though we gave you explicit instructions to stay silent on the subject?”
Of all the things he was bracing for, that was not what he expected. Almost indignant, Enjolras replied, “Yeah, but anecdotal evidence shouldn’t be a big deal. If we release a statement refuting it, then it’s just he-said, she-said, right?”
“It would,” Cosette said, drawing out the statement with a tight smile, “unless someone recorded you making those comments. And posted it. And the video blew up all over the internet.”
Oh shit.
“Oh shit,” Courfeyrac said, looking up from his phone. “You still don’t have any social media accounts, right, Enj?”
He shook his head.
Eponine didn’t look up from her own phone to say, “Good. Don’t make one.”
“It’s not just social media,” Cosette drawled. Her sunshiny demeanor was slowly dropping the more she spoke. The clacks from her laptop could be heard over the call as she continued, “Journalists—or whatever passes as such these days—are having a field day with this one. ‘Les Amis Break Silence on R.’ ‘Feud! R Slammed by Amis Front Man.’ ‘He Doth Protest Too Much? How Les Amis Lead Singer Secured an Industry Blacklist.’ It goes on and on.”
“Blacklist?”
She waved away the concern. “They’re exaggerating for clicks. And when you guys eventually go back to being out of the spotlight, they’ll claim their prediction was correct. It’s dumb but nothing to worry about.”
“So, what should we be doing?” Combeferre asked.
“We’ll have to release an apology. Obviously. But then it’ll just be laying low for a little while. I know the legal team is still searching for paperwork to build our case on the permission debacle, but we might want to hold off on that a little longer for this to really blow over.”
Cosette continued to lay out some plans, with Valjean jumping in occasionally to remind them that the paparazzi will likely be bothering them again, and he’d work on getting more security for tonight. The band nodded along to some talking points Cosette coached them on.
“No.”
Everyone turned to Enjolras, though Cosette had to prompt Valjean to turn the phone so she could frown properly. “No?”
He didn’t wilt under their collective gazes. Enjolras didn’t bow to things he didn’t believe in, and he definitely didn’t believe in this.
“No, I’m not going to apologize. I’m not going to lie to people that I don’t care about, who are only jumping on this story because they smell blood in the water. This isn’t really about me or us. They just want someone to be punished, and I’m not about to lay down and play dead. So, no. No to all of this.”
Cosette breathed deeply, as if she was meditating to find her happy place. “This is a mistake, Enjolras. You can’t fight the internet.”
He lifted his chin. “Watch me.”
That night’s show was horrible. The worst they’d had in years.
First, the paparazzi had learned their tour dates by now, so a swarm was waiting when the bus pulled up to the venue. They followed them and flung accusations all the way to the backstage door. Enjolras would gladly take the focus of their ire, but Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Eponine still had to suffer alongside him.
Second, the people from R’s fan base showed up with vengeance in their hearts. There were more than he expected, all making themselves known right at the start of the show by shouting and chanting and getting into fights. Security escorted them out, but it threw off the vibe for the rest of the show. The crowd was on edge. The band was frustrated. It couldn’t be over fast enough.
Third, R was waiting in the green room.
“—completely flubbed the chorus. God, that was so embarrassing,” Courfeyrac moaned as they hustled backstage. They hadn’t bothered with an encore. It was a relief when that damn show was over.
Combeferre said, “No one noticed. You sounded great.”
“Oh, they noticed. Everyone could see we were off,” Courf continued.
Enjolras kept silent, but every word sunk into his shoulders and made his teeth clench. He desperately needed a smoke right now. The last thing he wanted was Valjean putting himself bodily between them and the green room, where Enjolras’s emergency pack of cigarettes was waiting for him.
“Before you go in, I have to tell you—”
“Not now, Valjean,” he said, pushing him aside. “I don’t want any more fucking lectures about R right now—”
Enjolras didn’t believe in god or karma or whatever substitute for religion that people used, but it sure felt like something was against him in this moment.
Sitting on a couch that was more patchwork than original upholstery was R. The only reason Enjolras recognized the singer was from reading those articles about “You Rise,” where his photo had been featured alongside theirs. Otherwise, with his long auburn hair, layers of flannel, and long, long legs positioned in a casual cross, he would have thought this man was someone who’d just wandered in off the street. He didn’t look remarkable except for when bright blue eyes turned to meet Enjolras and crinkled with a grin.
“Hey.”
Only when the other Amis slammed into him did Enjolras realize he’d halted very suddenly in his tracks, blocking the doorway. They hadn’t seen beyond him, so there were complaints about what the holdup was and how terrible Enj’s back sweat tasted.
At a lack for words—which was so unusual that he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it—Enjolras simply stepped aside and let his friends see for themselves.
“Holy shit.”
“Am I hallucinating?”
“Are you . . .?”
R stood up to his considerable height and reached out a hand. “Not hallucinating. Yes, I am R. But you can call me Grantaire, if you like.”
Enjolras crossed his arms. “Why would we call you that?”
Eponine rolled her eyes. “It’s his real name, you idiot.”
What, like he was supposed to know that the man’s name didn’t begin with an R?
“I am honored to be in the presence of Les, Amis, De, and L’ABC,” Grantaire snarked, gesturing to Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Eponine, and Enjolras in turn. This assessment immediately made Courf laugh and say how perfect that was for each of them, while Eponine griped about her assigned word.
When Grantaire’s gaze flicked to him, seemingly to gauge his reaction to the joke, Enjolras frowned.
What was going on? Why was he here? Why was he being nice?
Valjean had finally maneuvered past the Amis and into the green room. His smile was far too wide. “We’re, of course, flattered that you would come visit us in person. We know you’re a busy man. Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?”
Grantaire flopped back onto the couch like he owned the place and pulled an expensive-looking bottle up by the neck. “Nah, I’m good with this.” Valjean must’ve already secured that from the venue’s bar. Suck up. Grantaire started pouring a glass and continued, “Anyone else want some?”
The Amis looked around at each other. They’d all instinctively scattered to the edges of the tiny room, forming a wide personal bubble around the star. It could be read as them being respectful or even intimidated by his presence. And maybe for some of them it was. Their reticence to move closer was like a game of Red Rover; they were on one team, R was on the other. Crossing the line meant betrayal.
“Aw, fuck it,” Eponine said with a shrug and sat down next to Grantaire. He quickly poured a few fingers into a glass, handed it over, and clinked it with his own. “Loved your last album, by the way. It was darkly sexy in a way I still can’t describe.”
Grantaire burst out in laughter. “Thanks, De. I make music to achieve what I can’t in real life.”
“Do not try fishing for compliments around these folks,” Courf confided, sitting on the armrest of the couch next to Eponine. “They are far too practical, or mean, to even consider giving one.”
“Who’s who?”
Courf immediately pointed to Eponine, Combeferre, Valjean, and Enjolras in turn: “Mean, practical, practical, and . . . both.”
Enjolras said, “Fuck off,” while everyone else accepted the assessment with a shrug.
“Oh! Speaking of mean, Ferre, I never told you what Ponine did at that party last week! You’ll get a kick out of this, Grantaire,” Courf said before launching into a story about psychedelics, a sparkler, and Eponine’s new (fake) religion. The group was quickly suffering from fits of laughter. Enjolras had been told this story already, but with the way he was left to lean against the mini bar while the rest of the Amis had Red Rovered to the opposite side of the room, excluding him felt especially pointed.
He couldn’t understand why everyone was being so sycophantic to R simply because he was here in person; they’d been ready to flay him alive just a few weeks ago. The feeling hadn’t left Enjolras. He didn’t think it ever would.
Grantaire repaid the story with one of his own. He spoke of a camping trip gone wrong, where he and some buddies ran into some suspiciously satanic constructions in the woods that he was pretty sure were a prank by some bored teenagers, but he couldn’t be sure. Eponine was already googling to try to make the trek herself. Combeferre refused to join her because, in his words, “The black guy always dies first.”
What was this man playing at? First he steals Enjolras’s song, now his friends? Was this payback for what he’d said in that video? Had he relished seeing their awful show tonight and wanted to rub their face in his victory?
When Grantaire opened his mouth to recount another new, amazing, fascinating story, Enjolras interrupted. “Why are you here?”
All air was sucked from the room. Eponine glared. Combeferre frowned. Courfeyrac smacked his forehead.
Grantaire’s smile finally dropped. “Good question.”
He leaned forward to pour himself more whiskey, immediately downed it like a shot, and continued to stare into the empty glass as if it had the answer he was searching for. Enjolras couldn’t see R’s eyes, so he imagined the fury burning in them as he retaliated against the terrible things said in the video. Enjolras straightened his spine, bracing for impact.
When it came, he wasn’t prepared.
Grantaire looked up with those bright eyes and a pained expression. “I truly apologize. If I’d known you would hate my cover, I never would have recorded it.”
The world tilted as if Enjolras had been drinking.
What?
Before he could process it further, the man was rambling. “When I was putting the album together, it just felt like there was something missing. Nothing I wrote seemed right. And at some point I thought of ‘I Rise,’ and the song just worked. It was perfect. I couldn’t picture anything else. But now, knowing you hate it? I . . .”
“Wait,” Courfeyrac said, “if you cared what we thought, then why did you take our song without permission?”
Now it was Grantaire’s turn to look confused. “I didn’t?”
Valjean finally jumped in, summarizing the situation from Les Amis’ perspective, though leaving out the intent to sue as the reason behind their search for documentation. Grantaire then assured them that he’d taken the proper legal channels to secure rights—or he thought he had, since he had people that did such things for him—and from what he knew, permission had been granted.
He’d even offered to feature Les Amis de l’ABC on the upcoming album, which surely would have earned them a ton of money in residuals, but he was told they refused.
Enjolras was baffled. The refusal sounded like them, yes, but no one in the band or close to them would have given permission for the song to be covered. Yet Grantaire had offered details that sounded too specific to be a lie. The man believed he was telling the truth—so what had actually happened?
After Valjean entered R’s contacts into his phone, he declared, “I need to make some calls,” then left the room, off to wage war on Les Amis’ behalf.
Eponine leaned in to Grantaire conspiratorially, “For the record, I never thought you did anything wrong.”
“Two-faced bitch,” Courf snorted.
“Oh, please. I would have said it before if we weren’t all trying to protect Enj’s precious feelings.”
He looked up at that. “My feelings? What do you mean?”
Instead of addressing him, Eponine turned to Grantaire. “He’s really intense about songs from Barricade, you know. Probably if you’d picked any other album, Enj wouldn’t have gotten so aggro.”
