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It takes Enjolras twenty minutes of struggles with his shoes before he gives up and kicks them aside, going into his closet to look for that old pair of velcro sneakers that he knows are still in there somewhere.
"You don't have to go, you know," comes Combeferre's voice from the corridor. "You're allowed to miss meetings once in a while, especially given the circumstances. Take the day off. Me and Courfeyrac will keep you updated."
Enjolras has no doubt that Combeferre is giving him good advice, both as his best friend and as a med student, but he's made up his mind already. Besides, it took him a great deal of effort just to get dressed and he can't let that go to waste. "I'm fine, it's just a broken arm," he lies, finally locating the sneakers in the same box as a pair of red flip-flops he doesn't even recall buying. He bends down to put the sneakers on and a couple of the bruises on his back complain at the sudden movement. "It's a nuisance more than anything."
Combeferre doesn't say anything when Enjolras finally emerges from the bedroom, just holds out Enjolras's jacket. Enjolras doesn't like being babied, but he's caught his reflection in the mirror and he looks thoroughly rumpled and pissed off, and it's late. They really don't need to waste another twenty minutes just so Enjolras can have the satisfaction of putting on his jacket all by himself, so he just slumps his shoulders and lets Combeferre help him.
"Thanks," Enjolras says, and he doesn't mean for the jacket. Thank you for not staring at me while I was trying to get dressed, thank you for driving me to the meeting so I don't have to walk, thank you for taking me to the ER yesterday, thank you for making sure I didn't get trampled in the crowd. Thank you for understanding that I can't miss this meeting because I'm a control freak, not because I don't trust you to do a great job without me.
Combeferre's movements are quick and efficient. "You're welcome," he says, quiet as always, and he sounds like he's not talking about the jacket either. He picks up Enjolras's messenger bag and slings it over his shoulder. "Don't even try to argue," he says when Enjolras opens his mouth. "It'll heal more quickly if you don't strain it."
The meeting has already started when Enjolras and Combeferre finally show up at the Musain, Combeferre still holding on to Enjolras's bag. The café's back room is crowded as usual and Enjolras figures they're the last ones to arrive. Courfeyrac is holding court, gesticulating wildly and pointing to several newspapers spread on the tables, but he trails off when he sees them coming in. They exchange greetings and then Enjolras picks up one of the newspapers to scan the headlines, ignoring the stares that everyone is giving him.
Courfeyrac is harder to ignore. "You look like you've been trampled by a herd of wildebeest," he says, and Enjolras's lips curl up involuntarily because that's not too far from the truth. "What the hell are you doing here? I was hoping Combeferre would be able to prevail on your common sense and force you to stay home."
Combeferre, who moved behind Enjolras to scan the headlines over his shoulder, gives a theatrical sigh at that. "That was the plan," Combeferre says. "Sadly, I forgot that he's completely devoid of common sense."
The two of them share a long-suffering look and Enjolras rolls his eyes. "He tried," he tells Courfeyrac. "And you're both exaggerating, I don't look that bad."
Courfeyrac grimaces. "Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?"
Enjolras has, and he does look bad. He looks worse, if truth be told, between the shadows under his eye and the split lip and his arm in a cast and all his clothes in disarray because he can't dress himself one-handed. But he shrugs it off, changing the subject to more pressing matters.
"Yesterday's protest made a real impact on the media," he says, tossing the newspaper back on the table. It falls in a crumpled mess and a couple of pages flutter away and land on Bossuet. Enjolras curses his own clumsiness and mutters a quick apology before turning to address the whole room. "We've got to take advantage of the coverage we got, grab people's attention while they're willing to listen."
He picks up another newspaper. This one's local, and most of the front page is taken by a colour photograph of Enjolras with one arm slung around Combeferre's shoulders and the other arm hanging limply by his side. It's quite a good photo, behind the two of them you can see rows of banners and picket signs. Enjolras thinks he recognizes a couple of particularly irreverent slogans that Grantaire wrote.
Combeferre stares at the photo over Enjolras's shoulder. "It's not the kind of attention I would have wished for," Combeferre says, glancing around at their friends. Enjolras's injury is the most obvious but there's plenty of bruises and band-aids on display in the room.
"It's not," Enjolras replies, clenching his good hand into a fist. "But it's what we've got, and we'll make the most of it."
