kernow | ➳ i am a ghost, just a mirage

But you’ve been so revelational to walk the museum with. All the fascinating knowledge you share, the way you ponder the art. I’m in such awe.

[ R tugs his hand as he gives his snarky response and meanders down a hall between the groups of touring school kids. He sways into Enjolras and back again, nudging their arms affectionately. ]

He must have been thick. I’m a little surprised, in fact. You’re a beautiful pain in the ass. [ Squeezing his hand. ] I was more thinking that you’re married to your political work- and some aren’t good at being the other woman. I’m okay with it, obviously— I’m all here for fracturing a marriage.

Is this because I called those sculptures “rocks”? Because it wasn’t wrong, marble is a rock type and it is impressive they’re able to make all of that out of rock.

[In a rare instance of passivity, Enjolras lets himself be led through the Louvre’s meandering hallways, the area where Remi is the clear master.

Cheek aside, the last few weeks have been good, better than he would have ever expected. The physicality hasn’t diminished (lord knows a day doesn’t go by where they don’t hands on some part of the other) but the tension between them is starting to tease into something familiar and comfortable; as much as they continue to bicker, he finds himself seeking Remi out first (even beyond Courfeyrac and Combeferre at points) for coffee, or to run through his arguments for rallies.

He still thinks of The Man, in small memories triggered but their constant physicality, but he tries of cling to these present joys instead. Even if they do make him blush in embarrassment.]

Well, that was also part of it. We just sort of drifted, there was always something else to get done that took precedent. Eventually the rain checks were just permanent. [He exhales sharply through his nose, a not-quite laugh at the other “woman”; The Man has accused him of almost the same, a vestal virgin-like dedication to Patria.] I know I’ve told you I’m gay; no “women” or “marriage” of any type in the equation.

Oh my god, you can’t even let me make a joke about your hard on for Lady France. You’re that much of a fruitcake.

[ R laughs loudly and uses his free hand to grab E’s arm and pull him close for a kiss to his ear. The crowding grows thick and having lost track of where they are, Grantaire lets go to find which big ticket item they’ve found. ]

Ah. Speak of the devil. [ His smile falls as he looks up at the painting being crowded by people holding up phones. The tricolor flag above Marianne makes his brow furrow as he remembers a red one being raised by a belligerent radical with a ribbon in his hair, knuckles white as he held the flag before him defiantly. ] It’s not even his best work, but that’s nationalism for you.

Look, it’s a clear distinction. Pick a better analogy next time you want to comment on my sex life.

[Enjolras stops short and stares up at the painting Remi has led him to, heart sinking in his chest. He remembers seeing Mademoiselle Liberty, chest bared and arm aloft, with Fueilly at its Salon debut in 1831; it was a monument to the 1830 Revolution, a revolution they would fail to recreate less than a year after that viewing.

He’d honestly forgotten it was kept here. Enjolras can already feel tears pinpricking his eyes as the echoes of gunshots ring out somewhere far off.]

Nationalism would have been another painting of the king. This was a reminder of what patriotism really was.

[ R scoffs and prepares a witty rebuttal but it dies midway between his mind and his mouth. He looks at Enjolras gazing glassy eyed at the painting. Rémi smiles fondly, just staring at the man longingly, as the case has been for a long time before. The will to make a snide remark or belittle it is held back, without the alcohol to loosen his tongue and keep the drunken speeches rolling. All he can do is.... look at him. Look at his man. His soulmate—

There’s an uncomfortable twisting in his gut and it takes Grantaire a moment to realize that it isn’t his gut. It’s all in his head. Or is it in his... soul? Grantaire was not a faithful man. He didn’t often put faith into people, let alone a higher power. Or the idea of an afterlife. Or the idea of humanity outside of their minds and their bodies. The thought of a soulmate or a soul was hard for the skeptic to wrap his mind around but here he was. There he was- Enjolras. The leader who inspired a cynic to participate in a cause. Who made R want to believe in something better.

Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ hand and rests his head on the shoulder as he leans into him. He has nothing to say, all he can do is feel like he’s being grounded by this intense and passionate man who might have somehow pulled him into some sort of afterlife. It makes him feel so small next to such an idea. He squeezes his hand and straightens up. ]

Well. Glad I found something that you like in here.

[ Enjolras barely feels the fingers slipping back into his hand at first, but the firm squeezes grounds him, brings him back to this present, his present, if only for a moment. He looks over at Remi, still a little glassy-eyed, and leans in to kiss his temple; the tear clinging to the corner of his eye slides down his cheek as he does.

(This latest memory is already expected, a known side effect of his contact with Remi; they’re alone in the Corinthe, he and The Man, their mutual friends having long since left. The Man is close to him, too close, he can smell the wine on his breath as he says:

“I understand Icarus all too well; I feel I could burn to ash from this proximity. You allow me too much...is this mercy or a sadistic vengeance Apollo?”