The man still looked a bit stunned after all these revelations, but he let a smile relax his expression at that. “Ah, my mistake. But at least it wasn’t stolen? I hope that makes my cover at least a little tolerable now.”
“I doubt it,” Enjolras sneered.
There was a round of admonishments from the Amis, but he couldn’t be shamed. Instead, his anger grew hotter every time he thought about it. Whether well-intentioned or not, R had mangled his song and perverted its message beyond recognition. It was, frankly, offensive.
“Huh.” Grantaire, to his credit, didn’t seem nearly as offended as the others feared. It was surprising, considering how thin-skinned most celebrities were, and getting hostility straight to the face must be a rare occurrence at his status. Instead, R took in Enjolras with a strange expression and mused, “I wouldn’t have thought you, of all people, would be against making art.”
“You think what you did was art?”
More warnings came from the band, but they were just background noise to the bonfire raging in Enjolras’s head.
“Of course. Everything a human makes is art. And when there’s soul, passion, love, that’s what separates the pedestrian from the truly remarkable.” Grantaire gave him a once-over. “I could say that about ‘You Rise.’ Could you say it for the original?”
Enjolras couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His arms gestured wildly. “What do you mean? You’re claiming ownership of my song!”
“Yes. It’s a bit one note, no? I made it better.”
“You made it into a song about pining!”
The man grinned. “Yes.”
Because he’d blocked out everything but Grantaire, it took a moment for Enjolras to realize that the Amis were chanting, “Fight, fight, fight, fight.” He rolled his eyes, dismissing their words with a wave.
“Yeah, it’d be a shame to hurt that pretty face,” Grantaire said.
Enjolras took a step forward, ready to launch himself at the man—celebrity or not—when Courfeyrac began chanting, “Song fight, song fight.” The other two quickly picked it up, knowing exactly what it meant.
Enjolras also knew what Courfeyrac was implying. The Amis had battled each other this way before, though it was always intended as a fun competition. Used this way, the fight would be very different, but maybe even more satisfying. Enjolras really wanted to wipe that stupid grin off Grantaire’s face.
“I’m in. What’re the stakes?”
R still didn’t know what was going on, but he was apparently down for anything. As if ready and waiting, he said, “How about, if you win, I take down ‘You Rise’? Permanently.”
Enjolras didn’t need to hear what he’d bargain in return. “Done.”
The rules of a song fight are as follows: one, competitors are given thirty minutes to write an original song; two, the song cannot be started or completed prior to the fight; three, the competitors will perform the song at the end of the thirty minutes; four, whoever wrote the song that is judged to be best wins the fight.
Despite it being far past the time that Les Amis de l’ABC were supposed to vacate the club, when the owner learned that R was in his presence, he immediately gave them all the time they needed. He offered to help with whatever competition they were doing, offered free drinks, offered his hand in marriage . . .
The perks of being a major celebrity were vast, it seemed.
Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Eponine kept the club owner distracted in the main room while Enjolras and Grantaire wrote in the green room. Despite entertaining a starstruck middle-aged man, the band had the easy job. The real work was happening in the back.
Enjolras wrote like he had a gun to his head. Words flowed out of him easier than they had for the past two albums, and he wondered if he’d been writing this song for weeks without even realizing it. All his anger, frustration, and turmoil emptied out onto his notebook. It was freeing, in a way.
Except, of course, every time he glanced at R—curious at how far he’d gotten—the man was staring at him. No lyrics. No sheet music. No notes. Enjolras immediately looked away, as if he were doing something wrong. It was unsettling. Was he even taking this seriously? Was Grantaire just fucking with him? The drumming of long fingers on the couch armrest, too irregular to be a sign of boredom, was the only indication that the man had this competition in mind at all.
“Time’s up!” Eponine called. “Paper’s down. Hands up.”
“Are we being arrested?” Grantaire asked.
She shrugged. “Depends on how good your song is. No pressure.”
Enjolras was too amped to bother with this banter. While the other two joked behind him, he bounced on the balls of his feet and made his way to the stage. It was hard to believe he’d been doing this same thing just a few hours ago, holding a black flag and already desperate for the night to be over. Now, he felt lava running through his veins, ready to burn him from the inside out.
As they stood just offstage, Courfeyrac was in the spotlight, hyping up a crowd that consisted of Combeferre, the club owner, the bartender, their bus driver, and the two security guards they’d hired. A packed house had shrunk to a string of stragglers. It was honestly a pretty decent audience considering this impromptu performance. Despite the difference from their sold-out show, Courf was treating this with all the panache of an MC at an all-star boxing match.
“And in this corner, standing at 180 centimeters and weighing 68 kilograms”—how the hell did Courf know Enjolras’s measurements?—“the punk rocker, the straight talker, the hero of the common man, and our leader: En-jol-RAS!”
While there were still whoops and cheers as he strutted onto the stage, the echoes and empty spaces stood out even more. The reception was certainly lacking compared to their shows so far this tour. Whatever. Right now, Enjolras didn’t need it. He was fueled by justice.
This fight was only going to end one way.
“And in this corner, standing woah-how-is-that-real? centimeters and weighing probably-needs-to-eat-more kilograms, the soulful soloist, the platinum-record holder, and an all-around good guy: R!”
From his position next to Courfeyrac, Enjolras had the unique angle to see Grantaire’s face backstage as he was introduced. He looked uncomfortable, cringing at every speck of praise. But once it was his turn to step out, all that melted away, and R looked totally at ease as he waved to his adoring fans.
Enjolras was not jealous that the other man got a louder applause.
“The judges have decided,” Courf said as though this were an official ruling from on high, “that Enjolras, as the competitor with more song-fight experience, will present his work first. Enj, whenever you’re ready.”
The other two joined the crowd, which now included Eponine, leaving Enjolras to take center stage. Just as he liked it. Once he was under the sun of the spotlight, felt that thrum of energy, heard that collective intake of breath, it was like he was invincible. He could command armies. Move mountains. Change the world, should they just listen.
He would make them listen.
Notebook in hand, Enjolras whispered the lyrics low and tantalizing into the mic. Words curled and twisted in the air as he built up a story of a king sitting on his throne, having everything in the world yet feeling cold and empty. What was it all for?
With a storm of emotion, he burst into the chorus, wailing about revolution, of the people suffering from the king’s melancholy, about breaking chains of prisoners and kings and demons and angels. Flags were waving in front of him. Towers were tumbling to the ground. The people were marching in the streets as he poured every ounce of himself into pushing them forward.
One more inch. One more second. Together, they could do it.
Then, his mind went blank. Enjolras hadn’t written anything else, and he’d even improvised a bit at the end. But his voice suddenly died, and he let the hand that had been reaching out into the dark finally drop.
Reality slowly faded back in. Stunned silence morphed into applause, much louder than his entrance. He cut a glance over to Grantaire to gloat, but the man was disconnected from reality in a way that felt oddly familiar: looking into the face of god, Courf had called it.
That was . . . huh.
Speak of the devil. Courfeyrac hopped back on stage and said, “What an amazing performance! Right, folks? Give the man another round of applause. Only thirty minutes!”
Feeling sweaty and suddenly exhausted, Enjolras took his cue to descend into the audience. He didn’t look at R again. Instead, he barely registered Ferre brainstorming how to turn that rough draft into a finished product, one of the security guards shaking his hand and praising his performance, and Eponine mocking his dramatics.
“Now, for our next performance, please welcome to the stage . . . R!”
Grantaire stepped up, muttered something into Courf’s ear, and then walked off.
“He’s going to get a guitar!” he explained. Seeing that he had some vamping to do, Courfeyrac quickly shifted gears. “So have you noticed how tour buses always stink? What’s up with that?”
Their driver released a giant laugh that almost made up for the rest of them wincing in silence.
Thankfully, they were saved from more observational comedy by R walking back on stage with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. Courf reintroduced him with far less enthusiasm this time, upset that his new venture into stand-up had been stymied. Combeferre rubbed his back sympathetically.
It took a second for Grantaire to tune the guitar and adjust the microphone stand for his height. Once he took his position and the spotlight hit him just right, Enjolras sucked in a breath.
Maybe it had been too long since he’d watched a concert rather than performed in one, but he never remembered skylights hugging the curves of anyone’s face quite so lovingly, never saw a halo of fire in anyone’s hair, never wished to crawl closer to see if he could touch the magic something that was radiating off the person on stage.
And that was before R started singing.
It was Enjolras’s fault, he supposed, for only listening to “You Rise,” and barely at that. He was unprepared for the way the singer’s voice danced across the notes, gravelly and low at one moment before high and clear at another. Inhuman. Chilling. The lyrics themselves didn’t sink in when he was so distracted by the lilting melody, but finally paying attention, the emotions were stated so plainly that they felt raw and bare. Grantaire had cut himself open to bleed. As open and honest as a corpse.
What was it that Eponine had said? Darkly sexy? Okay, yeah, Enjolras could see it. Maybe.
The song could have been thirty seconds or ten minutes and he wouldn’t have known the difference. His brain was too busy trying to mesh the grinning idiot from the green room with the siren on stage.
Courfeyrac took back the mic to wring the last bits of applause from the audience before reminding them that they were also judging each of the performances. It turned out they’d been writing scores on pieces of paper, and when all the numbers were submitted, Valjean was dragged in to tally the results.
“Okay, the winner,” Courf announced, glancing over the math that Valjean had done, “by a narrow margin, is . . .”
Enjolras could feel the answer coming before he heard it.
“R!”
Seemingly shellshocked by this outcome and the raucous applause that followed, Grantaire met Enjolras’s eye before saying, “I concede. My song wasn’t nearly as good as—”
“The people have spoken,” Enjolras cut him off. “You won. Congrats.”
R was biting his lip, looking conflicted for some reason even though Enjolras had said it was fine, because it was. Fine. He’d done the song fight to prove that Grantaire needed to steal his songs to be successful, but it was Enjolras that had been proven wrong. He had to accept the outcome of his own folly.
At least, that was what he kept telling himself. This was the right thing to do. Take the loss gracefully. Don’t think too hard about what the fuck had happened on that stage.
“Have you thought of what you win?” Eponine asked. “Because I could give you some punishments—I mean, ideas. Also, can I watch?”
Grantaire grinned. “I actually did have something in mind. If you’re willing to accept it.”
He’d been talking to Enjolras then. It only felt appropriate to stand and take whatever terrible thing the man had devised. A public apology. An interview on Hot Ones. Dressing in a French maid costume. All equally embarrassing.