His friends nod. The rest of the meeting is all business.
---
Combeferre looks at his watch and frowns. "Can you manage to get home on your own?" he asks Enjolras. "I'm late for my shift."
Enjolras manages not to roll his eyes. It's been two weeks since he broke his arm during the protest and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are still taking turns driving him everywhere. He doesn't know how to tell them that their help is appreciated but not necessary. "Of course," Enjolras replies. "Go."
But Combeferre hovers near the door, sharing a significant glance with the few people who stayed behind after the meeting.
"Can't," Bahorel tells Combeferre apologetically. "Gym class."
Jehan also shakes his head and holds up his rolled-up yoga mat. Joly has a doctor appointment because he went to a lecture on genetic diseases and he's now convinced that he has at least three of them. Éponine has three books on Medieval French literature to read before Monday and still needs to hunt down one of them at the library. They linger anyway, arguing over which one of them would be less inconvenienced by the detour.
"It's fine, really," Enjolras says, grabbing his bag with his left hand and making for the door. His friends are all busy and he doesn't want to impose, much as he's touched by the gesture. "I can get home with my own legs, which are not broken despite what all of you seem to think."
"I'd be happier if you didn't insist on filling your bag with bricks," Combeferre replies.
Enjolras does roll his eyes at that, refusing to admit that the unaccustomed weight is straining his left shoulder almost to the point of pain. He carries that same weight easily on the other shoulder. How come his left arm is so useless? "It's fine," he repeats.
"I'll walk you home," someone says. Enjolras didn't even notice that Grantaire was still in the café, but there he is at Enjolras's elbow, relieving him of his bag and shouldering it effortlessly. "Wow, it really does feel like there's bricks inside."
"It's just a couple of books," Enjolras snaps. He's about to snatch back the bag, but Combeferre is glancing between him and Grantaire, and he's got that look on his face that he gets when he thinks Enjolras is acting like a five year old. Enjolras quickly weighs the pros and cons of going home on his own and suffering Combeferre's silent disapproval for the next few weeks, versus going home with Grantaire and suffering Grantaire's conversation for less than half an hour. "Er. If it's no bother to you. My flat is a bit out of your way..."
Grantaire blinks and grips the bag's strap. "No problem," he says. "I've been meaning to check out the new art store that opened next to your place." He sounds surprised, as if he'd expected Enjolras to bodily snatch the bag from him and run away.
That had been Enjolras's first instinct, true, but it shouldn't have been. Enjolras's friends shouldn't feel that it's a privilege to do him a favour. It's just that Grantaire is, well, Grantaire, and most of the time Enjolras has no clue how to deal with him. But, despite what Combeferre likes to imply, Enjolras is not a five year old. "All right, then," he tells Grantaire.
Combeferre's already out of the door, waving them goodbye. "See you all tomorrow," he calls.
Everyone files out, and then there's just Enjolras and Grantaire in the room. "Shall we?" Grantaire says, holding open the door and sketching some kind of elaborate bow with his free hand.
Enjolras bits the inside of his cheek and doesn't say anything as he walks out of the door and into the crowded street. He's trying his best to be nice but they've been alone for thirty seconds and already he can feel his temper flaring. If only Grantaire would stop turning everything into a farce.
"You don't have to," Enjolras says as they start walking side by side. It comes out more snippy than he meant to, and he cringes inwardly. Before Grantaire can say anything, Enjolras hastens to add, "I am grateful that you're going out of your way for me, but Combeferre worries too much. I don't want to make a fuss."
Grantaire shrugs. "I don't mind fussing over you," he says, giving Enjolras a crooked smile. He meets Enjolras's eyes for a moment before looking away. The smile fades. "Unless you don't care for the company, in which case you just have to say the word and I'll leave."
Enjolras's frown deepens. "That's not it," he says, hastily. It's not really the truth. He doesn't hate Grantaire, it's just that most of what Grantaire says or does infuriates him. But he's trying to be nice, and Grantaire is doing him a favour, and he doesn't want this to end in yet another stupid argument. "Thanks," he said, belatedly remembering his manners.
"Like I said, no problem," Grantaire says, still staring straight ahead, but a hint of that smile is back on the corner of his mouth.
