Grantaire focused on Achille’s feet— waiting for the man to walk away before he made any move to leave. Embarrassing? He knew, of course, Achille was referencing his behaviour at losing- at being bested. Perhaps it was incredibly childish, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the blonde was rubbing it in.
The sceptic breathed out slowly- he just nodded again, and still refused to look up.
Achille watched him for just a moment longer, his eyes narrowed into little brown slits and he whipped around to face away. Grantaire was childish and Grantaire was a sore loser, and Grantaire was undeniably the most irritating man he had ever laid eyes upon and ever had the misfortune to meet. Grantaire was awful, terrible, he could smell the alcohol on him and he reeked of despair and he was just too handsome for his own good and–
Achille stopped himself, took a breath and let his shoulders fall slightly, still squinting at Grantaire.
‘Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?’