Chapter Text
I still remember the first time I saw the definition of “beauty is pain”. What a horrible saying.
When my mother was alive, she would often take me to these random beauty pageants. I don't know why she would take me, since I had never had an interest in anything to do with showing off beauty for the public. I was only 10 when she brought me to one, one I would probably never forget.
The lights were dimmed down and the whole place smelled like spring flowers, fresh perfume and false hope. To a 10 year old, it seemed normal. My mother pulled me to a seat, she was wearing a fancy frilly salmon coloured top and dark beige pants. I couldn't remember what her expression was. Excitement? Astonishment? Boredom? Anger? Sadness? None of those rang a bell. We got to a seat, and there was a woman welcoming my mother and hugging her. I had no idea who the random woman was, but she was pretty and had long brown hair that held no real texture or volume.
Little me sat down, not knowing what or who I was about to see at all. The woman sat to the right of me while my mother sat on the left, holding my tiny hand in her larger palm. White lights flashed on the stage, flash banging my eyeballs and making me wince. My glasses were on, so that only made the bright light worse. My mom squeezed my hand, and then the lights turned to the center, leaving my eyes alone.
A girl walked on stage, and I peered to get a closer look. I wanted to see what my mother made me walk 15 minutes and abandon my block tower building for. The girl had a sculpted face, like it had been made out of plastic, clay and makeup. It was perfect, too perfect to be naturally humane. She has a shiny off the shoulder golden dress, showcasing her glowing wax-like skin. Her blonde wavy hair was tied in a high bun, not a single strand out of place, and it was more shiny than colourful.
She did some poses, a curtsy and raised her hands in a weak wave and everyone cheered like she had done a marvelous trick. My mother clapped and her friend did too. I didn't. I had no valid reason to. I just looked even closer, and that's when I saw it. That's when I saw the truth.
Her eyes were tired, her eyebags were heavy but faint and hidden with loads of pale foundation. There wasn't a single glint of light in her dark chocolate eyes despite the huge spotlight shining down on her, they were dark and dull and held nothing but exhaustion. She didn't want to be there. She didn't want to be on stage. I wasn't sure if she even wanted to live. She was smiling insincerely, her grin was crooked, saccharine and barely showed her upper teeth. She looked like it hurt to smile, and as little me looked closer, I could see it as clear as day. She was unnaturally skinny and scrawny, that I was sure that one huge gust of wind could knock her right over. No amount of mascara could hide her vapid stare.
She was forced to stand on that stage, she was forced to smile and play pretend. She would have rather been a ragdoll for people to mess around with than a nobody. Or, rather, people around her thought that. I wondered if the people sitting around us and in front of us could see it too, but they probably had the sugar-coated wools pulled over their eyes.
“Beautiful, isn't she?” My mother's friend sighed dreamily, looking at me. I didn't know what to say back then, so I said the only thing that could come to a child's mind in that situation.
“Is she okay?” I asked, my voice coming out reedy and confused. She chuckled at me like I had said the funniest joke ever, and her laugh was stupid. It was posh and snooty. She turned back to the girl, who was now waving and striking more poses. The lady looked less like she was doing her own poses and more like she was a puppet being controlled. My mother's friend smiled, it was an icy cold smile.
“Oh honey, it doesn't matter if you're okay. As long as you look perfect. As long as you're a real teen idol. Trust me, that's all you'll ever need.” She informed me with confidence, but she couldn't have been more wrong. I didn't trust her. My mother didn't say anything, how could she? She just squeezed my hand and did the smallest head shake that I only caught from the little corner of my eye.
I looked back at the girl. Her gaze looked exhausted and burnt out, not like the rest of her which was stunning and glittering. She looked soulless and mechanical.
Now Boris had that same look in his eyes. And it scared me, to be honest. It horrified me to see the lady's lifeless stare inflicted onto Boris.
I thought that after the goldfinch painting was returned and we came back here, began our new life outside of everything that had happened and our broken reputation, confessed to one another and started dating, that everything would go back to normal. I should have known better. I shouldn't have been so blind.
