Enjolras

Stupid Combeferre and his stupid suggestion.

As if Enjolras didn't already have enough on his plate, what with the nation's hopes of a gold medal practically pinned to his chest; a heavy weight that seemed to drag him down every day. Now his best friend had to go and drag him to an overcrowded, sweaty, loud arena to see a godforsaken boxing match.

All he had been doing yesterday were his warm-ups, peacefully sitting outside in the patchy Glasgow sun, when Courfeyrac had to drag over that piece of unwashed scum. Grantaire had been mucky and sweaty and pungent, and so very very raw. Not at all like the refined, precise gymnasts Enjolras was used to hanging around with. His sport was at least aiming for perfection, whereas Grantaire's – and Enjolras refused to believe that boxing was a sport – event couldn't be more base, more common, and more suited to Glasgow's streets than a world stage.

And he had just sat there. Slumped like a sack of potatoes, not an ounce of grace or posture seemed to be in him. His shoulders were rounded and slightly lopsided, his back hunched over and his legs sprawled as if he was a rag doll and limbs were arbitrarily sewn on at different angles. His hair was a mess of tangles and he had a day's stubble on his chin. He was disgusting; the antithesis of elegant. It was almost physically painful for Enjolras to look at him.

The words that came out of his mouth weren't any better. He had a deep, coarse voice, and spoke with the rough, flat vowels and the characteristic drawn out aaa's of the Yorkshire accent. He argued like a tradesman, got riled like a dog and cursed like a sailor. There was absolutely nothing to like about him. And yet, Courfeyrac had taken to him like a brother. Enjolras snorted, Courfeyrac was an idiot, he loved him dearly, but he was an idiot. And he would realise it himself when he saw the fight tonight.

The three of them, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras were sat in the stands of the boxing arena as it filled up with chattering spectators. St George's and St. Andrews's Crosses were being waved for England and Scotland respectively as the crowds showed allegiance to their countries; the usually United Kingdom reduced to warring clans, harking back to days of old. Their seats weren't too far from the boxing ring where the competitors would slog it out in the second round of bouts tonight. They would be able to get a good view of Grantaire when it was his turn to fight. According to Courfeyrac, his was one of the last matches.

'We also have to look out for a guy call Bahorel too.' Courfeyrac informed them, 'Apparently, Grantaire and him are sparring partners'

Enjolras snorted, 'This whole thing is repulsive' he said, 'How do we know it's over? When one of them is lying unconscious on the floor?'

'There are referees here' pointed out Combeferre, leaning over Courfeyrac to speak to him, 'and judges, a bit like how we have judges watching our routines Enjolras.'

'Oh yes, gymnastics and boxing are so similar because they both have judges' said Enjolras scathingly.

'Hey, you should give it a chance, Enj, stop being so dismissive of it' piped up Courfeyrac who was clutching his guide tightly.

'Why? Why?' cried Enjolras 'You do know boxing involves punching someone in the face Courfeyrac,'

'Oh stop it Enjolras' snapped Courfeyrac 'There are athletes here who have spent years training for this, give them some credit.'

'Pack it in you two, Courfeyrac just concentrate on cheering for Grantaire, Enjolras shut up and cheer for him too' said Combeferre in his best authoritative tone. 'Do I have to sit in between you two?'

'No' replied Enjolras grumpily

'Yes' said Courfeyrac, 'I'm not sitting next to Mr. Douchebag here.'

There was some shuffling and Combeferre swapped seats with Courfeyrac. Enjolras huffed when Combeferre leaned over and said 'Seriously Enjolras, I understand why you don't like boxing but just accept that it is in the Commonwealth and Olympic Games and we know someone competing so put aside your objections and jump on the patriotic bandwagon and cheer for your country.'

Enjolras wrinkled his nose, but Combeferre was giving him his best I am not putting up with your shit look so he kept quiet and settled more comfortably in his seat to watch the evening's entertainment.

When the competitors came into the arena with a fanfare rivalling that of an American football game Enjolras questioned again why he even came here. He kept silent though, not wanting to provoke Combeferre's wrath again.

However, when the first pair of boxers stepped into the ring with their gloves strapped on, Enjolras sat bolt upright in his seat.

'They're… they're not wearing headguards?' he questioned, looking stunned at his two best friends.

Courfeyrac shook his head, 'Nope, apparently they've decided that head-guards cause more concussions than without, so they've scrapped them for the Games.'

'You're joking' said Enjolras.

'No I'm not!' cried Courfeyrac 'It says here in the guidebook' he passed over the booklet and Enjolras quickly read through the paragraph explaining the decision to do away with the head-guards in boxing.

'Jesus Christ' Enjolras breathed, 'This is going to be even worse!'

