Word Count: 2.008
Disclaimer: [what makes you haha]
Warning: Poor writing, blabbering on and on about hands, random bit of awkward towards the end maybe?, out of character parts? I can’t tell anymore.
Note: I have no idea where this came from – no, actually I do, but hands give me feelings anyways and then this couple just so happened to have a lot of hand feels too and I just. I haven’t written in a month, so.
Summary: Enjolras watches Grantaire sketch and muses to himself about hands.
Enjolras watches Grantaire sketch.
He’s sitting on the couch reading a book, not really paying attention to it as his hand slides across the page, the graphite hitting the page making a long skritchy noise as he draws long, light lines down the page.
He doesn’t look like he’s concentrating or anything, just kind of sitting in the window, sun at his back as he sketches something rather lazily. Enjolras pretends to be interested in his book, though he’s actually watching him over the top of it. Though he is drawing out of boredom, every now and then, Grantaire will look down at the page, hand still as he considers something before he turns the sketchbook another direction and continues to sketch, the pad sideways.
It’s silent in the loft apartment other than the sound of the pencil on the paper and a slight mumble of music coming from Grantaire’s headphones. It’s not a bad silence or anything; Enjolras is perfectly content in sitting in it and watching Grantaire work. It’s one of his favorite things to do when he can. Seeing Grantaire motivated, even if it’s out of boredom, is something he enjoys anyways. (And, to be perfectly honest, it’s not as rare an occasion as one would think. Grantaire talks a big show wanting people to think he’s unmotivated and uninterested in things, but it’s not true at all. He’s usually very motivated… when it comes to Enjolras. But, that’s another story).
But the expression on Grantaire’s face isn’t what’s got Enjolras distracted, though the smile is adorable. It’s his hands. Grantaire has nice hands, he thinks. Not enough for it to be a fetish, mind you, seeing as it’s only Grantaire’s hands that he thinks are nice, but nice enough for him to have noticed that the man has nice hands.
Grantaire’s hands are large, and he’s usually doing something with them, whether it’s sketching, and fidgeting, painting, or other things. His hands are callused from doing random bouts of physical labor when he had to and his fingertips are callused from his guitar. You can tell where he holds a pencil and how tightly he grips it, too, and that’s just the physical things about his hands that people know. They aren’t the reason why Enjolras likes his hands.
Enjolras loves his hands because Grantaire, though he tries to come off as a brute, can make some of the most beautiful art with them. The sketches that come out of his head through his fingers and the end of his pencil are some of the most beautiful pieces Enjolras has ever seen – and he’s been to the Louvre how many times with his parents when he was young? Maybe he’s biased because he knows the artist, but there is so much care and consideration that Grantaire puts into each stroke of his pencil or brush. So much love comes out of his pen that Enjolras can feel the emotion Grantaire felt when he was sketching the piece or the emotion Grantaire felt when he decided on his subject. For example, Enjolras always gets self-conscious when he’s looking at a sketch of himself, but it’s not because it’s a sketch of him. It’s the emotion he feels from the piece. This is a sketch of himself done by someone who cares about him – no, a man that loves him. Enjolras knows he’s an attractive person, modesty be damned. He knows that he’s good-looking. But the way that Grantaire puts him down on paper is almost someone unrecognizable. Does he usually have that much warmth in his eyes, or is that just something Grantaire feels belongs there? Or is it something completely different all together, like, is that just the way that Enjolras looks at him? He’s never seen himself looking at Grantaire before and mirrors aren’t exactly helpful with this sort of thinking.
He blinks, coming back to his senses, and realizes he’s been spaced out staring towards Grantaire as he works. He focuses back on Grantaire and notices him smiling to himself and then he looks up and catches Enjolras’ eye. Goddammit, he noticed the spacing out. Enjolras feels his cheeks grow warm and he looks back down at his book, hoping nothing is said. Grantaire continues sketching, the smile still on his face, and he says nothing. Enjolras tries to focus on his book again, but the words aren’t really in focus and when he finally does, they aren’t making sense. He’s about to give up all together, when he sees more movement out of his peripheral vision. He looks up over his book to see Grantaire bring his hand to his mouth and start biting at his cuticles.
Well, his hands aren’t perfect looking, Enjolras supposes. The picked at and bitten cuticles and his thumbs are a symptom of severe stress, which Enjolras knows. He knows Grantaire is embarrassed by it if you point it out to him, which he did once and only once. He knows that he’s self-conscious about them, wanting to hide his hands in a pair of gloves or in his pockets. But Enjolras doesn’t care what they look like, not at all. He cares more about the person attached to them and the art they produce. He cares more about everything but what they look like. Honestly, he doesn’t even know how people can have attractive looking hands, but he just knows, somehow, that Grantaire has them.
