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Chapter Text

“Drum major, is your band ready?”

It was a chilly November evening, enough to redden Grantaire’s cheeks and chap his lips, so much so that he longed for Eponine’s cherry chapstick that was lounging somewhere in the stands. He licked his lips, flicking his eyes down to his saxophone cautiously, not daring to come down from attention. He wondered momentarily what this show would sound like. His poor ancient tenor was very anti-cold, and this was the chilliest game yet. Any sound coming out of his horn had a 50:50 chance of being a honking squeak. The harsh stadium lights glared down at him from their perches and Graintaire’s gaze shifted to the overflowing student section and the shockingly empty band section. The percussion equipment looked like empty shells, their inhabitants planted firmly on the field with their horns down and their knees bent.

In his peripheral, he could see his opening set. He was four steps off the line, Feuilly and his monster of a saxophone four steps off the line in the other direction, and Courfeyrac standing on the line four steps ahead of them, completing the triangle that Courf had lovingly nicknamed the “Sax Pack.” He risked a small smile at the memory, and finally set his gaze on the god on top of the podium.

Perhaps “god” is a bit dramatic. Drum major of an underfunded band program at an exceptionally shitty high school is no place for an immortal. However, he stands on the podium nonetheless, facing the stands with his shoulders back and his head held high. He practically glowed under the stark lighting of the stadium, the LED light nothing compared to his natural aura. His usual mane of golden curls was pulled back in a low ponytail. Despite this attempt to tame the coils of hair, several strands had already escaped the confines of the hair elastic, giving Enjolras a sort of curling halo, which only added to the whole ethereal vibe he already had going for him.

Grantaire’s gaze hadn’t left him as he gave his salute to the crowd and turned back to face the band. He felt Enjolras scan the band, and he looked up, locking eyes with him for just a moment in time. Enjolras gave a slight nod, and- Grantaire would later swear he imagined it- the god graced him with the ghost of a smile dancing across his lips. Grantaire’s gaze shifted to Enjolras’ hands, stark white gloves standing out against the dark night. It was really a shame that drum majors had to wear gloves, for the beauty of Enjolras’ hands was not designed to be contained in a white cotton prison.

“Band,” Enjolras called. Grantaire’s ears perked up, waiting for the call to attention.

“Band ten hut,” Enjolras continued. Grantaire’s heels snapped together automatically, holding his horn at rest with sweaty hands. Enjolras’ voice cut through the stadium clear as day and rang in Grantaire’s ears.

“Band horns up,” Enjolras completed the call, hands snapping to attention. Grantaire felt his horn come up along with the rest of the band, even if his mind didn’t completely register what was happening until he swiped his tongue over his cold reed and braced it against his mouthpiece. He kept his eyes trained on Enjolras, watching him count off- one, two three, four-

The band breathed, and suddenly it all tumbled into reality.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Eponine asked, laying on Grantaire’s bed sideways and propping her legs up against the wall. “I mean, last year was nothing short of a fucking nightmare, not to mention that you were enough of a wreck with him just in the stands. He’s on the fucking podium now, R.”

Grantaire groaned and thudded his head against his desk, sending an assortment of colored pencils rolling onto the floor. “Jesus, don’t remind me,” he complained into the desk, sighing dramatically and sitting up, “At least I won’t have any problems watching the drum major now.” He reached under the desk, searching the floor for the red colored pencil that had escaped the confines of the desk.

Eponine rolled her eyes and picked up her phone from where she had flung it dramatically against the bed. “Yeah, no more Valjean shouting at you for missing cues because you’re busy staring at your beloved. The end of an era, honestly.” She explained, gesturing lazily with her other hand.

“He’s not my ‘beloved,’ you shit. And no more Valjean period, remember?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, continuing his coloring despite reddening slightly.

“Oh shit, yeah,” Eponine swore, heels bumping against his wall as she shifted. “Damn, and here I was waiting for my senior privileges. Have you heard anything about the new guy?” She asked.

Grantaire racked his brain. In all honesty, the end of his junior year had been a hazy blur.
“His name’s Javert. We met him at the end of last year, remember?”

“Grantaire, I want you to think about just how much school I missed at the end of the year and ask that question again,” Eponine countered. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“Touche,” He said, “He’s about Valjean’s age, maybe a little bit older? I couldn’t tell. He seems like more of a bitch-”

“By Valjean’s standards, that’s not hard to do. I skipped so many rehearsals last year and he would just let me off the hook. He knows what my parents are like. Remember when Joly came to him crying and said he was having a bad day and Valjean let him take a nap in the practice room during class?”

“Fair enough.” Grantaire set down the red, searching for a different color. “I’m really not feeling marching this year, though. Everything will be so different.”

“We could always just not it do, it y’know? Like, it’s senior year, fuck it and all that shit. It’s not like I’m going to go to college anyway.” Eponine explained.

“Oh, shut up. You’re a brilliant instrumentalist, a bitching vocalist; colleges are going to be tripping over themselves to have you,” Grantaire listed off. Eponine huffed in response, rolling over so she faced him and burying her head in these covers. “Besides, Valjean- or, Javert, rather- will kill you if you leave Joly as the singular clarinet,” Grantaire continued explaining.

“You, shut up,” Eponine complained into the sheets. She slowly raised her head as her phone buzzed again. Grantaire’s phone lit up too, but he chose to ignore it and let Eponine’s string of curses answer most questions he had about it.

“What?” He asked

“It’s the marching group chat,” Eponine elaborated, fingers hovering over her keyboard.

“Isn’t that usually fucking dead over summer? Like, unless Courf’s spamming memes again-”

“They want to know who’s coming tonight,” Eponine explained, biting at her lip.

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. They’re all at leadership training- which sounds like a thin bullshit veil for ‘clean the entire band room,’ by the way- and Ferre’s making copies.” Eponine looked at him like she expected Grantaire to make the damning decision.

And Grantaire really, truly, considered not going. He thought about not having practice until 5:30 every day (except for Wednesdays because there was a Big Important Director Meeting then), and being able to continue working as normal. He thought about having Friday nights free to go fuck off and get high somewhere. He thought about actually having a life for the first three months of school, and how nice that all would be.

But then, he wondered who he would even fuck off to get high with, considering all his friends would be at the game. He couldn’t find a way in his mind to face them if he chose not to go. Who would throw disgustingly buttery popcorn into Bahorel’s waiting mouth, or have frantic hot chocolate chugging contests with Bousset during their third-quarter break? And who would argue with Courfeyrac over swinging the cymbal sizzles in that one cadence?

And finally, he thought about Enjolras, and how disappointed he would be for the rest of their senior year. He thought about their tentative truce during last season, the careful nod that Grantaire received each time Enjolras passed off the solo to him. He thought about not only standing next to Enjolras but the new experience of standing beneath him as he led the band. He thought about belonging, and maybe, just maybe, making Apollo proud.

Which, in reality, was kind of a bullshit fantasy at this point, but who was Grantaire to protest it, especially when Enjolras was that pretty.

“You said it yourself,” He finally spoke up, “It’s senior year. We’ve made it this far, we may as well keep going for one more season.” He reasoned, giving up on his coloring and spinning in his desk chair to face where Eponine was laying on his bed. She looked at him, a little dumbfounded, but then nodded slowly.

“So you’re- we’re- in? Even without Valjean and even with sun fucker on the podium?” Eponine reiterated.

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded with a sort of finality, wondering if this was the beginning of an end, “we’re in.”

Eponine looked at him long and hard, like this was some sort of old western style standoff before abruptly looking down and replying with a flat, “Lit.”