He could then only sit and watch as the first three fights went on and the competitors punched, jabbed and right hooked their opponents. It was everything Enjolras had been dreading, raw and primal, ugly and base. And yet how the crowds cheered; they screamed for more. Enjolras was reminded how crowds would gather in the past to witness an execution, baying for the blood of traitors. The raw, hungry, demanding needs of the crowd mentality were cruel.

And although the research seemed to suggest that boxers were less likely to get concussions without head-guards than with, the competitors now had no protection whatsoever against their opponents fists- that was, if they didn't keep their own up for defence. To Enjolras it was utter madness; without the head-guards the boxers were now vulnerable to getting cuts and grazes on their faces, and indeed one fight had to be retired because one competitor was bleeding so much from his chin it was likely he'd need stiches.

Safe to say, Enjolras was feeling pretty queasy by the time Bahorel walked into the arena.

'Oooh look! There he is!' said Courfeyrac excitedly, 'We need to cheer him on guys, he's friends with Grantaire!'

Bahorel looked like a machine. He was competing in the heavyweight division and Enjolras was fairly certain he was the human equivalent of a tank. The guy was pretty much just chocolate muscle from head to toe. Enjolras could feel Courfeyrac drooling all the way on the other side of Combeferre. 'I am so scared and so turned on right now' he said reverently.

'Courf, he could take you out with one swipe!' exclaimed Enjolras.

'Bloody hell' said Combeferre, eyes wide.

Courfeyrac's statement was proved to be true because in the second round Bahorel swung a punch to his opponent which knocked him to the floor. The ref counted for … 7,8,9, 10! Down and out. A knockout!

'Bloody hell' repeated Combeferre, stunned.

'Do you see now!?' said Enjolras gesturing to the dazed competitor who was being sort of carried and sort of dragged out of the ring, whilst Bahorel strode around the ring beating his chest like some wild mountain gorilla.

'Fuck me' breathed Courfeyrac, and it wasn't in disgust. Enjolras just groaned.

The next match was up and it was Grantaire's. 'Okay best cheering guys' said Combeferre, 'Enjolras you too, I want to hear you.'

There was no way on planet earth that Enjolras was going to cheer for a boxing match, it didn't matter who was competing. But, he reflected, Grantaire did look like he would need some sort of support to get him through this match. He looked pitiful next to his opponent, who, despite being in the same weight category, just seemed to take up more space than Grantaire. Also, after Bahorel, anyone was going to look tiny anyway.

Grantaire finished getting his last minute pep talk from his trainer who looked as scary as he had sounded yesterday, and stepped towards the centre of the ring to meet his competitor. Grantaire, recognisable with his dark, wayward curls was in blue, the lad from India was in red.

The first round was edgy, neither boxer landing many punches, both circling, trying to get a measure on the other, not wanting to get to close to the range of the other's gloves. After 2 minutes the boxers returned to their corners for a 1 minute break and to receive a talk from their coaches. In the red corner the coaches were gesturing wildly and egging their man on. In Grantaire's corner, his trainer was talking low and looking into his eyes.

'I wonder what he's saying' mused Combeferre.

'Probably smash the bastard's head in?' suggested Courfeyrac. Enjolras glared at him. 'What? It's a joke Enj, a fucking joke! Seriously through, Grantaire needs to get some punches in, it could go either way at the moment.'

Soon, time was up and they were back in the centre of the ring for the second round. Spurred on by his coaches, the Indian boxer went on the offensive striking left, right, high and low, Enjolras took in an anxious breath, what? He couldn't help it! This was endorsed violence and he didn't like anyone getting hurt….even Grantaire.

But Grantaire just weathered the attack, his arms up defensively, blocking the blows. Then, when the guy in red overreached on one of his swings, Grantaire bounced up with a jab to the chin and followed up with a left hook. Bang on target. Courfeyrac cheered, 'That's more like it! Bosh his face in Grantaire!' Enjolras was mortified, 'Sit down you idiot' he hissed trying to reach over Combeferre to tug Courfeyrac's shirt and make him sit down. Combeferre just sighed and separated the two, again.

There were not many more chances for Grantaire in the second round, but just before the bell he managed to get in another jab to his opponent's cheek. In return, the Indian boxer was unable to land more than a mild blow to Grantaire's torso. The second round finished on an uneasy lead for Grantaire.

They were sat quite close to the ring so Enjolras was able to see how much the second round took a toll on the boxer's bodies. Grantaire was now covered in a layer of sweat, his trainer was dousing him liberally with water from a drinks bottle, pausing only to pour some into Grantaire's mouth which he swallowed a little of then spat it out to the side. Enjolras screwed his face up 'That's just disgusting' he said.

'Enjolras, he's wearing a mouth-guard,' placated Combeferre 'I'm fairly sure they don't taste great so he's just washing his mouth out.'