And there’s more that his hands can do rather than just artsy, beautiful things, though hands are symbolic in their own way anyways. Grantaire’s hands are much bigger than Enjolras’, though that’s not to say that Enjolras has dainty, girlish or childish hands. Where Enjolras’ fingers are long and slender, Grantaire’s are large and they’re not thin, per se, but they’re not fat either. They’re, well, hands. And the hands of a cynic, though still an artist, can hurt even the thickest skinned people. (Not that that has anything to do with cynicism. It has more to do with the fact that Grantaire, when he wants to be mean, and he often is in a tongue-in-cheek way, can be downright brutal.) His hands, that create the most beautiful art, can also break bone in a bar fight. They can also be gentle, but firm, if he has to hold Enjolras back from basically tackling Marius (or lately, Eponine) and smacking the daylights out of them when one of them stands up to Enjolras. They can also be downright gentle, reaching out and tracing the lines of Enjolras’ face while they’re cuddled up in bed together under every blanket they both own because it’s winter in New York City and Grantaire’s boss forgot to pay the heating bill that week. And though Enjolras has never been on the receiving end of one of Grantaire’s punches, he has to say that he’d definitely prefers the gentle touches (or would it be caresses?) of Grantaire’s hands rather than the rough, violent ones.
That isn’t to say that Enjolras is fragile and wants to be treated like fine china. Like most things Grantaire does when he applies himself, he excels at it. (Just because he’s unmotivated doesn’t mean he isn’t good at some things, right?) His hands can also reduce Enjolras to a quivering mess, wanting more of them on or in him. They can leave finger-shaped bruises on his hips that he’ll see in the mirror when getting into and out of the shower, bruises that he’ll cover up with clothing and no one (but them) know they’re there; bruises that he’ll trace over in the shower and remember when they blossomed and my god, just thinking about this is making Enjolras’ face grow warm with embarrassment. Enjolras could fill volumes about Grantaire and there would be solid chapters dedicated to his hands (and his mouth with his stupid cocky grin and the different smiles he has and then the other things about that mouth – wait, let’s get to one body part at a time, shall we?)
And though Enjolras doesn’t care much for PDA and knows that Grantaire partially does and doesn’t (does because he wants to proudly show off what’s his, doesn’t because he doesn’t want to get in trouble with Enjolras for causing a scene). Enjolras’ favorite thing about Grantaire’s hands is how easy his fit into them. He loves how he can reach across the table at a restaurant, or when they’re cuddled up in bed and Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras and holds his hands backwards, so his palms are on the back of Enjolras’ hands, or when they’re out walking around campus or around town and Enjolras can just reach out and take his hand and lace their fingers (Though it’s usually Grantaire who does that part.)
And every time, whether it’s Grantaire who reached out to grab Enjolras’ hand or vice versa, Grantaire will pause to look at Enjolras and smile a genuine smile, just a small quirk of the lips and a bright, happy, light fills his eyes as the smile reaches them. He smiles over at Enjolras and squeezes his hand tight, almost as if he’s checking to make sure that Enjolras is really there. Sometimes, when he’s feeling super affectionate, and maybe when he wants the lads to groan in mock disgust, he’ll bring their clasped hands up to his face and kiss the back of Enjolras’ hand, watching the blonde’s face the entire time, smile broadening as Enjolras turns red as he always does because of the raw emotion on Grantaire’s face, and their slight PDA, and being fair-skinned, and –
“What are you staring at me for?” Enjolras blinks out of his thoughts and focuses his eyes on Grantaire in the window. He’s set his sketchbook and pencil aside and has his headphones hanging around his neck; his full attention is on Enjolras. He shuts his book and sets it on the coffee table before he gets up and starts over towards the window.
“I was just thinking,” Enjolras starts slowly. Grantaire’s eyebrows arch upwards and he cocks his head to the side, an amused look on his face.
“Oh? And what was it that required all of that intense brow furrowing?” he reaches out and pokes Enjolras between the brows. “You keep doing that and there’s this little crinkle right here,” he taps the spot right below his forehead again, “and I can’t decide to tell you if it’s cute or to tell you to stop because if you keep doing that, you’ll get wrinkles by thirty.” He goes to tap Enjolras’ forehead again and Enjolras reaches out and catches his hand before it lands again.
He holds the one of Grantaire’s hands in his, cradling it lightly, delicately. He then pulls his from under Grantaire’s and slides his fingers across his palm and flattens Grantaire’s hand out and laces their fingers together. He sits down beside him on the window seat before he reaches out and takes his other hand.
“It wasn’t anything bad or of consequence, really.”
“Mostly just thinking to myself how much I love your hands,” he feels foolish once he’s said it out loud. The familiar feeling of heat rushes into his cheeks as he sees Grantaire’s face brighten and that smile Enjolras loves so much is back and wow, huh, Enjolras feels incredibly warm.
“Well, I work with what they get me,” Grantaire says, pulling his hands from Enjolras’ and reaching out to touch Enjolras’ face and pull him in close for a kiss. And when they pull away enough for air, Enjolras can see that the smile hasn’t left Grantaire’s face.
The smile, though, is worth it. That smile that Enjolras always reads as I can’t believe you’re mine, or I can’t believe you did that, or, I love you, or, don’t let go.
And Enjolras just holds on tight and squeezes back and smiles and just hopes that he’s answering back with I’m not going anywhere, I’m right where I belong.