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“Are you all right?”
It’s a weekend for Enjolras, a Saturday that he could be enjoying out with Les Amis, but he’d rather stay with Grantaire. He’d rather have a day of relaxation, a day to sit in bed or on the couch with his lover and read a book without thinking of signs that need to be made or events that need to be planned or papers that need to be written up.
But Grantaire is in his underwear, wandering listlessly about the house. He’s walking from room to room, picking things up and putting them back down, staring out of windows with a glazed expression before moving on. Enjolras puts his book down on the bed and leans against the doorframe, watching him. He’s seen this before.
Grantaire had been leery of the psychiatrist visit for a while. He explained to Enjolras that when he was younger, they’d tried to put him on medication for his depression, and nothing had worked. Prozac had only made him even more suicidal. Effexor had made him feel dim and stupid, like he was swimming through mud. They had stopped after that, the costs of medication and psych visits too much, and Grantaire was frightened he might get addicted to one of the meds.
Enjolras had convinced him to try again a few years ago, but those meds had only worked for a few months before crapping out and leaving Grantaire curled in bed, staring at the wall again. Another try just made him nauseous and tired, and did nothing to alleviate his depression. Another had left him restless, needing to move but getting no enjoyment out of it. He would find himself awake at random hours, wandering around the house for no reason, or tossing and turning in bed, or reading books without ever holding onto the words.
Grantaire had sat on the kitchen counter one morning and gripped his hair as he leaned his elbows on his knees, growling to himself. When Enjolras had pressed a piece of toast into his hand and asked what was wrong, Grantaire had tossed the toast on the counter and gripped his hair again.
“I can’t stop moving but I don’t want to go anywhere. I can’t stop doing things but I don’t want to do anything. It’s like I have energy but nothing to do with it because I still feel awful. The only difference is that I want to eat more. That’s it.”
A doctor had named it treatment resistant depression, and told them they could go with the option of trying more drugs, or try something else. And Grantaire had laughed at the idea of cognitive behavioural therapy, because his cynicism was as much a part of him as the depression wasn’t. So they’d found themselves sitting in front of yet another psychiatrist.
“One option is electroconvulsive therapy,” he’d told them, splaying his hands out across his desk. “A clonic seizure will be induced, with just a short interval of electricity. Those electric shocks will, to put it in layman’s terms, jumpstart the brain’s neurotransmission.”
Grantaire had shrunk against him at the mention of ECT, and even Enjolras had winced, though he knew the stigma was unfounded now that they had honed the treatment. The doctor noticed their reactions and nodded.
“It’s frightening, I know. Many people resist that treatment because of the way it was used in the past. Another treatment, similar to ECT is repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation. TMS involves inducing a weak electric current by rapidly changing a magnetic field. This magnetic field can be targeted at one area of the brain, and can be used to depolarize or hyperpolarize neurons. It’s less medically acclaimed than ECT, but it also holds less of a stigma.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” Enjolras admitted, though he’d done research on treatments online. “Does it work?”
“There’s debate about that, I suppose. Some say it works, and some don’t, just like any other treatment you’ll find. There are risks of seizures and some minor cognitive changes, and a low risk of mania in patients with depression, but over all, it’s safe.”
Grantaire fidgeted next to him, knuckles turning white where they gripped his knees. Fear made his face gaunt, the downward pull of his lips making his cheeks dark and hollow. Enjolras reached out and pulled Grantaire’s left hand out of its grip, turning it over to lace their fingers together. The eyes that turned to look at him screamed of resistance, emanated a fear losing more than he’d already lost, and Enjolras squeezed Grantaire’s hand in understanding.
TMS seemed at once ridiculous and damaging, and they’d decided to stick with medications, despite their low success rate so far. They would try again, and again, until something changed. The well-known phrase laughed in their heads, but they ignored it.
The doctor had escorted them out with an optimistic wish of good luck that had them both rolling their eyes. Grantaire had leaned his head on the dashboard on the drive home from that visit, a rambling stream of dejected comments falling onto the floor at his feet. Enjolras could think of nothing to say that would clean them up or break them into pieces that could be swept away.
The problem then was, and still is, money. Insurance. Grantaire doesn’t work. And despite Enjolras’ successes, his jobs don’t pay much, either. They have enough to get by, enough for food and clothes and the occasional night out, but not a whole lot more. They don’t have the money to pay for a psychiatric appointment, much less the medications he might be prescribed, and they aren’t quite poor enough to get government help. It’s the awful conundrum that Enjolras is railing against, destroying them all over again.
“Are you all right?” Enjolras asks again when Grantaire returns to the bedroom after completing his circuit.
Grantaire’s answer is a grunt, and a forehead leaning against Enjolras’ chin. Enjolras runs his hands across bare shoulders and hums. He can feel the directionless agitation buzzing under the skin. Kissing Grantaire’s head, he pulls away enough to lead him to the bed. He sits down, pushing his book out of the way, but Grantaire pulls away at the last moment and remains standing, fingers twitching nervously against his bare thighs. Enjolras looks up at him, brows furrowed in concern. He looks too vulnerable, standing there in his underwear with a tired look on his face, body aching to move without purpose.
“It’s been eight weeks. The medication isn’t working, is it?”
Grantaire shakes his head and sighs through his nose. “No, it isn’t.”
“You’re just restless now.”
Grantaire ticks off a list with small back-and-forth inclines of his head. “Restless. Not hungry. Still feeling shitty, but now everything tastes bland and gross. And I forget things. And it’s awful.”
“I noticed you’ve been going after spicy foods lately.” They both know the meds are doing nothing to make him better. They’ve been watching the slow failure for weeks now, the balloon-feeling of hope beaten down and deflated by the drag of no change day by day by day. Enjolras takes Grantaire’s left hand in both of his, manipulating the fingers, watching the fragile bones and muscles move under the white skin. “We can try again, if you want.”
‘Again’ has become a common vocabulary word in their relationship. It reeks of disappointment and exhaustion more and more each time it’s uttered. And yet, they cling to it like a dirty and ragged security blanket.
“We can’t,” Grantaire replies with a twist of his lips. “We haven’t got the money.”
They’re silent for a moment. Grantaire fidgets, and turns to walk another circuit through the rooms of their apartment, but Enjolras loops arms around his waist to keep him there, holding him back. Grantaire stays, brushing a hand against Enjolras’ wrist, looking for as much as giving a thin attempt at comfort. The arms loosen, sliding down to rest against his thighs, and Enjolras’ cheek presses against the small of his back. They breathe together.
“Shit,” It tumbles out of Grantaire on a sigh. He bites his lip, as if it will stop the ache of disappointment in his chest, the eels of restlessness wriggling in his belly. He feels like a cliff face being eaten away by the weather. The back of his neck, his jaw, is tensed with the tired fear that nothing will work, that they’ll have to ride this all out with nothing to use as a safety belt. Enjolras’ forehead presses against his back and he can feel lashes fluttering closed against his skin.
Hands reach up to twine their fingers together against his hips and squeeze. Their breaths are twin trembles of air, unstable and rough. Enjolras’ head thumps gently against his back and warm breath slides over his skin. “I’m sorry, Grantaire.”
The eels press at his body, twitching at him to move, and the fear of never getting better freezes as well as pushes at him, but he drops his head to his chest and pulls Enjolras’ arms closer around his body. He feels like he might start falling at any moment, like the only thing holding him steady is Enjolras’ grip; and he’s frightened that his weight might pull Enjolras down with him. He closes his eyes and grips the arms that hold him, feeling the warm breaths of air across his back. “Me, too.”