By freshman year his nickname was "popper".
Which isn't to say that the boy took the pills to get high, or took them because he could, but because his love for life had left a long time ago, when his father had left in the form of a bottle of wine and a .45 pistol that shouldn't have been within 500 feet of him. And when his mother had fallen in love with the grim reaper and a needle, so now she was just a skeleton with skin across her bones.
He had quickly become the scapegoat for all the hatred and adolescent frustration, not bothering to fight back when knuckles kissed his face, because he supposed it was better than disappearing. But by freshman year, he was ready to fade into oblivion and never surface again.
That was when his saving grace came in the form of a young man named Courfeyrac.
It started at lunch on a day that was no different than any other, really, the weather was rainy, students voices chittered like birds. Grantaire sat alone, with no food in front of him because he couldn't afford school lunch and his home only had so much food. As he stared at nothing and wished for naught more than to disappear, they came up, girls with shorts that could have been denim underwear, boys whose shoulders were wide as doors and whose arms could probably crush him with a squeeze that wouldn't be affection. His empty eyes turned upwards and the torrent began, words thrown at him like sticks and stones that were shattering his bones, calls of "popper" "fag" "worthless" "bastard".
He took them as always, until he was shoved over.
"Whatcha gonna do, popper? Cry?"
"Piss off." he said quietly, frowning at the pimple-faced boy who had his hand wrapped around his shirt, which promptly pushed him up and slammed him into the wall. A swift blow to the stomach. Spit in his face and a bruise soon blossoming across his cheek. It wasn't like the teachers would do anything. Not like the students would do anything, either.
Oh, but one did.
"Hey!" rang a voice, and Grantaire swore to the God he didn't believe in that he sounded like an angel.
Pimple-face glanced over his shoulder. Behind him stood a slim freshman boy, whose auburn curls framed an angry– but undoubtedly handsome– face.
"Come to save your boyfriend, eh, faggot?"
"Leave him alone."
"That's cute." Pimple-face dropped Grantaire, who crumpled on the floor, curling in on himself. He tried to ignore the groans and yelps that came from his savior as he fought off the bullies with surprising force. When finally they had decided to leave the boys alone, the auburn-haired boy's face was swollen with bruises, and his lip busted from a blow.
"You alright?" Said the boy gently, offering a hand to Grantaire, who hated himself for not trying to fight back, too. R took it gratefully, standing up.
"...Speak for yourself." He replied, gesturing to his face. The boy laughed.
"I'm fine. Mom's going to kill me, but that dickweed was assaulting you. What else was I supposed to do?"
"...Stand and watch?"
"No bloody way."
Grantaire smiled a little then, and the boy smiled back, dimples endearing him further.
"I'm Courfeyrac, by the way. You can call me Courf."
"Grantaire. Or R. Whichever." Courfeyrac's smile was contagious. Grantaire found himself smiling, beaming, even.
"Well, R," he began. "Not that you aren't good looking now, man, but we should probably get to the nurse's office."
Grantaire nodded, walking beside the saint who had saved him, and in that moment, he thought to himself...maybe he was worth enough to be saved sometimes.