“You have to cover one of my songs. Whichever one you want. Change the lyrics, pull it apart, I don’t care. But you have to release it for the world to enjoy.”
It was worse than he ever could have imagined.
They’d requested to be at the Musain offices when it happened. Everything was so quiet and ordinary—beige hallways and fluorescent lights contrasted the few signs that this was a bastion for rock music: tour posters, signed guitars, and album covers decorating the walls—that it almost didn’t seem like anything at all special would happen.
The Amis lounged with coffees close at hand and pondered a game of 20 Questions when a sudden bouncing between the offices caught their attention. Workers scampered to gossip, whispers turned to uninhibited chatter, and the clomping of orderly footsteps echoed from the stairwell.
The band had set up in the entryway to make sure they saw him being escorted out, but it wasn’t hard to miss. A crowd practically formed in his wake.
Javert. Musain Records’ (former) Director of Legal. The man who sold them out.
It turns out he was doing a whole lot of shady things behind the scenes. Selling off the rights of not only Les Amis de l’ABC songs but also plenty of other bands for a payout. Secret deals. At least one instance of embezzlement. Probably a bunch of other illegal shit that the record company was still trying to uncover. The man was in charge of so many important documents and knew how to get away with abusing them, so it might take years to uncover everything he’d dipped his sullied fingers into.
It was always the ones that seemed most trustworthy.
When Javert finally turned the corner, flanked by security guards on either side and carrying a box of his things, he saw the band waiting for him and paused. Enjolras raised both middle fingers, and the others had the same idea. Javert just huffed and continued past in disgust. The confidence of a man with a speck of power was truly something to behold.
“Do we know why he even did it?” Combeferre asked.
“Greed?” Eponine offered.
Valjean was still watching the procession with arms crossed. It took him a moment to reply. “I don’t think it’s that simple. Javert always struck me as a man with strict morals, which is what made this such a shock. But in his own way, he probably thought this was good for the company. Since most artists here refuse the standard bloodsucking of the music industry, and therefore money, this scheme provided a nice cash flow.”
“Oh shit,” Courfeyrac winced. “Is the Musain not doing so well with the financials?”
After a loud and long laugh, Valjean said, “Always. But don’t worry about it. That’s not why we do this.”
“Well, Javert will miss the thing he’s been desperate for,” Enjolras said, standing and wiping imaginary dust off his jeans. “Time to record a fucking pop song.”
It was a stupid bet, one that could easily be ignored if he so chose, but Enjolras was not one to break his word. He’d expected R to follow through if the outcome were reversed, so doing this cover was only fair. Besides, his end of the bargain was a far simpler task; he wouldn’t have to rework an album or figure out how to unrelease a song or spend endless meetings with execs who complained about sales and marketing and PR. Enjolras could just bang this out in an afternoon.
That didn’t make it any less embarrassing. He’d be explaining this decision to the punk community for years and would have no good explanation.
That meant he wasn’t going to put a lot of effort into it either. They’d booked the recording studio for an hour. He’d learned the song last night. Eponine had picked it for him. Bang, boom, bosh. He wouldn’t have to think about it—or R—for a good long while.
Combeferre wasn’t quite as blasé as Enjolras about the whole thing. He took one look at the music, cursed, and spent hours reworking the arrangement to match their style. Bluesy-folk needed a bit of translation for their rock sensibilities.
When the Amis were settled at their instruments, it was the tempo set on Ferre’s bass that made it feel real. This was happening. And maybe it could sound . . . good?
Eponine had apparently chosen R’s most sacrilegious work for Enjolras to sing, and he could see what she meant. The words felt reverential one minute before crashing into dark hunger through Courf’s guitar solo, Enjolras’s rising voice, Ponine’s war drums. The lyrics were surprisingly complex to sing and the notes difficult to navigate. Who knew one of R’s songs could go so hard?
And yet.
When the last few notes sounded, a terrible silence filled the studio. Something felt off and Enjolras couldn’t place what.
Valjean’s voice piped into their headphones, “That sounded amazing, guys! I think we got it in one!” The other Amis cheered, then paused when they saw their leader wasn’t joining them.
“What is it, Enj?” Courf asked.
“Oh god, don’t tell me . . .” Eponine moaned.
“I wasn’t feeling it. Let’s take it again.”
They played it again. And again. Enjolras would sometimes break in the middle of a line to ask Combeferre what he thought about punching harder on a beat, or wanting to redo the chorus to emphasize a different emotion, or to just ask why it felt wrong. The producer would chime in with his thoughts, the Amis were getting frustrated, but Enjolras couldn’t nail it down.
This wasn’t hard. This didn’t matter. Why did he even care?
“Maybe this isn’t the song,” he said. “Eponine, what other one would work? Maybe we can quick get it done.”
She tapped her foot, resulting in the bass drum getting thumped over and over. “This was the one I thought you’d actually like. The rest are way too lovey-dovey.”
A discordant chord came from Courf’s guitar. “You can’t possibly expect us to learn a whole new song in under an hour.”
“Correction,” came the crackling voice of Valjean. “The hour is up. They’re willing to delay for one more run, but that’s it. So you have to make a decision, Amis: try once more or call it for the day.”
That had been an hour? How?
“We got it on that first one,” Ferre said. “Let’s just release it.”
Courfeyrac took a breath. “I’m down for another try. Just make the call, Enj.”
Enjolras had never felt so conflicted in his life. He just wanted this R business over and done with, but it seemed his pride wouldn’t let him half-ass things nearly as much as he’d thought. Something wasn’t right. But could he fix it in the next few minutes?
He looked between Ferre and Courf. Then, he turned to Eponine.
She crossed her arms. “I’m just pissed we’re even doing this in the first place. Handle your beef with Grantaire yourself, Enj.”
And maybe that was it. The thing that felt off this whole time. If this was personal, then he couldn’t ask others to do the work for him.
Enjolras took off his headphones. “Delete it all.”
Enjolras laid on the floor of his living room as an R song played over the speakers. He’d practically memorized all of them at this point, yet he was no closer to picking one to cover or understanding why this was a problem he couldn’t overcome.
“I like this one,” Courf said, nodding along with his eyes closed. “It’s very ‘this woman could kill me, and that turns me on.’”
“Ugh, exactly why I don’t like it,” he complained.
Eponine was tapping a message on her phone, but that didn’t stop her from chiming in. “Grantaire gave you free rein to change the lyrics. Just make it a guy.”
“Do I really want to put those gender politics out in the world?”
“I don’t think people will see it as you being in an abusive relationship,” Combeferre reasoned. He looked up from the house of cards he was constructing to stroke his chin. “Well, some people might. But . . .”
When one of R’s sweet, romantic songs came on—the man recorded way too many of them for Enjolras’s taste—he groaned and hit skip on his phone. Definitely not doing one of those. It was annoying enough when he had to sing a love song written by one of his friends. Weirder still to co-opt the feelings Grantaire felt for some woman just so Enjolras could fulfill a bet.
Plus, he just didn’t like slow songs.
“Maybe you should wait for Grantaire’s new album and see if there’s a song you like there,” Courf offered. “It’s not like there’s a time limit on this bet.”
Eponine said, “Why wait? Just ask Grantaire to send you the album early.”
Silence filled the apartment, followed by Combeferre and Courfeyrac nodding and saying that was a great idea and why didn’t they think of it and Eponine was their wisest, smartest friend. She slung a leg over Ferre to kick Courf, grinning all the while. Somehow, their squabbling didn’t knock down the cards.
It actually wasn’t a bad idea. Rather than delaying for three months just to be back in this same position, Enjolras might be able to find the answer he’d been looking for. After all, if “I Rise” had fit on the album, then maybe the rest of the songs would appeal to him. This could work.
“Valjean knows R’s people, right? Maybe they’ll be willing to send something.” Enjolras paused before groaning, “Wait, they don’t know about the bet, so why would they agree to it?”
Ponine snorted. “Or you can just call Grantaire directly.”
With the way she said it, so matter of fact, it felt like he was missing a step that she had already leaped over. Cautiously, Enjolras asked, “Do you have his number?”
“Do you not?”
“When would I have gotten that?”
Eponine rolled her eyes. “Uh, the night that we met and hung out for hours and did your stupid competition and drank until dawn? We even made a group chat.”
“It’s called ‘Les Amis de l’R.’ Good, right?” Courf grinned. At Enjolras’s raised eyebrows, he panicked slightly and said, “We weren’t excluding you intentionally! I figured you were messaging Grantaire separately.”
“Why would I do that?”
The Amis all exchanged a look but didn’t elaborate.
Combeferre handed over his phone with R’s contact pulled up. “Here. Call him up. Grantaire’s a good guy, so I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”
Enjolras didn’t “call him up.” The more he thought about it, the ruder it felt to call. Les Amis had just been touring all over Europe, and R was surely in demand all across the world. Who knew what time zone he was in or when he was asleep? If he was in the middle of a meeting or a concert or an award show? And even if he happened to look at his phone, it would just be some random number in the caller ID. Enjolras would be marked as spam without a thought.
Instead, he texted: “This is Enjolras from Les Amis de l’ABC. Got your number from the band. I have a question about our bet. No rush.”
That felt good. To the point, but not too pushy.
Satisfied, he set the phone down and gathered some loose notes to set on his piano. That song he’d written for their competition had potential, but it had been set aside until they were off the road and he could actually sink his teeth into it.
The first key he struck resonated strangely in the piano. Enjolras hit it another time before realizing the buzzing was actually coming from behind him. Wait—was that his phone? He saw the name lighting up the screen, frowned, then quickly tapped the accept button before the call expired. “Grantaire?”
“Shit, it’s really you.”
And it was him. The man sounded a bit breathless and throaty over the phone, like he was pressed a little too close to the receiver. It felt like R was talking right in Enjolras’s ear, and he had to pull his phone back for a second to adjust.
“Who else would I be?”
“Dunno. Someone playing a prank on me or something?”
Enjolras wasn’t sure why that would be a fun prank, but he wasn’t about to critique the man’s sense of humor when there were more pressing matters at hand. “Well, it’s me. Is now a good time to chat?”
“Anytime. Including now. So yes, what’s up?”
There was something in the man’s voice, the way his answers flowed from one thought to another, the faint racket of background noise that gave Enjolras pause. He said carefully, “If you’re not sober, I can call another time.”
He heard Grantaire’s laughter, though it was finally pulled away from the receiver, as well as the distinctive sounds of a bar come into clearer focus. Then the rich timbre was back in his ear. “You caught me. But I’m only a little buzzed and the night’s still young. What can I do ya for?”
