imagine what's never been

So, when Grantaire had half-heartedly offered, surely expecting Enjolras to decline, as he most-often did, Enjolras had -- actually, out loud, hadn't he? -- said, "Fuck, why not?", and closed the distance between where he stood in front of the balcony's sliding door and where his boyfriend sat. Grantaire's eyes had widened in surprise, but he held the half-burnt joint out to Enjolras, who had taken it and inhaled a long drag -- holding his breath as long as he could once the smoke hit his lungs as he passed the joint back to Grantaire. Then, he'd let the smoke slowly drift upward when he couldn't hold his breath any longer, watching it dissipate into the air.

"Everything okay, Enj?" Jehan had asked, curiosity clear in their voice. Enjolras looked at them: their eyes glazed slightly, a glass of wine held delicately between their fingers. Surely, Jehan was just as surprised Enjolras had taken up on Grantaire's offer. It wasn't rare that Jehan came over to smoke on the balcony with Grantaire, while Enjolras opted to stay inside and do any number of things -- cuddle in bed with the cat, read, watch Netflix on his laptop, do some extra work.

"Long week," Enjolras replied simply. "Just... tired. Stressed."

Jehan nodded in understanding. "Then I think we've got the perfect cure," they said with a laugh -- Jehan always laughed like bells, or wind-chimes, maybe, light and musical and full of the kind of happiness brought on by cool spring days -- and held out the joint to Enjolras once more. He took another drag, leaning back against the railing of the balcony, then passed it onto Grantaire next so it could make another round between them.

"Anything in particular go wrong?" Grantaire asked, a sympathetic look on his face as he reached his arms out, made grabby-hands at Enjolras, a nonverbal request to come sit. Enjolras pushed himself away from the balcony and climbed into Grantaire's lap, perching comfortably against him.

"No, just the usual."

"You mean, you overworking yourself?" Grantaire teased lightly; Jehan laughed -- Enjolras noticed them nod their head in agreement.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Yes, just that." It was the truth, he couldn't really deny it.

- - - - - - - - - -

Jehan had left maybe two hours later, when Montparnasse had pulled up in his sleek black sedan and called up to them that it was time to go home. Jehan had spent a moment quoting Romeo and Juliet at their boyfriend from over the side of the balcony, before gathering their things and leaving through Enjolras and Grantaire's flat. The two had stayed out, watching from the balcony as Jehan climbed in the car and it drove safely away.

"Alone at last..." Grantaire whispered against the hollow behind Enjolras' ear -- causing a shiver to run down his spine.

"Hardly," Enjolras protested, voice weak, the best he could do with Grantaire's lips mouthing kisses down his jaw to his neck. "We're still outside... Neighbors..."

"Hm, let's correct that then, shall we?" And Enjolras could only nod, head hazy from the weed and wine and Grantaire's warmth all around him. Feeling the movement of Enjolras' head, Grantaire somehow -- no, not somehow, he was a lot stronger than he seemed -- safely maneuvered them out of the chair, hooking his thumbs through the belt-loops of Enjolras' jeans and leading him backwards off the balcony -- the both of them pausing a moment to giggle, Grantaire fumbling to open the door, Enjolras whining a warning not to let the cat out -- and finally into the apartment. It took a few minutes of tripping and limbs tangling, but then the back of Enjolras' legs were hitting the mattress and he was falling onto it, Grantaire climbing on, straddling and looming over him with a crooked smile on his face. "How do you feel now?" he asked.

"Much better," Enjolras replied, hooking his hands behind Grantaire's neck, drawing him in and kissing him, a little sloppy.

"Good." Grantaire trailed fingers downward, toward the hem of Enjolras' shirt, with a feather lightness that brought on another shiver. "I can think of another way to de-stress, y'know."

Enjolras laughed, nodding his head. "I'm sure you can, babe."