Grantaire snorted as she typed a reply, wondering the extent of what he’d signed up for before Eponine interrupted his train of thought again.

“Wanna go get Burger King before rehearsal? Bousset invited us.” She said, curls hanging off his rumpled bed sheets.

“Sounds lit.” He parroted back, exchanging a grin with Eponine.
__

For the Corinth High School band, Burger King was a lawless place.

Well, nearly lawless, excluding that one (one!) time the group had been kicked out after an intense chicken nugget eating competition between Bahorel, Eponine, and Courfeyrac that ended with Bousset breaking a table after leaping onto it while commentating wildly and an extremely pissed off Enjolras that had just wanted to enjoy his caramel sundae in peace.

However, the Nugget Nuisance (as Courfeyrac had christened it afterward) was just the beginnings of the shit those poor fast food employees had seen unfold at their shiny red tables courtesy of the Marching Amis. This meal, Grantaire was sure, was destined to be relatively tame as he pushed the doors open and waved to an already seating Joly and Musichetta. It only got really rowdy after games, when everyone was here and there were no rules under the curtain of darkness.

“Order me my usual,” Eponine tossed her hair over her shoulder and went to go claim an empty chair at Joly and Musichetta’s table, leaving Grantaire alone in the line with nothing but his nostalgia to keep him company. His nostalgia and Bousset, who was having a rather vexing conversation with an employee while frantically motioning with a Whopper in his hand. Grantaire looked up at the lighted sign, considering his options before settling on what he normally got. It felt like returning to an old, if not fattening and greasy, friend.

He approached the cashier, digging out his wallet and nodding at her rehearsed greeting.

“I’ll have a Whopper, no tomato, with a large fry and an Oreo milkshake, and a ten piece chicken nugget and a small orange fanta.” He listed off automatically, paying and listening in, bemusedly, to Bousset animatedly explaining that he had somehow gotten the wrong order.

He got his food and joined the table, Bousset following close behind with what he was finally sure was the correct toppings. Joly had one hand buried in a container of fries and the other splayed on the table where Musichetta was busy painting each nail a deep blue. Eponine had already made herself at home, kicking her boots up on the table and munching on one of Bossuet's onion rings.

“-and I seriously wonder how the new guy hasn’t taken his fucking phone yet, he’s been spamming us all morning,” Musichetta complained in quick bursts between painting strokes of color on Joly’s nails. Eponine nodded gravely, looking up at Grantaire with knowing eyes and a smirk as he sat down with the tray.

“Courfeyrac?” He guessed, and the look Musichetta gave him answered the question.

“Okay, my money’s on he’s holed himself up in the music room and he’s “organizing” with Combeferre-” Joly began, before being interrupted with a scoff from Eponine.

“Like Combeferre would let anyone near his precious file cabinets.” She rolled her eyes.

“Exactly my point!” Joly injected, bringing his hands up in exclamation and causing Musichetta to swear and lurch after the nail polish that he had nearly knocked over.

Grantaire took a bite of his food and was suddenly very grateful that he had shown up on the steps of the band room freshman year with a case almost as big as he was, for how else would he have ended up with friends like these?

“Who’s all there? At leadership training, I mean,” He asked between bites.

“The usual crew,” Musichetta explained, “Courf, Ferre, Enjolras. Cosette, too.”

Grantaire nodded, tossing Eponine her bag of chicken nuggets as she reached her hand out and made a grabby motion towards his tray. She blew him a kiss and Grantaire rolled his eyes. Yesterday, he had briefly considered showing up at leadership training this morning just to see the look Enjolras’ face, but he had decided against it after sleeping past the time it was said to begin. Besides, he didn’t want Javert to have excessive expectations of him, because that would just end in disaster for everyone. He took a sip of his milkshake, looking up when he heard Joly say his name.

“What?” He asked, looking up at the skittery clarinetist.

“How many new people do you think we’ll get this year? Musichetta and Bousset are hopeful at five, I think about three, and Eponine- forever the optimist- is seated firmly at zero.” He listed. Eponine knocked him lightly with her half-empty bag of chicken nuggets and scowled.

“I’m a realist, you bitch. We’re a joke.” She countered. She was right, too. Their dinky marching hadn’t been competitive in years, and often barely had enough members to stay afloat.

“Touche,” Joly shrugged, admiring his nail polish and eagerly spreading his other, unpainted hand on the table. “I’m not worried about our numbers, really. We’ll manage. I just don’t know if I can march this year with my leg and all.”

“What do you mean? Has it gotten worse?” Grantaire asked, looking to his friend in concern and noticing the cane that was resting against the back of Musichetta’s chair.

“Not more than usual, just Valjean is gone and I don’t know if the new guy- Javert, I mean- will be as willing to let me sit out when it gets bad.” He shrugged, tapping against the plastic table with his painted hand.

“I'm sure he'll understand, Joly,” Bousset chided, spinning an onion ring around his finger absentmindedly, “and, if not, I'll just, like, punch him or something.”

“Bousset, the impulse is nice, but I think you have to be moderately coordinated to successfully engage in combat,” Grantaire said, smirking. “You can’t just, like, trip over him.”

“Rude!” Bousset protested, spinning his onion ring more aggressively than intended and sending it flying across the table, where it landed (quite gracefully) on Musichetta’s chest.

“Eat it,” Eponine said impulsively, “no balls.”

Musichetta locked eyes with her, picking up the onion ring. “Bet,” She replied, before stuffing the entire thing in her mouth without hesitation.

Grantaire laughed, finishing off his milkshake and checking the time on his phone, ignoring the rapidly multiplying notifications from the marching group chat. They have about forty minutes until rehearsal officially starts, meaning that they should really be there in about ten minutes to allow plenty of time for reunion and preliminary shenanigans. He crumples his food trash into a tiny ball and stuffs it inside his empty cup, doing his best to consolidate the rest of the table’s garbage as well. He makes the mistake of trying to take Bossuet's half empty container of onion rings, to which Bousset snatches them back from him and claim they’re a snack for later. Eponine, in turn, calls him disgusting and tells him that she hopes his trombone rots from the food buildup in the slide.

In that moment, Grantaire decides that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Chapter Text

There is one thing that irritates Enjolras, and that is disorganized authority figures.

Actually, that’s not true, he probably could have omitted the word disorganized, and the statement would remain true. He also could rearrange that phrase in just about any way, and he would still be irritated by it. Actually, come to think of it, there’s a lot more than just one thing that irritated him.

Anyway, his point still stands: he’s nearly through with this year’s “leadership training” and he’s seriously wondering how Valjean managed all these years without having an actual system for his sheet music.

He had long since given up on cataloging the music room, simply pulling out the music he knew he would need tonight and retreating into the main room to help Cosette set up chairs and stands. He would leave that endless organization to Combeferre’s methodical madness and Courfeyrac’s relentless commentary (his friend had found a precarious perch on top of a file cabinet, where he was discussing appropriate cymbal technique with Combeferre and intermittently filming the other and uploading it all to Snapchat).

It filled him with a strange sense of pride, looking around the newly set up band room. This was what he was the head of this year. This is where he would build the strongest band that Corinth High School had ever seen.

Okay, knowing who would show up, that was wishful thinking. Still, being drum major was not a responsibility he was taking lightly, as he shuffled the stack of fight song sheet music. He doubted most of them would need it, but he couldn’t help but be prepared, right? He checked his watch and knew that he had about an hour left until the doors would officially open and the dozen or so musicians that he knew and loved would come pouring into the room.