Enjolras glanced at the darkening sky and wondered if they were in closer time zones than he thought. Or maybe Grantaire had a different definition of “young.”
No point in beating around the bush. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t told you the favor. It could be horrible.”
“Is it horrible?”
“No, of course not.”
“Damn, I was kinda hoping it would be horrible. But the answer is still yes.”
Looking at the phone for a moment, as if his disbelief could be transferred through force of will, Enjolras then said, “Let me ask it first, for god’s sake. Anyway. Could you send me your upcoming album? I was thinking the song I would cover might be on there.”
Since he was expecting another immediate yes, or at least a snarky comment, Enjolras was confused at the extended silence. Had their call ended by accident? On purpose? He checked the screen only to see the line was still active, though when he quickly pressed the phone back to his ear, he couldn’t hear anything except for faint bar atmosphere.
“Grantaire? Did I cut out?”
After clearing his throat, Grantaire’s voice came back thicker than before. “No, I heard you. Sorry. Just caught off guard.”
“If that’s a problem—”
“No! I want you . . . That is, I’d love you to . . .” After struggling with his words, which was shocking to hear despite the short time they’d known each other, Grantaire finally said, “Yes, I’ll get my people to send you the album. No problem.”
There was a strange tension in the air, so Enjolras did something he rarely enjoyed: made small talk. “Is there a song you’d recommend?”
Grantaire snorted. “Oh, there’s this really good one called ‘You Rise’ that I think you’ll love.”
“Kind of a shitty name. Think I’ll change the pronouns when I cover it.”
More laughter, and it felt strangely good to make the man laugh. Sure, he didn’t like Grantaire, but Enjolras maybe didn’t hate him as much as he had before. He’d spent so much time listening to R’s songs that he’d grown an appreciation for his talent as a musician. And time had given him some perspective on their situation. After all, the song-stealing hadn’t been malicious. Or even theft at all. Grantaire seemed to be an okay guy, just a very different artist from Enjolras, and deserving of the accolades he received.
But he wondered how often the singer got to be just a normal person. Enjolras could turn it off once the touring was done. What was life like for a celebrity like R? Did he have any close friends to rely on?
“So,” Grantaire said, dragging the word out, “since you asked me something, seems only fair I get to ask you a question.”
“Go for it.”
“What’re you wearing?”
It was probably shock more than anything that stopped Enjolras from just ending the call. “What?”
“I’ve only ever seen you in leather pants and fishnets, so I can’t picture you just lounging around in regular clothes. So what’s the fit? Gimp suit? Pasties? Bunny pajamas?”
With a heavy sigh, Enjolras said, “Grantaire, drink some water and go to bed.”
Then he hung up.
The next day, Enjolras got an email from someone named Gavroche, who introduced himself as R’s assistant. The message contained a secure download link and an NDA. It was all very official.
Part of him was repulsed at succumbing to the rules laid out by some soul-sucking music label that only cared about the monetary value of these songs and nothing about their artistic merit. It would serve them right if Enjolras just released the album to the world. But that wouldn’t be fair to Grantaire.
He didn’t care about the man that much, but R deserved a basic level of human decency. Enjolras could muster that. He signed the damn NDA and started listening.
He listened, and then he listened once more. He spent the entire afternoon listening on repeat, trying to find the right song before he was almost sick of them. He was angry and annoyed for a while before, when pausing to take a break, he realized his single-minded mission had completed subverted his enjoyment. Attacking the problem wouldn’t work; the perfect song would present itself.
Once Enjolras allowed it to be in the background of his life, he could admit that the album was good. He didn’t hate it. These songs were more up his alley than the previous ones, but they didn’t feel like something he’d sing, even when R belted.
When he invited Eponine over to listen—she’d kill him if he got this exclusive perk and didn’t share—Enjolras tried to explain what felt off. In every song, it felt like R was constantly being buried. Muffled under snow. Crawling through dirt or rock. Drowning in a lake. Burned and disintegrated into dust. There was raw emotion, certainly; this powerful drive that ripped a song to shreds or left to drift in tatters. But those feelings were always toward another person. No cause. Nothing greater than oneself. Was love really worth destroying yourself over?
Enjolras had been in relationships, though nothing long or particularly satisfying, and romantic love had never particularly moved him. For him, love meant his friends. They kept him believing in compassion and sacrifice. But when there was a whole world to fight for, singing for just one person felt so mundane.
Eponine listened to his thoughts. She nodded and said she understood. But she didn’t agree with him, which he didn’t realize until much later. Instead, she just asked, “Is there not a single song on the album you connect with?”
When he told her that he liked plenty of songs just fine, she sighed and said there wasn’t much she could do to help. This was clearly something he needed to figure out on his own. She couldn’t read his mind.
He wished someone would read his mind, because then maybe he could make sense of his conflicting thoughts. The literary and mythology references weaved through the album intrigued him because Enjolras wasn’t familiar with most of them, yet he kept thinking about how that excluded the average listener. There were songs that bordered on blasphemous, yet they were rebellious not because of organized religion’s many atrocities but rather for romantic allegory. There was something base and elemental to R’s music that was captivating in its own way, yet it seemed to miss a spark.
The only time Enjolras had felt fire in an R song was the night of their competition, when he’d taken to the stage and sung something unpolished and raw.
As the idea swooped through him, Enjolras tried to fight it. The thought was absurd and far too greedy. But there was no escaping it. His mind was immediately alight at the concept, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He knew what song he wanted to—needed to—cover.
Now to just convince R to write it.
Enjolras called, fully expecting it to go to voicemail and already mentally prepping his message. But, as always, Grantaire caught him by surprise, answering after only a couple rings.
“Hey, babe.”
He blinked. “Babe?”
“Sorry, I have to take this—” R said away from the phone, presumably to someone nearby. Then back into the receiver, he continued a bit too loud, “Hi, honey! Did you lock yourself out of the house again?”
It was obvious he was disguising this call, and Enjolras didn’t fault the man for his privacy. Still, he crossed his arms and grumbled, “I’m offended on behalf of this imagined woman. Why is she a bimbo?”
“Why is she a she?” Grantaire countered.
Enjolras had no response to that. Was R not straight? That was always his impression, and the songs he’d been playing endlessly the past couple of weeks had seemingly confirmed that assumption. But were the vague terms of “baby” and “love” an indication that he’d been wrong? Had those classical references gone over his head?
“Anyway,” Grantaire said, continuing as though his words hadn’t been a major revelation, “sorry about that. But your timing was impeccable, actually. Some daughter of some producer was not taking the hint. I owe ya one.”
“What’s happening? If you’re busy—”
“No, no, I needed a break, actually. We’re filming some stuff for a music video, and it’s taking all day. Gets a bit exhausting just doing the same thing over and over, ya know? Oh! Speaking of, you got the new album, right? What’d you think?”
It was details like this, so casually dropped into conversation, that showed the difference between R and Les Amis. Their band didn’t do music videos. They might film a live performance or a recording session, but there was no real need to promo stuff that wasn’t meant for a mass market. Meanwhile, R was probably in the weeds of reminding the public he existed and mattered and that they should spend all their money on him. How exhausting.
And it’s not like Enjolras could be much of a distraction, because the answer to the man’s question was critical words and a favor once more being called in.
“Well, about that . . .”
“R! We need you back on set!” someone shouted, loud enough that even Enjolras heard.
Grantaire grumbled, “Sorry, gotta go. But, shit. I don’t even know why you called. Um, I could probably get back to you . . .”
“Hey, it’s fine,” Enjolras said. And really, he felt the guilt tearing at him. Who was he to demand this artist’s time? “You’re busy. I’ll catch you another time.”
As if he hadn’t said anything, Grantaire said, “How about this? I’m in Paris—and you’re probably back now that the tour’s over. I’ll be doing an interview at the Athénée tonight, but I’m free after. Why don’t you meet me for dinner?”
Enjolras was struck by how much this big-name musician knew about him and his schedule, while he knew absolutely nothing about Grantaire. Sure, he probably learned this stuff from the l’R group chat, but still. Enjolras hadn’t even known his real name that first night. And apparently his sexuality.
Something akin to competition bubbled up in him, making Enjolras want to do better purely to prove he wasn’t a worse human being than R. He could learn things about the man. He could be considerate.
“Sure, that sounds great.”
“Great!” Grantaire sounded pleased but also somewhat surprised, which irritated him. “Gav will send you the details. See you then!”
Enjolras continued to stare at his phone after the call ended. How had it turned into this, him having dinner with his not-enemy? And when had he stopped thinking of Grantaire as his enemy?
More importantly, what was he going to wear?
Sometimes, Enjolras liked to imagine what he’d be doing if he lived during the revolution. Storming the Bastille? Calling for heads in the September Massacres? He liked to think that he, being considered a she, would join the women in marching on Versailles to ransack the ultimate symbol of greed and inequality.
That was what immediately came to mind when he stood before the Hôtel Plaza Athénée.
The hotel was beautiful with red awnings and green ivy accenting the tall white façade of a typical Parisian building. In every direction there was marble and crystal and pink flowers and velvet chairs and damask carpets, which would surely make guests feel like they were staying in a palace. And Enjolras saw fire.
It was probably for the best that he was immediately found by Gavroche.
R’s assistant, a young man that looked closer to teen than adult, had been stationed in the lobby for Enjolras’s arrival, though he was far too occupied with his phone to be a proper welcome wagon. Instead, he just glanced up and said, “Good, you’re not wearing leather pants.”
Enjolras threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what Grantaire is telling people, but I don’t wear leather that often.” In fact, he’d thought very hard about this outfit, eventually landing on black jeans and layers of necklaces over an open silk shirt. Decent for a fancy dinner, but not close enough to black tie to be accused of bending to an expected dress code.
“That’s not what Google Images shows.”
He frowned at the kid’s flat delivery, unsure if it was a joke. Enjolras wasn’t in the habit of googling himself, so he didn’t dare reply and learn the truth. Some revelations were better left unknown. Instead, he followed the assistant to an area of the hotel that was blocked off for filming.
This was apparently a bigger interview than what Enjolras had pictured, which had been just two people sitting down over dinner to chat. Instead, he recognized a TV anchor from a major news network walking slowly down a hallway with Grantaire, talking and pausing while two cameramen were trained on the scene. The TV producers and R’s team waited behind an invisible line, checking the sound and framing, ready to jump in if needed.
Staying quiet, Enjolras was introduced to R’s manager, make-up artist, and bodyguard. They all seemed to know who he was already, though he would have expected them to be frustrated with him after the “You Rise” debacle. Instead, they were a bit giddy. Which he didn’t know what to do with. Enjolras stuck next to the assistant, who didn’t seem to give a shit about him.
