Chapter Text
Enjolras woke up early, as per usual, and sat idly at the kitchen table after peeling himself out of bed. He ran his hands through his once-golden hair. Enjolras’ curls had gone limp, the shine gone. His golden locks had wilted and become the color of dead grass. It was thin and fell out when he combed his hand through, and he frowned when he saw the tangle of long strands in his fingers.
“I guess I’m just going to continue to get more disgusting, then.” He said to himself, sipping his morning cup of tea in his oversized sweatshirt—his current favorite article of clothing. He sighed.
What had started out as a daily trip to the gym with Bossuet quickly spiraled. Between Enjolras’ impossibly packed class schedule and his desperate struggle to be flawless, eventually the only thing he felt he could control was his weight. When he began shedding pounds from working out with Bossuet, he was determined to keep losing. He liked the control it gave him at first, but now his weight was becoming a problem as well. The scariest part of the entire situation was that Enjolras knew it. This had happened before...But the feeling it gave him, losing, being light, being empty, was so addicting...He didn't care.
It had been just over two months since Enjolras had started this new regime, and already he had lost a whopping 7 kilograms. He was small and waifish to begin with, but now he was beginning to look downright skeletal at just 50 kg: 110 pounds. The lowest he had been since leaving treatment six years ago.
His cheeks were hollow and his skin was papery and pale. He looked at his watch. 7:30. Bossuet usually came to pick him up at seven, that way they could get an hour at the gym before classes. He didn’t expect the schedule to change because of the spring holiday, which had started the day before, so he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
Me>7:31 – Where are you?
Bossuet>7:31 – what do u mean?
Me>7:32 – are we going to work out or…?
Bossuet>7:32 – Already here sry.
Me>7:32 – why didn’t you pick me up?
Bossuet>7:33 – cant talk sry I’ll be by later w/ Joly.
Enjolras bowed his eyebrows and tossed his phone onto the table, exasperated. He had to do something, anything to get the weight off.
“Run to Jehan's. That’s two miles.” He said to himself, pulling off his sweatshirt. “I’m going to look deplorable running down the street like this, but I guess it can’t be helped.” He said to himself, looking down at his middle. He pulled up his shirt and examined himself, squeezing at the minuscule amount of excess around his waist. Looking at his glut, however small the amount was, made him want to gag. He pulled his shirt down again, happy he could no longer see his flaws, and slipped on his running shoes, taking the stairs down to the ground level of his building, then starting out the door at a good clip. He couldn’t help but notice a girl in the lobby staring.
She thinks I’m disgusting. He thought, running down the sidewalk. That’s because I am disgusting. He was sure she was gawking at the gross excess around his arms and legs and middle, excess only he could see. But in reality, she was struck with concern when she saw the state of the young man. The idea that he was going out to run worried her even more. To her, Enjolras looked like he was going to collapse from lack of sustenance. His joints were all visible through his milky skin, and his face was grey and hollow. His eyes were hidden in rings the color of graphite. Enjolras looked like a walking corpse.
He took off running, but was exhausted and dizzy by the end of the block.
“You’re just out of shape,” he told himself. “You’re a fat-ass. Keep running. Keep running, you're being an idiot!” he shouted at himself, pushing himself much too hard for his current state, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care what he was doing to himself.
That was, perhaps, the saddest part of the entire situation.
—o0o—
Grantaire was sitting on a park bench just outside of his university campus, a sketchbook in his lap, numerous pencils pushed through his stubby ponytail. He scribbled away, enjoying the quiet and the dewy atmosphere, but mostly he relished the fact that he was not hung over.
It had been an entire two weeks since he had consumed any alcohol, and though it was proving extremely difficult, it was for a worthy cause: Enjolras. He had been so hopelessly in love with the strong-willed, intelligent, beautiful law student since meeting him in the fall, but Enjolras condemned drinking. Grantaire stopped for him, hoping to catch his attention at one of the Campus Crusaders meetings. Though the name was pretty lame, the group was actually really okay, even though Grantaire was only a member because of Enjolras. They set up volunteer opportunities for the students at university. Every Tuesday afternoon, they went to the local middle school to tutor students for free in the library. Enjolras and a few of the other guys didn’t have morning classes on Thursday, so they picked up litter on campus. They used donations they collected at school events to sponsor marches and protests against anything from gay rights to a new playground at the elementary school. And Enjolras was behind all of it. He may not have started the group, but he was most certainly at its heart.
That same, remarkable man was exactly who Grantaire was currently doodling. In fact, most of his sketchbook was filled with portraits of his marble muse. It was actually becoming quite bothersome to his professors, who wanted more ‘still lives and REAL portraiture’, but he couldn’t get Enjolras off of his mind.
He leaned back on his bench, closing his eyes and resting his open sketchbook on his chest, and thought of Enjolras. He could almost see how lovely he looked when he was smiling, standing on that chair and recounting how successful their last homework help session had gone at the middle school. With every breath, he recounted how sweet he smelled when he walked past in the hallway, his petite, girlish build, and his curly, golden locks. Everything about him was perfect. Everything about him was—
Keep running, jackass. No. No don’t stop! You can keep going! Dammit, you worthless slob! He shouted at himself as he slowed, his chest heaving, his face sheet white and his ponytail sticking to the back of his neck. He coughed, unable to catch his breath, doubled over with his hands on his knees.
“Oh shit,” he gasped before keeling over, falling to his knees. Grantaire’s eyes snapped open, falling immediately on Enjolras. He dropped his sketchbook and ran to his side.
“Hey you okay?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though he was both worried and hopelessly enamored at the same time. In fact, he felt like he might vomit just being alone with the golden-haired god, however vulnerable he was at the moment. Enjolras froze. Of all the people to collapse in front of, it had to be Grantaire, that boorish, disheveled, lovely man he loved far more than he cared to admit.