Grantaire didn't give him more words, just proceeded to return to kissing Enjolras neck, sucking at the skin, and part of Enjolras' mind warned him hickeys -- but it was Friday, he had all weekend to let the bruises fade... Another few minutes, and Enjolras had to unhook his fingers from around Grantaire's neck as the man bent over him tugged both of their shirts off, leaving their chests to press hot against each other. The sensations were almost too much... In the most enjoyable way possible; Enjolras felt a soft moan leave his parted lips as Grantaire nipped at his collar bone. Enjolras let his fingers roam what skin of Grantaire's was exposed, enjoying the way his boyfriend's breath hitched every time his fingers went low enough on his hips or he dug his nails into skin lightly.

Enjolras arched his hips up, pleased with the friction between them when Grantaire grinded his down, lazily rutting against each other, drawing the occasionally groan from their lips.

"Pants," Enjolras mumbled breathlessly. "Off, please."

He felt Grantaire nod, pulling away enough to remove their pants with surprising ease -- but, Enjolras found, Grantaire was always full of surprises.

The removal of jeans was an amazing relief, the thin material of boxers still creating enough friction to make Enjolras squirm and moan and curl his fingers tightly in Grantaire's hair.

"Mmm, fuck... Enj..." Grantaire murmured, burying his face back in Enjolras' neck after a while, mouthing at the sensitive skin he'd already bruised earlier. "Gonna... You feel so good," he finished nonsensically, climaxing with another groan as Enjolras tugged at his curls lightly, how he knew Grantaire liked.

And it was enough to cause Enjolras to go over the edge he'd been teetering on as well, as Grantaire milked his own orgasm, still grinding his hips against Enjolras'. He released with a soft moan, letting go of Grantaire's hair to wrap his arms around his shoulders as he came inside his boxers, a few curses creeping out of his mouth.

Grantaire barely had to glance at Enjolras to know he was rolling his eyes. "That's the point, R."

"I know, but, holy shit, I forgot how cold it could be..."

This time, Enjolras let out a laugh -- the one Grantaire really loved: it was short, but full of warmth nonetheless. Grantaire thought only Enjolras was capable of providing so much emotion in such short moments. "You are just impossible to please, aren't you? Complain about wanting to escape the heat... You get away from the heat, and complain about the cold..." Grantaire watched the smirk grow on Enjolras' lips.

"I can think of plenty of things that please me," Grantaire responded, shooting Enjolras a wink -- and feeling far too proud of the slight tinge of pink that crossed Enjolras' pale cheeks.

"Shut up, would you?"

"Hmm..." Grantaire hummed thoughtfully, biting at the inside of his cheek and glancing toward the sky, knowing full-well it would only annoy his boyfriend that much more.

He was not, however, expecting retaliation, and let out a gasp of shock when something cold hit him hard square in the chest. He jumped back, glanced down, saw the remainders of the snowball that Enjolras had thrown at him clinging to his jacket. He stared at Enjolras, who was grinning, biting his lip, probably to keep from laughing.

"You bastard," Grantaire mumbled sullenly.

"Oh, it's just snow, don't be a baby. You deserved it."

"Did I?" Grantaire raised an eyebrow, then, quick as he could -- quicker than people generally thought he could, he was nimbler than he looked after so many years of dancing and boxing, his fingers even nimbler from a life spent as an artist -- he bent down and packed together a snowball of his own.

He tossed it at Enjolras... Who yelped as it hit him in the face.

"Oh, fuck..." Grantaire cursed under his breath. "I'm so sorry, sweetie, I didn't mean --" His aim at a distance had never been good: his skills laid in throwing punches at a person standing in front of him.

"I am... going to... kill you." Enjolras' eyes were narrowed in a glare that wasn't given to Grantaire too often -- anymore; his jaw clenched tight and face bright red, certainly more from the snowball's stinging impact.

Deciding it was worth the risk, Grantaire quickly closed the distance between them, gathering Enjolras in his arm, laying a hand on either cheek and looking down at his boyfriend. "I'm really -- really -- sorry. Honestly. I didn't mean -- I wouldn't hit you in the face, c'mon," Grantaire apologized again, words coming out as quickly as he could speak them. "You okay?" His eyes searched over Enjolras' face, observing his features: the bright blue eyes that were still narrowed angrily, the full bottom lip that jutted out slightly in a pout, the bright pink where Grantaire's hands were covering his cheeks.

There were snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, half-melted ones across his nose. If Enjolras didn't look positively in the mood to murder, Grantaire would say the sight was pretty.