They watched for a bit as the news anchor called for R to return to a previous mark, and Enjolras was reminded of Grantaire’s frustration over doing the same thing over and over again. He was tired just watching.
“R used to work here, before he got his big break,” Gavroche explained, keeping his voice low. “They thought an ‘everyman’ story would be a good angle for this interview.”
For some reason, that released a ball of tension that had been coiled inside him. Enjolras still didn’t know the man very well. For all he knew, holding the interview in this monument to excessive wealth was Grantaire’s idea. But the man continued his streak of being down to earth in every interaction they’d had: he’d showed up, in person, unannounced, to Les Amis’ show just to settle some bad blood in the press when he could’ve easily sent a representative, make a comment online, or just do nothing at all; he’d befriended the Amis; he seemed to want the same with Enjolras. It was all so uncomplicated that it felt impossible.
A-list celebrities didn’t act this way. Yet R broke out of every box that Enjolras tried to put him in.
When he looked back at Grantaire, their eyes met across the hallway, and his polite TV smile broke into one that brightened R’s entire face. The anchor looked to see what distracted him, and the producers were suddenly chattering and sneaking glances toward Enjolras. Shit.
Thankfully, R’s manager moved to distract them and Gavroche pulled Enjolras to a more obfuscated corner. They knew how to handle fame. He was quite unequipped for this level of recognition.
Fame followed him, it seemed, since R himself joined them soon after. He immediately snarked, “They asked if the sun got in my eye, but I had to explain that it was just Apollo gracing me with his presence.”
Enjolras raised a golden eyebrow. “It’s Apollo now?” It was better than “babe,” though not by much.
“Do you think even gods are beneath you? I’ll try to find a more suitable comparison.”
He frowned. Shouldn’t Grantaire of all people be sick of the hyperbolic praise heaped on him? R was just a man, same as Enjolras.
Gavroche saved him from needing to reply. “We should get a few pics here for IG.”
“Oh, sorry!” Grantaire said, wrapping an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and gently guiding him toward an exit. “I have plans, so got to go!”
“But—”
They were already around a corner and heading for a side door that Grantaire must know from his days working at the hotel. It wasn’t until they were out in an alley and navigating further into side streets that it was obvious no one was following. They were in the clear. No hovering managers or news cameras. No responsibilities.
“Once again, you are my savior!” Grantaire whooped, squeezing into Enjolras’s side before releasing him. “They wouldn’t have let me go if you hadn’t been there.”
“I guess you owe me twice.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “Any bullets you need me to jump in front of?”
“Not at the moment,” Enjolras said, though he couldn’t quite match Grantaire’s joking tone when he had a reason for interrupting his life so much. “But the reason I called earlier will actually use one of those favors. Or both.”
“Oh?”
“It might be better to discuss while sitting—wait, are we not eating at the hotel’s restaurant?” It only occurred to Enjolras now that they were a significant distance away that this was clearly not happening.
Grantaire laughed. “Oh fuck no. I was a waiter there for six months, and I never want to see that dining room ever again. You ever have a job like that?”
That was how their conversation proceeded, natural and easy, like they’d known each other for years. Which was unusual for Enjolras. He forced himself to chat with fans since it was the right thing to do, and he usually moved on quickly when the small talk got awkward. Unless there was a microphone in his hands, he generally wasn’t good at connecting with people.
But Grantaire made it easy. He navigated the conversation like he knew exactly how to get Enjolras to open up. He filled the silences. He showed pictures on his phone to make Enjolras feel like he was a valued part of R’s life.
It was the photo of Grantaire, covered in dirt after today’s music video where he was apparently buried alive, that carried their conversation into some bar in some neighborhood that Enjolras was not paying attention to. Only when they sat down at a booth did he feel a sudden pang of familiarity.
“Huh, I think I may have played here before.”
It would have been when Les Amis de l’ABC were unsigned and had no following, so they’d played at countless hole-in-the-wall bars and clubs that had little more than a corner to stick them in and a couple of euros to pay them. The Amis had scraped by on rent, lived on ramen, and gotten third jobs to pay for guitar strings; despite the hardships, those were still years that he looked back on fondly. They had come so far since then.
Grantaire smiled as if he could see that memory too. “Makes sense. The first time I saw you guys perform was down the road. Though that bar is closed now, which is insane, because it had the best absinthe in the entire city.”
“What?”
“I know, right? It should have been listed as a national monument!”
“No, not that,” Enjolras said, waving away the alcohol commentary. “You saw us perform?”
Maybe he was just blind, but it had never occurred to him that Grantaire was a fan. Which was stupid, in retrospect, because the whole reason they were sitting together now was because he’d liked a Les Amis song enough to cover it. But it was one of their most popular singles. If anyone were to stumble across their work, it would probably be “I Rise” they heard. He’d assumed that was the case.
But R had been listening to them since . . . he wasn’t sure how long. A long time.
The man looked embarrassed. “Well, sure. I was a down-on-my-luck musician, I drowned my sorrows in booze, and you sort of . . . inspired me? To keep pursuing music?”
Enjolras stared, and Grantaire pointedly looked away.
What. The. Fuck.
His mind was racing, trying to think through all the implications that this revelation opened up. Les Amis was responsible for one of the biggest names in modern music? And he was a fan of theirs? A long-time fan who just wanted to pay homage to the band with a cover and then got completely shit on by its lead singer?
Fuck. Enjolras was the biggest asshole in the world.
“I’m sorry.”
Grantaire laughed, the strained expression morphing back into the familiar sardonic smile. However, his fingers tapped a rapid beat on the table. “For inspiring me? Damn, Apollo. That’s a bit harsh, no?”
“No. I’m sorry for saying ‘You Rise’ was a bad cover and that you are a bad singer. You’re not.” Enjolras laid a hand on Grantaire’s. “You’re really, really good, actually.”
Like he was burned, Grantaire pulled away sharply. He couldn’t meet his eye, and Enjolras was baffled as to what was going on. R stood up and mumbled something about getting them drinks. While he still wasn’t sure why the compliment evoked that reaction, it did give Enjolras time to think. To come to terms with this newfound connection.
They say to never meet your heroes, and while hero seemed like a stretch, Enjolras was certainly proof that there was always more behind the stage persona. He knew he wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around. He cared much more for a person suffering from AIDS halfway around the world than his next-door neighbor, whatever their name was. He knew nothing about the man who had known him for years. Not that he was expected to befriend all his fans, but when they cover his song and sit across from him over dinner, maybe he was the asshole at that point.
He watched Grantaire chat with the bartender and tried to picture him at one of their shows. It would probably be similar to their competition. The mental image of R watching Enjolras with awe floated to the top of his mind, and he shook it away.
Their competition. Right.
When Grantaire slid over a glass, Enjolras pushed it away. “I don’t drink while discussing business.”
Having already taken a sip, R coughed and nearly choked. “We’re doing what?”
“Yes. It’s about the bet. Where I cover one of your songs?”
“The only bet we have.”
Enjolras’s face twisted at that but he refused to fall into another argument. “I would like to cover the song you sang that night.”
Grantaire blinked as he seemed to run through the evening’s events, trying to recall when he’d sang one of his songs. Finally, he spat out, “Wait, the one I wrote in thirty minutes? That one?”
“Yes.”
“You know it’s unfinished, right? Like, wildly in need of work. I wasn’t even planning on going back to it, to be honest, it was so bad.”
Enjolras shrugged. “It’s my favorite of your songs.”
He was tapping on the table again. “Wow. You hated the album that much, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.” While he wasn’t about to express some of his less complimentary thoughts right now, Enjolras also didn’t need to lie. He just needed to put into words the thing that had been eluding him this whole time. “Your other songs are beautiful. Polished. But I think it was because that song was raw that it spoke to me. It felt real.”
“So, what? I finish this song, polish it up, and then you hate it again? Not sure you thought this plan through, Apollo.”
He was starting to hate this nickname.
At least he could set it aside in favor of a counterargument. “I have, actually. Because what if I help? We finish the song together?”
There it was. The favor he’d been dodging all night. You have to work with me. You have to listen to some asshole, who has only been rude to you, as he critiques your work and changes it. You have to spend more time you don’t have to do more work for no reward. You don’t get some clean solution to the bet but something complicated and stupid and frustrating.
If Grantaire said no, Enjolras wasn’t sure what he’d do. Maybe he’d just go back and rerecord that sacrilegious song Eponine suggested. Or just hit shuffle and go for whatever came up.
It’s not like this should be a big deal.
Without even taking a second to think, Grantaire said, “Yes.”
And for some reason, that made Enjolras’s heart swell as if an entire orchestra were playing just for them.
“Though he’s pretty much stepped away from wrestling to pursue his acting career, The Rock had pretty solidly been a heel in any wrestling match—oh, a heel is essentially the villain in whatever plot they have going on. Gives the audience a clear person to cheer against. But John Cena was the ultimate hero. He’d been the good guy for decades, was a role model for kids, so it never seemed in the cards that it would ever change.
“But in this match, John Cena sold his soul to The Rock—”
“Hold up,” Grantaire choked out. “Sold his soul? What the fuck is happening?”
Enjolras smirked. “Yes, there’s magic in wrestling. People die and come back to life. They summon ghosts and channel demons. It’s a thing. Cool, right?”
“I’ve never been more confused and intrigued in my life. Please, continue.”
It felt like there was a buzzing in his heart and his head, as though Enjolras couldn’t contain himself for another moment, even if he tried. Except he knew that wasn’t true. Wrestling was largely an obsession he kept under wraps; the Amis had no interest or scoffed at the topic if it were even vaguely brought up, so Enjolras didn’t verbalize his fascination around them. But this love had apparently been burning a hole in his belly for a long time, just waiting to be released and for someone to listen.
He had no clue how the topic had come up with Grantaire. They were supposed to be discussing his song right now. After that day when R had agreed to this collaboration, it had taken a couple of rainchecks before both of their schedules finally opened up to chat on the phone. But Enjolras could care less about that right now.
“The Rock signals to Cena, and for the first time, after two decades, John Cena does a heel turn.”
“No!”
That reaction was all Enjolras needed to keep doling out detail after detail of the latest drama in the world of wrestling. With every twist, Grantaire gave the appropriate response, encouraging him to keep going. It was only after twenty or so minutes of him yapping that he flushed and said, “Oh, this probably sounds ridiculous. Especially if you have no context.”
“I mean, yeah,” Grantaire said, which immediately made Enjolras’s heart sink.
