Every Thursday, Les Amis gathered at Feuilly's book shop to talk politics, art, and their next fundraiser; Jehan had never felt more alive. Enjolras was impressive; his passion, his dedication, everything about him was truly inspiring, but as fascinating as he could be —and despite everyone thinking Jehan would be closer to him because of their similar upbringing—, Jehan found himself gravitating towards Grantaire, who was completely different from him.

Because under the contagious humor, the clever remarks and the unparalleled ability to retain and recite data that challenged their beloved leader, Grantaire harbored a sadness that drew Jehan in, one he could relate to, a feeling that compelled him to want to be with him, though he wasn't sure on what terms. The first time they slept together, Jehan got his answer.

Grantaire was the kind of friend he'd never had. One he could talk to about everything without shame or judgment, and Grantaire would do the same with him; so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when Grantaire confessed he'd developed feeling for Enjolras. It shouldn't, but it did. Because even though Jehan had never expected to be chosen, a part of him truly longed for it. Selfish, perhaps (what did he have to offer, after all), but it was a feeling that existed despite logic telling him it was absurd. Jehan, incapable of falling in love, wanted to be the only one. Truly absurd.

But that didn't stop him from going home on the days Grantaire walked by his side with the sinking feeling that that was the last time, that come tomorrow, Grantaire would be gone forever and Jehan could do nothing to stop him. What can you do when you have nothing to give back? It was a matter of time until Grantaire showed up with a final revelation: "I'm leaving". And he'd have to let him go, there was no way out of it.

So Jehan waited. And waited. And waited, but that dreadful moment never came.

Every time, Grantaire came back to him and stayed. He would occasionally talk about Enjolras: his admiration for their leader, the way he made his blood boil, how annoying, charming, and incredible he was... but it never went beyond that. Grantaire never spoke of his future plans or whether he intended to pursue him. Nothing. Until Jehan had to ask.

It was unnerving to expose his fears like that, but he knew—or trusted—that Grantaire would never use them against him. He would never mock him for feeling insecure. Maybe he was going to leave him, but he was still his best friend, and Jehan trusted him.

"Have you told Enjolras you're in love with him yet?"

"What for?"

"So you can... be with him?"

"I don't want that. I'm fine where I am."

Jehan had never expected to be chosen.

Or so it used to be.

In the next doorway, teddy bear in hand, sleep in eyes, stands Calliope, yawning and watching up at him with curious eyes.

“Hey, little one,” Jehan smiles, kneeling down to her and opening its arms. “You’re up early, hm?”

“Heard you,” she says, leaning into it. The bear bumps gently against its back as she wraps her arms around it and it takes the hint, lifting her up.

“Oh, not being nearly quiet enough, am I?” it says sympathetically, bouncing her gently in its arms and kissing her forehead.

“Where goin’, Daddy?”

“Going to make Papa breakfast,” it tells her, carrying her towards the stairs, “You wanna help make pancakes?”

She nods fast, giggling.

“You remember it’s Papa’s birthday, right?”

She thinks about it, frowning.

“We got him a present and a card, do you remember?”

This, she can recall. There’s a card upstairs, tucked away in Jehan’s bedside table signed with a messy scribble that, by anyone else’s standards, could not be considered words. But Calliope had tried her best, and no one could appreciate that as much as Grantaire will.

His gift from Calliope is a bath bomb Jehan had helped her pick out by smell (not that she would have gone for anything other than the unicorn-shaped bath bomb, regardless of what it smelt like), and a cat plushie she insisted he should have, that has a remarkable resemblance to their own tortie cat, Shelley. Jehan already knows Grantaire is going to love them.

At three years old, Callie has never been old enough to participate in birthdays before now, and she is eager to get her hands stuck in. She pulls her little stool over to the counter to watch Jehan make the pancake batter – from scratch, Grantaire deserves nothing but the best on his birthday – and tries to help measure. Little fingers on scales are not very helpful at first, but she gets the hang of it, and Jehan even holds her hands over the eggshell to help her feel very grown up and able to bake.

If more eggshell than it ever thought possible goes in the batter, no one has to know.

With a finger to the lips, Jehan shares with her a couple of chocolate chips before the bag gets poured in, and she giggles and happily shoves them into her mouth. She proves herself a good little baker when it comes to the mixing, holding the wooden spoon with two hands and putting all her effort into mixing as well as she can.

