A/N: Gregory and Damien - vastly vastly underwritten.
Warning: Drama. Violence. Mentions of blood. Blasphemy. The Antichrist. Smut. The good guys are the bad guys. The hero is the villain. And you will fall in love with the most evil thing on Earth.
I've decided to make the second genre Romance, because while it isn't romantic at the moment, this isn't particularly an extreme adventure. It is a story to do with the coming of the Antichrist and there will be action, but it's much more to do with the struggles in his mind about love and humanity as well. If I could label it modern-day Gothic Romance then I would.
Story title taken from the song 'Every Rose Has its Thorn' by Poison.
He was warned: Beware of warm-blooded killers. They had tried to warn him. He ignored the warnings.
The dead of night was always quiet in certain parts of the city. Crooked streets lay deserted, nothing in them but darkness, the darkness that waited for someone to make a wrong turn and trip into its grasp. Everywhere around: narrow alleys, dead ends, bad neighbourhoods. Many of the streetlights were indefinitely broken. They allowed cruel creations, broken, moralless beings, who welcomed crime with a lustful grin. These criminals were barely human, so set in their enjoyment of the chaos shadows could bring. Sometimes these criminals weren't human at all.
There was a demon on the night that changed everything, and that demon had a task. That Demon had the blond in his grasp.
Damien growled, ripping through the silence. The only other sound heard was the panting in front of him. Glimpses of blond hair twisted through the shadows. He was the hunter of this long, tiresome chase. Streets memorised, all dead ends known. It was only a matter of time before the blond became cornered.
Damien knew it had happened as soon as his prey turned left at a rundown mechanics. The street pretended to lead somewhere but just around the corner hid a hard brick wall. If visible, the triumphant sneer on Damien's face may have instantly killed the hunted man. The blond gasped when he realised his error. He had to slow down, few seconds to decide what to do. The wall was too high and there were no other exits. Too much time had gone by and Damien had gotten into range.
Damien didn't carry a gun, since he'd never had a need for one. Guns were just there to kill people and he could easily do that from a distance without bullets. Damien did, on the other hand, carry a knife, because knives had many uses, not limited to harming - though in this case that's exactly what he intended.
He pulled the knife from his pocket and with a blast of inhumane power, sent it flying forwards, mirroring the way a circus performer may entertain his audience for their amusement as he aimed at a spinning target. But Damien wasn't a circus performer and he was not aiming to miss. It ripped through soft material of trouser and entered the blond's thigh, finding its place in the taught muscle. The blond doubled over, head scraping the hard concrete beneath. He didn't move, falling instantly unconscious from the blow. His light-brown trousers began creating a circle stain with blood as it left his wound.
Damien smirked. In the colour of his eyes reflected the warm blood before him.
The hunted was right there now, lying on the ground, perhaps the only thing standing in Damien's way. Killing him should have been easy; there were so many ways to do it. He supposed he could use his powers to explode the man, rip him apart from the inside, causing maximum pain and damage. However, he wasn't sure if that was the best idea. He would go for the conventional kill, using no hidden powers. He wanted to make it look like just another everyday murder. The stab wound in the blond's leg was already doing a fine job of losing him blood, but Damien knew that alone wouldn't be enough. He got closer, flipping over his victim to view his face properly for the first time.
He expected the man to be good-looking. He'd expected the pale, glowing skin, soft pink lips, and an almost angelic air. But he didn't expect such breath-taking beauty as seeing it all together on the man's face. It fitted though - it had to be him. Damien chuckled and bent over, bringing their faces incredibly close. He stroked the cold, soft cheek in a moment of taunting, satisfied in his achievements, determined not to allow himself to lose this satisfaction.
"It's a shame I have to kill you, Blondie," he whispered menacingly, barely distinguishable from the harsh wind that blew around them and rustled the blond's hair, sending the smell of papaya shampoo and copper blood to mix with the elemental smells of the damp ground and faint smoke. "But I can't allow you to live now I've found you." And he had proved that he wasn't easy prey. Chasing through the streets of St. Louis hadn't been easy. He was fast, not as fast as Damien, but he was quick-thinking and that kept them almost equal.