It was weird thinking about how much he missed them. Sure, he’d stayed exceptionally busy this summer, making connections and learning loads as an intern for a humanitarian group, but there was something incredibly unique about creating music with this group of people. He’d stayed in touch exclusively with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, with the exception of occasionally popping his head into the sporadically active group chat.

He hadn’t heard Bahorel’s booming guffaw for months or seen Eponine’s sly smile. He hadn’t watched Bousset hurt himself and seen Joly immediately produce a band-aid from his pocket since their end of year concert. He even missed Montparnasse slinking in late to every rehearsal.

He stopped himself on this train of thought as he landed on another flawed figure in this band, though for admittedly different reasons than Montparnasse. Grantaire was infinitely more complicated than anything Enjolras had ever experienced.

He had been a member of the marching band since freshman year, same as Enjolras, but Enjolras could not, for the life of him, figure out why. He played his instrument remarkably well (not child prodigy level, but definitely impressive, considering he very blatantly and obviously refused to practice), but he displayed no passion for the band. Enjolras could almost chalk it up to Grantaire being there simply for the people, but he also knew so much about music, which nearly invalidated that theory.

However, the most confusing part about Grantaire is how much he loved to argue with Enjolras. No one in his seventeen-year history of being on this Earth had ever managed to get under his skin more than Grantaire. They argued about anything, from the overuse of Sousa marches to the current political climate. He would think that this constant bickering would eventually drive Grantaire away, but he kept coming back and kept refusing to back down.

He looked over to Valjean’s old office, remembering how the other man had dealt with their bickering with a smile and a gentle cutoff, reminding them that if they so desperately wanted to argue, they were better off joining the mock trial team. Enjolras didn’t know how the new director would react to the realization that his drum major was incapable of backing down from a challenge.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Mr. Javert yet. A general distaste for authority had made him more likely to immediately dismiss him, but Courfeyrac insisted that he at least try to be open to the change. He seemed harsher than Valjean, more straight to the point and likely to stick to the rules, which Enjolras nervous. He wasn’t necessarily known for following the rules, and he didn’t want to spend his entire year involved in a battle with his director.

So far, Javert had done nothing to deem himself entirely hateable, so Enjolras took the bad vibe he gave off and put it aside for later, just in case he ever needed to tell anyone that he had seen it coming.

“Hey, space cadet, coming in for a landing anytime soon?” Cosette’s teasing brought him out of his own head and back into the band room. He looked up at her, smiling as she stood with one hand on her hip and the other clutching her piccolo.

“Very funny,” He allowed, “I was just thinking about seeing everyone again. It feels like I haven’t seen them in years and simultaneously like I just saw them yesterday,” He mused, twirling one of his curls around his pointer finger. He and Cosette had gone in opposite directions with their hair over the summer. He had finally given in and grown his unruly curls out (it was an accident, his hair had been sitting at an unfortunate bob for most of last year, and he honestly hadn’t found the time to cut it over the summer), while she had cut her long locks to frame her soft jawline.

“Yeah,” she agreed, twirling her pic between her fingers absentmindedly. The instrument triggered a memory in his mind.

“Wait, are you marching piccolo this year?” He asked.

She looked at her instrument and back at him. “It’s wishful thinking, but I really want to. Maybe we’ll get another flute player and I can finally play pic on the field.”

Enjolras nodded. “Here’s hoping. I know we’re at least gaining a mellophone. Courfeyrac’s friend is transferring this year and he wanted to join. Is there anything left to do before everyone arrives?”

“Honestly, I think we’re set. Combeferre’s insistent that he’s gonna finish the file cabinet that he’s been working on for the past hour, but I doubt it. Copies are made, and Courfeyrac’s getting out Bahorel’s sousaphone at his request. Percussion hasn’t been set up yet, but I don’t think we’re actually going to be getting into any real cadence work today, but anything is possible. I don’t quite have Mr. Javert figured out yet.”

“You’re a blessing, Cosette,” Enjolras praised. “When should everyone be arriving?”

She smiled. “Any moment now, probably. You know as well as I do that everyone here is religiously early.”

And, as if on cue, the red front door swung open and Joly tentatively poked his head in. Enjolras sprung out of his chair and motioned him in, unsurprised to see him followed by Bousset and Musichetta. The trio was closer than anything, and Enjolras broke into a huge grin, a feeling in his chest soaring.

“It’s good to be home!” Bousset declared, swinging his trombone case dangerously close to the piano.

At that loud proclamation, Mr. Javert finally exited his office and entered the room.

Still, Enjolras wasn’t quite sure what to think of him. He had an impressive record, coming from a well respected high school about an hour away, and he was decidedly different from Mr. Valjean, who was honestly, as Courfeyrac had adamantly declared last year, a “national treasure.”

However, even national treasures needed to retire, and so Mr. Javert was currently standing outside his office, watching as more students filtered into the band room. Enjolras was still optimistic that this year would go well. It had to, he wasn’t going to let his senior year go to waste.

Amidst all the newfound hubbub, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had exited the music room and joined their rapidly multiplying group of friends, reuniting with smiles on their faces.

They had about fifteen minutes until rehearsal started, but everyone was nearly here already. Joining Joly, Bousset, and Musichetta was Eponine and Grantaire, and following shortly after was Feuilly and Bahorel. Most had begun to set up their instruments, Bousset experimentally playing a few notes on his trombone as Eponine opened a new reed.

Enjolras made his way over to the cluster, feeling naked without his trumpet. It hadn’t entirely set in that he wouldn’t be playing his horn this season, and rather letting his instrument be his hands.

“Enjolras!” Bahorel exclaimed, leaping over a chair and engulfing him a huge hug. Enjolras nearly toppled backward into a stand, but still smiled as Bahorel drew back, the bigger musician’s excitement endearing if not overbearing.

Upon closer inspection of the group, a new face stood out. He was of average height and brunette, standing awkwardly as Courfeyrac slung one arm across his shoulders. Courfeyrac noticed Enjolras, face lighting up.

“Marius, this is Enjolras!” He explained excitedly. “He’s our drum major. Don’t worry, he’s not actually intimidating, that’s just his face.” Enjolras scowled at Courfeyrac, which only made the other laugh.

“Marius, right?” He said, extending his hand towards the boy. “Cosette told me you play mellophone?” Marius nodded, shaking his hand lightly. Enjolras noted that his hands were sweaty.

“French horn in symphonic band, but I march the mellophone, yeah,” He explained. He seemed overwhelmed by the group, and Enjolras couldn’t blame him. He opened his mouth again to speak but was cut off by a loud squeal coming from Cosette. He whipped around, seeing that she was talking to an unfamiliar boy with long red hair.

“You play flute?!” He heard her shout and watched the other smile sheepishly and nod. Cosette whipped around, locking eyes with Enjolras and motioning him over. “Enjolras!”

He obliged, moving to where Cosette was standing.

“Jehan, this is Enjolras. Enjolras, Jehan.” She introduced the two, and Jehan gave a small wave, smiling serenely.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jehan,” Enjolras smiled. “You’re a freshman, I’m assuming?” He asked, ignoring Bahorel’s call of “fresh meat!” from a few rows back.

Jehan nodded. Cosette was practically vibrating beside him. “Well, I’m glad you decided to join our humble marching band. We welcome you with open arms,” He said diplomatically, smiling. Jehan nodded again before turning to Cosette and returning to their previous conversation.

Enjolras checked his watch, looking to Mr. Javert. The man smiled at him, looking around the room.

“Ready to start?” He asked. Enjolras nodded.

“Are you going to talk first, or...?”

