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Grantaire stares at him, unblinking, when Enjolras goes down onto his knees before him. His lips are parted and he looks confused, but not enough to not be intrigued. "What on earth," he says, trying to grin, trying to make a joke of it.
Enjolras just shushes him. "Do you even know what shoe polish is?" he demands, and grasps Grantaire's ankle, his fingers wrapped around the scuffed, worn leather. "These are nice boots. Or, they were nice boots. You should take better care of them."
Grantaire's gaze holds on him for a moment too long, a degree too intense. Then he looks away, takes in the kit of polish and leather conditioner and rags that Enjolras has brought with him. His throat works in silence before he leans back, letting his shoulders press into his chair, and adopts a careless expression. "If it bothers you that much," he says, breezy, his voice at odds with the way his eyes are going dark and his shoulders growing tense, "then you do something about it. I've got better things to do with my time."
Enjolras just settles onto his haunches and grabs the saddle soap from his kit. It isn't natural for him to be like this, sunk low on his knees with Grantaire rising tall over him. But this is something he can do for Grantaire, who too-often doubts his own value. This is something Enjolras can do to show Grantaire what he means to him, without words, because between them words too often lead to arguments instead of understandings.
Grantaire is very still and very quiet as Enjolras picks up his foot from the floor and props Grantaire's heel on his thigh. There's months' worth of dirt and dust on his boots, and it takes all of Enjolras's concentration to scrub it away thoroughly. He more than half expects Grantaire to snark at him as he works, as full of sarcasm and wryness as he ever is, but Grantaire doesn't speak a word, just curls his fingers around the edge of the seat and breathes quietly.
When the boot is clean and he's wiped the last of the soap away, Enjolras opens up the jar of conditioner and starts working it into the leather, the back of Grantaire's heel cupped in one hand as he massages it in with firm sweeps of his thumb. Clasping him so securely, he can't miss the tremor that goes through Grantaire, but when he glances up to meet his gaze, Grantaire's eyes are hooded, his fingers white-knuckled like he'd fly up out of the chair if he weren't holding himself down.
The boot's already looking a hundred times more presentable, gleaming a little with the shine of the leather conditioner, but there's still the polish left to do to finish the job. Enjolras scoops the polish out with his fingers, not bothering with a rag, and starts working that into the boot as well.
It takes several layers of polish and a lot of elbow grease, but by the time he's finished, Grantaire's boot looks as good as new, shining bright the way it was meant to. When Enjolras sets Grantaire's foot back down on the floor, nodding in satisfaction over the work he's done, Grantaire makes a sharp, wounded sound. "Christ," he breathes, and bends low to grab at Enjolras and kiss him.
Enjolras allows himself to return the kiss, just for a minute. When he pulls away, he realizes he's smeared black polish on Grantaire's arm and the side of his face. It makes Enjolras grin, and it makes Grantaire look even more wild than the bright, desperate look in his eye. "Get up here," he says, breathy and desperate. "Right now. God, you're wicked."
Enjolras just settles back on his haunches again and shakes his head. "I still need to do the other one. Can't have you walking around in mismatched boots, now can we?"
Grantaire moans like he's dying, and Enjolras isn't ashamed to admit that he grins, delighted by his response, as he gets back to work.