It was a good thing that Enjolras didn't choose to smile at him. Nothing would have sent Grantaire rushing for the emergency call button faster. By the time a kind smile was directed at him from Enjolras, surely the man was on his deathbed.
He didn't think much further on the issue of names. Professors addressed their students by family names, and as students themselves, the friends had fallen into mostly the same habit. When was the last time anyone had called Grantaire by "Sébastien" or anything other than a variation of "Grand R"? He couldn't even recall, and he couldn't guarantee he'd even respond to it.
Still, being so familiar and informal to the author of your book was weird. Grantaire would call it a symptom of Enjolras' sickness, but he suspected that, even completely healthy, it would have been the same.
As for his offer to read, if Grantaire was being completely honest-- and he would be if prompted-- it was primarily for something to do to keep each of their minds occupied. Between awkward direct conversation and the offending breathing assistance, Enjolras looked like he needed something else to think about. Grantiare couldn't care less about the subject matter, but he didn't mind reading it. Whatever Jean Jacques Rousseau had to say would probably come up in conversation at a later meeting, and Grantaire did like to be prepared to argue against it. As it was, Enjolras was hardly in a position to argue with him effectively, and what fun was that?
Grantaire opened to Enjolras' bookmark and skimmed the first few lines in preparation. Already, he found the process dull, but it was better than thinking about Enjolras dying merely a meter from him.