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permets-tu-not-permettez-vous · 5 years

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Awake My Soul

Chapter 1: Midnight

Enjolras was lucky he had a backbone of steel or he would never have made it as a concert pianist. Or rather, it was more likely that this backbone of steel is precisely the reason he was one of the foremost concert pianists in the world. That and his stubbornness, which was almost as well-known as his deft and light touch on the keys, especially among conductors. The days were long, the hours grueling, and often the last thing that Enjolras wanted to do was sit on that cushioned stool that knew him so well and make music once more. And today, standing in his crisp freshly dry-cleaned suit, he dreaded the performance that was to start. He could hear the crowd buzzing outside, and as he peeked out from behind the curtain, he saw a large mass of people mingling through the red cushioned seats, talking and laughing. Probably trying to impress each other with how many composers they could critique without ever having touched an instrument, Enjolras thought cynically. It wasn’t that he was nervous. Enjolras was never nervous, and certainly not about playing the piano. It was that the thought of having to socialize with people after the performance, people who were all scraping to impress him by speaking abstract music theory, making him want to tear his hair out. It hadn’t always been this way. When he was young and had first discovered that he had a talent for producing emotion out of so many gleaming keys, he had been overjoyed. He spent hours in front of them, losing himself in music. He hadn’t ever looked at practicing as a chore; he had always loved those hours he had to himself, stroking those smooth ivory keys. He hadn’t really considered becoming a professional pianist until his eighth grade piano teacher Mabeuf had encouraged him to think about it, to go on tour and do various performances, to work with his local symphony. It had been hard, but it hadn’t been a struggle. Anyone who heard Enjolras play could tell he had a natural talent, and there was no question of them wanting to continue his path. His difficulties did not stem from piano playing; they stemmed from the culture surrounding the piano. From his youth, to his inexperience, to his penchant for picking eccentric composers to perform, the music world was shaken up by Enjolras’ refusal to stick to convention. This event was one that had been unavoidably cliché. He was doing a short Christmas tour performing Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, accompanied by symphonies dotted throughout the country, and even the world. Tonight he was in Paris. Enjolras would complain more, but he had to admit that though The Nutcracker was too commodified for the time of Christmas, he truly and sincerely loved Tchaikovsky’s genius. Now there was a man who didn’t give a rat’s ass about the “rules” of classical music and composed primarily from his human experience in order to make some of the most incredibly moving and evocative music ever played. So though Enjolras loved Tchaikovsky, he just hated that every Christmas the classical world trotted out the tired Nutcracker and then put it back in its box to gather dust until the next winter. Tchaikovsky had written such transformative music, and he was remembered for a toy that came to life to visit a Sugar Plum Fairy. He was such a brilliant three dimensional person, and the consumerism of art had made him two dimensional, flat, and worn-out. He shook himself. He needed to get out of this headspace before the concert. He always didn’t play as well when he was in his head. He checked his watch. Soon he’d be stepping out on the stage, and seating himself before an expensive piano as the entire room filled with costly clothes and extravagant jewelry held their breath in anticipation. He headed back to the dressing room. On nights like this, he wished Joly hadn’t made him quit smoking.

* * *

The afterparty was about as dull as Enjolras had expected. For a blessed two hours he had practically forgotten the audience was there and immersed himself in Tchaikovsky’s bold chords and tender melodies, only resurfacing at the thunderous and yet politely refined applause that followed his final piece. Then it had been back to the reality of old white people who were bowing and scraping and using large words to impress him. That wasn’t even the worst. Enjolras detested those who knew nothing about music giving overly loud commentary on music that they had clearly read from the Le Monde or some other critique because it was incongruent with what they thought or said. This party had all of his least favorite things, people who wanted him to meet old friends, who asked him about his inspiration, who probed his opinion on the “death of appreciation of the fine arts that is currently occurring.” When Enjolras saw Combeferre from across the room, he almost melted in relief at a familiar face. He excused himself politely from his insipid conversation and made a beeline towards Combeferre, who was speaking with one of the cellists in Paris’s orchestra. Seeing Enjolras coming his way, he also disentangled himself from his conversation and met him halfway, champagne flute clutched elegantly between his fingers. “Thank God you’re here,” Enjolras breathed, feeling the anxiety in his chest loosen at just the sight of his face - calm brown eyes framed by neat horn-rimmed glasses, smile lines beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.

“That bad tonight?” Combeferre inquired coolly, taking a neat swig from his champagne flute in a way that looked elegant but conveyed to Enjolras that he too was tired of the elitism and racism that he had faced that night. “I’ve had several people look away and clear their throats or straight up leave every time I even allude to the fact that Tchaikovsky was gay.” “I see. Pretty bad, then.” “I need to get out of here,” Enjolras said, more to himself than Combeferre. “Want to go catch a drink at some hole in the wall bar where no one knows shit about classical music?” Combeferre quirked his brow. Enjolras calculated quickly - he had definitely spent enough time at this party to argue that he hadn’t skived it off. “Give me ten minutes to change and get my shit. Meet me in your car by the green room.” “It sounds like this is a high-stake diamond robbery.” Combeferre set his now empty champagne glass on a nearby table, nonchalantly, as if he planned on spending the entire evening here. Sometimes Enjolras truly and deeply loved Combeferre. “You haven’t met Javert,” Enjolras said soberly.