“Get the group’s attention. Introduce yourself. I’ll take it from there.” He commanded, voice level. Enjolras nodded, trying to discern the implications in Javert’s tone. Was is condescending? Trusting? Testing? Enjolras couldn’t tell.

He swallowed, mounting the podium. He looked around the room, just now realizing how the group had spread out and multiplied, their volume rising exponentially.

“Hey, guys?” He tried at first, voice at a speaking level but not much higher, to no avail. “Guys!” He tried again. Half of the group turned, but the majority remained ensnared in their various reunions. He locked eyes with Courfeyrac helplessly, and- thankfully -Courf got the memo.

“Listen up guys, Enjolras has got important drum major-y things to say!” He called, garnering the attention of the group at last. Finally, they all turned to Enjolras.

“Thanks, Courf,” He began, “Could everyone find a seat with their section and get their instruments set up if they haven’t already?” He let the group find their seats before continuing, “First, I would just like to say welcome to the Corinth High School Marching Band. Most of you already know, but I’m Enjolras, and I’m your drum major this year. Before we began, I’m going to turn the podium over to Mr. Javert, our band director. I know, it’s weird not having Valjean, but sometimes change is good, and I’m confident that we’ll keep moving forward as an ensemble.” He finished, looking to Javert for validation. The man remained stoic but nodded for Enjolras to step down.

Enjolras found a seat beside Courfeyrac on the front row as Javert began talking.

“Hello all, I am your director, Mr. Javert. I’ve taught at high schools all across this state for nearly fifteen years, and I am delighted to be here. I’ve heard great things about this group from Valjean himself, and I can’t wait to hear what you create. However, things are going to run a little differently than you’re used to, but I am calling on all of you to adapt to my style of running things. As most of you know, this band is a non-competitive, non-mandatory, marching pep band. You are here because you want to be here. Just because we’re small and don’t go to competition doesn’t mean that I won’t hold you to the same standards as a full-sized marching band. You are expected to follow all of the band’s rules, and represent our school. I will not tolerate anything other than excellence.

Now, all that aside, let’s get to work. I’m going to give the podium back to Enjolras here in just a moment. You all should have a copy of our fight song, our alma mater, and the national anthem on your stands-” There’s shuffling as everyone looks through their music “-There are three songs that we don’t mess with here, and they are all right in front of you. If you haven’t already engraved all of these into your brain, you will by the end of the week. Now, Enjolras, you’re up.”

With that, Javert nodded, stepping down and finding a seat near the back of the ensemble. Enjolras stood automatically, taking a deep, calming breath before reclaiming the podium. He cleared his throat.

“Alright, everyone. Let’s warm up and see what we remember from last year. Bb Concert Scale, whole notes.” He held his hands up, giddy feeling rising in his chest as most of the band came up with him. He counted off- “one, two, three, four,” -and couldn’t help but marvel at how right it felt to be standing here.

Chapter Text

They managed to last almost five days without getting into a major argument, which Grantaire honestly found impressive, given his track record.

“For the last time, the National Anthem is not a jazz standard, so for the love of God please stop swinging the eighth notes,” Enjolras snapped, hands standing harshly at attention. Grantaire looked up at him, batting his eyelashes and taking his reed in his mouth to avoid having to justify a response.

However, when they reached that section that he knew was getting on Enjolras’ nerves, Grantaire made a point to syncopate like his life depended on it, to the point that Enjolras actually, physically, cut off the band, letting the music stutter to a halt.

“Grantaire. You heard Mr. Javert on Monday. We don't mess with this song. I'm past the point of understanding why you refuse to take this seriously.”

Grantaire listened to Enjolras’ weak argument diplomatically before replying, “I just think that we needed to spice it up a bit. It gets boring, same old same old. Why not swing those notes? Are you saying that change is bad, oh fearless leader?” He heard Eponine snicker in the chair in front of him.

He was getting Enjolras riled up now, he could feel it. He knew it was a bad idea to get in a fight over this, but he made it so easy. Honestly, Grantaire was intoxicated enough by the way his golden hair had started to fall out of his ponytail as the drum major became angrier and angrier.

“This isn't about change, it's about tradition,” He rebutted, which, the point was fair enough, but Grantaire couldn’t resist the urge to keep pushing.

“Woah, didn’t take you for a hypocrite,” Grantaire jeered, the statement, not an insult but rather a challenge. Enjolras shot him a pointed glare, color rising in his cheeks. Being in a respected authority position was forcing him to keep his composure instead of yelling at Grantaire like R could tell he wanted to.

“R, just drop it,” Courfeyrac quietly advised from beside him. It was arguably solid advice if Grantaire wasn’t so set on being a jackass. Mr. Javert had yet to leave his office, so the band room was still a no man’s land as far as R was concerned.

“No, Courfeyrac, I’m not going to drop it. The National Anthem would undoubtedly make a wonderful jazz tune, but, apparently, tradition overrides creativity and ingenuity,” Grantaire argued. He could practically feel the agitation radiating off Enjolras.

“In literally any other situation I would agree with you – that’s right, Grantaire, agree – but here we are going to represent the school the way that we’ve been told to. There are other places for you to swing your eighth notes all you want, but they are not here. This is not the jazz band,” He insisted. “It’s honestly pathetic that you’re arguing with me over this because we both know that it’s a losing fight. Just play it like it’s written, for Christ’s sake, R,” Enjolras phrased it like a plea, but Grantaire knew from the glower in his eyes that it was actually a threat, “Last time, then we’ll run stand tunes and break for dinner.”

Grantaire didn’t reply, accepting defeat. His eyes followed Enjolras’ hands as he took his reed in his mouth again. He felt like he should feel mad, or proud, or something. He didn’t. He felt empty, like Enjolras’ dismissal had sucked the essence of life out of him.

He let himself float through the remaining portion of rehearsal, dejectedly packing up his horn after Javert explained exactly how long their dinner break was and exactly how and when they were supposed to be back.

Eponine is the one that finds him as the small crowd dissipates, each going their own separate ways for dinner. She doesn’t look particularly surprised, or even particularly pissed. Just disappointed.

Grantaire holds his hands up. “Yes, I know. I’m an asshole, can we skip the lecture and go get ice cream because I’m kinda in the mood to cry into some sugary garbage.”

Eponine gave him a sad look, and put both her hands on her hips, obviously considering if it was worth arguing with Grantaire.

“Fine,” She relented, “But Jehan gets to come, too.”

Grantaire struggled momentarily to remember who Jehan was, before coming to the conclusion that Jehan was the freshman flutist with the long hair that was standing awkwardly in the front row, clutching his flute tentatively in one hand. He looked suspiciously up at Eponine. “Why?”

“Because he’s a freshman and this is his first game, and everyone else left,” Eponine explained, “Being the only freshman is fucking terrifying, and we’re not necessarily the easiest group to fit in with. He’s coming with us because in our freshman year, the seniors were assholes to us.” She seemed passionate about this, and Grantaire wasn’t in the mood to argue again, mostly because he knew Eponine was more likely to slit his throat in his sleep if he didn’t comply.

“Whatever,” Grantaire said, digging in his pocket for his keys.

Jehan turned out to be pleasant company, significantly less annoying than most freshman Grantaire has encountered. Encouraged by Eponine, he babbled on about poetry and classical music all the way to the ice cream parlor, and Grantaire is happy to tune out and just drive, sitting in his own thoughts.

Only when they sit down at one of the marbled tabletops does the inevitable string of conversation turn to him.

“I’m not complaining, but why are we eating ice cream for dinner?” Jehan asked between bites. Grantaire opened his mouth to defend himself, but Eponine does that for him.

“Grantaire needed sympathy ice cream.”

