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“I don’t know sign language,” Enjolras apologizes, shaping the words very clearly so that reading his lips hardly takes any effort at all. Not that it ever does, really; Enjolras has a way of making himself understood that transcends vocalization. He glows, Grantaire thinks. He glows, and it’s terrible and wonderful all at once, and even if Grantaire can’t hear the words, he feels them. They thrum in his veins, crackling just beneath his skin like a current, an electrical tide that never ebbs but flows and flows and flows. It pulls Grantaire back to Enjolras, even when he almost cannot bear to look on him (hope burns, it scalds, only fools believe the world can be changed if only people were good enough).
“I don’t know sign language,” Enjolras repeats, slower this time. It’s an excuse to stare at his lips, one that Grantaire resents and aches for in equal measure. “Combeferre is teaching me, but I want to tell you something now.”
Grantaire smiles crookedly at him, giving him a look that says, You’re telling me things now. And Enjolras nods as if he understands.
Then, very carefully, he moves forward, so close that Grantaire is forced to take a step back. Enjolras has that look on his face – that extreme concentration that gives off a nigh-tangible heat – but he hesitates.
Is this all right? he seems to ask. And Grantaire is confused, he’s bewildered and a little wary, but he nods almost against his will, his chin dragging up and down as he desperately tries to maintain eye contact and fails. Enjolras steps forward again. Grantaire studies his shoes.
Hands, cool and soft, lift his face. Grantaire finds himself nose to nose with Enjolras and cannot help the way he flinches. Enjolras moves his head so Grantaire can see his lips – no, no, it isn’t fair – his eyes, often hard, often unreadable, now as gentle as the fingers resting lightly on Grantaire’s face.
“Is this all right?” he asks. Grantaire lets out a shaky breath, but he nods again. Enjolras nods, too, measured, and his thumb brushes Grantaire’s lower lip. And Grantaire knows what’s about to happen a split-second before it does, he knows but he’s not quite sure he believes it, and then Enjolras’ mouth is on his and the storm that is always swirling just beneath is surfacing, is pounding in his brain and rushing in his ears and he wants to kiss Enjolras the way Enjolras deserves to be kissed, slow and worshipful and soft, but he’s caught somewhere between a dream and a nightmare and slow-worshipful-soft becomes hungry-listen-want but most of all Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras.
He expects it to end any moment, and so he takes advantage of every moment, but when Enjolras pulls away at last, it’s more to breathe than anything.
“Did I get my point across?” he asks, and Grantaire ducks his head, hiding his face in Enjolras’ neck. He brings Enjolras’ hand – which has been resting against Grantaire’s hip like it’s always been there – and flips it between them so that it’s palm up.
Very emphatically, he signs yes directly into Enjolras’ lifeline. It’s not his usual way of communication, but he needs, in this moment, for Enjolras to feel his words the way Grantaire feels Enjolras’, and though Grantaire knows it isn’t nearly enough, Enjolras smiles and laces his fingers with Grantaire’s tightly.