Before long the batter is ready, and Jehan surveys the situation, trying to decide if there’s a child-safe way to heat oil in a frying pan. Possibly not.

“You want a really important job, Callie Bear?” it asks instead, dropping to her height and smiling. She nods, eyes wide. “Will you go and get some fruit out the fridge for me? We need lots of berries and apples, you think you can manage that?”

Without another acknowledgement, she bounds off to the fridge, pulling the door open and taking out a box of blueberries. As Jehan readies the pan with oil, it watches her take a punnet, carry it to the counter, climb up on her stool, put it down, and head right back over. Four trips later, she has gathered all the punnets of fruit out the fridge and stands watching it expectantly.

“Wow, that was quick,” it says proudly, “You’re a great little helper, Callie.” He lets the pancake sizzle a moment while he leans down to ruffle her hair. “Think you can get some apples from the table too?”

Off she goes again, taking her stool with her to reach up on to the kitchen table and grab the bag of apples from on top. Leaving the pan again, Jehan goes over to pick up her stool for her.

“No, Daddy!” she pouts, stomping her foot lightly, “I do it.”

It laughs fondly and places the stool back down.

“Okay, okay, you do it, I’m sorry.”

Apples in one hand and stool in the other, she makes her way slowly across the kitchen, never stopping, never flagging, and makes it back to where she left the rest of the fruit. Climbing back up on the stool, she triumphantly puts the bag of apples on the side, looking back at him proudly.

“Wow, look at you!” it says, smiling, “You’re so big and strong, Cal!”

“Big girl!” she laughs, jumping off her stool and bumping into Jehan’s legs. The pancakes are nearly done now, a mighty stack big enough for the three of them on one plate and leftovers for tomorrow on another.

Juicing apples, Callie can help with. Hands far away from anything sharp, Jehan helps her push the slices through the juicer and out comes fresh juice. Before long, they have enough pancakes, berries and juice to split between three plates and carry upstairs slowly and carefully to the master bedroom.

Pre-emptively, Grantaire had gone to bed in pyjama shorts the night before, and Jehan has no concerns letting Callie in first.

By the way she bounds across the room and launches herself on to Grantaire’s sleeping body, perhaps it should have had some concerns.

The volume of Grantaire’s oof! tells Jehan he was unfortunately still sound asleep before Callie inflicted herself on him, and it puts the tray down on the bed so it can gently pry her off of him.

“Good morning, love,” it murmurs, kissing his cheek when Callie has backed off a little. “Sorry about the rude awakening.”

Grantaire lets out a string of muffled noises in return, rolling on to his back gently and smiling toothily up at Jehan and Callie.

“G’morning,” he says back eventually, opening an arm for Callie to snuggle into.

Smiling fondly, Jehan readies the three plates of pancakes and berries and maple syrup, making sure Callie is extra careful with her own plastic, bear-covered plate.

While they graze on the pancakes and fruit, Jehan recalls to Grantaire what an amazing sous chef Callie has been all morning, much to her pride.

“I made th’ eggs, Papa!” she tells him excitedly, miming cracking the eggs in front of her.

“You did, did you?” Grantaire laughs, “You made them, are you a chicken?” he ruffles her hair and she giggles.

“No, silly!”

She mimes egg cracking again with more gusto, and Grantaire smiles.

“I see, that’s a big girl job, isn’t it? You’re gonna be a baker in no time.”

Giggling, she puts down her empty plate and shuffles across the bed to nestle back into his side. Fondly, he pets her hair, looking up at Jehan adoringly.

“She doesn’t get it from me,” it smiles, leaning over to kiss Grantaire’s sticky maple lips, nipping gently. He hums his approval, reaching up to tangle his hand in Jehan’s hair, keeping their kisses chaste, lest they get carried away in front of Callie.

“Daddy,” she whines after a moment, taking Jehan’s hand and pulling. It pulls away reluctantly from Grantaire, smiling down at her expectantly.

“Yes, little bear?”

“Presents!”

She jumps up from Grantaire’s side and off the bed, running out of their room and returning moments later with her two slightly haphazardly wrapped gifts. Despite going to Jehan for help, she was desperate to do as much as she could herself, and from the look on Grantaire’s face, he appreciates the effort.