They walk in silence for a while. Grantaire ventures a couple of innocuous remarks and Enjolras replies in kind. The silence feels strained, but it's better than arguing, and Enjolras can't think of any subject of conversation that he and Grantaire would agree about. Not even the weather, judging by how Grantaire is bundled up in his coat and scarf and beanie, while Enjolras is only wearing a light jacket.
It's a relief when they get to the art store and Grantaire rushes inside, staring around like he's a kid and like there are candies on the shelves instead of sketch blocks and coloured pencils. Enjolras follows him around, looking at the stuff on display. He has no idea why someone would even want all those different shades of markers, there's got to be at at least a hundred different kinds of reds and greens and they all look the same to him. But Grantaire spends an unholy amount of time in front of the display, holding the markers up to the light and muttering to himself.
"Just one more minute," he calls to Enjolras over his shoulder after a while. "I've narrowed it down to either this one or this but I don't know..." His voice trails off, then suddenly he turns around and frowns. "Sorry, I know you're busy. I can come back later after I've dropped you off."
Enjolras shrugs. "I'm not in a hurry and you're carrying my bag of bricks, so I'm fine with waiting." He leans forward to get a better look at the markers on display. He's glad he didn't suggest that Grantaire simply bought both -- who knew that art supplies were so expensive?
Grantaire grins and adjusts the bag's strap over his shoulder. "Which one do you think?" he says, holding up the two markers in front of Enjolras's face. "Poppy red or crimson red?"
"This one," Enjolras says, pointing with his left hand.
"Poppy red?"
"Yes."
Grantaire considers this. "They look the same to you, don't they?"
"Yes," Enjolras replies, and he manages to keep a straight face when Grantaire bursts out laughing. "Well, they do!" he exclaims in mock-annoyance, while Grantaire keeps laughing and shaking his head.
"It's for a project," Grantaire says, "and it has to be absolutely perfect."
Enjolras knows that Grantaire takes it seriously, but usually when he thinks about Grantaire and art Enjolras thinks about the irreverent cartoons that Grantaire sketches during their meetings to annoy him. It's the first time that he's seen just how intense Grantaire can get about art. It's not a bad look on him.
"All right, this one!" Grantaire exclaims after a minute or so, jolting Enjolras out of his daydream. He puts back all the markers he didn't choose and heads for the counter to pay.
Enjolras offers to carry the bag of art supplies but Grantaire refuses, even though between that and the two messenger bags he's burdened like a pack mule. They bicker all the way to Enjolras's flat, but to no avail: Grantaire refuses to let Enjolras carry anything, not even when they're standing outside of the old building where Enjolras lives.
"You live on the top floor!" Grantaire complains. "What if you fall down the stairs, you and your bag of bricks? Combeferre would never forgive me. I would never forgive me."
"There's an elevator," Enjolras complains, Grantaire doesn't relent until Enjolras sighs and motions for him to go inside.
The elevator is old and shaped like a cage and it takes forever to reach the ground floor. Enjolras pushes the button for his floor and Grantaire squeezes himself against the metal walls so his bags won't obstruct the door. The ride up also takes forever and it's filled by that peculiar silence that is created when two people are stuck in the same elevator and don't quite know what to say to each other. Enjolras has a sudden panic-filled thought -- what if the elevator breaks down and he really ends up stuck with Grantaire for who knows how long, this elevator isn't very reliable on the best of days -- but then they reach the sixth floor and the elevator doors lurch open.
Grantaire doesn't relinquish his grip on Enjolras's bag until they're inside Enjolras's minuscule entrance hall.
"Just drop it anywhere," Enjolras says, making a vague gesture, and Grantaire puts down the messenger bag with a relieved sigh. "Thanks again," he adds.
"Any time," Grantaire says airily, even though he's massaging his shoulder with free hand. His face is almost as red as his beanie from the exertion.
"Can I get you anything?" Enjolras asks, then curses himself when he remembers his perpetually empty fridge. "I've got, er, tea. Or some orange juice." Probably. If it hasn't gone bad, and if Courf hasn't finished it during his last visit.
Grantaire hesitates for only a moment. "Tea would be nice," he says. "If it's not a bother."
Enjolras heads into the kitchen. In the time it takes Grantaire to put down his bag and take off his jacket and scarf, Enjolras manages to fail at opening the kettle with his left hand.
"Need some help?" Grantaire asks, leaning against the door frame.
