What? That man truly had no sense of justice! Javert would have told him so, but is head was swimming, making it hard to think straight or see straight. He couldn’t quite make out the mayor’s face anymore. “Monsieur, I…”

Suddenly his eyes roled back of their own volition and his head was weightless. As if in a dream he felt his knees buckle, and his body folded and collapsed like a puppet cut loose from its strings. In the distance someone cried out. He was about to fall into absolute darkness, when a sharp pain in the back of his head sent shooting stars exploding through his mind.

Grantaire rubs his eyes, yawning until his jaw cracks. He rests his head on the desk and pulls the knit cap over the top of his face. He’s spent the last couple of years honing the ability to sleep anywhere. If you play your cards right, detention is just a somewhat uncomfortable nap. 

Apparently, fate has other plans. Or, more likely, fate doesn’t give a shit. 

"Hey," says someone. A guy’s voice, not familiar. "Hey,” it repeats. 

It takes another few seconds to realize that the voice is addressing him, that the reason it sounds so loud is because the speaker is standing right next to Grantaire’s desk. He pulls himself upright, peeling up his cap to crack one eye open against the florescent light.

Almost from his peripheral vision, he registers blond curls, a noble profile, fierce eyes that are just—wow. Grantaire swallows and glances down at his hands, the motion almost involuntary, like looking away from the sun. There’s a smudge of green on his thumb. Weird, he can’t remember the last time he drew anything green.