libertined started following you.
For a moment Cosette stood a great deal away from this man, wondering who he was. Her eyes narrowed in perplexity, fingers hooking themselves with each other and yet, she was compelled to speak with him. Taking in a deep breath she walked over, letting the sound of clicking footsteps be her guide.
To say that this is hardly something that happens to him very often is an understatement. People know him when he moves through the streets. Shopkeepers and innkeepers and all the regulars have seen him around at some point or another - Grantaire spends most of his time wandering when he’s not at the Musain, because he can’t bring himself to sit still. He moves and weaves throughout the streets of Paris like one of many dozens of people, hands buried deep in his pockets, one earbud in. Playing the melancholy tunes of The Smiths, the anthem of every unrequited young person since the 1980s. It suits his mood, it suits the melancholy buzz he’s got in his veins despite the fact that it’s barely the afternoon. He doesn’t hear her clicking footsteps approaching him until she actually speaks, and then Grantaire turns with a sort of startled confusion in his face.
Pretty girls do not stop him in the middle of the street. Pretty girls giggle when they look at him and walk away. “Hello. Did you need something?”