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Grantaire loved Enjolras. He knew this for certain; it was one of the few things in his life that hadn’t changed for years.
Grantaire knew this too: that Enjolras loved him. He still remembered the first time Enjolras had whispered those three words. They had been cuddling together on the couch after a long day of work for Enjolras. It had been an ordinary moment, nothing special, but still soft and warm, sweet as a jasmine flower. Enjolras had been almost asleep, Grantaire thought. The brunette had been gently running his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair, admiring his fine curls. He had painted those curls more times than he could count, yet never to his satisfaction. The man of living marble had hair of an uncapturable citrine. Grantaire had been contemplating just how he might once again try to achieve that impossible color when Enjolras had interrupted his thought by pressing himself even closer to Grantaire and murmuring his name.
“What is it, Apollo?” Grantaire had asked gently, smiling down at him.
“I love you.” The words had been barely audible, but they were there. Eight letters, three simple words, and yet they seemingly had the ability to turn time upside down, to stop his heartbeat.
“I love you too, sunshine,” Grantaire had breathed. All of the sudden he was almost terrified to even think of moving a muscle, of perhaps disturbing his love. Enjolras loved him. And had he sounded certain. That in and of itself seemed miraculous. Grantaire’s heart felt safe, secure. It was wonderful.
The blond had hummed in response and nestled against Grantaire’s chest before breathing out a light sigh and finally falling asleep.
After that, the “I love you’s” flowed regularly and easily between them. They would exchange them in the morning and at night, at home or out with their friends, leaving or returning home. It was easy, almost instinctive, as natural as breathing air.
Grantaire loved Enjolras. He loved those fine golden curls, soft in the morning light, which could shine like fire. He loved gently playing with them, running his hands through them, feeling them beneath his fingers. He especially loved the color they gleamed in moonlight; the fire-gold was replaced with a soft ethereal halo, bathing his beloved Apollo’s face. The color was closer to champagne gold than anything else, and yet it somehow had an elusive bright energy intertwined with white softness about it that Grantaire couldn’t seem to do justice. Its color was his latest project; pale yellow, light grey, and bright white now ever-constant features covering his hands, up his arms, and occasionally smudged across his cheek or nose.
He had first captured the color of Enjolras’ hair about three weeks after that precious moment he still kept so dear to his heart, that moment when those three words were first said aloud. The color he had managed to replicate was a straw gold with just a hint of fire about it. It was the exact color that his hair seemed to Grantaire in the warm lights of the back room of the Café Musain, strong and warm. The next color he had mastered came just over a month after that, a paler, gentler yellow. It was cool and soft and delicate, like the morning light that it appeared in. That painting had been more abstract, hazy. Grantaire thought of it as waking up beside his love, pale light streaming in through their windows. The final touches of paint had barely dried before he was off trying to immortalize his Apollo’s beauty again, and so it had continued.
Moreover, Grantaire loved adding things to Enjolras’ beautiful curls. Tiny braids were his go-to, if the curls were long enough. Clips were adorable too, and useful, pinning back any stray locks while the blond was working. Perhaps his favorite, though, were flower crowns. Grantaire had been enamored with making them ever since Jehan had shown him how three summers ago. Every spring and summer since, every chance he got, he would drag Enjolras outside to a park with some excuse or another. The real reason, of course, was the flower chains, and they would both inevitably return adorned with a crown or two, bracelets, flowers tucked behind their ears, and etc. The little daisies that grew in fields and fields, covering the ground like a blanket of snow, looked especially beautiful on his love, Grantaire decided. In fact, it was the next thing he was going to paint after he completed Apollo’s moonlit portrait.
Grantaire loved Enjolras. He loved those bright blue eyes, with the fire almost always roaring in them. He loved how they turned gentle, and soft, and safe, just for him.
The first time Grantaire had ever seen those eyes was the first time ‘Ponine had dragged him to one of their meetings, promising that he would like it, saying something about a man ‘so hot he’s godly.’ Enjolras had been leaning over the table in the corner with two men who Grantaire would come to learn as Combeferre and Courfeyrac. At ‘Ponine’s shouted greeting, he had looked up, a glint of razor-sharp fire still visible in his eyes before it dissipated.
“Hello, Eponine,” he had replied. “Who is this?”
“This is Grantaire,” she had told him, and then glanced at Grantaire, her eyes sparkling a little. “R, this is Enjolras.”
Enjolras had looked him up, down, up again, had given him a perfunctory nod, and then turned back to his table.
Grantaire had pulled a face and muttered, “What’s his problem?” to Eponine, but he hadn’t meant it. Not really. He was too preoccupied with those eyes, those beautiful eyes. They had only met his briefly, but he had had the strangest nagging feeling that they would be haunting him.
Haunt him they did. They were always a knife point of fire, or else hardened and glittering precious stones. Those eyes were powerful. Twice, he had seen them burn with an intensity he hadn’t seen in anything else, a raging bonfire with all of its energy as concentrated as lightning, refracting through crystal. Both times, it had sent shivers down the length of his spine. Both times, that ferocity had hung about Enjolras for days before it had finally dissipated. He wouldn’t see them soften for months, but they were just as beautiful when they finally did. The fire in them lightened, leaving behind a gentle warmth, a vulnerability that Enjolras rarely let himself show outside of private interactions. Grantaire loved that softness; it felt special, especially whenever it was directed at him.
Grantaire loved Enjolras, but most of all, he loved his intelligence. It gave his marble Apollo life, it gave him passion. His quick tongue and even quicker mind was what had first won Grantaire's respect. Watching him debate was thrilling. Each word was perfectly placed, calculated, but not cold. Far from it. Energy burned invisibly behind each sentence, fire uttered with every word. It was the same intelligence that had organized so many protests and rallies right when he knew it would make the most impact, that had allowed him to soar through law school at the top of his class, that made him a brilliant orator. The intelligence wasn’t on its own, either. It was fueled and animated by Enjolras’ burning passion and dedication to any problem he threw himself into. The man truly was like a fire, in that respect; he would burn until he burned out, and that limit seemed exceedingly hard to reach. Back when they had first met, when Grantaire first began coming to the meetings, Grantaire would antagonize Enjolras on purpose, just to see that powerful intellect on display. He would nitpick the blond’s arguments, pushing, pulling, and prodding at them. He would argue positions he absolutely did not agree with in the slightest. He would even argue arguments that followed no logical thread and were simply him being purposely obtuse or difficult. Enjolras had simply pegged him as a drunk cynic, and their arguments were usually more frustrated bickering than intellectual debating, but Grantaire had still thought it was worth it. Enjolras’ intelligence was radiant, for lack of a better word. It illuminated his features and gave his eyes a certain shine. It was a beautiful intelligence.
Grantaire loved Enjolras, and it was these things, and more, that he thought of and told his love as he knelt down on one knee, ring box in hand. His heart was in his throat. The object of his love stared down at him with wide teary eyes, shaky hands covering his beautiful mouth in shock.
“Will you marry me?”