A/N: Characters belong to Victor Hugo, not me. I'm not sure where this came from. Sorry.
When drunkard met flower boy
The first time Grantaire met Jean (call me Jehan) Prouvaire, it was sort of an accident.
He was leaning on the wall outside the school gates smoking as usual, a silent 'fuck you' to the education system that had him stuck here for another two years. He'd made it perfectly clear to his teachers exactly what he thought of their obligatory baccalauréat subjects, and mostly spent his days at the lycée in a drunken stupor, ignoring the world around him. But as he would soon find out, even drunkards had limits to what they could or could not ignore.
He didn't recognise the boy that Babet's gang were surrounding. Even with the haze of alcohol he lived in, he'd definitely remember the skinny boy with overlong red hair that was wearing what he was fairly sure were a pair of girls' flower-print jeans. He didn't exactly blend in. Grantaire knew better than most what Babet and his thugs were capable of; flower boy didn't stand a chance.
Stubbing out his cigarette under the toe of his converse, he heaved a heavy sigh as he pushed himself off the wall. Today, he mused, was not as good day to leave the vodka at home. Keeping up the usual air of 'I don't give a shit' he walked straight up to the group and placed himself not-so-subtly between Babet and the new boy.
"Ah, Babet, I see you've met my new friend," he exclaimed loudly enough to draw the attention of several other students. Babet glared, Grantaire didn't have friends. Grantaire continued on with a tone of false joviality, "I'm afraid his attentions are already taken, if you catch my drift." He threw an exaggeratedly saucy wink at flower boy (who did catch Grantaire's drift, and responded by blushing an impressive shade of red). Babet's glare turned to confusion. Grantaire just raised his eyebrows, waiting for the penny to drop. He didn't have to wait long. The confusion turned to indignant anger in a flash.
"We were just about to give the little fag here a proper welcome." Spat Babet, "I don't like what you're implying, drunkard." Grantaire grinned.
"You don't like that I'm implying that none of the girls will go for your ugly mug? My, you do surprise me! Like I said, flower boy is already taken. If you really want to try sucking cock though, I'm sure Claquesous would be more than happy to let you."
One of Babet's bulkier minions made a move to approach him. Grantaire's eyes flickered dangerously, the slightly manic grin still in place. For once he was sober enough that his instincts were razor-sharp, and that was overwhelmingly obvious to the onlookers. Behind him, flower boy shifted uncomfortably.
Babet's eyes flickered uncertainly between the pair in front of him and his group of thugs. By now, half the school was watching. He balled up a fist. This was not going to plan. He went to raise his fist, attention be damned, but the dangerous look in Grantaire's eyes gave him pause. It wasn't the dull, drunken glare they'd all become used to. It was the look of someone asking for a fight, someone who didn't have anything to lose.
It was a well-known fact that Grantaire didn't care; not about his reputation, not about his grades, and certainly not about himself. Getting into a fight with him would only end one way. Self-preservation had left his life around the time that alcohol took up permanent residence. Babet may be a thug and a bully, but even he knew not to pick a fight he couldn't win. Beating up someone who just didn't care wasn't his idea of winning. Instead, he took the only action his ignorant mind could think of. He spat at Grantaire's feet and stormed off, followed by his baffled minions.
For several seconds, a stunned silence hung in the air. Eventually, the whispers started up and the other students slowly turned their attention to the rapidly-approaching end of lunch. Grantaire stared absently at the spit on his shoe, until a hesitant tap on the shoulder drew his attention. He turned to see flower boy staring at him, a mixture of shock and awe on his freckled face. Grantaire raised an eyebrow, a silent 'can I help you?' in his eyes.
"Thank you. No-one's ever stood up for me like that before." If possible, flower boy blushed an even deeper shade of red. Grantaire shrugged, as if standing up to a bully wasn't important (if he'd had any more to drink that day, though, he wouldn't even have noticed the problem). His new acquaintance offered a shy smile and stuck out his hand, "My name's Jean Prouvaire. Call me Jehan."
"Grantaire. You can call me R."
And so it began...