Shit. He’d been talking the man’s ear off, and the whole time, he’d been bored or annoyed or worse? He bristled, wondering why R hadn’t said something sooner. Enjolras didn’t need to be coddled.
Then the man continued, “But ridiculous in a good way, ya know? Like I need to see this in person. Now. Magic spells? Muscley guys in silly outfits? I’ve been looking them up while you’ve been talking, you know, and you did not even touch on these looks.”
The fight drained out of him. It was so sudden that Enjolras felt dumbfounded for a moment; and probably because he was distracted, he couldn’t stop the smile that pulled across his face. Thankfully, R couldn’t see it. The man had not only been listening but also doing his own research? He had thoughts and opinions on a thing Enjolras loved? It made him happier than he ever expected. Who would’ve thought that the two of them would have anything in common?
Grantaire asked, “When I go see a match—because this is happening now, I need to see this live—you want to join me?”
“Yeah. That’d be great.”
And it would be. Everything was so easy with Grantaire. Everything felt a bit more fun, a bit more magical. Enjolras actually wanted to delay work, even for a moment, to spend that time with him.
“Oh, and the entrances? Fucking fantastic,” Grantaire said. “What would be your walk-on song?”
Once again, Enjolras grinned. “I’ve actually thought about this a lot . . .”
Combeferre entered Enjolras’s apartment without knocking, setting his guitar case down in the spot that was always left for him. He sat on the couch while Enjolras flipped between TV channels.
The news ran through an endless list of terrible events, filling every inch of the screen with one tragedy after another. A place crash in Vietnam. A violent protest in Argentina. A school shooting in the US. A politician promoting hate in Paris. It went on and on, and the only comfort was having his best friend here, no matter what.
When the news anchors switched to a fluffy story about a cat being rescued from a tree, Enjolras felt sufficiently riled up. Blood pulsed in his ears. That energy needed to go somewhere, and if it wasn’t inspiring a crowd on or off stage, than it was going to be on paper.
This was how Enjolras wrote songs. There was usually more of a specific event or person that had pissed him off enough to tear down the whole system through words alone, but since R was no longer the focus of his ire, he needed to get the creative juices flowing with general reminders of the many issues in the world he needed to change.
Combeferre didn’t call himself a songwriter; instead, he served as an amazing sounding board for Enjolras to test lyrics and hooks on. Usually, Ferre would take it in and make it better somehow. He was a genius that way.
So after a bit of bandying lyrics back and forth, Enjolras moved over to his piano to try a melody that had risen in his mind. His fingers slammed the keys for the chorus. It sounded a bit flat, so he adjusted. Ferre was already searching for blank music sheets to write down what had just been played, but the shuffling sound suddenly halted.
“Uh, Enj?”
It took him a moment to snap back into reality, so Enjolras was taken completely by surprise at what Combeferre held in his hands.
“Why do you have Grantaire’s song?”
He flushed. Gavroche had sent that copy over weeks ago, and Enjolras had scribbled notes in the margins with what he’d change in the melody if it were completely his to do what he’d like. When they did discuss the song, he and Grantaire had spent many an evening arguing about the proper use of syncopation, which left Enjolras more buzzed than alcohol ever had. But they often got distracted from pure shop talk to discuss, or debate, completely unrelated topics.
Though they hadn’t talked on the phone or even emailed updated lyrics in over a week. The man was busy.
Enjolras wasn’t. Not in the same way, anyway. He’d had plenty of time and opportunity to tell the Amis about this development with R, yet he hadn’t. It’s not like it was anything to be ashamed of. So Enjolras replied, maybe a bit too airily, “I’m helping R finish it. Just like you’re helping me with this song.”
Ebony and ivory lines filled his vision, soothing in their simplicity. There were only the two options on a piano; he wondered vaguely what a gray key would sound like.
Combeferre said, “I suppose . . .”
“Don’t tell Courf and Ponine!” he suddenly called, whirling to face his friend.
Ferre raised his eyebrows but nodded. “If you want, I won’t tell them. But,” and he gave a probing look that always cut through the bullshit, “is there a reason you don’t want them to know?”
Enjolras didn’t have an answer for that.
When Les Amis de l’ABC were trying to get their big break, they’d had little option but for the four of them to share a tiny apartment in the outskirts of Paris. It was more hole than wall, with only heat working in the summer and air conditioning in the winter along with a constant layer of dust formed from the nearby trains shaking the ceiling.
All these years later, while not considered super famous, the band finally made decent money. Enjolras could live alone, which was saying something in a city like Paris.
That feat was nothing compared to Grantaire’s house.
Montmartre was once a hotspot for poor, starving artists that couldn’t afford to live in the heart of Paris. But when Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh became household names, that history turned the district into one of the most touristy spots in the city. And expensive to live in. Enjolras could still see the dome of Sacre Coeur as he stood before the ivy-covered brick building, and he wondered what living here did to someone’s ego.
The sloppy grin that answered his knock said it all.
“A-poll-o!” Grantaire sang far too loudly. People walking their dogs nearby looked over to see what was going on. Thankfully, Enjolras was yanked inside before they could surmise an answer. “I feel humbled by your presence every time you grace me with it. Come in, come in. Make yourself at home. Honestly, I’d give you a spare key if I knew where one was. I bet Gav has one . . . Probably has my original, the little shit.”
As he rambled, Enjolras slipped off his shoes to walk the parquet wood floor. The interior felt like a modern medieval castle with an oversized fireplace and warm velvet everywhere, offset by light streaming through large windows that illuminated bold paintings and strange sculptures. The style was disparate, but in a way that somehow worked and somehow felt like Grantaire. Odd but inviting.
Heavy on the odd today. They were supposed to be working on the song, the first time they’d met in person about it since Enjolras proposed the collaboration. While they’d gotten far in the past two months, they’d reached a point that was difficult to surmount when not face to face, and so Grantaire had suggested meeting at his home. He knew Enjolras was coming over. It had been his idea. This was not a surprise or a casual get together.
Which is why Enjolras asked flatly, “Why are you drunk?”
Grantaire was already pouring a second glass that Enjolras refused. “’s how I write. Drink, drink, drink, pass out, wake up with a masterpiece. ’s like magic!”
“That seems unhealthy.”
“Oh, it definitely is,” Grantaire hummed, throwing an arm around him and pulling Enjolras to the second floor. The casual touch felt strange now that they knew each other better. Strange but good. “How do you write?”
“I watch the news.”
“That’s horribly depressing, Apollo. I’m starting to understand why you don’t write love songs.”
For some reason, the staircase walls had been painted to resemble striped wallpaper that had crumpled in the wash, and it made Enjolras feel high just looking at it. He wasn’t sure how the drunk man could walk straight with twice the impediment.
Without issue, however, they ended up in a music room with a library lining the walls and rugs overlapping the floors. Instruments of all kinds looked like they had just been in use, including six guitars, a drum kit, and a harp. The overall effect was a luxurious but cozy den where friends would gather and talk. Enjolras couldn’t imagine a better studio space, picturing himself spending all of his time here if it were his own. When Grantaire pulled out a second bottle of wine from behind a chair, it seemed that was true for him as well.
Trying to not judge the man for his bad habits, Enjolras instead focused on something Grantaire had said. “What makes you say I don’t write love songs?”
“Well, that’s one of the main indicators that Courf wrote it, yeah?” He threw the fact out so casually, like it was well known. And maybe among the hardcore Amis fans, it was? He honestly didn’t know. “That and when cars are mentioned.”
Enjolras grinned. “Not every time. I wrote that lyric in ‘Red/Black.’”
“No!”
“We gave him so much shit for the cars in ‘Knight Errant’ and ‘Fraternity’ that I couldn’t help but include that line about being faster than a Ferrari.”
As they laughed, something in the sharp angle of Grantaire’s expression softened. Despite the way he carried himself, despite the drink, Enjolras was starting to pick up on the intricacies of how he behaved. Like Grantaire was always waiting for Enjolras to relax before he could follow suit.
“Speaking of lyrics . . .” the man said, placing the two options onto his baby grand piano.
After weeks of writing, arguing, compromising, and arguing again, they’d landed on two adaptations of the song: R’s version and Enjolras’s version. There were a few words changed here or there, but it was the second verse that was completely different and impossible to settle on. They each had strong feelings on their version, though Enjolras knew that his choices were what made it complete.
As usual, Grantaire’s verse was venerating some love just out of reach. Meanwhile, Enjolras couldn’t allow his name to be credited to a song that he did not believe in one hundred percent. They’d reached a standstill.
Despite their rocky beginning, this project had brought them a lot closer than Enjolras had expected. He enjoyed the process. He looked forward to their calls. He considered Grantaire to be a friend. But as a friend, he had no problem saying, “This is shallow, corny trash. I refuse to let this go, Grantaire.”
“And you think your version is more profound than an inspirational note on a refrigerator?”
“Better than being a simpering teenager.”
“You’re a ‘hang in there’ kitten poster!”
On and on this went, just like it had before, but now Enjolras could see the glee in Grantaire’s eyes as he gave back just as impetuously as he received. There was no bad blood on his end. There never had been. Grantaire had walked into his life like he’d always known just how to push Enjolras’s buttons without ever pushing him too far, and in a way, it was thrilling. He was immensely proud of the song he’d written and wasn’t sure it would have gotten that way without R nagging at him over this or that. But that was why he couldn’t back down now; this was the song. Why couldn’t he see that?
“Look, I haven’t felt this strongly about a song since ‘I Rise.’ I know this is the right call. I can feel it in my bones. It’s more than just a message, it’s an invitation. For people to do better. Be better.”
Grantaire had collapsed on a bean bag chair by now, letting his overly long limbs sprawl in every direction. He’d look dead if it wasn’t for the lazy way he lifted his head to take a drink before sliding a look his way. “You know my opinions on ‘I Rise.’ Not sure you’re making a great case there, Apollo.”
Enjolras grit his teeth. “That’s not my name. And you didn’t even know what the fucking song was about before you changed it.”
“World peace?”
“My fucking transition.”
The beans practically exploded with the speed that Grantaire sat up. He stared into the corner for a minute before finally meeting Enjolras’s eye, and when he did, it was with horror. “Fuck. That’s . . . I’m awful. I’m truly awful and I’m so sorry, Apollo—fuck, I mean Enjolras. Shit.”
“And this is why I didn’t say anything before,” Enjolras groused, running a hand over his blond hair. “I hate when people treat it like some sacred shit. Like I played a woke trump card. But if you want to keep bashing the song, that’s fine. Just know what it actually means to me, okay?”