"I can manage," Enjolras grunted, turning away. He manages to open the stupid kettle, sticks it in the sink and opens the tap too much. The water pressure, always erratic at best, seems to be at full force this afternoon. Enjolras yelps and jumps back as the water splashes him in the face.
In two steps Grantaire crosses the small kitchen and turns off the water, gently pushing Enjolras away from the sink. "I've got this," he says.
Enjolras swears under his breath and wipes the water from his face with the sleeve of his sweater. "I'm fucking useless," he mutters. His clothes are soaked, and also his hair.
Grantaire doesn't hear, or maybe he pretends he doesn't hear. He's opening and closing drawers at random. "I know you're a busy person but you should try to make time and wash your hair like a normal person," he jokes. "Where do you keep your tea?"
Enjolras runs his left hand through his hair. He doesn't realize that he's been asked a question until Grantaire turns around to stare at him. "Hey, Enjolras? The tea?"
"Oh." Enjolras mentally kicks himself for getting distracted. "In there, I think," he says, jerking his head towards a cupboard.
Instead of getting the tea, though, Grantaire keeps staring at him. "Are you okay?" he asks. You look out of it."
"Yeah," Enjolras says, turning away to avoid meeting Grantaire's eyes. "I was just thinking that you're right, I'm a mess."
"I never said that," Grantaire complains, but Enjolras ignores him and keeps talking. Might as well get it all out now.
"I don't know what's wrong with me, I can't do anything with my left hand! I keep dropping things and I can't carry my own bag and typing takes me forever. The other day I've had to dictate the text to put on the fliers to Marius, because it was quicker than writing it myself!"
"He's not so slow," Grantaire complains.
Enjolras rolls his eyes. "He uses only his index fingers to type, he types like an old man," he points out, and Grantaire has to nod at that. Marius's grandpa probably types more quickly than Marius. "It's not that I mind having to rely on people," Enjolras says. "But right now it feels as if I can't do anything on my own. I can't even wash my hair properly. It's disgusting," he says, tugging at a stray tangle. It takes him forever to take a bath now, with one arm in a plastic bag to keep the cast dry, and for all the good it does him he might as well just stick his head under the tap.
Grantaire frowns and doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "Er," he says eventually. "Do you want me to wash your hair?"
"Come again?" Enjolras says, frowning, but Grantaire's face is serious.
"I can wash your hair," he says. "It's no problem, I do Éponine's all the time. Sometimes I give her and Gavroche haircuts. And who do you think helped her when she dyed her hair purple?"
"I..." Enjolras says, distracted by Grantaire's babbling. "Wait, Éponine dyed her hair purple? When?" He didn't remember that happening.
Grantaire waves his hand dismissively and turns around to putter with the tea, sneaking glances at Enjolras over his shoulder every now and then. "Only for a couple of hours, then she realized her hair looked terrible and had me dye it black again. She'll probably kill me if she finds out I told you, so please don't say anything. But it doesn't matter, I'm not offering to dye your hair. Unless you want to. You'd probably look terrible in purple but you might pull off red. Come to think of it, you can probably pull off purple too. You can pull off anything, it's unfair." Enjolras just looks at the back of Grantaire's head without saying anything, until the other man's babbling peters down. "But, yeah, that's beside the point, you're not going to want to dye your hair. The other offer still stands, though. If you want."
Enjolras sighs, softly. Sometimes he really doesn't know if Grantaire is just trying to rile him up or if there's something more. He thinks it's the former, but Combeferre has a different theory, and Enjolras listens to his friends even when he thinks they're wrong. (Courfeyrac also agrees with Combeferre, more or less, but his theory is worded in a manner not suitable for the ears of children and very, very wrong anyway. Enjolras won't think about what Courfeyrac says because Courfeyrac is a terrible friend and no amount of brain bleach will ever delete some mental images.)
"Thanks for the offer, but there's no need," Enjolras says. "I can manage, I'm getting used to doing things with my left hand." It's a lie, he's as clumsy as ever.
Grantaire snorts, as if he's reading Enjolras's mind. "Sure," he says. He pushes a mug full of steaming hot tea across the table and sits down in front of him, nursing his own mug.