Instead, he used his glove-covered thumbs to swipe away the wet on Enjolras' face, gentle, hoping to apease.

"How about we go inside and, uh, warm up? Take a nice hot shower?" Grantaire suggested, raising both eyebrows upward.

Enjolras let out a huff of air, a look of consideration crossing his face. "Yeah... Yeah. Okay, fine."

It only helped that Cyrus was gorgeous, as far as Sam was concerned, the perfect muse.

Sam smiled at the thought, as Cyrus was distracted by the sound of a branch cracking somewhere behind him, and snapped a quick picture before Cyrus began pacing again -- pulling out a cigarette and taking a drag after he had lit it.

"What's on your mind, babe? You're so restless," Sam said.

Cyrus turned to look at him, an eyebrow quirking upward. "Hm? Nothing... Too much coffee this morning, probably." His hands drummed against his legs, a habit Sam had taken note of long ago, before they'd even been dating, when Cyrus had just been the annoying drummer in his band. It could be a number of things: he was nervous, he was hyper, he was lost in thought. Sam wondered which one it was this time.

"Come here," Sam said -- a soft demand, which Cyrus followed, walking over to where Sam sat on an old bedsheet that made a perfectly good picnic blanket, now.

As soon as Cyrus was settled, Sam reached over, plucking the half burnt cigarette out of his boyfriend's fingers and taking a long drag himself. Cyrus gave a half-hearted noise of protest, snagging it back. Sam held his breath as long as he could, then exhaled, watching the smoke drift upward.

Cyrus' right leg was bouncing.

"You're anxious about something," Sam insisted. "You haven't been still for two seconds today."

Cyrus rolled his eyes, passed the cigarette back to Sam, as if the moment it took to take another hit would distract him. Sam still took it, sucking in another breath, as he fixed Cyrus with a questioning look. He earned another eye roll. Sam smiled.

"It's really nothing. Nothing bad. Just got a few things on my mind," Cyrus replied. He leaned over, and pressed lips against Sam's mouth; Sam let himself breathe, the smoke in his lungs drifting from his mouth to Cyrus', kissing back. They stayed that way a moment, then Cyrus pulled back and blew a thin trail of smoke out between his lips.

"What kind of things?" Sam questioned. Cyrus poked his forehead, the spot in between the middle of his eyebrows, where slight wrinkles formed when he furrowed them together in worry. Sam eased his face back into a neutral expression.

"You kind of things." Cyrus gave him a small smile. "I love you, y'know?"

Montparnasse twisted his head back, turning in his chair slightly, and was faced with his partner staring at him with furrowed eyebrows. "What is it?" he questioned, curiosity definitely getting the better of him. He couldn't think why Jehan would be looking at him like that.

"What happened to the painting that was in the living room corner?"

Oh. Montparnasse was glad for his unnaturally good poker-face, his ability not to falter under Jehan's accusatory tone. "What painting, dear?" he replied calmly.

"You know which painting." Jehan's tone was that firm one, the one that made Montparnasse weak, made him bend under its pressure. It was not a feeling Montparnasse had ever had before meeting Jehan. He wasn't used to allowing other people what they wanted from him. But Jehan... Jehan he'd give everything to. It was still a little scary. He tuned back into what Jehan was saying. "The one you're always complaining about?" Jehan arched a thin eyebrow questioningly. "It's myteriously missing today. I want to know what happened to it."

Montparnasse continued to keep himself composed. He did, of course, know exactly to which painting Jehan was refering. A hideous abstract piece that made no sense, no matter what angle one looked at it from. Montparnasse had drawn some relief from the fact it was sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, instead of hanging up yet (almost -- but not quite -- out of sight). Which was certainly mostly due to the fact that the walls to Jehan's -- no, their, now -- apartment were practically covered inch-to-inch. From other paintings, to framed poems, to pictures of friends and family, to shelves that housed potted plants and skulls and books. Jehan lived a cluttered life -- but it was much too Jehan for Montparnasse to complain; it was much too home for Montparnasse to feel odd straying from his usual minimalist style. Jehan had successfully turned their apartment into a home. A hard thing, as far as Montparnasse was concerned.