“Wow,” he smiles genuinely, “all this for me?”

Jehan reaches down to the bedside drawer and pulls out Callie’s card.

“Would you like to give this to Papa first?”

She nods, giggling, and takes the card, passing it right to Grantaire.

“Happy birthday, Papa!” she snuggles right back into his side and wraps her arms around him, watching intently as he carefully opens the envelope.

It is a painting of two bears, a father and child, the father in a party hat, Happy Birthday Papa Bear written across the bottom.  

“Wow, is that us, Callie Bear?”

She nods excitedly and he kisses her forehead.

Her presents are handed over, and when Grantaire unwraps the cat, he delicately holds it and makes it trot over and give Callie a boop on the cheek.

“What should we name him, hm?”

He boops her cheek again and she giggles.

“Maybe we’ll wait for his personality to come out, huh?”

Callie nods, reaching over for a cuddle. Passing the cat over, he boops her nose and her forehead and she catches him and cuddles him close to her chest.

“Aww, he likes you,” Grantaire smiles, ruffling her hair.

After a second, Callie passes the cat back over, booping Grantaire’s arm with his nose.

“Your kitty,” she tells him, placing the cat gently in his arms.

Leaning down, Jehan picks up a gift bag and passes it over to Grantaire.

“Happy birthday, love,” it says, kissing him softly.

Gently opening the bag and lifting out the tissue paper on top, he finds, framed, photos of the two of them on their wedding day. Laughing together, holding each other. The final photo is of them, foreheads touching, eyes closed.

He remembers the moment vividly; the busyness of the day, the fun but exhausting schedule and barely any time for themselves. The photo shows blue light against the back of Jehan’s white shirt, the party going on inside while they shared a private moment together – clearly not as private as they thought, but something in Grantaire’s heart pulls warmly at the thought that this special breather was recorded, by some unseen third party, just for a second.

“Bahorel found these,” Jehan says, as if reading his mind, “we were looking through some photos a few weeks ago, and these were taken on a different camera, I guess. He lost the SD card until then.”

“They’re…” he starts, his throat closing up, “this is perfect, love…”

There are tears forming in his eyes, and Jehan, smiling fondly, leans over to kiss them away before they can fall.

“I love you,” he says against its lips, before kissing again and again, softly, chastely.

“Dinner's ready,” Grantaire calls out across the flat. The cheese on top of the lasagna looks slightly golden and the smell of garlic bread permeates the kitchen. Grantaire is sweating from the heat of the oven, as well as from the cooking and the dishes he just did.

The table is set for two, and he hopes...

He hasn't made a point of the date. Neither of them are really into the idea of celebrating Valentine's day. Considering they're non-monogamous, that Jehan is aromantic and that they've both listened to one too many anticapitalist rants by Enjolras, the holiday doesn't hold much appeal.

But Grantaire had time on his hands today, so he cooked a nice dinner from scratch and-

“I'm busy right now, I'll eat later.” Jehan's voice carries through the closed door of his bedroom.

Grantaire sighs, tells himself he's not disappointed. He would have been happier if Jehan had joined him, but this is the outcome he expected. His thoughts don't sound very convincing even to him as he puts the bottle of red wine he bought in the cupboard under the sink. He's not going to drink a bottle of wine by himself. Not tonight. That would only make things worse.

Would be a waste to, considering how expensive the thing was. That's what he gets for falling into the trap of Valentine's day marketing.

He's barely seen Jehan for the past two days, but this isn't exactly a surprise. Grantaire isn't worried about that. He's worried about his friend's behavior the weeks before that, the ever-present melancholy, the repeated absences at friendly gatherings, the aggressive defensiveness whenever this was pointed out.

Grantaire eats the lasagna in silence, scrolling through his phone all the while. He doesn't touch the garlic bread, leaves it in the turned off oven to hopefully stay warm.

His fingers hover over the Grindr app. He wants to get out of his head. Jehan's bad mood is starting to feel like a miasma, clinging to Grantaire's edges and slowly corroding his own will. He feels tired these days. Mean. He knows that the more he tries to keep his words soft and sweet for Jehan, the more they come out biting in front of other people. This isn't what Grantaire wants. It's not who he wants to be. It's not what he wants for Jehan either, but he's running out of ways to try and help. Surely he's not the only sad fuck out there who's lonely on February 14th and desperate for something else?

