38He's falling and there is nobody there to catch him. He's falling and there is only one thing that can help him. He's falling and he's reaching. He's falling.
He's falling.
Enjolras looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. He stares himself directly in the eyes and hopes that there's some part of him strong enough to make this stop. To make this all stop. But his hands are moving on their own accord. They find the bottle, hidden beneath a pile of towels in the bathroom cabinet. His fingers pry the lid open and he's reaching. One pill. Then two. He swallows them dry as he keeps looking at himself in the mirror. He hates this. Hates what he has become. Hates what he needs to feel normal again. He is weak and no matter what he tells himself, he knows it's the truth. He's weak.
It's a secret.
Nobody knows what Enjolras is doing to himself. Nobody suspects. Because Enjolras is perfect. He's the man with the words, always optimistic, always fighting for a better world. Who would even think for a second that he's using? That he has been using for months now? That he needs his daily fix in order to get up in the morning? That he needs another two pills just to make it through the day? And another one to fall asleep at night? No one knows. And no one suspects. It's better that way, Enjolras thinks. If they'd know, they'd see what a failure he actually is.
Weak. Addicted. A junk.
Enjolras shivers as the words fly around in his head. He knows it's the truth. Has known it for months now, but though his mind wants to change the way things are, he's just not strong enough. The words are not strong enough. Because every day, Enjolras tells him that this pill is going to be the last. Tomorrow he'll stop and get better. This pill is going to be the last. And then the last. And then the last. And then… And then a month has passed and he's taking more pills than ever before. But this one is really going to be the last. Promised.
He takes another pill.
It all started a few months ago. Things hadn't been alright. He was fighting with his parents; his father had threatened to cut him off; he'd been fighting with Grantaire; He'd been failing his classes because his internship took too much time out of his life. Things hadn't been going well, but Enjolras ploughed on. He ate, he slept and he worked. He made sure to keep on smiling. People didn't need to know what was going on behind the mask. He was good at hiding things, always had been. Even Combeferre and Courfeyrac hadn't noticed his mood changing.
Then the accident happened and Enjolras spent a month in the hospital. It was there that he discovered the advantages of painkillers. The morphine didn't just take the physical pain away. It made all pain go away. And it been so long since Enjolras felt carefree, happy. It was a feeling he never wanted to lose. What harm was there in using the strength of his words and his looks to trick the nurses in giving him another dose? What harm was there in faking afterpains after his surgery? What harm was there in paying a little money to get his hands on some effective painpills? What harm was there, as long as they helped him feel better? What harm was there, as long as they helped him function?
Enjolras scoffs at himself in the mirror. He knows damn well what the harm is. He can't fool himself and he knows that. It has nothing to do with pain. It has nothing to do with feeling better. It has everything to do with weakness and fear. He's lying to everyone around him. And he's lying to himself. He's still living with a mask, only now it's a different one. He feels guilty, all the time. Guilty for lying about how he's feeling. Guilty for ruining his life, because this will never end well. One way or another, this is going to ruin him. He needs the painkillers now to keep up his charade. He needs them to get through a normal day. He needs more to get through a difficult day.
He needs more. Every time, he needs more.
Hands that no longer tremble, put the bottle away. Fingers that no longer shake hide the pills beneath the pile of towels. Enjolras stares at himself in the mirror for another moment and then takes a deep breath. He feels better already. The guilt ebbs away. The bad feelings are shut out. He's okay. For now, he's alright. This pill is going to be the last. He promises. It's the last one.
Enjolras pulls a hand through his blonde locks and steps out of the bathroom.
A look at the clock tells him he's supposed to meet Combeferre in an hour. That means he has more than enough time to freshen up, get dressed and make sure the mask is put good in place. He'll be okay. He's fine.
Grantaire drags himself out of bed around two in the afternoon. Every muscle in his body screams at him not to get up, but he pushes past it and shuffles towards the bathroom. He figured it'd always feel good to wake up without a hangover. He thought that once he got through the withdrawal, he'd feel fresh and reborn, but that hasn't been the case. Not once. He still has a long way to go and he knows it.