“Why?” Jehan asked, unaware of the gravity of what he was asking, “Is it about that argument? Honestly, I was on your side. The National Anthem is a tired tune.”

“Kind of,” Eponine shrugged, looking at Grantaire warily. Grantaire rolled his eyes at her but allows her to continue her explanation, assuming she’ll just explain their feud. “There’s a problem with Enjolras specifically, though.”

“Drum major, right?” Jehan affirmed.

“Yeah, Grantaire’s in love with him,” Eponine says offhandedly, fishing out a ball of cookie dough from her bowl. Grantaire choked.

“I am not!” He protested, pulling his bowl toward him protectively.

“Oh, bullshit,” Eponine snorted.

“Are you?” Jehan asked, genuine. Grantaire remained silent. Eponine looked at him questioningly. Grantaire looked back at her darkly, cursing her silently for being so casual. She raised her eyebrows at him, and then rolled her eyes, finally averting her gaze. Jehan sat quietly, watching this silent conversation as if he’s observing two animals at the zoo.

Grantaire finally broke the silence, unable to hold his thoughts at bay.

“I don’t know,” He admitted, “I mean, how can I really know what love is? And, if I do, what does it really mean to be in love with someone who most certainly would never love you back? There’s just no definite way to determine anything.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Jehan rebuts simply, and Grantaire sighs.

“Christ, R, you weren't this evasive last week when Courf posted that photo of he and Enjolras at the beach,” Eponine complains, and Grantaire had never wanted to hit her more than in this moment.

Of course, he remembered the photo. It was a selfie that Courfeyrac had taken, smiling widely with the ocean in the background and one arm slung around Enjolras. And Enjolras – shirtless Enjolras, Grantaire remembers – was smiling too, one of those rare, unguarded smiles that made him glow brighter than any known star. His blonde hair was tousled by the wind and half blown in his face (it was longer than it was at the end of junior year, and it definitely suited him), and the close nature of the photo revealed the slight pinkness of his cheeks and the light freckles that were beginning to peek out from underneath. He looked windblown, unbelievably happy, as if Courfeyrac had just told the funniest joke in the world (and, knowing Courf, he didn't doubt it) and Grantaire had called Eponine at nearly midnight last week to hyperventilate and maybe cry, just a little.

He could go the shallow route and lie to Jehan, explaining that he merely thought Enjolras was very, very pretty and that's the extent of it. Eponine would let him get away with it, too, just because she knows he has limits and waxing poetic about Enjolras to a random freshman was decidedly beyond that.

But, in the end, that would still be a lie, and it's not exactly like he can avoid the topic forever.

“There's just… something about him, I don't know. Like, past him looking like some kind of fucking Greek statue, he's so passionate and smart, and hearing him go on and on about something he's passionate about is so fucking intoxicating. And I know it probably looks like I hate him – and, don’t get me wrong, some of his ideas so idealistic and flawed that I can’t help but refute them – it’s just safer for him to think that too, you know? Like, if I play with fire, I’m going to get burnt.” Grantaire paused to see if anyone was still listening. Eponine had given up, pulled out her phone, and was scrolling through Instagram again, but Jehan’s eyes hadn’t left him.

Grantaire took a breath, abandoning the thought that he was definitely oversharing. “And it’s been like this since freshman year, us having a conversation and then it escalating to an argument and then he just gives me this look and I feel like shriveling into nothing. Maybe it’s love, I don't know. It started as deep-seated awe and admiration and somewhere along the line it turned into infatuation, and now I'm just fucking stuck. It's stupid.”

“It’s not!” Jehan protested. “I know I probably sound super naïve and young but I think there’s beauty in all love, regardless of how futile or ‘stupid’ it is,” He parrots the word “stupid” back in a cheeky imitation of Grantaire's voice.

“There may be beauty in it, but there's no real use,” Grantaire refuted and Jehan sighed. Arguing about this as if it were a philosophy lecture made it more bearable. He removed himself from the equation and looked at things objectively. And, objectively, it looked pretty bleak.

“Maybe there is one day, though! You never know. The world works in crazy ways, and I'm not one to define anything's use. Also, love doesn't need to have a use, it should just simply be.”

“You are way too poetic for a fourteen-year-old,” Grantaire remarked, “and, on top of that, the day Enjolras does anything more than tolerate me is the day hell freezes over, honestly.”

Jehan opens his mouth to reply, but Eponine stopped him.

“I really hate to interrupt this love fest–” Eponine began, interrupting it nonetheless, “–but if we don't leave soon, we're going to miss The Jam.”

“Oh shit, yeah, I nearly forgot,” Grantaire swore, taking a final bite of his ice cream. He watched Jehan check the time on a hot pink watch (the face of which was shaped like a butterfly, a fact that Grantaire was both confused and delighted by) and look at them in confusion.

“It’s only 6? I thought we didn’t have to be back until 6:30,” He inquired, finishing his ice cream anyway.

Grantaire and Eponine shared a look before Grantaire opened his mouth. “I really don’t want to ruin the surprise, but we have, like, a pre-season tradition and I promise it’s worth missing the last 30 minutes of dinner.”

“Sounds fun, I’m down,” Jehan replied, leaning back in his chair and tossing his bowl into the garbage can before standing up and adjusting his khakis.

See the other reminded Grantaire of something. “Fuck, Eponine, we need to change.” Her mouth makes an “o” shape.

“Shit, yeah,” And then, after a moment's thought, “I fucking hate khakis.”

Grantaire agreed.

Chapter Text

Enjolras had mixed feelings about The Jam.

On one hand, it encouraged ensemble bonding and tradition, which is always good. On the other, he was fully aware that his group had the tendency to get rowdy under the right circumstances. Under Valjean’s leadership, this had never been a problem, as the man found joy in nearly everything they did, including things that weren’t necessarily controlled. However, Enjolras was anxious to find out how Javert would take it.

Still, he couldn’t help but smile when Courfeyrac climbed into the back of Musichetta’s truck as the latter started cueing up a playlist inside the vehicle. He proudly stood in th bed of the truck, holding his plastic water bottle like a microphone. He and Combeferre historically did not participate, mostly because Enjolras didn’t want to make a fool of himself so early in the season. Sometimes, he envied Courfeyrac because he so blatantly refused to care about others opinions.

Yet, he couldn’t say that he wanted to be Courfeyrac, especially as the other hopped around the bed of Musichetta’s truck, passionately yelling the lyrics to Britney Spears’ Toxic. Right as the song came to an end, Grantaire’s car pulled up in the remaining open spot. Enjolras had failed to notice that Grantaire had been absent to this point. He felt almost bad for snapping at him earlier and had assumed the other had retreated to lick his wounds. He really had it coming, though. Javert had explicitly told them not to mess with the National Anthem, and even between all of his anti-authority sentiments, Enjolras had to agree with him.

Still, it was distinctively Grantaire’s curly head that emerged from the driver’s side, followed by Eponine and the freshman that Enjolras now knew to be Jehan. That concerned him. He worried that if Jehan fell in with some of the people Grantaire and Eponine associated with, it could jeopardize the rest of his high school career.

He stopped himself, realizing that was an unfair judgment, and that Jehan was entirely capable of making his own choices. At least they appeared to be prepared for the game, all three of them already in their khakis and Eponine with her hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a loud whoop from Courfeyrac as the song changed.

“This one’s for you, Combeferre!” He pointed directly at him as One Direction’s What Makes You Beautiful starts playing. Combeferre looks up from his book, amused but not surprised by Courfeyrac’s antics. Enjolras snorts as Courfeyrac continues his elaborate dance routine.

