'Ello, mes amis! I want to sincerely apologize for my lack of updates! It's as if the summer is sapping my muse! *sighs* Anyway, I would like to give some credit where it is due. This story was inspired by Tribal-Girl's picture on DeviantART, an adorable E/R ballet AU. Please look at it now: triba l-girl. devianta /art/i-just-really-want-an -e-r-ballet-au-38285565 5
Just take out the spaces. So, this story was also partly inspired by Marine_is_Hope and her amazing story on AO3, "Illusions of Flight." It is hilarious and awesome. Best pairings ever. So…I'm going to make this a two-shot, by the way. It just got too long for me not to. Pairings coming up in parts one and two are: Enjolras/Grantaire, Bahorel/Feuilly, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta, Cosette/Marius, Combeferre/Eponine, Jehan/Courfeyrac, and Azelma/Montparnasse. Just one big shipping mass. Like seriously. Okay, bye.
At the Abaissés Arts Company, life was far from perfect. The giant cast fought among themselves almost every day, and the artist and strongman couldn't let a day go by without swinging a punch at each other. The two singers had serious daddy issues (Cosette's father being the most overprotective man in history, Eponine's father being in jail for five years). The ballerina was a cynical drunk who couldn't stand even a night without a beer in his hand. A hypochondriac carver floated around the group, simultaneously irritating and endearing everyone. Everyone seemed to have the maturity level of a twelve-year-old, and the moodiness of a petulant teenage. They were annoying and dramatic. Fistfights were a common occurrence, along with finding less than savory substances everywhere.
But.
The cast was a family. After every punch thrown, a kiss was sure to follow. After every soda sloshed in the face (Eponine to Courfeyrac; it had happened at least three times), laughter brought the young people back from the brink. After every all-nighter, a giant daytime sleepover ensued. They were brothers and sisters and lovers and cousins. They were the best of friends, as tight knit as if they had been together from birth.
There was Feuilly, the resident painter, who always seemed to be poor. He was tiny and skinny and perpetually had bags under his eyes. The young orphan was cranky and constantly frowning, as if he expected the world to dump all of its problems on him at any minute. He was constantly hiding his ginger hair under a newsboy cap that he worried at with his long, paint-stained fingers. Said fingers created artistic masterpieces. He was the one who had painted the giant sign advertising the company.
There was Bahorel, the strongman/bouncer, who was literally a mountain personified. He was giant and muscular and scary, with a face that flashed between an intimidating scowl and an intimidating grin. Everything about him was rather intimidating, actually. He had a head full of chestnut curls that were always tousled and fists that were always clenched, even when he was in good spirits. The boy had a love-hate relationship with Feuilly, and they were, in the words of Courfeyrac: "An old abusive married couple!"
Next was Jean Prouvaire, the poet. He spent his days in a dreamy daze of poetry and flowers, with a permanent look of wonder in his aqua eyes. He was a walking (read: prancing, or maybe traipsing) contradiction. He could beat you up while wearing floral-print skinny jeans; pick a lock with a knife concealed in his giant pink sweater. His ginger-blonde hair was always braided with wildflowers, and his lanky arms were covered with snatches of poetry. Everyone loved the boy, especially a one Courfeyrac.
Then there was Combeferre, a glass blower. The philosopher had started out a prosperous young lawyer (one of the youngest in the country), but had found his true passion when the Company (as its artists called it) rolled into town. He was tall and serious, with an intellect far greater than anyone his friends had ever met. He was levelheaded, a guide. Combeferre was calm and collected when it came to his art, and would often spend hours shut up in his studio, lost in a daze of bubbling molten glass and smooth curves.
There were Cosette and Eponine, the singers of the Company. They were as opposite as night and day, but the best of friends despite this. Eponine an olive-skinned beauty with long black hair in contrast to Cosette's gentle looks of creamy skin and golden hair. Cosette's warbling soprano and Eponine's rich alto blended to create wondrous harmonies that never ceased to astound anyone. Cosette was quiet and shy and demure, a walking lark. Eponine was loud and outgoing and brash, sometimes bordering on bawdy. The two somehow always managed to cause all sorts of trouble.
Next were Musichetta and Courfeyrac, the actor-actress duo. Musichetta had been brought up by a rich, conservative family and practically thrown off to a boarding school before first grade. She'd gotten into the arts in about fifth grade, and ever since then the girl couldn't stay away from the stage. She was beautiful and curvy, and had gotten more than a few love notes from admirers after her performances. The girl was in a dedicated relationship though – with two boys. Who also happened to be in a relationship with each other. She, Joly, and Bossuet were an odd couple (if you could even call them a couple) that worked perfectly together. It was taboo, and most people wrinkled their noses at her when they found out, but she could care less.