Again, the break was up and the boxers back in the ring for the third and final round. This time Grantaire was on the offensive. All of the efforts by the Indian in the previous round had tired him out a lot more than Grantaire so this time the Englishman was able to land some good successive punches to his opponent's target area. 'Wooooooo, go Grantaire' yelled Courfeyrac along with the arena crowd who could sense a 'home' nation victory and were cheering him as well. It was soon clear that the red boxer had nothing else to give and Grantaire was motoring home to a victory when the bell rung and the noise in the arena erupted into cheers and claps for him. Combeferre gave Enjolras a pointed look, so he sighed and, with a roll of his eyes, clapped his hands…very…slowly. He still did not approve of boxing, he still didn't think it was a sport, it was still two men hitting each other, but perhaps some part of him was a teensy bit glad he hadn't witnessed Grantaire being taken apart by his opponent. A very tiny part of him that is.

The only thing left for Grantaire was the ref to raise his blue clad hand into the air and announce him the winner. A crooked smile broke across his face and he raised his hands to clap and acknowledge the crowd, then went to shake the hands of his opponent's trainers and the ref and gave his counterpart a brief conciliatory hug. He bounded over to his corner, gave the audience a quick wave and then ducked out of the ring to be escorted out of the arena.

'Blimey, they don't hang around do they?' said Courfeyrac, 'I was wanting lots more cheering and waving!'

'Well there are two other matches still to go tonight' replied Combeferre, 'And it is only the second round of the competition so far, so he's got a long way to go and needs to stay focused.'

'Ahh okay, he probably needs to rest up for his next fight' nodded Courfeyrac.

'Speaking of resting up..' chipped in Enjolras who was itching to leave the arena already, he had come for what he was supposed to see, now they could go, 'Can we head back already? I want to sleep well tonight for tomorrow.'

'Oh shit!' laughed Courfeyrac, 'I'd completely forgotten about tomorrow!' He stood up as the three of them edged out of their seats and headed for the arena exit, 'I was so excited about seeing Grantaire box I completely forgot!'

'How on earth could you forget that we're competing tomorrow!?' Enjolras said, exasperated.

'Well I remember now! I only temporarily forgot!' Courfeyrac said smiling, 'Chill Enjolras, it'll be fine, we'll get a good night's sleep and go get some gold coloured medals tomorrow.'

'That's easy for you to say' muttered Enjolras hunching his shoulders and looking down at his feet as they walked.

'Don't worry about it.' said Combeferre touching his elbow lightly, Enjolras appreciated the contact; it was warm and grounding. They left the SECC precinct and headed back to the athletes village. Combeferre kept chatting away to Courfeyrac, going over the fights they'd witnessed that evening, talking about Bahorel and Grantaire. Enjolras didn't join in, he was trying very hard not to think about tomorrow, and trying not to worry about it, but the more he tried not to think about it, the more he thought about it. And the more he thought about it, the more he worried about it. And then he remembered Grantaire was coming to watch him compete, and that worried him even more.

Eventually they arrived back at their little flat they shared and each said their goodnights as they went to bed. Enjolras was in his pajamas and just getting into his bed when there was a light knock at the door. It was Courfeyrac.

'Hey' he said quietly.

'Hey' replied Enjolras, 'What is it?'

Courfeyrac hesitated then said, 'Look I just wanted to apologise for being antagonistic tonight.'

'What?' said Enjolras, surprised sitting up on the bed with the covers around his waist. It was not like Courf to apologise for winding Enjolras up. It was part of their friendship; it was how they did things.

'Yeah, you heard right, I'm sorry.' Courfeyrac grimaced, 'Ugh I don't like apologising to you; it feels weird. But anyway, I also wanted to let you know that if you really didn't want Grantaire to come tomorrow evening then just say and I'll let him know. I don't want this messing with your head, I want you to be full on in the zone tomorrow because that gold medal has your name on it and you deserve it.'

'We all deserve it.' said Enjolras, 'It's a team effort.' He paused, knowing that Courfeyrac wanted an answer. He thought about whether he wanted Grantaire there or not. He really didn't like the guy and it made him a bit nervous thinking he was going to be there watching him. But, then, Enjolras had seen Grantaire (for want of a better word) compete, so he couldn't really turn around now and say no. Besides, here would be a chance to show Grantaire what a real sport was. Enjolras found himself liking that perspective more and more. Yes, I'll show him what grace and poise and real strength looks like, he thought.

With his mind made up he looked up at Courfeyrac and said 'No, I'll be okay with Grantaire there. Let him know the details and I'll prove gymnastics is not just poncy posturing.'

Courfeyrac grinned, 'Of course you will, brill! I'll let him know. Sleep well Enj.'

'You too' called out Enjolras as Courfeyrac exited his room and shut the door softly. Enjolras got under the covers, snuggling them up to his chin and settled down for sleep.

He found that he wasn't so worried any more.