Enjolras lifts the mug with his left hand, awkwardly, trying not to pour it all over himself. The mug's almost full to the brim and the tea sloshes around. Enjolras takes a tiny sip. It's almost too hot to drink, but tastes much better than the stuff Enjolras makes: usually he forgets the teabag in the cup until the tea is so strong it's completely undrinkable, and also lukewarm. He drinks it in silence, while Grantaire stares at him. He dribbles a little tea down his chin at one point, but Grantaire doesn't remark on it.
"It's not that I think you need my help," Grantaire says instead, looking down at the cup in his hands. "I just thought it'd be easier if... but you probably think it's creepy so... " He trails off.
"It's not creepy," Enjolras complains.
"I'm sorry. Forget I said anything," Grantaire says.
It must be Enjolras's contrary streak. Either that or the fact that his hair is a tangled mess and he's been considering the idea of getting a buzz cut because he can't stand the idea of not being able to wash it properly. Enjolras clears his throat and puts his almost-empty cup of tea down on the table. "Actually, if you don't mind I'll take you up on your offer."
Grantaire blinks. "Yeah. Yeah, sure," he says, still processing Enjolras's words. Enjolras himself is still coming to terms with the fact that he's just agreed to Grantaire washing his hair. Then, as if he's afraid that Enjolras will change his mind, Grantaire gets up, chair scraping back over the floor, and heads towards the bathroom.
Enjolras follows, slower. "Sorry for making you do this."
"No worries," Grantaire says airily. "You can return the favour later. By which I don't mean you'll have to wash my hair when I break my hand, I really hope I won't break any bones again any time soon..."
Enjolras takes off his sweater, and Grantaire's words are muffled as his head and his cast get tangled in the sweater. Grantaire laughs and steps closer to help, and Enjolras curses his clumsiness again.
He looks around the bathroom. "How are we going to do this?" he wonders aloud. He takes a step towards his bathtub and makes to kneel in front of it but Grantaire stops him with a hand on his arm.
"No, wait, that won't be comfortable," Grantaire says. He runs out before Enjolras can say anything, and returns shortly after with one of Enjolras's old kitchen chairs.
He places the chair in front of the sink and Enjolras perches on it. It's cramped in there, and Enjolras is more or less trapped between the sink, the bathtub, the window, and Grantaire. Grantaire tries to make an elaborate flourishing gesture with a towel but only manages to smack his elbow against the wall.
"Ouch. Whoops," he says.
"Careful," Enjolras says.
Grantaire gives him a rueful grin and wraps the towel around his neck. "Don't worry, I won't bring your house down," he says. "It's already old enough to fall down without my help."
Enjolras rolls his eyes because that's not what he meant, he just doesn't want Grantaire to break his arm too, and anyway his flat isn't old. It's... quaint. It has character. Enjolras likes it, damnit, and anyway he doesn't want to think about moving because it'll be a hassle.
But he doesn't say anything and lets Grantaire push him backwards until his neck is resting against the edge of the sink and he's staring at the ceiling. He hears Grantaire turning the taps and then water sloshing over his hair.
"Is the water too warm?" Grantaire asks.
"No, it's good," Enjolras says.
Grantaire hums under his breath and moves away from Enjolras's field of vision.
"Is this your usual shampoo?" he asks after a moment.
Enjolras turns his head, carefully to avoid dripping over the floor, and looks at the bottle that Grantaire is holding in front of his nose. "Yeah," he replies. "Though I wouldn't call it 'my usual', I always buy whatever's on sale."
"Huh," Grantaire says. He opens the bottle's cap and pours a glob of shampoo onto his palm. "I thought your shampoo was made with tears of angels or something like that," he says as he starts lathering Enjolras's hair. "It's unfair that your hair always looks so good and you're using some no-brand product."
"My hair doesn't look so good now," Enjolras replies, because it sounds like the safest thing to say.
"That's easily remedied," Grantaire replies.
Enjolras would never admit it, but it is rather nice to be pampered for once. Grantaire wasn't lying, he definitely has some experience: he works the shampoo in slowly and methodically, fingers massaging Enjolras's scalp.
It would be almost relaxing, if it wasn't for Grantaire's never-ending stream of inane chatter. "You don't even have conditioner, for pity's sake! If people knew, you'd be putting all shampoo companies out of business. Maybe that's your cunning masterplan, stop capitalism one shampoo company at a time..."