“You have once again drunk yourself into incoherence. Return to your lodgings and abandon the bottle Gr—“)

So close. He can feel His name just on the edge of his lips, the riddle almost unraveled. Equally anticipated come the guilt sinking squarely in his stomach; here he is, in this perfect moment with this man, getting everything he wanted, wants, and yet he still remains fixated on his ghosts.]

“Like” is not...it just invokes a lot of emotion. It’s a powerful piece, as much as I can speak on art.

Anyone can speak on art, that’s the whole point. It’s what you take out of it just as much as it’s what the artist was trying to convey.

[ R nudges his Apollo in the ribs with a soft elbow. His temple is still warm where the kiss was placed... Ah, he could die happily right here. But that was the point of his last life wasn’t it— ]

How’s that for freedom of speech for you? See. I’m not a complete loss on your political shit. I listen.

[ Enjolras laughs softly despite himself. He nudges back, still refusing to let go of Remi’s hand.]

You couldn’t agree to that on a topic I actually know something about? Easy concession when you know all I can say about art is saying that I like or dislike it.

Hey that’s not true. You did not just say you “liked” this one; you called it powerful. And I think I saw a tear because it’s not hot enough in here to call it sweat. And it’s okay if you don’t know about art for once I can talk at length while you listen, yeah?

[Enjolras touches his cheek with his free hand and ah, yes, the moistness is still there, that part wasn’t imagined.]

Tell me what you think of this one then. What should I take from this piece?

[Theres an earnest, expectant look on his face as he asks; he could use a modern artist’s perspective, a commentary of the artistic rigor of the piece rather than his own memory rehashing a then-politically charged social commentary.]

This one in particular? [ Grantaire shifts awkwardly, wishing very much for an excuse to smack or kiss that earnest expression. Either would make it less humiliating to have it aimed at him, anyway. He clears his throat and looks up at the piece for a moment, cocking his head. ]

It’s a masterwork. Unquestionably. It was timely, it’s lovingly crafted by a masterful Romantic. And it’s emotional. All of Delacroix’s are, though. It’s not my favorite but God if that isn’t probably my favorite of his traits in his work. You can feel what they’re feeling. See what they’re thinking. There, even the gentleman? The look of determination. They all look to her with such ferocity, I appreciate that immensely. France has fought amongst itself so often but here they are united looking up at Liberty and her flag..

[ He takes a breath, contemplating the piece again. ]

And under her. The sacrifice. People have to die for liberty to happen. “Liberty leading the people” yes but. Liberty isn’t free. She steps on corpses to make herself higher and lead the way. It’s... a realistic representation of what... revolution is, in that way. Like he could have easily used a rock or a hill for her to stand on but he respects the reality of it. It’s empowering for those who were part of it. —I’m sure. But it also shows the redundancy and cyclic ways of humanity. It’s the way it’ll always go. We kill each other for what we believe in.

[ He shakes his head, brow furrowed and sucking his teeth as he waits for the rebuttal. ]

[Whatever Enjolras was expecting out of Remi, it wasn’t that. He’s come to admire Remi’s artist eye, sure, but what he’s describing...its like hearing it from Combeferre, Feuilly, Jehan, himself if he actually knew how to say all that he feels so succinctly. Somewhere who was there or can at least understand all the heavy sentiment lost to the audience of this modern world.

...And then he keeps talking, pessimism bleeding into the shreds of empathy Enjolras was just starting to grasp.]

It wasn’t—it isn’t like that. These people were ultimately victorious...I mean, it’s meant to be the 1830 Revolution, right? They won, and even when they were knocked down and forced to endure another monarchy, they ended up rising again. [He would know; as soon as he started remembering who he’d been, he researched not only the 1832 Revolution but also the 1848 Revolution, bittersweet as it was.] That’s why this painting serves as a symbol of the French Republic; as much pain and heartbreak as all that death brings, the idea of liberty never dies. The people always rise.

Edited (I wanted more sap at the end there) 2020-02-20 01:58 (UTC)

Or they don’t.

[ It comes from his mouth like a slap; it’s bitter and raw and he immediately regrets it. Rémi takes a deep breath, trying to bite his tongue. R looks up at Enjolras, feeling small again as he takes a step back from him. What was it for? We lost. You lost. Another man won your fight-

He turns and walks away from the crowd. And Apollo. The boyfriend like voice in his head tells him to look for the silver lining. Be better, do this right. I’m thankful I didn’t have to see his bloodied body under Liberty’s feet. ]

[The words, surprisingly bitter and raw, knock Enjolras off kilter. He tries to reach out, figure out what he’s said now to upset him—]

Remi, wai—

[Enjolras’ fingers grasp only air, their intended target already out of earshot in the busy, cacophonous hallway. He tries to maneuver his way through the crowd of tourists and school groups, but it’s too late; Remi’s nowhere to be seen.]

➳ i am a ghost, just a mirage

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enjoy the work I just made for you~

GOD i hate you

you did it, climbed that whole mountain

oh are you ready for this—

OOF