He locks his phone again.

Yeah, he's lonely and slowly reaching the point of touch starvation, but he's not in the right mindset for a casual hookup. Because he doesn't want to fuck some nameless person. He wants to feel close to Jehan.

It's not unusual for them to not have sex with each other for several weeks. But they haven't shared any kind of physical intimacy in at least ten days and it's starting to get to Grantaire.

The thing is... while he enjoys being held through his breakdown, feels anchored by having arms around him even if his head is too loud to do anything but sit in silence, he knows that's not the same for Jehan. Grantaire doesn't want his friend to snap at him like he did last week. He doesn't want to push himself onto him, doesn't want Jehan to accept his affections just to get him off his back.

Jehan wouldn't do that. He wouldn't manipulate Grantaire like that, wouldn't play with his feelings. Jehan has always been clear about his wants and needs, he's never led Grantaire on. He's nice.

But wouldn't it be the nice thing to do, to go along with Grantaire's own desires? Wouldn't it be easier for everyone?

Jehan probably wouldn't do that, but can Grantaire be sure? Considering that his roommate is currently locking himself up in his room and not talking to him, can he be certain that he hasn't been making Jehan feel uncomfortable all this time, that the other man hasn't just finally reached his limit and is just too scared to admit it to Grantaire? Too nice to hurt him in turn?

Grantaire breathes. In and out. He's spiralling.

He gets up and washes his plate. He covers the dish of lasagna and puts it in the fridge. He keeps the garlic bread in the oven still, even opens the door a little. He's hoping the smell will be enough to lure Jehan out at some point in the evening at least.

Grantaire can feel his muscles tensing. He regrets having done the other dishes earlier, because now there's too much restless energy in his body and he doesn't have a physical task to do to let it out. He wants to hit something. That would relieve the pressure in his brain for a little while.

He breathes in and out.

Picks up his phone again and opens the Signal app. He could text Bahorel, see what the girl is up to. She's usually down to hit the gym even at times when their boxing club is closed. Weights and cardio aren't the same as a good friendly match, but it would be better than nothing. Bahorel is good at not asking questions.

But what if Grantaire wants someone to ask questions?

Jehan hadn't been to the last ABC meeting, nor to the night out that Joly and Bossuet had set up as an excuse to flirt with the barmaid of their favorite queer bar. Both times, Grantaire had left early, worried about his roommate. He'd come back to a silent flat and a closed door, which hadn't been more reassuring than if he had stayed out. And then he had muted the group chat in which people were sharing photos of their night out.

Maybe what he needs isn't an anonymous fuck or a work out, but something else altogether.

Maybe what he needs is to not stay alone with his fear and his lasagna.

Instead of tapping on Bahorel's contact, he opens a group chat nicknamed The High Council. It's Valentine's Day, so he knows that Enjolras isn't busy tonight. Courfeyrac and Combeferre might be – it's difficult to keep track of Courfeyrac's relationship status, and Combeferre has been making eyes at Eponine for long enough that Grantaire wouldn't be surprised if there was something going on between them that they were keeping on the down low. Still, it's worth a shot.

Got lasagna and garlic bread to exchange for company and emotional support. Deal of the century if I'm honest. Anyone wants in?

He doesn't send the message right away.

Because the truth is... He would hate it, if it was him. If he was in Jehan's place. He would hate for someone else to invite people into his space. Would hate to be looked at with pity, with sympathy. He would hate for his vulnerabilities to be exposed to others.

He would hate to be a burden to his friends.

He does hate it. He fucking hates asking for help.

But that also means that Jehan would hate the way Grantaire feels right now. He would hate to be the cause of such helplessness.

So Grantaire pushes through his instincts and hits send.

Sometimes what you want and what you need aren't the same thing. Isolating yourself to deal with your issues isn't always the kindest thing you can do.

Grantaire repeats these thoughts over and over in his mind, hoping he can force himself to believe them.

He drops his phone beside him so he doesn't stare at the text conversation. He's not sure he can fight against the urge to delete the message before anyone has a chance to see it.

He stares at the ceiling instead. It's only marginally better than staring at a screen.

Grantaire can hear soft music coming from Jehan's bedroom, but there's no movement to accompany it. Maybe Jehan is also staring at the ceiling.

