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PARIS, 1832 CE.
The drunkard, freshly awakened, reaches out a hand. Sobered, his devotion stands stark upon his ruddy cheeks. He seems to breathe as if for the first time: a fire lit within.
The young man, shining uncannily, has yet to respond with more than a tilt of his head. Something like shock or pride reveals itself in the crevices of his fiery expression. Already consumed in revolutionary fervor, something new burns his discarded embers once again.
They ignore the dozens of National Guardsmen with their bayonets aimed at the revolutionaries.
This is not the first time they’ve met.
THEBES, THE AGE OF HEROES.
Bloodstained, the Argive prince – king, now – takes the Phokian prince with both hands. He is radiant in his violence: his mother’s and stepfather’s mixed blood drips between himself and his lover, giddy as they are in victory. They laugh until they weep.
This is not the time they are happy.
A different rage fills the air as the Erinyes begin their pursuit.
DELPHI, 130 CE.
The dark-haired emperor clutches at the waist of the newly-oiled marble man. The statue’s glittering laurels and eternal youth do not share the warmth the living man once had. As Propylaios, he is supposed to welcome visitors to Phoibos’s sanctuary, and yet he, mournfully fond, gazes only at his great lover, publicly brought to his knees for the first time.
It is too late now. Today’s competitors, similarly oiled, climb the road past riches without end to the stadion, where they will run for their own living laurels.
The emperor is left behind to mourn.
EN ROUTE TO YUYANG, 209 BCE.
Lightning strikes, illuminating the captains in the pouring rain. They know now they will not reach Yuyang in time, so they hash out new plans as their men stand by. Nine hundred will grow to twenty thousand, and even then it will not be enough.
They must wait to be happy.
TAURIS, THE AGE OF HEROES.
Redemption relied upon Phoibos’s wiles. This time, they wind up empty-handed behind bars. Lacking the huntress’s statue, they take each others’ hands in case they are to take their last breaths by the blade of the Argive sister.
They do not know yet of her recognition and their freedom: all there is now is the love they share.
PARIS, NOW.
Unlike the ancients, there are dozens of these. Images of hands clasped, whispers and echoes of a love that has reverberated through the ages.
Enjolras feels each moment in his bones as he studies painting after painting religiously: he has worked to know of art and understand what he sees and feels. These days, he often forgets that he can be the nineteenth-century revolutionary, the Argive prince, the marble statue, the military captain, or anyone else that captures Grantaire’s imagination. Somehow, he feels a tangible kinship with them as Grantaire’s paintbrush reveals other possible selves to him time and time again.
He does not ignore the rose petals scattered in a loose path between easels and spots on the high walls of Grantaire’s studio, and he’s grateful that the numerous candles that light the room are battery powered, since he’d almost certainly accidentally tip one over otherwise.
In each painting there is some spark. Whether it is a romantic recognition or a platonic kinship, something brings him and Grantaire together each time.
The final painting is a blue box not dissimilar from the one Enjolras has kept in his underwear drawer for the past year. He doesn’t have the heart to be upset that he’s been beaten to the punch. Certain that Grantaire has heard his audible gasp, Enjolras turns around slowly.
Grantaire is on one knee before him, ring box open in his right hand.
Enjolras does not cry easily, but his eyes fill with tears as he nods.
“Shut up,” Grantaire grumbles. “I wrote a fucking speech for this, and you have to hear it first.”
Enjolras laughs, still choked up, as Grantaire takes his left hand.
“Enjolras. Enj. E. We have been the thorns in each others’ sides for as long as we have known each other, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s been years, but sometimes it feels more like millennia. We’ve met over and over, often disastrously, never happily. This time, that changes. You are not Orestes. I am not Pylades. We sacrifice together, and no blood spills over our tied hands. Sure, the Fates have strung us together. But this time, nothing unforgivable hangs over us. I have not lost you to the depths, as Hadrian did Antinous, and you have rescued me from mine time and time again. Near the King of Chu and his fellow captain, we face a new door that you have the choice to open: the rest of our lives together.
“So, Enjolras. Will you marry me?”
Unable to form words, Enjolras nods as fat tears slide down his cheeks.
Grantaire slides the ring – gold, with a single ruby set in it – onto Enjolras’s shaking finger.
Enjolras pulls him up into a deep kiss, hoping to express something that even scratches the surface of his gratitude for his new fiancé. After, he pulls back, smiling. He’s momentarily grateful that they’d converted the extra bedroom in their apartment to Grantaire’s studio as he cups Grantaire’s face with his hands. “I’ll be right back, I promise,” he says. “This is one of the happiest days of my life.”
Grantaire, confused and slightly somber, nods gently and gestures towards the door.
Enjolras darts out and nearly upends their dresser as he digs through his underwear drawer. After a panicked moment, he draws out the matching box, victorious, and races back to the studio.
Grantaire visibly relaxes as Enjolras reenters his studio.
Enjolras slides down onto one knee and takes Grantaire’s left hand in his.
“I haven’t quite had the time to write a speech nearly as marvelous as yours, but I hope this will suffice,” he begins. “I too feel that I have known you through eras and ages lost to the pages of history. You are magnetic, and I cannot wait to share the rest of my life with you.”
Satisfied that he’s managed to open the box properly, he mutely holds up the ring to Grantaire, who smiles and nods. Enjolras slides it – a white gold with an emerald set in it, unintentionally mirroring his own – onto Grantaire’s left ring finger.
Their hands link in the same way they have for thousands of years, but the coolness of the jewelry and the knowledge of what lies ahead is, finally, new.