Courfeyrac was an actor as well. He was handsome, scruffy, and flirty – with the singing voice of an angel to match. The curly-haired boy always wore impeccable clothing. Girls all but threw themselves at him, but – like Musichetta – he paid his admirers no attention. He went pining after a one Jean Prouvaire, who thought him invisible. This caused the young actor to throw himself into his art even more.
Next came Bossuet, the photographer. He was the most unlucky man anyone in the Company had ever known, and constantly had bruises from bumbling falls. He had gone through five expensive cameras so far (he had dropped the first one in a toilet, the second had somehow gotten run over by a taxi, the third was stolen, the fourth was left in a restaurant, and the fifth had gotten dropped from a skyscraper; don't ask). Despite his terrible luck, he was an amazing photographer and a terribly happy person, despite his bruises and bald head and broken cameras. He completely was dedicated to Joly and Musichetta.
After this was Joly, a doctor/carver. He was currently attending a medical college, but in every spare moment that wasn't taken up by Bossuet and Musichetta, the young man was carving brilliant anatomical designs into wood, bone, and even ice if he could get his hands on it. Carving into bone – while it was one of his favorite mediums – was risky because of Joly's hypochondria. He tended to completely sterilize it before even bringing work. The medic was deathly afraid of germs and always diagnosed himself with diseases he didn't have.
Second to last was Marius Pontmercy, an adorable young dope fond of graffiti. He had gotten thrown into jail overnight for spray painting a beautiful lark on the side of a building which he'd thought abandoned. Cosette's overprotective father heard about this and "rescued" Marius from the cell and deposited him into the Company. Marius was eternally grateful for this, and, in addition, had fallen irrevocably for Cosette from the minute he saw her. The two were always making eyes at each other, and the rest of their friends just wished that they would get it together and go out already.
Last and – in his own opinion – certainly least was Grantaire, the Company's only ballerina. He didn't have the body or mind of a ballet dancer, but for some reason he was still able to dance like a swan. He was tall and stocky with a stubbly face and dark eyes. The boy was cynical and wry, an alcoholic with a serious problem. He was self-deprecating and semi-depressed, but tried to mask it when he was with his friends. He was usually unhappy…until he met Apollo.
XXX
It was on a frigid winter Sunday when his Apollo came. Everyone in the Company was rehearsing in his or her own way for a new exhibition that would take place in a month's time. Feuilly was angrily splattering red paint over a canvas for some sort of bloody revolution-y picture, Bahorel was lifting a concrete block and arguing with the painter, Musichetta and Courfeyrac were rehearsing a scene from Cinnamon Rainbow, Cosette and Eponine were singing some Irish folk song...it was normal, comfortable life.
Grantaire watched as Azelma, Eponine's fifteen-year-old sister, rehearsed a scene with her reluctant boyfriend Montparnasse. Grantaire wasn't sure how he felt about the girl dating 'Parnasse. Though the Thénardiers were close knit, Azelma was closest to Grantaire, and she treated him like a big brother. And, as any big brother (regardless of how cynical and self-loathing he was), Grantaire was overprotective. Montparnasse was well-known as being a criminal/bad boy/many other nefarious things. I mean c'mon, Grantaire thought grumpily, leather jackets and tattoos. That screams "criminal." Plus, the boy was too old for Azelma. Nobody was quite sure how old he was, but he was obviously much older than the sophomore.Montparnasse was surly and rude to everyone else, but he actually seemed to care about Azelma. That was the only reason Grantaire didn't dash Mont's brains out, especially when the black-haired hooligan had started calling Grantaire "Papa 'Taire."
Eponine's Ridiculously Named Little Brothers 1 and 2 ran by. The little boys were seven and five, constantly underfoot but so adorable no one had the heart to chastise the brats. 'Ponine's parents had neglected the children, going so far as to dump them with a neighbor for some extra cash. They didn't actually have names, so the young men and women had allowed the kids to choose their own. The seven-year-old chose Lightning and the five-year-old chose Bunny. And yes, their birth certificates said this. Gavroche, the final Thénardier sibling, dashed after them, growling, "I'm gonna getcha, ya brats!" The twelve-year-old was their main wrangler, and even if they drove him crazy, he loved them.
"'It was awful!'" Montparnasse cried in an annoyed tone. For someone who claimed to hate the theatre as much as he did, the boy was a good actor. Grantaire had to give him that. "' Just like every other day! Same old boring job. Same old boring boss. Same old boring life. And then, on the way home, suddenly it hit to me—why come home to the same old boring wife and house and kids and dog when I could try something new?'"