Grantaire wants a glass of wine.

Grantaire wants to find a hookup who will share a joint with him before letting him fuck them and who won't ask any personal question and he wants to slam the door on his way out to make a point to Jehan.

He wants to turn the oven back on with the garlic bread still inside. Maybe then it would smell bad enough for Jehan to come out and check what's going on.

Fuck. Being a good person is exhausting.

His phone vibrates with a notification. He doesn't open it right away. Better not hope too much, lest you be disappointed. It could be anything. Maybe someone messaged him on Grindr.

He closes his eyes after a few seconds. Hard. Just enough that it hurts a little, that he can see phosphenes.

Then he checks his messages.

👼 and I are on our way, keep the lasagna warm and cheesy 👌

The text is from Courfeyrac, and a few seconds later a new bubble appears with Enjolras' name.

We've already had dinner.

Followed by another message from Courfeyrac: I said what I said.

He should feel relief but is instead filled with dread. This has to be a fucking mistake. He's just proven to his friends that he's a deadweight. Not even capable of helping his closest friend. Not capable of helping himself.

What if Jehan hates him for this? For meddling? It's not any of his fucking business, what Jehan does in his bedroom when he doesn't want company. It's not Grantaire's business if he decides not to eat.

It certainly shouldn't concern Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

Grantaire sends a thumbs up anyway.

He puts the lasagna back in the oven, turns it on on a low setting.

He knocks on Jehan's bedroom.

“Enjolras and Courfeyrac are coming over,” he says. He doesn't ask if Jehan is going to join them. Hope not and you won't be disappointed.

He doesn't get any answer.

Grantaire has opened the bottle of wine by the time Courfeyrac and Enjolras arrive. He's poured himself half a glass, and taken out two others to fill.

The table is still set for Jehan. He can just pretend that the plate is for Courfeyrac instead.

His friends know to text him instead of ringing the unsettlingly loud doorbell. Grantaire wishes they'd forgotten, because it might have woken up Jehan. The man probably isn't asleep, but still. It's not that Grantaire wants him to hurt. He just has an easier time dealing with Jehan's anger than with his silence. Anger gives him something to chew on, something to eventually act upon. Right now he has nothing.

He walks down the four flights of stairs to open the door.

“Happy Valentine's Day!” Courfeyrac exclaims as soon as the door opens. He drags Grantaire into a hug and lays a huge smack on his cheek. Enjolras rolls eir eyes at the scene.

Grantaire feels a smile tug at his lips. It's partly just a reflex, the urge to pretend, to always act like everything is fine. But there's also some genuine amusement in it, some contentment from his friend's easy affection, from the warmth in Enjolras' gaze even as ey holds emself at more of a distance.

“I would have brought some chocolate but the only one we had at the flat was Combeferre's fancy not-so-secret stash, and Enjolras refused to stop at a night shop.”

“You would have paid a prohibitive amount of money for sub-par chocolate for the sole purpose of feeding the so-called 'holiday spirit' that only serves to drive more capitalist consumption as well as reinforcing norms around monogamy and amatonormativity.”

“Yes, I would have,” Courfeyrac responds with an easy smirk, unbothered by the well-rehearsed rant. “And it would have been fun! Besides, am I really reinforcing those norms if I'm buying chocolate to cheer up my polya and arospec friends?”

Enjolras frowns at that, and Grantaire ushers the both of them inside before they start a debate in his staircase.

“Oh, it smells amazing in here,” says Courfeyrac as he immediately moves towards the kitchen.

“I put the lasagna back in the oven to warm up, you can check if it's ready. And there's garlic bread over there.” Grantaire points to the counter where the bread lies, covered in a clean kitchen towel.

“Well, don't mind me, I'll make myself right at home,” Courfeyrac responds. And he does just that, opening the oven and quickly touching the top of the lasagna to check its warmth.

It leaves Grantaire staring at Enjolras and looking for something to say.

“Want some wine?” he finally asks, before pouring two glasses at Enjolras' nod.

They both sit down at the table, while Courfeyrac lounges against the counter, nibbling on a piece of garlic bread.

Grantaire takes a sip of his own drink.

“So, is something wrong?” Enjolras asks before ey even tries the wine. Rude. This is actually a good bottle. Grantaire put thought into all of this.

