'Stop it.'
Enjolras smirked as Grantaire nudged him with his knee. 'Stop what?' he muttered innocently. Grantaire shifted beside him on the sofa, his eyes narrowing and his arms folding around the squashy red cushion that he had chosen as his companion that evening. The Amis were spending the evening at Courfeyrac's with the plan to watch dvds and eat skittles until the downpour of rain outside the window had calmed down enough for the bravest of them to even consider catching a train home. One hour had turned into the next and it was nearing 9pm as the Amis settled, draped over the sofas and lumped around the alarmingly fluffy yellow rug (courtesy of Jehan) to watch the Breakfast Club –much to Enjolras' excitement. For a guy who seemed keen on debating the social issues presented almost non-stop for the first ten minutes, Grantaire thought that Enjolras' sudden lack of interest in the film was rather suspicious, and he scowled and felt a slight rush to his cheeks every time he looked up from his cushion to catch Enjolras staring not at the screen, but at Grantaire himself.
'Seriously,' Grantaire huffed. 'What is it? Do I have something on my face? I'm not even half tipsy yet so you can't be annoyed at me already.'
Enjolras' eyebrows knit together. 'I'm just looking at you,' he began to try and say. He'd actually participated in this evening's rounds of shots while the power had cut off, and his brain-to-mouth filter was significantly slower for it. 'I want to see how you ...see stuff.' He stuck out his chin defiantly, as if this made clear sense, which it did, to him. While Grantaire had curled up wordlessly beside him on the sofa, hugging a cushion to his chest and watching more of his own socks than the film, Enjolras had found something about the man pulling his gaze. He stared more than once at the muss of curls atop Grantaire's nodding head, or at the way his feet fidgeted in their worn green socks whenever there was a tense moment on screen, or at his eyelashes, which suddenly seemed a little ridiculous.
Grantaire was looking back at him again now, with scepticism under his eyelids, and his mouth starting to open, as if he had something to say, before he snapped it shut and pulled his attention to the tv screen, hugging the cushion ever closer to himself and shaking his head in annoyance as if trying to shrug off a dream.