"Christ, stop caring, it just hurts," Grantaire snaps, and immediately regrets it, rubbing his face with both hands and pushing them through his hair. He feels a little as though he's going to be sick. Not in the inevitable way of spinning drunkenness, but the off-kilter nausea of having a part of oneself viscerally ripped away. Of perhaps having finished the job himself, just by being here. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't --" He sighs.

Grantaire raises his head and looks up at Neil for a long pained moment, shoving his hands in his pockets. There are a hundred things he could say and none of them, not the most hurt or the most rational, make any goddamn difference. "I should find Edgar, anyway," is what he ends up on, and rubs his neck.