He has another sip. Enjolras just stares at him.

Grantaire sighs. “Jehan isn't eating. I've barely seen him for the past two days, really. I'm worried. I don't know what to do.”

“Bread was for him, right?” Courfeyrac chimes in with his mouth still half full.

Grantaire nods.

“His favorite. You're a romantic, 'R.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well. Thought the smell might draw him out. It obviously didn't work.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “It drew us in, though.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows at him, but his friend doesn't elaborate, instead poking some more at the lasagna that's still in the oven.

“I noticed that Jehan wasn't at the last ABC meeting.” Enjolras says, finally sipping on eir wine. “But it's not exactly unusual for either of you to skip attendance from time to time.”

“I really don't feel up for a lecture about dedication to the cause, Enj'” replies Grantaire.

Enjolras tuts. “I'm not lecturing you. I'm just saying... this isn't unusual. Jehan gets like this sometimes. He always comes back to himself.”

Grantaire looks up at the ceiling. There might be tears pressing at the corner of his eyes, but no one will be able to prove that. The thing is... The thing is, you only need one time of someone not coming back for the world to change forever. The thing is, Grantaire knows how steep that edge is, he's walked it often enough himself. The thing is, Jehan's depression is often quieter than Grantaire's, but he suspects that the silence only serves to hide the depths of it.

“I'm just scared,” Grantaire finally admits, looking back down at his friends once he is certain that the tears will not fall. “I don't want to fail him.”

“Oh, 'R...”

Courfeyrac walks around the table in order to hug him from behind, the back of the chair probably digging into his stomach uncomfortably. It doesn't stop the embrace from being tight and warm.

“What if we hadn't been able to come tonight,” Enjolras asks in a soft tone. “Would you have thought we'd failed you?”

“What? No. You have the right to be busy. It's not your job to-”

“Just like it isn't yours to take care of Jehan.”

Grantaire feels Courfeyrac nod from where he's still holding him.

“Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that you can be here for him. Just like we're happy to be here for you. And the two are close in a way you aren't with most other people, living together and... such.”

Grantaire can't help but raise an eyebrow at that. Enjolras blushes. It's fucking adorable.

“But you're not responsible for one another even when you rely on each other. Does that make sense?”

“I guess,” Grantaire reponds, rubbing his fingers against the various permanent stains that dot their kitchen table.

“I'm glad you texted us,” Courfeyrac adds from his unrelenting hug. Not that Grantaire is fighting a lot to get out of it. It's nice to be touched. “We want to be here for you, you know? For you both. But it's hard to show up when the things you're fighting are happening in your own heads. Hard to be there for Jehan when he won't let us in.”

Grantaire nods somberly. “Won't even open his door.”

“But you did let us in. So we're here. And it won't solve everything but maybe it doesn't have to, right?”

He finally lets go at that, not even looking back as he walks back towards the oven and pulls out the lasagna.

“Now who wants a piece of this delicious-looking bad boy?”

Courfeyrac eats a huge portion of lasagna, along with some more bread. Grantaire and Enjolras share a small plate between them, almost shyly. Grantaire is almost vibrating at the idea of fighting over who gets the last bite. It's extremely lame.

They chat through the bottle of wine, Grantaire's friends keeping him up to date on all of the gossip he missed, including the fact that Combeferre and Eponine actually do have a date together today and, well, good for them.

It's almost midnight when they all hear Jehan's bedroom door open. There is the slightest pause in the conversation before Courfeyrac keeps describing the extravagant floral arrangement that Joly and Bossuet brought to their favorite barmaid. Nobody wants to acknowledge that they've noticed the noise, in case it makes Jehan retreat again.

But no, the sound of bare feet on the linoleum is faint, but it's coming in their direction.

Jehan is dressed in his pyjamas, his short bob of red hair hanging messily about his face. Grantaire can't help but look for red-rimmed eyes or the bags that indicate sleeplessness. He can't make out anything by the light of their old and shitty halogen lamps.

“Did you leave any lasagna for me? 'the least you could do after making such a ruckus that it's impossible to sleep in here.”

Jehan's smile looks tired, but it's a smile anyway. Grantaire doesn't waste a second before getting up and putting a plate of lasagna in the microwave. He puts the garlic bread in the oven for good measure. It won't be properly warm, but that's no big deal.