A/N: Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this! I'm so appreciative of every review and everything. I'm no med student so I'm hoping nothing in here is ridiculous. I just feel like I should warn everyone that there is a possible trigger warning for depression, especially cutting, in this chapter.
Enjolras sat on his couch, attempting to study for his finals. Luckily, he only had three. It was a Saturday, and he had agreed to sit for two of his exams on Monday and the third on Tuesday. He hadn't seen his friends in a few days, wrapped up in not failing his next-to-last year of school. He absentmindedly sipped a beer, one from the case that Grantaire habitually left in his apartment since the accident, while he went over his set of notecards for his public policy course.
If Enjolras had bothered to look into exactly what it was that Montparnasse had given him, he would have realized that taking this synthetic amphetamine with his "migraine" cocktail was, in fact, a pretty bad idea. The blonde also would have known that consuming alcohol was prohibited when these medicines were prescribed.
But, earlier that afternoon, he finally caved in to the temptation of the magic little pills. After he had gotten home from the bar, he'd hidden the baggie of medicine in a desk drawer, saying he would keep it there for an emergency…or something. All week, he had caused quite a dent in his stash of migraine medicine, which worried him. His depression was slowly creeping into his system, and he swore he could feel the venom coursing through his veins. It was clear that his meds wouldn't stave his darkness off forever, and before he had time to change his mind, he all but ran into his bedroom and took one of the new pills.
Since then, he had been sitting there on his couch in silence, trying to memorize a semester's worth of public policy theory. He attributed his rapid heartbeat to his nerves, and ignored the way the world spun just a little under his feet all the time. He thought that he didn't really remember what normal felt like, so who was he to question anything that made him forget his pain?
A few hours later, Grantaire knocked on his door. Enjolras rose and stretched, adjusting his jeans and polo. He walked over to the door and opened it.
"You know, the purpose of having a cell phone is so that people can use it to contact you," Grantaire said as he pushed past the blonde into the apartment.
Enjolras rolled his eyes, "Sorry, I haven't had it all day." Truthfully, he hadn't. He wasn't even sure where his phone was. Grantaire pulled out his own phone after sitting a plastic bag of something on the kitchen table. He called Enjolras' phone, waiting for the telltale ring. It was ringing from Enjolras' room, and before the blonde could stop him, Grantaire dashed into his room to retrieve the phone.
The standard ringtone blasted from the chair of Enjolras' desk. Enjolras paled as he realized what Grantaire would see when he retrieved the phone. He ran into the room and pushed the brunette out of the way, snatching his phone from the desk.
"Touchy," Grantaire snickered. His eyes briefly lingered over the baggie of pills on the desktop, but he didn't say anything. He, and really everyone else in their group of friends, knew well the kind of problems Enjolras had with his headaches and he didn't want to further agitate his slightly unstable friend.
"Shit. I really am sorry," Enjolras apologized. He settled back into his post on the couch, surrounded by pens, highlighters and books. His laptop lay forgotten on the coffee table amidst the stacks of notecards arranged in little piles everywhere. He was scrolling intently through the phone, noting that Grantaire had called him four times and Marius had called twice earlier in the day. He had his usual round of text messages from everyone he knew, politely trying to ask if he was ok, which was exactly why he had been neglecting his phone.
"I just needed some help studying for my intro political science class," Grantaire explained. He walked over to the bag he had set on the kitchen table, and pulled a box of wine (yes, a box) from it. Enjolras merely raised an eyebrow as Grantaire moved to fill two of his stemless wine glasses. If there was one thing Grantaire liked about this new shithead Enjolras was that he never complained about Grantaire's drinking anymore and joined him more often than not.
Enjolras snorted. He could teach that class better than the professor could. "Why exactly did you take that, again?" He took a look over the study guide Grantaire had prepared for himself.
"Well, I never really cared to keep up with all of the shit you and the guys used to talk about," he explained. "But I figured since I had to take a social science elective it might as well be one I could find some use out of."
Enjolras was slightly touched. He grinned; glad he was able to get through to someone. "Well, I guess I'll help you when you put it like that. Besides, you'd better get interested so you can be on my side when Marius starts on that conservative crap I can't get out of his head."
"I'd be on your side anyway, haven't you noticed?" Grantaire said before he could stop himself. He turned about the color of the dark pink wine he had started drinking.
Enjolras looked up from the study guide, unsure of what to say. So he also picked up his glass and drank. They sat in an awkward silence for a few moments, before he remembered to speak. "So, do you just want me to ask you these questions?" Grantaire nodded.
The two passed the next few hours in this fashion, pausing only to order a pizza. They continued to drain their ever-so-classy box of wine, asking each other questions back and forth. By eleven that night, they were sufficiently drunk. Grantaire had been adding something from a flask in with his wine, and Enjolras pretended not to notice in the same way Grantaire had pretended not to notice when Enjolras disappeared to his room for a moment and came back coughing as he dry swallowed a pill.