The blond had never seen who was chasing him - Damien blended with the shadows - but his eyelids slightly fluttered open then. They didn't open fully, unfocused and hazy. Damien could only see the promise of light-blue beneath his fair eyelashes. The eyes shut again and the man lightly groaned.
Damien imagined what it would have been like to see those eyes open fully - something he really wanted to see. He wanted the chance to take in this man when he was fully conscious. Sure it would be enjoyable, but then he may miss his chance. And of course there was the possibility that killing would become much harder. He couldn't allow himself the emotion of want. He looked at the man again.
"Don't fight it." He graced his fingers over his smooth forehead. "You never know... perhaps you'll go to Heaven?"
"'E's not going anywhere."
Unexpected visitors, they always turned up at the least convenient time. And Damien knew that he particularly didn't want to see this man.
"Step away from 'im, Damien." The man shook his head and growled. His words came out in a French accent, which Damien instantly recognised as belonging to Christophe DeLorne. His encounters with the blasphemous Frenchman in the past had never gone smoothly. Now as Damien peered up, Christophe looked very angry. "Stop, now."
The smirk fell from Damien's face into another, unreadable expression. "Is it him?" He posed his question coldly and emotionlessly.
"Non." The Frenchman spoke confidently - a lesser person may have believed him.
"You can't lie to me, Christophe," Damien growled, ferociously baring his sharp teeth. "It's Gregory."
"...Oui."
"The one that I've been searching for." Damien looked into Christophe's eyes. "You did know the right one."
"Non."
Damien gazed down at Gregory's face again, unable not to once again marvel at the beauty. It all looked so... innocent. It made him feel sick. Christophe appearing didn't change anything. Damien easily had enough power to beat him, and he should have killed him straight away, not even let him said a word.
The voices came into his head then, one always from the left, one always the right. The growing threat of his plan failing hung in the air.
'That's right. Kill him, Damien. Kill him and Gregory. It's all you need to do.'
'Spare them both. There has to be another way. Can't you see this is wrong?'
'There's no other way.'
'There's always anoth-'
The voice stopped at the unexpected speed of the Frenchman. In his confusion, fury and distraction, Damien had left himself vulnerable to attack. Christophe had tripped him from his crouch, kicked him and knocked him to the floor. His head blurred and he rolled over but his momentary haze had given Christophe time to throw the blond over his shoulder and escape.
Damien yelled with fury enough that the ground beneath him shook, cracks appearing in the previously strong concrete. He slammed his fist down on a crack so hard that it opened a little more, revealing an empty blackness that did little - but something - to calm him down. He stared into the dark and drew breath for the first time all night.
Fuck, he'd let them go.
'How could you let them go?'
'He wanted to let them go...'
'You fool.'
He shook his head.
His father was going to be furious.
Gregory's head span. He forced his eyes open and then immediately closed them as a shooting pain ran from left to right. His muscles were sore and heavy, extra tender around his shoulders, and as he adjusted to being awake he noticed that he had the most terrible pain in his leg. He groaned. There came a rustling beside him and then the feeling of someone kneeling over him. Gregory forced his eyes open again and blinked rapidly.
"Gregory," grumbled Christophe, concern in his sleepy voice.
Gregory croaked as he tried to regain use of his mouth. "Tophe?"
Christophe's face came into focus. "'Ow are you feeling?"
Gregory took a deep breath, welcoming the rejuvenating air into his lungs. How was he feeling? He frowned, this sending a piercing through his head.
"I'm okay," he replied, trying to force his eyes open. "But... what... happened?" He looked around the room: definitely a motel. There were the tell-tale signs of peeling wallpaper, bare minimal dark-wooded furniture and the sheets around him, greying, though they smelt fresh enough. So, a cheap motel. "I don't remember anything." He hoped he hadn't been drinking. The banging headache and dry throat seemed to hint at the possibility, but he felt something else, something more important. He felt the shadows spinning around his mind. He felt it in his leg.
And then the other feelings came flooding. Panic. He'd been running.
He shot up from his lying position, almost colliding heads with Christophe in the process.
That's right, he had been chased. By whom? He hadn't a clue. For what? He was even more stumped. It was common to be chased. He had sustained many injuries in the past. But to not know the purpose and even more, not remember how he had come to wake up in the run-down motel, that was unusual.