Baby, you light up my world like nobody else / The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed

Enjolras continues to watch the interaction from where he’s leaning against the wall. Combeferre continues to pretend like he isn’t paying attention to Courf, but Enjolras knows from the slight upturn of his lips that he’s very amused by the whole ordeal. Courfeyrac is grinning and shouting, flailing his arms and generally making a spectacle of himself. Enjolras loved how dramatically unabashed Courfeyrac was.

But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell / You don't know, oh-oh / You don't know you're beautiful

At this point, Courfeyrac leaps from the bed of the truck onto the sidewalk, landing dramatically unscathed and sprinting over to where Combeferre is seated on a bench. He places his hands on Combeferre’s shoulders, still singing along.

If only you saw what I can see / You'll understand why I want you so desperately

Enjolras can’t help but laugh as Combeferre finally sets his book down, his normally stoic friend embracing Courfeyrac’s shenanigans and starting to sing with him. Admittedly, Combeferre isn’t throwing himself into the role as Courfeyrac is. But, he’s still smiling softly, mouth curling around each of the iconic boy band’s words. He is suddenly filled with a love for his friends, even when they do things like this, and he smiles widely, observing the rest of the ensemble as they jump around the outside of the band room.

Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe / You don't know, oh-oh

Then, he realizes that Grantaire is looking at him.

Not even just casually looking at him but studying him, intense blue eyes analyzing his form. Eponine was still talking to him about something that Enjolras can’t hear, but Grantaire’s eyes hadn’t left him. He felt his face heat up – why was Grantaire looking at him? And, not even being discreet about it either, may he add. If he were to stare at someone, he would at least make sure the other wasn’t aware of his eyes staring hopelessly at the other’s frame. He glanced back momentarily, trying to determine for the life of him why Grantaire was staring at him.

He can’t determine why, and can only think that he’s been issued a challenge. He meets Grantaire’s eyes and stares back. Grantaire’s face shifts, mouth opening in surprise and color rising in his cheeks as Enjolras stares back.

You don't know you're beautiful, oh-oh / That's what makes you beautiful

He shifts like he’s going to move towards him, going to say something, but he’s interrupted by the red door of the band room dramatically swinging open. Mr. Javert stormed out, eyes frantically scanning the space in front of him. His eyes landed on the car, music still blaring from the speakers.

“You!” He yelled, pointing to where Musichetta was leaning against her truck. The percussionist jumped. “Cut that off!” He motioned towards the music, doing a physical cut off with his hands.

Musichetta scrambled inside the car, reaching for the volume controls on her dashboard. One Direction stuttered to a halt. Bahorel kept singing – “Na-nana-na-nana- oh!” – until he realized the dead silence that had fallen over the scattered ensemble.

Enjolras’ heart sunk. This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to happen, especially so early in the season. Javert was fuming – a few times this week he had gotten angry, but this reached a whole new level. His fists were clenched, his face was red. The marching band retained their dead silence (this was the quietest he’s heard the ensemble get, ever), and Enjolras shakily met Javert’s gaze, determined to stand tall through whatever came next, if not for the sake of his own dignity but for the sake of the ensemble.

How noble, he mused. If he must make a martyr of himself, then so be it. Javert looks back at him for a moment, eyes hard, before finally breaking the lasting silence.

“I have to admit, I expected better of you. Of this ensemble,” Javert started. Enjolras had to physically restrain himself from immediately biting back at Javert. He knew exactly the style of guilt trip he was in for, and he also knew exactly how to respond to it. His skills honed as a lawyer on the mock trial team made him poised and ready to bite back at Javert’s attempt to shame him into backing down.

However, he forced himself to grit his teeth and hear Javert out. “Yes, sir,” He growled, making eye contact with Javert.

It felt like he was in a dogfight. There was nothing dignified about the way Javert was staring into his eyes, trying to make him feel as if he was the prey being encircled by a vicious predator. Enjolras almost wanted to sink to his level, bare his teeth and submit to a dirty fight in which he would not emerge victoriously, but he forced himself to stay put and let Javert be angry at him and his ensemble.

“This week, I saw excellence. I saw what this ensemble is capable of. What I did not see was this rampant misbehavior that has made itself so clear just now. I need all of you inside the band room, now. We have a team to support, and I will not tolerate any more nonsense.” Javert, surprisingly, kept his voice level, a deadly quiet that was laced with venom. Enjolras, unable to back down from a challenge, unable to sit down during an injustice, prickled, ready to bite back at Javert.

Combeferre, thankfully, stepped up beside Enjolras before he could bite back, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, sir,” He replied, nodding at Javert and then turning to the rest of the ensemble. Combeferre kept a firm grip on his shoulder, despite Enjolras’ attempt to shrug him off.

Javert cleared his throat, “I need all of you in uniform and lined up in fifteen minutes. This means horns in the stands, percussion on, and shirttails tucked in. Most importantly, no more shenanigans.” He pulled back, standing up straighter and breaking the crease in his brow, thus transforming his face into a passably pleasant expression. “Make this school – our school – proud. You guys are capable of doing great.” With that, he nods gruffly and retreats back into the band room.

There is a deafening silence that follows.

“Doing well,” Combeferre corrects, irate, “We are capable of doing well.”

Enjolras turns to his friend and only then does he realize how tense Combeferre is, his long fingers digging into Enjolras’ shoulder. He simultaneously realizes how tense is also is, and forces himself to dissolve the tension resting between his shoulders.

“What the fuck!” Courfeyrac whoops from behind them. Combeferre looks at Enjolras and sighs, hand gently sliding off his shoulder. Courf runs up to them, breathless.

“Who pissed in his fucking cheerios?” Courfeyrac asked, whipping his head back to Musichetta suddenly, “‘Chetta, turn 1D back on!”

Enjolras immediately cuts in: “No. Musichetta, don’t–”

“Why?” Courf whines, “I need my Niall, Enjolras, please–”

“Courfeyrac, don’t. We don’t need to get Javert riled up again,” Combeferre supplements Enjolras’ argument.

“‘Ferre! Not you, too–”

“Courfeyrac, drop it,” Combeferre insists, tone firm and Courfeyrac shrinks. Enjolras shook his head, turning to address the band as a whole.

“It’s okay, everyone. It’s a learning experience, working with a new director,” Enjolras breathed, forces himself to think straight and let the anger dissipate from where it was clouding his vision “Just, go inside. Get dressed. Get your percussion suited up, and make sure your horns are in the stands. Don't let yourself be thrown off by this, too. We've worked hard for this.”

And indeed they had.

Chapter Text

“Go Big Red!” Grantaire heard Enjolras cry from the podium. He scrambled for his horn, sucking his mouthpiece into his mouth, hands automatically right their places on the keys of his horn. “One, two, ready, go,” Enjolras counted off, gloves on his hands stark white against the darkening sky.

Grantaire was already sweaty, face sticky with perspiration. Eponine swore as one of the players on the field fumbled the ball. They were nearing the end of the second quarter, and though they had started the game strong, the other team had managed to sneak ahead by one touchdown, even if they had missed the accompanying 2-point conversion.

It was hard to be intimidating with a team name like “The Amis.” Unfortunately, one of the founders of Corinth High School had been a well-meaning Frenchman and it had stuck. However, Enjolras still managed to look as if he was a ball of fire hoisted up into the air, held aloft by the podium.

He was -- looked -- brilliant. His hands raised out from his body as he kept time, his golden hair frizzing out of his ponytail in the humid late summer air. His eyes were sparkling, firecrackers of passion and focus, and Grantaire felt as if they were drilling right into him.