* * *

Combeferre drove them through the rain-washed streets of Paris after the hasty getaway that had included creeping through the parking lot without their lights on, despite the fact that Combeferre had adamantly wanted to obey the law. Combeferre was himself a classical musician and a fellow Frenchman. He played the viola, and though Enjolras knew relatively little about the viola, he loved the way that Combeferre played it. He was currently at the Lyons Symphony, but had come to Paris just to see Enjolras. They had played together in the Berlin Symphony for several years, and had bonded over their position as outsiders, fed up with the snobbery and elitism that pervaded the entire institution. One night they had openly admitted to each other how often they had almost left the music world behind because of the exhausting pace that it set for everyone, but more importantly because of the micro aggressions they saw daily. They had vowed together on that night to tough it out together - to stay to welcome the other “outsiders” that would come. And they had been fast friends ever since.

They found a little bar at a safe distance from the symphony hall, and ordered some drinks. They settled in, shedding their various layers. Enjolras was relieved and also impressed to see that Combeferre had managed to change out of his well-tailored suit and into a sweater and jeans. It made them more inconspicuous. “So - how are you finding Lyons?” Enjolras asked without preamble. He was curious. Combeferre had been there about three months, and Enjolras was itching to hear about it. Combeferre toyed with his drink, poking the straw at the ice that was sticking to the sides. “It’s alright. It’s always a little hard in the beginning. It’s nice to be in France again, quite honestly.” “I can believe it. France has its problems, but I would take it over Berlin most days.” And it was true. Enjolras like Berlin, but something about France made the fire reignite in his blood. Combeferre grinned. “I almost forgot how much you love France.” “Impossible. I’m told I’m very memorable.” “And modest too.” Combeferre shot back, before closing his mouth around his straw for a pull. “My enviable qualities aside, how is it besides being in France?” “Better than Berlin I think. Don’t get me wrong - the social circles like the donors and the regulars - they are more snobbish. But the people in the actual symphony and the conductor are much better than they were in Berlin.” “There’s always a trade-off,” Enjolras commented, rolling his eyes slightly. Combeferre shrugged. “I’d rather get shit from people I only have to see once a month than every day.” “Yes, but since they are the ones with the money, we let them think they’re right and let them act however they want even though they don’t know shit! It just means the institution of classical music never changes because none of us ever get the courage to tell a few rich people off now and again!” Combeferre shot him a look, and Enjolras deflated. “Yeah, I know. Not tonight.” “Tell me about how it’s going on your end,” Combeferre said, switching the subject. Enjolras exhaled loudly. “I feel so exhausted and worn out. I think my music has lost some of its edge because I’ve let all these toxic experiences associated with my playing seep into it.” “What do you mean to do about it?” Combeferre met Enjolras’ gaze steadily across the table, both an acknowledgment of the difficulty it had taken for Enjolras to utter those words and a steady encouragement. “I don’t know. Why do you think I will do something about it?” Enjolras asked, surprised. “Because you’re a man of action. You see a problem - you do something.” “It’s just such a big problem,” Enjolras said, trailing off. “Maybe I just need a different scene.” Combeferre sat up straighter. “Wait! I know just the thing!” His face was alight with possibility, and Enjolras felt himself being drawn in. Enjolras shot him a confused look. “What do you mean?” “When does your tour finish?” “Next week. And don’t get me wrong - I am counting the days.” And he was. Just six more days and then he was blissfully free of the Nutcracker. Javert already had a lot of plans for things to do next, but nothing had yet been finalized. “Well….” Combeferre lowered his gaze, stirring his drink with a straw, collecting his words carefully. Enjolras could tell he wasn’t sure how he would take this suggestion. “Well, what?” Enjolras said, slightly curious, but also impatient. “Out with it.” “One of my friends, Courfeyrac. I think I have mentioned him to you.” Combeferre met Enjolras’ eyes as he racked his brain. Then it came to him. “Kind of short? Curly hair? Everything he says is a rainbow?” Enjolras asked. “You could say that, I suppose,” Combeferre laughed. “He’d love that description.” “What about him?” Enjolras asked, his curiosity only heightening. “He’s a ballet dancer at the Ballet de l'Opéra national de Paris.” Enjolras whistled. “Good for him. That takes hard work. Isn’t it the oldest ballet company in France?” Combeferre nodded, his smile fading from his face. “And he puts the hard work in - he’s amazing. But anyways, I was talking to him earlier and he said that they are looking for a pianist for their upcoming performance. They want a live pianist. It’s a performance of Giselle, but they wanted to try something a little different. They haven’t found anyone yet, so Courfeyrac said to keep my ear out for any dissatisfied concert pianists who wanted to try something new.” Enjolras considered it. It was an interesting thought, and he always wanted to fly in the face of convention. But also, he wasn’t sure how much of the ballet world he could take either. That industry wasn’t exactly welcoming – it went through dancers more quickly than pointe shoes. “I don’t know.” Enjolras said simply. Combeferre nodded. “Just think about it. I mean, it can hardly hurt your career. You’re one of the best pianists in the world.” Enjolras blushed slightly. He wasn’t modest, but it made him uncomfortable when people made those kinds of comments to him. They moved on to different and lighter topics, but he kept the thought in the back of his mind even after he and Combeferre parted ways and he went back to his empty and muffled hotel room, feeling almost separate from the world that continued to move around him. The next day as he disembarked from his plane on to the soil of Copenhagen, he gave Combeferre a call. It looked like Enjolras was about to enter the world and tradition of ballet. He didn’t let himself think about it too much. He just wanted a change of pace, to be able to stay in one place for an extended period of time, avoiding the public eye for a couple of months. Or so he told himself. At the pit of his stomach he felt a clench of nerves that he hadn’t felt in years. He could only hope it was a good sign.

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#I hope you guys like it #please come yell in my inbox about this so I get ideas/inspo/motivtaion to keep going #have a good chunk of the second chapter already written #my writing #awake my soul #enjoltaire #exr #les mis #les miserables #les amis

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