Éponine said—later confirmed by Grantaire—that their resident cynic did indeed paint, but Enjolras wasn't sure what he expected. A child's work? Something vaguely amatuer that could have greatly improved with some sort of schooling or mentorship from a renowned artistic Académie? What was staring him in the face right now was the farthest from what Enjolras expected—and he was always prepared for the unexpected. Clearly, Grantaire was unknowingly undermining that trait in Enjolras.
He was staring, lightly dumbfounded by the landscapes and figures, portraits of their friends, the ripped canvases that settled something uncomfortable by their implication within Enjolras. Enjolras slowly rested his eyes upon something else, one he could only be sure of was a painting of him before Grantaire spoke. The awe was sucked back in with his own inhale of breath before turning that pointed stare on Grantaire. The cigarette, the shirtless torso, and the alcohol bottle within plain view was enough to overshadow his compliment for a moment.
Enjolras lifted the bags in his hands. "I thought you were ill. I researched your symptoms as well as what common illnesses occur to prolonged exposure to the cold. You had mentioned it on the network," Enjolras explained, so that Grantaire could take not misconception on how Enjolras stumbled upon the information. He hadn't been snooping, he was just concerned. For someone getting sick—there had been others who were amassing a fever and fatigue. He was just... making sure that Grantaire was not catching the same thing.
Alas, no. Grantaire's excuse had been merely his own fault.
"Your door was unlocked, Grantaire." Enjolras gestured back in that direction, tinged with annoyance. How many times had he told him? He tried not to sound agitated by the unlocked door; he was trying to... he didn't know what. Not being so intense. Eponine had more or less suggested as such. "I am just dropping off some things from the pharmacy. I didn't intend to disturb your.." Enjolras lifted his chin in Grantaire's direction, although his eyes drifted, seeking out the other pieces of artwork, the ones that he thought were of himself.