One of the most common complaints from band directors across the world is that students simply could not watch the drum major. Grantaire begged to differ. He could spend hours watching the drum major, hours trying desperately to commit every stray curl to memory. His problem, evidently, was not watching the drum major, but rather tearing his eyes away from the leader’s face and turning his focus to his hands as they beat out a strict and unforgiving pattern.

“Tenor sax, you’re dragging!” Mr. Javert’s voice bit through the night and straight to Grantaire, who, admittedly, found the accusation to be mostly accurate. Grantaire snapped to attention, his gaze returning to Enjolras’ hands and not his face, shame burning in his gut. Eponine let out a slight wheeze into her instrument that nearly devolved into a squeak had the band not been cut off moments later.

“Shut the fuck up,” Grantaire grumbled, and Eponine laughed.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Trust me, you didn’t have to,” He buried his head in his hands for effect, “I’m so stupid.”

“It’s okay, you’re not that stupid. You’re just my little pining bastard baby,” Eponine laughed, setting her clarinet down and popping her knuckles one by one.

“I hate you so much.”

Eponine had barely opened her mouth to reply before Javert cut in over top of her.

“Grantaire! Eponine! Keep the flirting outside of the stands, please, or I will separate you.”

Grantaire locked eyes with Eponine, suddenly feeling very tired of this whole ordeal. Eponine rolled her eyes, mouthed ‘you wish,’ at him, and turned her attention back to the game, leaving Grantaire exactly where he had started: staring at Enjolras.

He was mid-studying the harsh angle of his nose for what felt like the hundredth time when the scoreboard buzzed, signaling the end of the second quarter and the beginning of halftime. Javert stood from where he had been seated in the stands and addressed the band.

“Alright. I need all of you back in the stands ready to play by seven minutes on the third quarter. Any later and there will be repercussions.”

For these first two games, they would have halftime off. The Dance Team had been working for the second half of the summer and would perform until the small non-competitive band had their show on the field.

After a brief, red-Gatorade filled break, Grantaire returned to the stands, taking just a moment for himself to watch the football team stretch and rehydrate. There were approximately two football minutes before everyone had to be back. In the back of his mind, he wondered if everyone would, because he had definitely seen Montparnasse slink behind the bathroom, and he knew exactly who he was going to go see.

However, this predicament was quickly abandoned when he noticed Combeferre stranding on the track next to the podium talking with Enjolras, who was sipping water and letting his long legs dangle down from the podium where he was sitting. That was normal, of course. Combeferre and Enjolras had been friends for as long as Grantaire could remember. What wasn’t normal was that every few seconds, Combeferre kept looking at him.

And, it was incredibly clear that Combeferre was trying to be unnoticeable, but he just kept cutting his eyes up the stands as Enjolras kept talking. They were talking about him. Enjolras seem hesitant, anxious even, and Grantaire wondered what the hell Combeferre was saying. He never got to find out, however, because the clock had dwindled to thirty seconds remaining on their break, and the band had begun to fill the stands again. He watched as Combeferre bid Enjolras goodbye and made his way back to the first row with his other percussion instruments. Enjolras slowly stood, stretching his arms and scanning his eyes across the band before bringing his hands up to address the band.

“Be ready on Louie Louie at the fourth-quarter break. Until then, watch me. The game’s been close -- you may be on horns or percussion. Also, where’s Montparnasse? Can someone call him?”

Montparnasse did eventually show with three seconds to spare, which gave Grantaire some solace. Javert seemed pleased that the band had returned on time, too, which alleviated some of the residual stress from his earlier outburst. He even smiled when Enjolras called Charleston without any prompting, which he had needed at previous points of the night.

The team won, too, in the last five minutes, which just made the night better, even though Montparnasse completely fucked up the tap off for the fight song as they scored the winning touchdown. Grantaire had no idea how football worked, but the glee that filled the band when the referee held both his arms straight in the air was better than almost any high.

When the band finally returned to the band room and repacked their percussion, Grantaire found his seat, still thrumming with energy despite how late it was outside. Javert stood on the podium and Enjolras rocked nervously on his heels. This was the moment of truth, Grantaire knew. Here was when they learned if they had earned Javert’s approval.

“I was not sure how to feel about inheriting this band program at the beginning,” Javert began, “but, I was impressed by your playing tonight. For a small ensemble, you have a great tone when you’re focused. To work on next week: focus, playing together. We’ll start setting the show on Monday. Make sure your area is clean and get out of here.”

Grantaire blinked. After all that buildup, all that screaming and yelling earlier, Javert was calmly addressing the group and even congratulating them. It was strange. But, he wasn’t one to question it as he put his harness away in the instrument closet. Eponine’s siblings had come to the game, and so she had left almost immediately to drive them home, but Grantaire lingered as the crowd slowly dissipated.

He suddenly felt tired and overwhelmed with the day. The weight of he and Enjolras’ earlier argument pressed against his chest and he felt as if every breath were a labored statement. He took the reed off of his mouthpiece and was putting it in his case when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

He turned, wondering who the hell was touching him, and found himself looking up at Enjolras.

“Hey,” Enjolras said, looking down at him. He seemed tired, his usual radiance dimmed in the late hours of the night. Grantaire realized he was still staring up at him and hastily stood up to face him directly. He wondered what the hell Enjolras wanted, approaching him alone and all. Irrationally, he wondered if he was going to yell at him again.

“Hey,” Enjolras repeated, more irate this time. Grantaire stuttered back into reality.

“Uh, hey?” He replied. Enjolras dropped the hand from his shoulder slowly, and Grantaire suddenly missed its weight.

“I, uh,” Enjolras paused, clearly struggling to string the right words together, “I wanted to… apologize for snapping at you earlier. It was… unprofessional of me.” There was a moment where Enjolras plays with a word on the tip of his tongue, debating on whether or not to continue. Grantaire waited with bated breath. “Grantaire, you know that we’ve never really gotten along. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t treat you like a human being. Even if you’re a human being with sometimes completely terrible and counterproductive ideas.”

Grantaire snorted, “You’re one to talk.”

And, to his surprise, Enjolras laughed. It made some part of Grantaire shoot off like a bottle rocket, euphoria whizzing through the sky and the clouds. He pushed away the feeling because Enjolras had begun to talk again.

“Anyways. I’m sorry. I hope you accept my apology and we can move forward. I don’t want this year to be another battlefield. I’ll… see you on Monday.” Enjolras finished his speech, standing awkwardly.

“Yes,” Grantaire began, “Monday. Goodbye, Enjolras.”

“Bye,” he replied before turning on his heel and heading towards the door.

What a funny little man, Grantaire thought as he pulled his backpack out of his locker and replaced the space with his horn, I wonder what’s going on inside his head.

Chapter Text

It was Friday. Thank god it was Friday. The first week of senior year had not been kind to him, especially after three of his AP classes had decided to make work due 8am Friday morning, with quizzes in class on the first chapter of their respective textbooks.

It also was such that the marching band had taken up most of his time, leaving Enjolras with a disproportionate amount of work Thursday night. All of which he completed, of course, albeit at the expense of his usual goal of 6 hours of sleep a night. He was exhausted. On top of that, he had forfeited lunch and breakfast to finish his work, resulting in this heady hollowness.

It was beginning to show, too, in the late August heat. Enjolras was sweating on top of the podium, head pounding as he coaxed the band, set by set, through their opening number. They were getting it, for the most part. Musichetta was working hard to keep his tempo, and a lot of the band knew what they were doing, for the most part.