His fingers slide to the back of Enjolras's neck and Enjolras gives a small contented sigh. He checks himself immediately and his eyes dart to Grantaire, but it doesn't seem as if Grantaire noticed, he's wearing a concentrated frown as he rinses the suds out of Enjolras's hair.
Enjolras wonders if he should close his eyes. Grantaire is being careful not to get any water into his eyes, but it's strange to be this close. In the end he decides to stare at the ceiling. There's a strange spot of humidity that he hadn't noticed before, maybe Grantaire has a point about his flat being old.
All too soon, Grantaire turns off the water and puts his hand on Enjolras's shoulder to help him into a sitting position. "Voilà," he says theatrically, and he gives Enjolras a mock bow before helping him towel his hair dry.
"Thanks, I can manage," Enjolras says, because they're close, less than at arm's length, and Grantaire's touch is gentle, and more than everything Enjolras doesn't want to give him the wrong impression. It's not that Enjolras doesn't like this, it's just... it's complicated. He feels stupid, thinking about his life as if it's a Facebook status, but that's how it is. There are things he still needs to figure out.
Grantaire gives Enjolras that crooked smile again and he nods. He stops towelling his hair, though he doesn't move.
"Er," Enjolras says. The bathroom is too small for two people and Grantaire is blocking the way. "I... Could you..."
"Oh, right," Grantaire says at the same time. "Let me just... I was going to..."
He flattens himself against the wall, and Enjolras inches sideways between him and the tub and out into the corridor. Grantaire follows shortly after, carrying the chair.
"I'll just put this back," he says, heading into the kitchen.
Enjolras follows, making a half-hearted attempt at towelling his hair with his left hand only. "Seriously, R, thank you," he says. He means it. The itch from his badly-washed hair had been plaguing him for days. "I owe you one."
"It was my pleasure," Grantaire replies, giving him another mock-bow. He looks about to make some other flippant remark but then he stops. "Actually, there is something... You'll think me stupid for asking, but..."
The way Grantaire is staring at him makes Enjolras tense up. "Anything, as long as it's in my powers," Enjolras says, trying to sound nonchalant, wondering what is it that Grantaire is hesitant to ask for.
As always, the other man manages to surprise him by saying something completely unexpected. "Can I draw on your cast?" he asks. Enjolras raises an eyebrow, surprised by the request, and Grantaire starts babbling in an attempt to explain himself. "It's customary to have friends sign your cast, isn't it? But you somehow managed to keep yours unsigned and pristine, no doubt because you didn't want Courfeyrac to draw on it... Remember when Bossuet broke his leg and Courf drew a huge dick on his cast, and Bossuet didn't notice until he went to see his advisor? So yeah, I don't blame you for not wanting Courfeyrac near you with a sharpie, but I promise I'm not going to draw dicks on your arm. Or anything improper. It's just, all that white space, it's asking to be filled! It's a stupid request, I know, but when I see a blank canvas I get the urge to paint it or draw on it and I just had an idea that I think would work well on that kind of curved surface..."
"Sure, why not," Enjolras says, as soon as Grantaire stops talking for a second. It doesn't really seem fair to Enjolras, because all he has to do is to sit for a while and let Grantaire scribble on his arm, but if that's what Grantaire wants then so be it. And it will stop Courf from trying to ambush him and scribble dicks on his cast.
Grantaire's grin threatens to split his face in two. "Great! What about tomorrow?" He glances at his watch. "I've already taken up so much of your time today..."
"Not at all, you were helping me," Enjolras complains, but Grantaire ignores the interruption.
"I can walk you home tomorrow too, and I'll bring my colours so I can do your cast," Grantaire says. "If you don't mind. I can even brush your hair if you want me to," he adds with a smirk.
"That won't be necessary," Enjolras snaps, more sharply than he meant to. Grantaire is still grinning, unruffled by the outburst. "But I really don't mind if you draw on my cast, as long as it's not dicks."
---
It's a mess of black lines and red blocks of colour. Enjolras has never seen an artist at work before, and despite himself he's entranced by the way the messy scribbles turn into faces and words. He was expecting something controversial and infuriating, maybe some silly political cartoon, and instead Grantaire is drawing art on his cast.
It's almost a pity he'll have to take this off in two weeks. It's definitely a pity he'll no longer have a good excuse to walk home with Grantaire.