They had since moved to the floor, leaning against the couch. Studying had become impossible several glasses of wine ago, and the pair had instead taken to browsing Netflix on the TV, settling on some super hero action movie.
They were also drunk, but not past the point of being incoherent. "Hey, can I ask you something?" Enjolras quietly interrupted. Grantaire looked to him.
"Of course."
"How are you putting up with everything so well? Everyone is treating me like I'm made of glass and you're acting like nothing ever happened."
Grantaire had been expecting this conversation. "Well," he paused, sipping from his glass again. "I wish I could tell you. I haven't cried since that night. I even make Eponine take me to see Courfeyrac, thinking that would make me feel something."
Enjolras' eyes widened. "Do you think you could take me to see him?"
"Well, hold on, that's the thing. It didn't make me feel anything. Like I was expecting him to wake up and move back home any second, like it was a sick joke. I don't know why, but I can't make this real. I can't feel it." He paused and took a few deep breaths.
"I'm jealous," Enjolras slurred as he downed his glass. His inhibition tugged at the anchor, and he felt himself slipping under the water. He couldn't breathe right; he might have been drowning.
"Jealous?" Grantaire stammered. "I thought you blamed me for not being dead. If you don't want to feel anything, being dead is probably the best way to do it. I feel like a fucking zombie, Enjolras. At least you still have feelings." He swore under his breath as he felt tears well up in his eyes.
Enjolras paused, considering this. "Grantaire, I think there was a before…and an after. Before and after the accident, I mean. I'm starting to think that no matter how hard we try," he ran a finger around the rim of his empty glass, "we aren't really going to be able to make things how they were before. And I don't mean just since we can't bring them back."
"Eponine says we're going to be fucked up forever," Grantaire said.
"She's right," Enjolras conceded. "I just don't know how to get past this. I can't cope with it." He thought of the baggie of pills he accepted from Montparnasse, something the old Enjolras never could have done.
Neither of them knew what to say. After a few minutes, filled with only the sound of whatever was happening on TV, Enjolras stood and took their glasses to fill them up again. He stopped in his room for another pill. Grantaire, troubled by the moment by his own sorrows, didn't even realize. He anticipated the next glass of wine slipping over his tongue, actually tasting it and feeling the slight burn in his throat. He might not be able to feel the same pain Enjolras felt, but he could sure as hell feel the burning comfort alcohol brought him.
At some point while drinking the next glass of wine and whatever the hell he was mixing it with, Grantaire actually fell asleep. It was pretty late, and his nerves were shot.
Enjolras threw a blanket over his friend, and started another movie. He finished his glass of wine, and then another. His brain was racing, and his hands and feet wouldn't stop tingling. He really couldn't feel his fingers, or his tongue, or his teeth, for that matter. All he could feel was an overwhelming feeling. Sadness wasn't enough to describe it. It kept him glued in place. He couldn't think, couldn't move.
Eventually, he realized his glass was empty. He was past drunk now, in the state where those who are drinking continue to guzzle alcohol like it is water. He stood with his glass, intending to fill it. There wasn't any wine- he slapped the bag by himself at this point- but he assumed there was something else in his fridge from Grantaire, maybe some of his beer.
As he crossed from the carpet of his living room to the linoleum of his kitchen, Enjolras tripped a little, his socks sliding on the slick floor. The wine glass had no stem, and was a little damp where he was holding it. It fell to the floor from his fingers and shattered into probably hundreds of pieces.
Enjolras whipped his head to see if he had woken Grantaire. He hadn't. He sighed with relief as he crouched down. In his drunken state, he just picked up the shards of glass that he could with his fingers, putting them into a pile on a paper plate. When he picked up everything he saw, he sat, leaning against his kitchen cabinets. He knotted his fingers in his hair.
The darkness was taking him. He had tried so hard today to keep it away, first with medicine then with drink and even with Grantaire's company. He started to cry. What else could he try? A horrible voice from the back of his mind spoke. It was one he hadn't heard since he was 16 years old.
His blue eyes turned to the pile of glass. There was a nice, big curved piece, probably from the side of the glass. He stretched and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It left little red marks where it touched his fingers. He smiled.
Enjolras lightly touched the pale skin of his left forearm with the glass. He dragged it back and forth horizontally, going deeper with each pass until he broke his skin. He smiled wildly at the slight glisten of blood. His depression laughed hysterically at him. It egged him on, congratulated him, told him to do it better. He obliged.
He laughed, speaking to himself. "It's down the road, not across the street, right?" He couldn't even remember where he heard that stupid phrase. Maybe middle school health class? It didn't matter. He put the sharp edge of the glass at the crook of his elbow and dragged it, deep, down to his wrist. The skin opened up beautifully, separating like the blooming petals of flowers, he thought.