Grantaire was running late.
It wasn't out of the ordinary. Late was beginning to become a part of his personality description.
He couldn't remember where he'd put his rock stop after he'd finished practicing last night. After a few minutes of searching through the chaotic mess of his apartment, he gave up. Fuck this. I think it's carpeted there anyway.
He debated bringing his bottle of wine with him. He never liked to perform sober, but he would have to drive to and from the event. Even perpetually-drunk-or-high Grantaire drew the line somewhere. He settled with bringing a pack of cigarettes.
He grabbed his cello case and took a last look around the ruin of his apartment. This was the fourth apartment in the fourth city he'd lived in ever since he dropped out of Juilliard, but they all looked the same. Sheet music, bottles of wine and liquor, open books and old records, clothes in various stages of wear lay strewn everywhere. The only clean area was his practice space. A chair and a music stand in the only well-lit corner of the room, right beside the window. His curtains were usually drawn, but some light bled in around the edges despite his desire for darkness. He always had the option to open them when he was practicing and overlook the city. His apartment actually had quite a nice view.
But it was always harder to play when he was reminded of the world that he wasn't in. So the curtains remained closed.
He took one last swig of wine and left.
The coffeehouse stage wasn't carpeted. They must've just removed it. "Damn." He muttered under his breath as the owner came up to greet him.
"Grantaire! Welcome!" Jean Valjean said, shaking his hand. "We're so excited to have you perform here."
"Thank you, sir." Grantaire replied, mimicking Valjean's warmth. "I always enjoy your audiences. They're supportive and enthusiastic, and I appreciate the opportunity you've given me."
Valjean smiled sincerely. "Well, you've certainly made things better for me as an entrepreneur, not having to worry about finding music in a moment's notice." He gestured to Grantaire's cello. "I'll let you unpack and warm up, but come and find me when you're finished. I have a proposition I want to discuss with you."
"Certainly, boss." Grantaire said, saluting him before turning away to prepare for his show.
It wasn't even much of a show, not really. He was mostly just playing background music for people who were enjoying fancy pants beverages and having "intellectual" conversations. It was all bullshit as far as Grantaire was concerned. Coffeehouses were for people who liked to pretend to be all profound and highbrow. People didn't go there to hang out or actually converse; they came there to be seen there. The beverages' names themselves just solidified the entire atmosphere's pretentiousness. Who the fuck names a cup Earl Grey with some milk "London fog"?
Still, Grantaire couldn't really complain about his gigs there. Faux-intellectuals gave wicked tips, and Valjean was always generous with its distribution, hardly keeping any for himself. He usually got enough there in one night to buy liquor for the week.
His whole performance was a little off because he had to clutch his cello between his legs to keep it from slipping down. He didn't think he rosined his bow enough before. The tone was coming off as muffled and scratchy, not singing as much as he could on a good day when he'd had enough wine. But he had almost no alcohol in his system, which greatly inhibited his ability to ignore his conceited and fake surroundings.
Still, it was a good show. He opened with a Shostakovich prelude and continued with a Bach suite, a nice Eccles sonata, and a few Indie songs that he'd improvised. He had to stifle a gag when someone asked if he could play "The Swan" but he did anyway and the audience loved it. When he was done, the audience applauded and a few girls approached him afterwards, telling him how lovely his playing was. He could tell that he could easily score one or both of them if he wanted to. He might have, but he wanted to see what Valjean wanted, so he politely thanked them and went to find Valjean.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Grantaire asked when he finally found him in the back room cleaning out some coffeepots.
"Yes! Fantastic performance as always." Valjean said, turning to face him.
"Thank you." Said Grantaire, putting his hands in his pockets nervously. What was this about?
"As you know, people here love to see you perform. Business always booms and my customers always talk about how much they love having their own cellist here. I think it gives them a sense of identity, much more than booking separate gigs every week will do. So I want to offer you a full-time job."
Grantaire's mouth popped open. He definitely wasn't expecting that. Maybe a raise or a new formula for dividing the tips between him and the barista. He didn't know what to say. "Um… thank you. Thank you so much. I accept; of course I do."
Jean Valjean beamed at him. "Brilliant. Shall we discuss your salary and hours?"
Grantaire arrived home in a daze, for once not caused by alcohol. For the first time since he dropped out of school, he had a semblance of stability in his life, an actual job, someone who actually believed in him. He felt like he should probably tell someone, so he whipped out his phone to text Eponine.
Valjean offered me a full-time job playing at the coffeehouse.
R, that's awesome! I'm so happy for you!
Thanks! Feel like grabbing a beer?
Oh, I want to! But I have plans with Marius already. We're going to see that new zombie movie.
Oh. Well have fun, I guess.
He'll probably just be moaning about how beautiful that mystery girl in his sociology class is, but yeah I'll try. Congrats on the job try not to drink too much!
Yeah… likely.
He thought about calling Courf but decided against it. Courf had been going on and on about this new guy who moved into town and had broadened the entire group's political horizons, so they'd probably be hanging out all together, and Grantaire found that hard to deal with without being at least slightly inebriated. Plus, he was still recovering from the shock of his actually having a job. No, he didn't want to meet anyone new. He grabbed a bottle of rum and some Nietzche, then settled in for another quiet, lonely evening.