In retrospect, Enjolras thought she had to laugh at herself. It was stupid, downright ignorant of her to think that the news of pregnancy, however far along she had been at the time, was enough to make her suddenly feel like her body had turned against her. It had, of course, as there was now a human life rapidly taking shape inside of her, when she ought to have been immune to such things, but. The knowledge, when it came, hadn't made her suddenly huge, like she feared it might have. That was nothing. This, on the other hand, not even a month and a half later...
It was a blessing she could still button the pair of jeans she'd stolen from Grantaire. The swelling was, every day, getting more impossible to hide and it made her sick. Not actual sick, that had finally subsided. Metaphorical sick. The kind that came with something horrific happening, as her body mutated along with the creature gestating in it. The literature, translated through her boyfriend's understanding, had not been enough to prepare her for how agonizingly uncomfortable the process was. How would anyone willingly choose to allow this to happen to themselves?
The last few weeks, it had been gas or something like it. This week, a new development, her equilibrium was shot. The doctor, who she saw as infrequently as she could (what was the use, she took care of herself, Grantaire made sure of that), advised staying off her feet if the dizziness got worse and she had been able to spurn the advice for a good day and a half. Fortunately, over the weekend, she had a lot of work that would have kept her at her desk, regardless.
Except that the edge of the desk wanted ever so badly to dig into her fatness. So that could only last for so long before she was on the couch with the laptop propped up on her stomach. At least it was good for something, this big. Almost the perfect angle to type at. If it would stop slipping.
Moving. Oh god. She frantically saved her work at least four times before snapping the computer closed and setting it down on the coffee table. Where her shirt rode up and the jeans slipped down, her stomach flinched of its own accord. No, no, no. No. She pressed a hand over it, maybe she was just seeing things, but that time she felt it in every part of her body.
She had also been advised that it might be time to start training herself to lay on her side, as going from a flat position to a standing one would start to prove impossible. Impossible, really? Because she was up in no time, stumbling back to the bedroom to grab her phone. Wow. All right. Maybe she understood. A little. Except this couldn't be that, this was just panic. Right?
Grantaire wouldn't even get a chance to greet her. As soon as there was a pause in the ringing, she hissed, "Come home, now, something gross is happening."
It was a blessing she could still button the pair of jeans she'd stolen from Grantaire. The swelling was, every day, getting more impossible to hide and it made her sick. Not actual sick, that had finally subsided. Metaphorical sick. The kind that came with something horrific happening, as her body mutated along with the creature gestating in it. The literature, translated through her boyfriend's understanding, had not been enough to prepare her for how agonizingly uncomfortable the process was. How would anyone willingly choose to allow this to happen to themselves?
The last few weeks, it had been gas or something like it. This week, a new development, her equilibrium was shot. The doctor, who she saw as infrequently as she could (what was the use, she took care of herself, Grantaire made sure of that), advised staying off her feet if the dizziness got worse and she had been able to spurn the advice for a good day and a half. Fortunately, over the weekend, she had a lot of work that would have kept her at her desk, regardless.
Except that the edge of the desk wanted ever so badly to dig into her fatness. So that could only last for so long before she was on the couch with the laptop propped up on her stomach. At least it was good for something, this big. Almost the perfect angle to type at. If it would stop slipping.
Moving. Oh god. She frantically saved her work at least four times before snapping the computer closed and setting it down on the coffee table. Where her shirt rode up and the jeans slipped down, her stomach flinched of its own accord. No, no, no. No. She pressed a hand over it, maybe she was just seeing things, but that time she felt it in every part of her body.
She had also been advised that it might be time to start training herself to lay on her side, as going from a flat position to a standing one would start to prove impossible. Impossible, really? Because she was up in no time, stumbling back to the bedroom to grab her phone. Wow. All right. Maybe she understood. A little. Except this couldn't be that, this was just panic. Right?
Grantaire wouldn't even get a chance to greet her. As soon as there was a pause in the ringing, she hissed, "Come home, now, something gross is happening."
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