Grantaire hummed. “So whether I’m nice or mean, I’m an asshole. Got it.”
“That’s not . . .” Enjolras was usually good with his words, only struggling when it came to things he had no interest in. It had always been easy with Grantaire. Except now, when speaking from the heart felt most important. “I’m just trying to give you context for why I was such a dick to you before. It felt like a personal attack. And now that we’re friends, I know it’s not. But like, you also apparently didn’t know. So now you know.”
Finally standing up from his awkward crouch, Grantaire stretched, took another sip, and approached Enjolras at the piano. He stared unblinking at him, those bright eyes luminescent in the dim room.
“We’re friends, yeah? So tell me how you really feel. Do you want me to keep making jabs at ‘I Rise’ or not?”
Enjolras swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It was a simple question. Why did it feel so heated? Like there was more contained in it that he couldn’t figure out? But he stood his ground and finally admitted, “No. I’d like you to stop.”
“There? Was that so hard?” Grantaire asked with a careless grin. But for some reason, he reached out a hand to push a blond curl behind Enjolras’s ear, fingering it for a moment like he wanted to understand the texture. “You know I’d love you no matter what.”
The words felt like a punch to the gut.
All the air was gone from his lungs and the world was spotty and Enjolras might just fall over if it weren’t for the piano there to catch him.
Love? Had he heard that right?
“You know, you were pretty before,” Grantaire said as if nothing were amiss. He went to take another swig, realized his glass was empty, then wandered away to refill it. “But you’re absolutely gorgeous now. Great decision over all.”
His world was tilting. Enjolras hadn’t had a drop to drink, but he felt like he was the drunk one.
“You’ve seen me from before?” he asked faintly. Absolutely not the thing to focus on, but that was what came out of his mouth.
“Oh yeah. Thought I told you how I was a fan back then?”
He stumbled over to a shelf that contained a chaotic mixture of CD cases and records, shifting through the disorganization until he cried out in victory and waved something in the air. Grantaire presented the object like it was made of gold.
But it was just cheap plastic. A cheap plastic Enjolras hadn’t seen in years.
Memories flooded back to him. Eponine had bought a pack of one hundred blank CDs from an office supply store; Courf had scrounged up cases from a myriad of sources, meaning they were different shapes and colors and conditions; Ferre had spent two days burning each one individually with their poorly recorded songs; Enjolras had been deemed the one with the best handwriting, so he’d spent another full day inscribing their band name onto each CD.
So many copies had been given away for free, but they’d only ever sold one.
This one.
Enjolras looked up from his writing to the beaming face of Grantaire. He knew that face. They’d been playing at some shitty bar, like always, and the patrons weren’t paying attention, like always. But there had been one scruffy guy who’d moved from a corner booth to a table near them, keeping his eyes only on Enjolras for the rest of the set. It had been unnerving, to be honest. When the man approached, Enjolras had insisted that the creep buy a CD if he were so interested. And he did.
It hadn’t meant much in the long run, but the victory had felt significant at the time. They had a fan. They were legitimate artists. They could do this. That sale had probably bolstered them for weeks or even months. Who knew where Les Amis de l’ABC would be without it?
And it was Grantaire this whole time.
“And you love me?”
Grantaire had been babbling his side of the story while Enjolras was caught in his memories, but when he asked that question, everything came to an immediate halt.
“Who told you that?” It wasn’t a denial.
“You did. A couple of minutes ago.”
Grantaire blinked slowly. His happy, open expression was suddenly locked behind an eyeroll and stiff shoulders. “What, you want to believe that guy? He’s drunk! Just saying random bullshit all the time.”
“Grantaire.”
“Really, I’m not even sure how I’m standing. Like you’re a blur, the room’s a blur, but there’s this bar down the street that has amazing tapas that I’m craving right now. Why don’t we go—”
“Grantaire. Stop.”
The man slumped, letting his hair fall over his eyes. Enjolras couldn’t tell what he was thinking, so he focused on R’s version of the song instead. The second verse. The love song.
He let the paper flap in the air so Grantaire knew what he meant when he asked, “Is this about me?”
“Yes.”
For the second time, the breath was gone from his lungs. Enjolras couldn’t describe the pain and betrayal he felt. His music had been used against him, like a knife hidden in a comforting embrace. Someone had bashed a hole in his chest and grabbed his heart and squeezed.
“‘You Rise’?”
It still hurt when the answer was: “Yes.”
“So, what, this whole thing was a ruse? Get me to cover a song as if I was reciprocating your feelings? Force me to play out some fantasy of yours?”
Then Grantaire looked up, and it felt like a war was raging everywhere except for those eyes. Those held steady on Enjolras, as if he were the lifeline on a stormy ocean, off a crumbling cliff, in a raging wildfire. “Every song, every album. It’s for you. They’ve always been you.”
Ten years. Maybe even more. R had been in love with him, and Enjolras didn’t even know he existed.
“You don’t even know me.”
“Enjolras, I . . .” Grantaire looked wrecked. No more words came out.
And for some reason, that pissed Enjolras off. The man claimed to love him but then couldn’t even stand up for those feelings? Was he even genuine at all? Was this all a lie? His head hurt and he didn’t know why or what to do with the feeling, so he just flung the music sheets at Grantaire’s feet instead.
“Go with your version. Put my name in the credits or don’t, I don’t care. I’m done.”
“God, Grantaire is such a dork,” Eponine grinned from behind her phone. Since her drum kit was being transported to the venue by professionals, she could sit back and relax while the boys packed up their instruments for the next day. “Takes a pic in front of the Eiffel Tower—in Vegas—and says, ‘I think we need one of these back home.’”
Trying to untangle an amp cable, Enjolras bit out, “Good. Glad he’s out of the country.”
“Woah, you haven’t been this hostile about him in months,” Courf commented. All the Amis seemed surprised by this bitterness, though Combeferre caught his eye for a different reason.
After shaking his head slightly, because he did not want to talk about it right now, Enjolras said, “Just had a bad run-in with him recently. Forget it.”
“Recently?” Ponine mused. “He’s been in Los Angeles for, like, a month doing promotion. If he was in Paris and didn’t tell us, I’ll be pissed.”
Their big fight was last week.
Knowing R stopped doing whatever celebrity bullshit just so he could fly out and meet with Enjolras for an afternoon pissed him off even more. How dare he? It was rude, honestly, to put all those responsibilities aside for him.
Why hadn’t Grantaire said anything? Why didn’t he ever say anything?
Enjolras had never noticed just how prevalent R was in the world until he tried to never think about him again. But suddenly his songs were playing in every store, ads for his album were on metro stops, people would casually mention him in cafes. Grantaire was everywhere, and Enjolras felt a cavity in his chest become infected the more he tried to ignore it.
Because if he acknowledged those thoughts, even for a moment, he would remember those hooded eyes as he stared down into a microphone; the way he flung his head back when he laughed like nothing in the world was funnier; those long fingers tuning a guitar with such care; the utter devastation as Enjolras walked out of the music room and his life forever. Those images haunted him late at night, when his brain no longer followed his instructions. And as the days wore on, his brain stopped listening altogether.
He caved and listened to R’s albums once more.
It was truly bizarre hearing these songs again. Enjolras once felt little for them, but now they were suddenly put in a new context—and that context was him. This metaphor was about him. These feelings were for him.
Sycophantic praise for “some woman” turned into R whispering love confessions in Enjolras’s ears. A desperate clawing toward something, anything, other than heartbreak only to fall in the same cycle made Enjolras’s heart ache. In some ways, Grantaire had never been more honest with him than now, through an album he’d recorded a decade ago.
In the moment of revelation, CD in hand and memories fresh in his mind, all Enjolras could see before him was the creep from the bar. A potential stalker or predator or simply a person with boundary issues. A decade of worship had felt like hands clinging on with glue, making him a fly stuck in a spider web, leaving him sticky and violated and gross. It was a violation beyond his comprehension, and he couldn’t understand anything in that moment beyond the need to escape. So Enjolras had fled.
With time, that feeling dulled. He remembered Grantaire as the man he’d met this year. Friendly. Charming. Kind. Intelligent. Talented. Enjolras had been surprised by him over and over again, slowly lowering his walls despite his best efforts to hate the man.
They’d become friends.
Which made it all the more confusing that Enjolras still couldn’t bear to think of R or accept his feelings or forgive the betrayal. His feelings were conflicted. R had cut Enjolras in a way that he couldn’t articulate, and it was hard to move past his anger without knowing why he was so furious.
Now, the happy songs on the album felt few and far between, and he craved more. Despite whatever had happened between them, it still hurt to hear his friend in pain and it hurt to know he was the cause. At the very least, he wanted Grantaire to be happy.
And maybe that meant staying away. Maybe this would be the clean break that R needed to get over his crush, and he could finally move on. He deserved that much. Enjolras would stay away for as long as it took. Maybe they could be friends again, but it was best to not see him again for a long, long time.
Best for them both.
After all, he’d felt this pull toward Grantaire that he couldn’t explain. If they’d spent much more time together, gotten closer and closer, who knows what might have happened?
When these thoughts came to him—sudden and unbidden—Enjolras’s brain always stalled. Because he wasn’t sure what he was so afraid of. He was scared of nothing. He welcomed the terrible and uncomfortable, and he strongly believed that those who shunned what they didn’t understand were too mired in the status quo. Life was uncomfortable. The things that made us squirm were the most interesting and the most in need of protection.
But was that it? Was he uncomfortable?
Why?
“What is this?”
Papers were scattered all over the piano and spilled across the floor, making Courfeyrac dance his way through the empty spaces and pick up a handful so he didn’t step on anything.
Enjolras was at the center of his own snowstorm, and he simply shrugged. His mind had been a mess and he hadn’t had any luck organizing his thoughts by putting them to music. That had always worked before. But not now. There was always a voice in his head, questioning if the arrangement was right or why he had chosen a particular word. The voice sounded annoyingly like R.
“Is this why you’ve been so surly lately? Can’t figure out a song?” Courf asked, looking over a few music sheets.
A discordant chorus sounded as Enjolras dropped his head onto the keys. “Yes. It’s been awful. I know we have the new album coming up, but I’ve just been . . . off.”
“That’s not like you, Enj,” Eponine said as she and Combeferre swept into the apartment. “It usually goes: you have an idea, we base an entire album around it, you get mad when it doesn’t match your vision, you write ten more songs. Rinse and repeat.”
“But you don’t like writing songs.”
“Yeah, I wonder why.”
