(He is on fire.)
It is far too early. The light of the morning is a fragile pink upon the hairs of the boy's back, and if he could wake up and notice it not through the eyes of a man in such a level of alcohol induced stupor, he would indeed be knocked quite speechless.
His fingers would twitch towards the torn rucksack on his back, fumbling blindly at the fastenings in some futile attempt to undo them. And he would sit in the slowly breaking light and paint more of his own skin with charcoal than the page, and when the last dregs of water from his bottle are gone, he will substitute with saliva.
The paint would streak his jaw line; a dash of cerulean just beneath his ear – a smudge of crimson climbing his left cheek bone. The only sign he was ever there would be the slightest indent in the moist ground: a couple dozen stalks of grass but a city of bones waiting to break again.
And he would stumble back when the morning has fully broken; the painting would fall to the floor: forgotten.
(But he doesn't, does he? He is dead to the world around him and absinthe pulses through his veins; his blood, his saviour.)
He has a few minutes left, lying on the dewy earth – untouched and unnoticed – free from the pain he will soon feel.
The alcohol burns through his oesophagus, up, up, up; into his throat – he has seconds – mere fractions of the morning – it is coming, coming, here.
A man walks into the park. He doesn't see Grantaire at first - he is distracted- but the body on the floor shifts within its stupor and he turns around, caught out. A smattering of vomit lines the few metres running up to the figure, but that is not what he sees, for there is something of far more importance that draws his attention.
The boy. His skin is waxy – pale in this early morning spotlight, though with each step closer he sees it is tinged with an almost bluish hue – eyes sunken and hair slick with sweat. There is an empty bottle beside him. He does not like to think how many came before.
He is almost a metre away, now, and he kneels beside the body.
(He does not notice that has stepped in the vomit.)
The breaths come slow, though they are present and that is more than he had originally hoped. The man – his name is Lesgle – presses a sweaty forefinger to the boy's neck and feels the irregular beating of the drum. With his other free hand he roots in the pocket of his hoodie and draws out a mobile, tapping in the number he has grown to know so well in mere seconds.
The phone ring four times before he finally picks up. Joly's voice is tired, but Lesgle can practically hear his drowsy sideways smile.
"Bossuet. You okay?" He hears a long yawn, then: "Can't you sleep? Is it insomnia? I can get you pills for that, you know."
Lesgle could almost laugh if the situation were any less terrifying.
"Joly...um, there's a man. He – he's unconscious, I don't know how much he's drunk but I'm pretty sure it's more than is safe, and shit, J, I don't know what I'm suppose – "
He hears Joly's sharp intake of breath. He pictures the man sitting up in his bed, running a hand through his bed hair, biting his lip. He tries very hard not to be aroused, so looks down at the body.
He forces down the vomit rising in his throat.
"Okay, Lesgle, stay calm. Where are you?"
"Regents Park, on, er – Clarence Way. I just got off my shift. Joly, I think he's going to die."
There is a pause, and Bossuet can hear feet hitting floor, shoes clunking against wood, a door opening.
"I'm on my way. Enjolras is at the hospital – he's taking the later shift this week. I think -" and he halts, which Lesgle finds odd because once Joly has gotten started he never stops – and then his thoughts are interrupted with an almost inaudible: "What does he look like?"
Bossuet blinks.
The body beneath him is not the skin of some lifeless puppet cut at the strings. This is a person, he realises, a person with a life and goals and family; this is a person whose existence might be draining away with each passing second, and it will be all his fault - won't it? – because Lesgle was here and he could have stopped it before it got too bad. He could have arrived at the park earlier. He could have seen the body from the hilltop and called Joly then.
He could have saved him.
"I – he has, um. Dark hair. Kind of messy, loads of, uh, curls. He looks sort of pale, but I'm not sure if that's just the alcohol. He's wearing a darkish green hoodie –" and then Joly has interrupted him again with a choking breath, and Lesgle stops.
"You – you know him?" He asks, but Joly just hisses something sounding awfully like "our," and the line is cut off.
Lesgle lies down on the grass. The world is beautiful at 2am, abnormally so. The air is hung with a warm breeze and the flow of the river washes in and out of earshot. He closes his eyes. Joly should be here soon.
The boy beside him doesn't move, but inside, he is burning.
The hospital is surprisingly empty for a Saturday night.
Enjolras sips at his fourth coffee from the past hour. It's so present a part of him that Joly often jokes that he breathes the damned stuff, then quickly loses the mocking smile and lists an encyclopaedia worth of reasons as to why too much coffee can cause god knows how much.
All deadly, might he add.
His phone lets out a soft beep from the pocket of his scrubs. He runs a thumb across the screen, and the text he next receives shoots a sickening jolt of pain through his ribcage.
joly: bossuet has found r in regents. he's unconscious. i'm bringing him over
joly: i think it's worse this time, e
(He stops breathing.)
Enjolras can feel his insides swelling. An invisible force pushing harder and harder against the lining of his stomach; ceaseless, incessant in its cruel demand.
He is going to throw up.
The mobile slips from his fingers and drops to the floor.
The screen flickers – the message it had shown just a few seconds previously blinking rapidly with an almost eerie knowing. The words flash, twice – and they are gone, yet the image stays imprinted in his retina for the rest of the night.
His coffee is left unnoticed. He is awake, now.
A/N: And here I welcome myself into a new fandom. Bonjour, mes petits chous. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances. This is yet another of the very much addictive modern aus - Enjolras and Joly as you may have guessed, are doctors. And the rest shall become clear.
I'll be updating with random shit on my tumblr: enjolrasstic. Woot.
okay i love you all please review bye