“Yes. I’m fine.” He said, standing again, holding a hand out to steady himself. “Just…didn’t drink enough this morning, I guess.” He said, crossing his arms over his chest, though it made it more difficult to breathe. He didn’t want Grantaire to see how loathsome his body was.
He’s a friend. He’ll leave if he sees how disgusting you are. Nobody wants to be friends with the disgusting, ugly, short—
“Here,” Grantaire said, offering his dented aluminum water bottle to Enjolras, who took it tentatively and unscrewed the cap with some difficulty, his hand weak and shaking.
“Thanks.” He said after taking a long drink.
“You don’t look too good, ‘Jolras…why don’t you sit down for a minute…”
“No I’m fine. I have to keep running.” He said, then added: “I ate too much last night…” under his breath.
“You’re going to faint if you do anything besides sit down.” Grantaire said with a nervous sort of chuckle, draping his arm around Enjolras, holding him up—but also looking for an excuse to place his hands on him... The blonde didn’t complain. Though it did give him a rush, Grantaire was terribly surprised when he realized just how small Enjolras was. One of his hands reached almost half way around his middle. Grantaire lead him over to the bench he had been sitting at, completely forgetting his sketchbook was laying open on the grass. He quietly prayed Enjolras would not see.
“What happened, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, sitting down next to him, trying to ignore his open sketchbook. “Are you sick?”
“No I’m alright. I told you, I just haven’t had enough water today.”
“Did you run all the way from your apartment?” he asked. Enjolras’ apartment was nearly two miles away, and though that wouldn’t have been much for the average individual, Enjolras was not average. Not now.
“It isn’t that far.”
“It is for you.”
“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, an edge to his voice. Grantaire still thought it sounded angelic.
“I mean…you look a bit…weak, for lack of a better term…” Grantaire gave himself a mental slap. What a terrible thing to say! “I mean—”
“It’s okay,” Enjolras replied with a small, sleepy smile. “I know what you meant.”
He meant you’re a hideous walking disaster and you’re too out of shape to run.
Enjolras sighed, resting his skinny elbows on his knobby knees, supporting his head with his hands, looking down at the ground. Grantaire tried to kick his notebook, but it was far too late for that.
“Is this yours?” Enjolras asked, taking the book.
“No! I mean, yes, but—I don’t…they’re not very good…” he babbled in an effort to get Enjolras to give it back, but the blonde took no notice and flipped through the pages.
“I hope you are joking, R, these are beautiful. Who is it? Who are all of these pictures of?” he asked, looking through all of the pages.
“Oh nobody, just…my imagination.
“Your imagination has my hair.” He noted with a small smile.
‘At least my hair before…’
His hair was dull and limp now. It fell out when he brushed it.
In fact, Enjolras noted that Grantaire’s illustrations all resembled him, or at least how he wanted to look: perfect, ideal. The illustrations showed him strong and lean and toned, his skin clear and healthy, unmarred by the dry spots and scars he had given himself picking at imperfections in the mirror. His hair was glossy and golden, how it was before. One of the pages was filled with more drawings of him, only in these he was in statuesque poses, his stomach and chest strong and lean and muscular. His cheeks turned red. How he wished he could be like those drawings for Grantaire…Then the artist could actually draw him.
Grantaire snatched the book away before Enjolras could turn to the next page.
“I don’t think you want to see any more…” Grantaire said nervously. Enjolras smiled. Though he hadn’t spent much time alone with Grantaire, he had always found him somehow charming, though he did seem like a bit of a slob and always sported a five-o-clock shadow. Enjolras often found himself thinking of Grantaire, not in a particularly infatuated way, just thinking. He was always relatively quiet at volunteer meetings, and rarely came to actually volunteer, but he did seem like a genuine person. Now, Enjolras was realizing how kind he really was. He looked up at Grantaire with a smile.
“well…you’re very good.” Enjolras said after a moment, finding himself unable to support his head any longer. He allowed it to lull back against the bench, his hair hanging over the back.
“Thanks…” Grantaire said, his face becoming hot, his ears turning red under his ebony curls. They were quiet for a long time.
“Hey, uh…Maybe we could, like, grab coffee. If you want to, I mean, you don’t have to.” Enjolras smiled, ready to agree immediately, but something stopped him.
Go on, you glutton. Get a coffee and spoil all your hard work. Your middle was finally becoming taut, but ruin it, if you want.
His smile vanished.
“I don’t know…” he replied.
“Oh…Yeah okay…” Grantaire said gloomily, his big, blue eyes flooding with sudden sadness.
“Wait,” Enjolras said suddenly, not wanting to upset Grantaire. “I’ll go with you.” He smiled meekly.
“Really? I mean…Yeah let’s go. I have a scooter.” He said, shoving his sketchbook into his bag and looking towards a beat up, olive drab Vespa that looked about fifty years old leaning against a nearby tree.
Grantaire walked it over to the bench and attempted to kick start the engine. No luck. He tried again. The engine turned over once, but then sputtered and fizzled out. He tried a third time, and the scooter finally turned over, emitting a loud rumble. Grantaire straddled the bike, handing his helmet to Enjolras.
“You’re going to ride it on the sidewalk?” he shouted over the engine as he placed the helmet over his head. His neck could hardly support the extra weight.
“Yeah I ride this thing everywhere.” He replied with a goofy grin Enjolras found quite endearing. He sat behind Grantaire and puttered through the park, out to the main road.
As soon as they were out of the park, Grantaire sped up considerably. Enjolras startled and wrapped his gangly arms around Grantaire’s waist, pressing his front into Grantaire’s back.
“You okay, Apollo?” he called back.
“What?” Enjolras shouted. Grantaire laughed.