But, Bousset kept accidentally knocking Eponine in the back of the head as he crossed the field, and she was beginning to look murderous. And, Jehan had been yelled at for attempting to march barefoot at the beginning of practice. Little things were ticking Mr. Javert off, and Enjolras could feel that radiating up to him, like steam slowly rising out of the director’s ears.

Joly finally retreated to the front of the field and Enjolras nodded at him. The clarinetist had come to him anxiously on the first day that the band had been on the field, explaining that his leg (which he had complications with for as long as Enjolras could remember) might start feeling bad, and he’d have to sit out for a while.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Javert demanded as Joly made his way up. Joly shrank, and Enjolras kept an eye on the situation, ready to stand up for Joly if needed.

“I- my leg,” Joly began, “it’s… bad. I have a doctor’s note, sorry, I should’ve… should’ve given it to you.”

“There’s a copy already in the band room,” Enjolras supplied. Mr. Javert looked at him. “I can show it to you when we go back up there.”

“Fine. Don’t waste my time,” Mr. Javert warned, moving on to the next set.

Enjolras barely registered where he was setting each ensemble member. He just kept calling the band up, conducting the number, and cutting them off. It felt monotonous. He felt heavy. His lips were dry. He should’ve had more water today, should’ve at least eaten a bigger lunch.

Javert called the band back to the top of the opening number. It was a triangle of sorts, Grantaire at the top, right on the 50. It looked mostly correct, and for that he was glad. He might start crying if the band had to reset their form again, just because of how the sun had begun pounding on his forehead.

“Band horns up,” He heard himself say, “One, two, ready, go.”

His arms moved sharply through the air, and suddenly he felt his vision crumble to black.

“Enjolras? Enjolras?”

His face hurt. His mouth was dry. The was a hand under his head. That felt nice. Nothing else did. He tried opening his eyes, but the sun infiltrated his vision again and he let them fall closed. He felt very heavy. He groaned, and the hand on the back of his head shifted. Something warm and wet dripped down his face. He registered a second later that his nose was probably bleeding.

The same voice spoke. It sounded scared but had a certain firmness in it that Enjolras somehow knew wouldn’t back down. “I’m taking him up to the band room. I can carry him. Yeah, just keep setting stuff. I know my dots, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

A different voice, farther away, said something faintly. He heard Courfeyrac’s name. That’s my friend, he thought. He wondered who was sliding their hands under his neck and knees. They were strong, he realized, as he was lifted from the ground.

“Enjolras?” The voice asked. “Your nose is bleeding. Can you pinch it?”

Enjolras nodded vaguely, moving his hand to pinch his slippery nose. It hurt. He felt like a baby, being carried away like this. He curled into the chest of his apparent savior and felt the other take a sharp breath.

“Enjolras?” The voice asked again after a few more minutes. Or hours. It was hard to tell.

He groaned again, trying to slit his eyes to see who was carrying him.

“I’m setting you down on the ground outside the band room. I need to unlock the door. I’m gonna lean you against the wall. Don’t push yourself, okay? I can get through the door, I just gotta… gotta open it.”

Enjolras nodded and felt his weight being shifted and lowered. He slowly lowered his bloodied hand from his nose and was relieved to find it had stopped bleeding. He squeezed his eyes together and tried opening them again. It was bright, and he was tempted to shut them again until he looked up and saw exactly who had carried him all this way.

Grantaire’s mop of shaggy curls was bent over the door, trying to fit the key into the lock. Enjolras closed his eyes and opened them again, just to make sure that it was indeed Grantaire that had carried him all this way. It baffled him, and Enjolras could tell that this confusion was a product of more than just his aching head. Why was Grantaire there?

“Enjolras, did you hear me?” Grantaire asked.

“No,” Enjolras replied. He hadn’t even been aware that Grantaire had spoken to him.

“I asked if you could handle standing. I can help you up.”

“Oh, I’ll… I can…” Enjolras braced his hand against the wall, feeling the grittiness of the brick wall behind him. He slowly stood, trying to support himself but slipped, flailing his hand out in front of him for balance. Grantaire caught it, almost effortlessly, and Enjolras locked eyes with him. Grantaire slowly pulled him up, Enjolras using his other hand for balance. Grantaire’s hands were broad and rough, and Enjolras felt like a paper doll in his grasp.

He leaned into Grantaire and Grantaire didn’t let go of his hand. Enjolras was grateful for the support because suddenly there was a swooping feeling in his gut and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop from dropping to the floor again.

The cold air in the band room washed over his face, relieving him of the sticky feeling of the humid air outside. Grantaire led him to a clearing on the floor and sat him down, making sure he was supported before standing again.

“Did you bring a water bottle today?” Grantaire asked. He sounded a little bit like an exasperated parent, and Enjolras had to laugh. It was such a strange juxtaposition, Grantaire speaking down to him. Usually, it was the other way around.

“I didn’t,” Enjolras admits, “But my travel coffee cup is in my instrument locker if you want to wash that out and fill it up.”

“Jesus, Enjolras, do you have a death wish?”

Enjolras scowled, but there was no venom behind it. “No, I just… forgot to grab it this morning. I had an APES outline that I was doing right before I left and… yeah.”

Grantaire returns with his travel mug filled with water and handed it gently to Enjolras before sitting down beside him.

The water was cool on his scratchy throat and Enjolras instantly felt better. There was a certain tenderness in which Grantaire watched him, and Enjolras was suddenly made uncomfortable by it. Where was the Grantaire that he knew? The one five seconds away from a fight?

His head was clearer now. His nose still hurt, but as far as Enjolras could tell, it wasn’t broken, just a little banged up from his nosedive. His shirt was ruined, although he supposed the bloodstains paired at least aesthetically well with the faded black lettering reading “RESIST” in all caps.

“Why did you carry me all the way up? Combeferre is probably the closest to a doctor out of all of us.”

Grantaire looked away, pulling in to himself suddenly. Enjolras didn’t know why.

“I was the closest to you,” He said hesitantly, “You actually almost fell on top of me…” he trails off, searching for an answer, “it just made sense for me to be the one to take you back.”

Enjolras didn’t think that made much sense at all. This wasn’t a Grantaire he was used to, a soft-spoken, maternal person who dropped everything including his instrument to carry Enjolras all the way back up to the band room from the field. It was nice. He liked this version of Grantaire. He wondered where it went most of the time.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said.

“Why are you apologizing?” Enjolras asked.

“You didn’t respond, and then it occurred to me that, obviously, I should’ve let Combeferre take you back up, and it was stupid to even think that I should carry you all the way, I was so selfish that I didn’t even think-”

“No, no, Grantaire, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Enjolras reassured, “I am sure. I… I was just surprised that you of all people… anyway.”

“I’m not entirely an asshole, y’know? You just,” he sighed.

“I just what?”

“You-- nothing.”

“No, tell me,” Enjolras insisted, and Grantaire looked at him with wide vulnerable eyes. How had Enjolras never noticed how blue they were before? They looked deep enough to swim in.

Grantaire opened his mouth again, shifting closer to Enjolras as if scared that he could say this too loud. Before he can speak the door flies open and in charges Courfeyrac, followed by Combeferre and the rest of the marching band, chattering loudly.

The moment was broken, suddenly, the peaceful stillness of the room now shattered and, as quickly as Grantaire had leaned closer to him he had sprung back on to his feet.

Courfeyrac looked down at him and then to Grantaire. “Are we… interrupting anything?”

He and Grantaire locked eyes, and Enjolras almost wanted him to say yes, make the world revert to the quiet that had just been on the floor, but Grantaire had looked away and spoken before he could voice that.

“No.”