It's been six months since he took his last drink. It hasn't been easy. To tell the truth, it had extremely difficult and Grantaire was sure he'd went through hell. But his friends were there every step of the way and they supported him at all times. Without them and without his therapist, Grantaire was sure he'd never been able to do it. It was still tough at times and Grantaire still longed for a drink every now and then, but he had learned enough discipline to keep himself in check.
"R, get your ass up, you're going to be late for your therapy session today!"
Grantaire groaned. Joly and Bossuet had been wonderful to him, but they were so strict and they never cut him any slack. He hadn't missed a session once. Even when he was sick an near vomiting, Joly drove him to the clinic so he didn't miss his talk with the psychologist. He supposes he should be thankful… And he is. But sometime they are a true pain in the ass. Especially when the day already starts rotten and is probably only going to get worse along the way.
Yesterday he got into a fight with Enjolras. That in itself shouldn't be anything new, but after he'd quit drinking, he and Enjolras had gotten along really well. They still argued, but there wasn't as much heat behind the words as there used to be. Grantaire even got the feeling that Enjolras listened to him sometimes. That he was of some worth to the discussions. It was a nice feeling and lately Grantaire always tried to keep his counter arguments to the point without scoffing or mocking.
It had worked. He and Enjolras had gotten a lot closer over the past six months. Especially after Enjolras got into a car accident and had to spend a whole month in the hospital. Grantaire had been one of the few people who was able to visit the man at every single visiting hour. He was just always there. And somehow, both he and Enjolras learned they had a lot in common and they became friends. Close friends.
However, Grantaire never had the priviledge in earning Enjolras' trust the way Combeferre or Courfeyrac had. That's why he thought it so strange that both men hadn't noticed anything different about Enjolras. To Grantaire – who had observed the blonde man ever since he met him, it was all to clear that something was going on. He'd tried to talk about it to his friends, but they just brushed it off like it was nothing. And maybe it wasn't. Maybe Grantaire was seeing things that weren't there. That could be it, were it not for Enjolras' extreme reaction the other day when Grantaire voiced his concerns. The man had exploded without reason and Grantaire was certain then, that something was up. And he was determined to find out what it was.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way," Grantaire grumbled when Joly called out a second time. He took a shower, got dressed and followed his friend out and to the car. Of course he was able to drive himself, but a few months ago, he'd skipped out on a meeting because he wasn't in the mood. He nearly slipped up that same evening. Joly refused to have that happen again and so he was the one to drive Grantaire from then on. Even though he was sure that something like that wouldn't happen again, Grantaire figured it was easier to just let Joly do what made him feel better.
"Joly, do you mind dropping me off at the Musain after you come pick me up? I know you'd rather not have me spend time there on my own, but I need a couple of moments away from you two, no offense, and I'm sure Enjolras will already be there so he can keep an eye on me. Please?"
It takes another few moments to convince Joly, but in the end the man agreed as long as he was certain Enjolras was there as well. Grantaire felt relieved. He knew that Enjolras probably wasn't looking forward to seeing him, but he didn't care. There was something wrong and he'd rather die first before he'd let Enjolras slip away from him again. They'd become friends for a reason and for the first time in his life, Grantaire felt like he could mean something to the other. Something of significance.
There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that told him he knew exactly what was wrong with Enjolras but he refused to believe that. Even though the symptoms seemed to match, it was just too ridiculous to be true. Certainly, it wouldn't have gone past Combeferre and Courfeyrac. There was just no way…
No, Grantaire would go about this carefully, without jumping to conclusions. He didn't want Enjolras mad at him. So he'd start by apologizing for whatever he'd done wrong yesterday night. Maybe Enjolras had a logical explanation. Maybe he didn't. Grantaire would just wait and see. But one thing was certain. He would keep a close eye on Enjolras. A very close eye. He wasn't going to lose the man. Not now, not ever.
TBC.
(I'm not yet sure if I want to continue this, but it's an idea I've been playing with in my head and I wanted to give it a go. Please let me know if you liked it. Thanks!)