“Boris!” I hollered, swinging our bedroom door open. The idiot had left his towel hanging on the shower railing, again. I had told him a bunch of times before, but he never listened. This was the last straw. “I told you, time and time again, not to put your towels on the-” the sentence dried out in my throat when I saw him, and the gears in my brain stopped turning.
He was standing in front of the mirror shirtless, staring blankly at the dark red stitched wound on his side. My heart sank down to my feet and my chest tightened.
It was my fault that Boris had that wound. It was my fault he had that gaping fleshy scar that would haunt his skin and body forever. It would haunt him, physically and mentally. If I hadn't gotten out of the way, if I hadn't tried to overdose, he would have made it to the hospital in time. Now he was living with a fractured rib and a chunk of his muscle was completely torn up, and no amount of stitches could cover up the years of excruciating pain he had to go through. It couldn't cover up all the agony he still had to endure. And he was staring at the mushy scar with furrowed brows like it was an unwanted parasite on his side. Technically, it was. Because of me. He took the bullet for me.
The worst part? He looked unusually skinny. Skinnier than he did last week and the week before. That scared me the most. I had never cared about appearances before and I didn't care now, but concern and fear washed over me. Had he been eating? Was I just imagining it? Maybe he was lanky and bony from the drugs.
My eyes stung before they dropped to the floor, but it was too late, he had already spotted me, so I just looked back up at him. The towels were a stupid worthless concept by now. I pushed up my glasses and my shoulders drooped. A bright grin spread on his face and his eyes turned round like I was a fresh ray of sunshine.
“Ah, Моя любовь, there you are.” He said, walking towards me. His midnight black hair was a disheveled wet mess, with water still hanging off of the ends of his curls. I smiled weakly at him, trying really hard not to look at his huge discolored wound with discomfort. He held onto my shoulders, pecking my forehead. A blush spread onto my cheeks. We had only been dating for a few weeks, but it still almost felt surreal. He was finally mine, and I was finally his. But then, why did I feel a hollow pit in my gut? Why did I feel like something was wrong with him, something deeper?
My brain betrayed me as always and my eyes darted to his wound for a split second, but he somehow noticed and let out a feeble chortle. “You like what you see?” He teased, attempted humor dripping from every accented word. I would have been annoyed at him, but not right now. My frown deepened, and the sentence that had been repeating in my mind came spilling out.
“It's my fault.” I mumbled, my voice crackling a little. Guilt rolled through my nerves the more I looked at him. His expression dropped and seriousness dawned on his face. He shook his head and tried to say something, but I kept rambling like a moron. Tears glazed over my eyes as I pulled away from him, keeping my hands close to my chest.
“Yes, yes it is!” I barked at him. “It's my fault you- you have that scar! It's not fair, why did you have to take it?!” I screamed, my vocal cords breaking halfway through my rant. I wasn't mad at him, I was mad at myself and taking it out on him. He just listened and crossed his arms, like he always did when I was having a mental ramble. I inhaled deeply, tears streaming down my face. I dropped to my knees suddenly, my glasses falling off and landing on the carpeted floor, and he flinched hard, crouching down along with me.
“Potter!” He cried out, and I curled up into a ball, wishing I could just disappear right now. My hands gripped onto large chunks of my hair and I hid my face from him, my vision going black. His hands hovered over my back and I felt his mouth press to the back of my head.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry…” I mumbled wetly, feeling his hot breath tickle my ear. My body warmed up a tad, but my heart still felt heavy and cool. He sniffed my shoulder before inhaling out his nose and shaking his head lightly.
“No. No, not your fault.” He simply answered, his tone cozy and sweet, identical to honey. He pulled me onto his lap, trying not to wince when I accidentally pressed against his stitched wound. But it was. Every cell inside me told me it was. I sniffled sharply, hands waving around for my glasses. He reached over and got them for me, placing them on the dusty red bridge of my nose. My vision slowly came back into clear view and I turned my torso towards him.