Azelma gave him a reproachful look and recited her befuddled line. It was from some play called Family 2.0, Grantaire idly remembered. He thought about the play for a minute and then realized something: there was a make out scene coming up. As the two delivered the next lines, a rapid, speedy exchange, Grantaire felt himself getting more and more annoyed. Suddenly, he looked up, and they were, about to kiss. Grantaire leapt up and grabbed Azelma. "Well, well," he said loudly, ignoring Mont's infuriated glare. "Azelma, you're getting better and better!"
Azelma grinned and blushed. "Thanks, R. I've been working on this for a while. 'Nass and I thought we might do it for the showcase."
"NO!" Grantaire shouted. "Absolutely not. Azelma, there's a make out scene in it."
"So?" she asked innocently.
"Make. Out."
"Yeah?"
"Make out," Grantaire repeated. "Must I elaborate? 'In human sexuality, making out is a euphemism of the American origin dating back to at least 1949, and is used synonymously with the terms petting, kissing and necking…' And yes, before you ask, that is the Wikipedia definition. Or at least part of it. The rest is too inappropriate. Don't give me that look, Zee. No means no."
"You're not my mother," Azelma growled, not even bothering to ask why Grantaire had the Wikipedia definition of making out memorized.
"No, but I have legal custody for you, which kinda makes me your father. So no."
"But you're even younger than – " Azelma began.
"If you end that sentence with Montparnasse I swear to you I will make his skin into a coat and wear it," Grantaire said seriously.
Montparnasse, the hardened criminal, actually looked scared. He slowly edged away and Azelma bit back a snort. "Whatever, Dad," she said.
Grantaire barked a laugh and walked away, satisfied with his intimidation for the day. And then…the most glorious being to ever grace the Earth walked into the Company. He was wearing his semi-long blonde hair in a tiny ponytail and his blue eyes (sparkling, of course) were taking in the whole sight. He was carrying a duffel bag and had his pale pink ballet shoes thrown over his shoulder. He could have easily been the most handsome man Grantaire had ever seen. His strong jaw, his muscular body, his…everything. From that moment on, Grantaire was in love. He had never seen anyone like this…this…Apollo.
Slowly, boldly, he got up and walked over to the walking god.
The boy looked up at him with a small smile. "I'm Julien Enjolras…Mr. Valjean said that you needed another ballerina here?"
Grantaire nodded wanly, still in shock. He was performing a piece from Giselle but needed a partner to do it. Valjean had said that he would do his best to find another ballerina. Grantaire had expected a skinny, spritely girl to be his partner – not the new love of his life. "Gr-Grantaire," he stammered, holding out his hand. "Nicolas Grantaire."
Enjolras shook his hand and smiled. "You're doing a piece from Giselle, yes? That's one of my favorite ballets. Shall we get right to it?"
Grantaire gave a mute nod to the danseur. He pointed his right foot out in a northwest position and bent his left foot slightly, dragging it up in the air. He held out a hand. "Do you permit it?" he asked. Enjolras smiled, confused, and gently took Grantaire's hand, pointing his right leg straight out behind him and standing en pointe on his left leg. The two kept the position for longer than necessary. Grantaire was caught up in Enjolras's eyes and Enjolras appeared to be caught up as well. I love you, Grantaire thought, catching himself completely off guard. Loved him? Sure, the boy was the handsomest being R had ever seen, but love?
Eventually, a catcall from Bahorel broke their intense gaze. The strongman loped over with a wolfish grin on his face. "Who's this R, a secret boyfriend?"
Enjolras and Grantaire pulled apart with a blush. "No you asshole," Grantaire growled. "This is Enjolras, Julien Enjolras. He's gonna perform with me."
Bahorel stuck out a meaty paw. "Bahorel, nice to meetcha, pretty boy."
Feuilly came over with crossed arms. "'Rel, don't be a jerk to the poor boy," he admonished. "He just got here."
"You think I'm a jerk?" Bahorel growled.
"Frankly, yes," Feuilly answered calmly. "You're annoying and overbearing." He turned to Enjolras. "Don't deny it. I'm right, aren't I?"
Enjolras looked mildly shocked at the exchange. "Er…" he started.
"See, the kid agrees with me," Feuilly said triumphantly. Bahorel snarled and leapt at Feuilly. Soon the two were wrestling on the ground, grunting and shouting insults at each other, throwing punches and grappling. Grantaire chuckled.
"Sorry about those two," he said, leading Enjolras away from the mini-brawl. "Are you gonna be staying here?"
Enjolras nodded. "Unemployed ballerina isn't the best thing for a résumé," he said with a little chuckle. Grantaire led Enjolras around the rehearsal space, introducing him to everyone and trying not to have a heart attack. Everyone was friendly with Enjolras, and he seemed to like them all. He and Marius had a small, awkward disagreement about whether his pro-Bonapartism graffiti was okay, but other than that the day when by without a hiccup.
Neither of them mentioned their electric contact.