Enjolras didn’t appreciate being put on blast right now, but maybe he had been a bit inconsiderate of the band in the past and too stubborn to see it. He sighed and said, “Sorry, Ponine.”
She stared, bug-eyed. “Did the great Enjolras just apologize? Are you sick?”
“I think he is,” Courf said, still staring down at the papers in his hands. “These songs don’t sound like you at all, Enj. They’re so flowery.”
“I can write songs like R,” he grumbled, snatching the sheets away. It wasn’t until a long silence followed that Enjolras realized what he’d said and wished he could take it back.
Eponine twirled her drumstick in thought. “I didn’t think you liked Grantaire. Why would you want to write songs like him?”
“Let’s stop pestering Enj and get dinner,” Combeferre interjected.
That was why Ferre was his best friend. Enjolras would be forever grateful for him keeping this secret and running interference for him. But telling the Amis didn’t make a difference anymore, since it didn’t matter now whether they knew. And he didn’t care. He didn’t.
“I was collaborating on a song with him. It didn’t work out, but I guess some of that style bled through. Anyway, I was thinking Ethiopian—”
“What do you mean ‘collaborating on a song’?” Courf all but shrieked. “When? Why? How?”
“And why didn’t you tell us?” Eponine added.
“It doesn’t matter. It fell through. We aren’t speaking anymore.”
Courfeyrac folded his arms. “What did you do?”
“We’ve been friends for over a decade,” Enjolras pointed out, “and you’ve known him for less than six months. Why are you on his side?”
Eponine rolled her eyes. “Grantaire is a sensitive soul, and you’re an asshole. If something happened, I fully believe it was your fault. And you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
Enjolras couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The pain he’d been harboring for weeks was so casually dismissed by his closest friends, as if he were to blame for his own damage. While he hadn’t been sure of the reason he’d kept all this a secret—maybe thinking it would just go away and he’d never have to admit it at all—Enjolras had always assumed that if he told them, his friends would support him.
Instead, it was pent-up rage that finally made him snap, “And if he admitted he’s been in love with me for years? Like a creepy stalker?”
That shut everyone up.
“Oh.”
“That’s . . . Hm.”
“We called it,” Eponine whispered.
“Not the time, Ponine!”
She rolled her eyes. “Might as well put it all out there! You and I talked about it that first night. The way Grantaire stared at Enj? It was classic groupie.”
Courfeyrac said, “Yeah, and the way he casually brings you up in the group chat? ‘Oh, does Enjolras enjoy horror movies too?’ I told him yes, by the way. Anyway, it was so obvious. But we genuinely thought you two were doing a weird courtship thing, ya know? We had no idea that his feelings were anything more than a crush.”
Combeferre crouched down next to Enjolras, who had fallen back on the piano bench with his head in his hands. “Did Grantaire try to force you? Or do something that made you uncomfortable?”
“What? No. Nothing like that, no. It’s just . . .” Enjolras looked at the papers surrounding his feet, looking like a frigid winter landscape. “We were friends. And now it all just feels like a lie. Like he just wanted to get to know me because of some fantasy idea of who I am, and once that was shattered, I’d be the only one hurt.”
“You would be hurt?”
The words repeated back made it clear that he’d admitted something, but Enjolras couldn’t grasp it, just like he hadn’t been able to write it down for weeks. “Well, yeah. If one of you suddenly decided that the real me was less than the me on stage, I’d be devastated.”
“Okay, this will sound like I’m defending Grantaire, but hear me out,” Courfeyrac said, sitting on the floor before Enjolras. “As someone who has written many songs with you, I am in the unique position to know that you very much do not act like the noble warrior that our fans see. Frankly, you become a bitch. You tear my work to shreds, we argue, and I get so pissed off that I sometimes wonder why I’m still even in the band. If Grantaire saw that side of you, I doubt he has you on a pedestal. And he still admitted his feelings? I dunno. Seems real to me.”
Despite the insults being casually flung his way, Enjolras stayed silent to think. Because it would have been clear to Grantaire before they even met that his righteousness made him blind to nuance and that his confidence could twist into cruelty. Yet the man had met them anyway. He’d seen how terrible Enjolras could be, over and over again.
And those eyes had still shown nothing but desperation and heartbreak when Enjolras had slapped those feelings away.
Maybe Grantaire really loved him.
“But that doesn’t mean I love him back.”
The Grammys were held on a Sunday night, which meant the Amis had to wake up extraordinarily early on Monday morning to watch them live. “You Rise” had been nominated, not that they would receive anything should it win due to some weird rule about the nomination being for a performance rather than the songwriting. But they were never in this for mainstream recognition. This was about supporting their friend.
“You Rise” didn’t win, but R still had to do a performance of it. With all the Greek mythology references throughout the album, it seemed the producers had gone with a very literal approach, dressing the stage as a Grecian temple.
Grantaire was wearing a toga that showed much more chest than Enjolras had yet seen on the man, and he tried very hard to focus on anything else. The laurels in his auburn hair. The dancers waving gauzy fabric in the background. The way the song transformed into something entirely removed from Les Amis when R played from a hand harp and poured a depth of emotions into the slow melody.
His album, Ode to Icarus, did win a Grammy.
Now dressed in a sharp suit and wearing that familiar grin—the genuine one that made Enjolras’s heart stutter—Grantaire stepped onto the stage and made a speech about how protecting trans kids was more important now than ever. There was a sickness in the world, and hiding from it wasn’t going to help anyone. His political tirade got cut off about twenty seconds in, but it was enough.
Enjolras felt hot and cold all over. He was shivery. Everything inside him roiled with a bitter mix of happiness over this political display, sadness that he wasn’t by Grantaire’s side, and ultimately, a want.
God, did he want.
He mumbled, “I think I made a mistake.”
The European leg of R’s tour had to start in his hometown of Paris, and to everyone’s surprise, Les Amis de l’ABC had been chosen as the opening act. And the bigger surprise, the band had actually agreed. It was really Enjolras coordinating with Gavroche behind the scenes, bargaining with him to make it happen without Grantaire being the wiser; but to the world, the choice seemed like a stunt.
Music and entertainment news coverage had fun recapping the Les Amis/R saga, summarizing how unusual this big stage was for the small punk band, and speculating about what this meant. R fans weren’t happy about the huge tonal shift between the two acts. Les Amis fans believed they were selling out.
Pretty much, no one was happy.
Not even Enjolras. He felt like he was about to puke. Nerves usually didn’t get to him before a show, but tonight, he was more willing to jump off a building than go out on stage.
Grantaire had avoided them before the show. He’d avoided Enjolras ever since that day, though he’d been friendly with the rest of the band until now. Clearly, they were getting punished for his mistakes. Enjolras just hoped he could undo some of it tonight.
They were in a stadium; the largest venue Les Amis had ever played. He’d been told the number of seats, but once “thousand” was added to the end, all concept of scale had gone out the window. Instead, the absolutely insane number of people that would be watching them tonight was better gauged by the deafening chatter echoing all around the stage. It was unlike anything they’d ever known.
However, when the lights shut off, Combeferre played some deep chords and Eponine started a low rumble on her cymbals, and he felt at home. Enjolras knew this. He could perform blind and still know where he was.
Spotlights hit him, and Enjolras raised a white flag. He belted out the first few notes of “I Rise,” and the crowd went wild.
Honestly, the performance was a blur. It was the same and different from every one they’d done before: exhilarating, magical, the best one yet. The only difference was that they’d changed the last song of their set, and Enjolras could feel its approach like a looming army.
He was staring down the barrel of a gun. He needed to dare them to fire.
“You’ve been amazing, Paris,” Enjolras breathed into the microphone. “But we have one last song. And I’ve prepared something special for you: the premiere of a brand-new single that was written just for tonight.”
Because that had been the only way. Grantaire had confessed to Enjolras over and over again through song, and he deserved a fraction of that devotion in return. It needed to be a song. Conversation could be misspoken or misinterpreted, but music was truth. Music is what they both understood.
And it couldn’t be a cover. Enjolras had tried that, months ago, when none of R’s songs had felt right and he hadn’t known why. But now he knew: they weren’t his words. A cover didn’t come from his heart. If he was going to confess, it needed to be something he knew to be genuine; a piece of his soul offered.
Which meant, for the first time, Enjolras had written a love song.
He sat at the piano and played a complex melody that slowed to a few simple notes. Then he sang. It wasn’t a power ballad or wrought with complex metaphors. It wasn’t nearly as good as any of R’s songs. Enjolras wasn’t sure it was even good. But it was honest, spilling his feelings out into the air.
Love had never been a priority for him. He’d seen romance and relationships as less important than anything else. But when it felt like the world stopped turning the moment Grantaire wasn’t in his life, when Enjolras had been lost without understanding why, he realized just how powerful love could be.
He loved Grantaire. His stupid comments. The way he laughed. The way he focused intensely on a subject and fought for it with everything in him. His casual affection. His brilliance.
Love was frustrating. It was inconvenient. But it also pushed Enjolras to be a better person, to see more, and to open himself up in a way he’d been avoiding.
Love hurt, but he’d keep fighting for it—if Grantaire was by his side.
When the song ended, Enjolras realized what an idiot he was. It had been his idea to perform this song in the largest setting possible, to declare his feelings as publicly as Grantaire had, to make himself vulnerable. And now he saw just how massive this rejection would be. R had been ignoring them all night. There was no reason why he’d watch their performance, and more likely, he’d avoid it.
All of this was for nothing.
The applause they’d received all night suddenly ratcheted up to a level he hadn’t known was possible, and Enjolras looked around to see what had caused it.
Grantaire had appeared on stage looking, frankly, disheveled. His hair was mostly in his face, his clothes looked like he’d just pulled them on, but his eyes burned brighter than ever as they met Enjolras. He didn’t smile. He just stared and stalked downstage to where Enjolras hovered by the piano, unsure of what to do.
“Did you mean it?” Grantaire asked.
Of course he’d understood. How could Enjolras have doubted him? Heart hammering, he nodded.
Grantaire’s eyes flicked down to his lips before asking, his voice a rasp, “Do you permit it?”
Enjolras prided himself on knowing what to say in important or stressful situations, always being able to perform a speech or a song when others would wilt. For the first time, he felt tongue-tied. He didn’t have a speech or song lyrics to fall back on. Instead, this was just him and Grantaire, and Enjolras needed to finally say something from the heart.
“Yes.”
It was the right thing to say.
Grantaire grinned, then dove in for a kiss.
The entire stadium exploded with noise, but Enjolras didn’t notice a thing. There was only sweet music, now played in duet.