"Sweet, why would I do anything to your painting?" Montparnasse responded.

Jehan let out a skeptical laugh. "Why wouldn’t you do anything?" They rolled their eyes. Though still accusing, Montparnasse thought he recognized some fondness -- so, they weren't too angry, then. Good. "You hate the thing, the thing disappears. It has Montparnasse written all over it."

Montparnasse couldn't help the slight upward twitch of his lips now. "I gave it to Claquesous to, uh, care for."

For a moment, Jehan's face lit up in a proud 'I was right!' moment -- then, their eyes widened a bit. "You didn't give Claquesous orders to take care of it, did you?"

"No, sweet. Although it was very tempting..."

Jehan sighed, relief unmistakable. "Thank God. Tell Claquesous to bring that back A.S.A.P., though. Grantaire made it for me."

Oh, Montparnasse thought. Of course. That explained the attachment, and Montparnasse was familiar enough with guilt now to recognize its slight pang in his chest. "I didn't realize, my love." He grabbed his phone from where it sat on his desk, unlocked it, and swiftly typed a message out to Claquesous. "All done. I'm sure he'll bring it back here tonight, even. I... am sorry," he finished, softly. "It's just so..."

"I know, it's not aesthetically pleasing, but I like it."

"Of course."

"And Grantaire did it, so..."

"I know."

"Thank you, Mont." Jehan smiled a bit, corners of their eyes crinkling slightly as well. "Next time, don't think I won't notice when my things mysteriously vanish."

Next to him, Joly bumped his shoulder with his own. "R, sure you can." Grantaire turned his head slightly to glance at the friend next to him. On his other side, Bossuet's shoulder brushed his own, as well. It was something they often did when Grantaire was upset; one on either side. Grantaire wasn't sure if it was for the comfort of having two warm bodies next to him, for an easier time stopping him from doing anything too dangerous, or a mix of both. Knowing them, it would be the last.

They were good friends.

He was an idiot.

"I'm not. He hates me. Actually, I'm sure a couple of them hate me now. I was a royal jack-ass. Did you see the looks on his friends’ faces? What were their names again?" Grantaire's eyes narrowed as he tried to recall. "The two sitting on either side of him..."

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac," Bossuet supplied.

"Right, those two." Grantaire swished back more whiskey, gave the bartender a pointed look -- a silent more, please. "God, if looks could kill... I'd have died three times over tonight."

"Taire, you're overthinking it, really," Bossuet insisted. "I mean, really, I think Enjolras could use the counter-arguments. Like you said... we all agree with him. It's not good practice if you have no opposition. Give him some time to cool off. You'll see. Enjolras isn't that bad."

Grantaire shook his head. "No, he's not bad. He's... He's Apollo reincarnated." Grantaire glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, then back down to the bar counter, and ran a hand through curls that could stand to be washed, honestly. "God. This is why I didn't want to come to your damn meetings." Grantaire had heard a number of his friends -- Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, Bahorel -- gush about these political meetings for months now. He had known their ideology didn't suit his. They had insisted he come at least once, just give it a chance. He might have a good time; it was a fun crowd, and they usually went for a few drinks afterward. He'd finally agreed...

And hadn't been able to stop himself from picking a fight with Apollo -- Enjolras -- not even ten minutes into it, caught off guard by his... his entire self, really. The good looks, the passion, the twisted down-turn of his lips when Grantaire had interrupted him. Grantaire hadn't been thinking straight in his presence, had been nervous, had lost any bit of brain-to-mouth filter he tried to keep in place.

It had gone to shit, and Grantaire had barely managed to stay until the end of the meeting, hands shaking in his lap underneath the table he had sat at in the back. He had mentally cursed at himself each time he picked another fight, and watched Enjolras become more and more frustrated with him.

He hated him. Grantaire couldn't even blame him, either.

He took a long gulp from his fresh glass of whiskey.

"Just come back to another meeting, R," Bossuet said. "Please, for us?" Grantaire knew what he was going to find if he looked at Bossuet, but he turned his head anyway, and pursed his lips: the puppy dog eyes, the pout... He could never resist.