He was a bit paler than usual and his face seemed thinner. His smile came crawling back and the corners of his eyes crinkled nicely. “There you are.” He murmured, cupping my face. Something warm in my stomach bloomed, before I remembered what I was going to say. My thoughts raced back and forth as I thought about it, choosing my words carefully. When I saw something, I had to point it out.
“Have you been eating? You've been getting thinner.” I asked, nervousness teetering on the edge of my tone. His expression faltered almost instantly, and he looked away, his eyes darkening. He shifted his position, placing his hands flat behind him and leaning back on them. He nodded.
“Yes, yes I have.” He said casually and quickly. The thing about Boris was he was convincing, but I could still read through his lies. He was lying to me. I rolled my eyes and scoffed it off.
“Cocaine isn't food.” I shot back, stuffing my hands under my armpits and glaring at him. He let out a guffaw and smirked wide. I didn't think what I said was funny.
“Ha! Why not? You can put it in everything. You can sprinkle it on anything! Like sugar!” He grinned. I couldn't tell if he was joking or if he genuinely thought crack was as easy as salt and pepper. It wasn't, in case you didn't know. I made a face of disgust, shoving him lightly.
“Disgusting, you're practically begging for brain damage.” I snapped, curling my posture. He laughed again, leaning in so he was talking into my ear again. I almost forgot that we were still sitting on the bedroom floor, and I almost forgot about his wound and his scrawny arms and waist. Almost. But even with his tiny adorable giggles and his big warm hands wrapping around my shoulders in reassurance, I couldn't escape the twisting churning feeling that was rooted in my chest. It felt like something was shaking my ribcage like a protein shake, my chest hammering inhumanly.
Painful dread traveled through me, and it continued to travel through me for the next week. I started noticing the signs, each one landing in my chest like hefty glass-shattering stones.
I noticed that Boris would leave more on his plate and excuse himself from dinner early, day by day there was more food to scrape off and throw into the compost. His snacks got replaced with more cigarettes, and I even caught him studying himself closely in the mirror once or twice, like he was looking for anything wrong with him. Or, anything wrong with his body. My brain fizzled and drained out every time I saw him “accidentally” skip breakfast and play it off as “him forgetting.” I could tell that was a lie, nobody just forgot to eat breakfast like that. It was like saying you forgot to breathe.
The more food went to waste, the more concerned and afraid I got. It was like watching a movie, and thinking that something terrible is going to happen. Except Boris wasn't from a movie. He was real life. Him skipping out on eating food was unfortunately very real.
I noticed his thin wrists, his dry lips, the way he would shove and crush the seasoned potatoes under his fork and push them to the edge of the plate like they were nothing, trying to make it seem like he had eaten it, he was trying to feign being full. The way his grin seemed to be getting sharper every time he caught me noticing. The transition from semi-tight shirts to loose baggy dark sweatshirts was simple but noticeable. It should have been nothing, but it was everything to me. Something was going on with him, and the nagging feeling wouldn't leave me alone at all. It was like a cloud hanging over me.
I had no idea what was going on with him, and I was too worried to ask. All the possible scenarios raced through my brain daily and I found myself in a foggy blizzard of anxiety every time he would say he wasn't hungry. Was he sick? Has something happened to him? Did he have food poisoning? Was it a medical thing or something worse? Was I just being overdramatic?
Was he slowly becoming the pageant girl I saw when I was 10?
I shook my head and forced the unbearable voices to the very back of my head. No, Boris wasn't like that. His smile wasn't fake and rehearsed and his face was far from soulless. But then again, I knew he was good at hiding his emotions. He had become sort of an expert at it actually, and that only filled me with more panic. He wasn't like the pageant girl. But his tired gaze looked exactly like hers, and that was enough for me to go into full alert and alarm mode.
I figured if I couldn't find out what was going on myself, I could ask Pippa. She would know what to do, she was my first resort. I had to ask her if she knew what was going on with Boris. She would probably know.
I went to her, but not before realizing I might not like what she tells me. I was ready to take that psychological risk. It turns out that the answer was far from what I expected or liked. But it was definitely the answer I needed to help Boris.