Gregory stared into Christophe's concerned gaze. He looked into the tired green eyes, where light from the edges faded to dark in the middle. He forced himself to focus on nothing but Christophe's eyes, and that's how he regained composure. He rarely lost it, but when stress threatened to panic him, the green did the trick. Fear of the unknown, that's all it was. Gregory hated not knowing things.
He pushed himself back against the headboard in a sitting position. "What happened last night?"
"You don't remember?"
"Only that I was being chased and it was dark... and I fell. Yes, I hit my head and then blacked out."
"Oui, you were being chased. I found you een time. Zey were trying to kill you."
That fact didn't scare Gregory, nor did his heart raise a beat. There had been many people in his life that had tried to kill him. None had succeeded (obviously). As a result of their failure, he had killed them. There was no use having an enemy running around plotting your downfall when you could simply end all the bother with one cap to the head. It made much more sense.
"Who?"
Christophe scratched his head and leaned over to his side of the bed - he always slept nearest to the door - to retrieve his packet of cigarettes. He lit one up and took a drag before answering, offering one to Gregory, who of course refused (for as many times as Christophe tried to convince him, he would never smoke).
"I do not know."
"A stranger or was it too dark?"
"Oui."
Gregory frowned at Christophe's aloof attitude. "Which one?"
"... Eet was dark, but I zhink zey were strange."
Gregory nodded as he took in the information. He supposed it wasn't out of the question for an angry stranger to be chasing him. He'd screwed a lot of people over in the past. Good and bad, tough and weak alike. It was bound to have some repercussions, some person with an itch. The person may not even have needed a reason. It may be that it was going to be just another meaningless murder on the streets of St. Louis. He continued thinking as Christophe sat there, silently drawing the life out of a cigarette and filling the room with smoke. Gregory breathed it in. He enjoyed the smell of smoke, fire, ash, anything of that nature. He didn't know why, but he found it soothing.
"I want us to take a break," said Christophe. The words came from nowhere and stunned Gregory.
"A break!?" he asked incredulously. "From what? We don't take breaks!"
"Non, we should." Christophe sighed. "I just zhink zat we've been running around nezer stopping for so long zat eef we're not careful we'll both run into early graves. We 'av an apartment een South Park, oui? I say we go zere for a while. Just until..." Christophe paused. "...We both refresh."
"So long? We're only in our early twenties!" Gregory yelled. "And I do not need time to refresh."
Christophe stubbed his cigarette on the bedside and lit another. His eyes seemed anxious and his general attitude was one of not trying to anger Gregory but to stay firm (it angered Gregory). "Zen try walking on zat leg."
Knowing nothing about his injury, but still being defiant, Gregory cut in. "My leg's fine."
"Look, I'm not saying zat we should stop, just take a leetle time out from ze mercenary work."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this from you!"
Christophe turned to Gregory pleadingly. "Please weel you do zis? Pour moi? I need zis."
Gregory sighed and looked at Christophe's tired eyes and face again. Sure, the man could do with a break. He pulled himself out of the bed, noticing to his disdain that his shirt was filthy and blood-stained, and as he tried to stand his leg screamed at him to not apply pressure. His trousers were off and he noticed that Christophe had cleaned up and dressed the wound.
"Careful, mon ami," reminded Christophe. "You were stabbed. Eet's not too bad but you must not put too much pressure on eet."
Gregory smiled faintly. He hobbled to a mirror and looked in it. He too was looking tired and worn out, carrying the same weight in his eyes as Christophe. He sighed and gave in.
"Okay, Tophe. Let's take a short break." He locked eyes with his friend. "Short."
So that was how Gregory came to steal a car, and Christophe drove both of them towards their old, hick, mountain town, of which he had never planned to live again. The apartment had always been a home address (for reference), a place to store their old belongings and when passing through the area, a place to restock their items. It was not a place to live for extended periods of time.
But he had to listen to Christophe: his old friend and one companion of his complicated life.
The first time he and Christophe met was when they were both six. They were at Yardale together. Yardale was the private school in the area. It demanded high levels of respect and higher levels of money. Luckily it got so much of the latter from Christophe's parents that the headmaster overlooked how the former was lacking - that was until a certain day in high school where after that Christophe had to leave. Gregory had to leave about a year after he'd met Christophe as his parents decided they no longer wanted to pay the tuition fees. They were lousy parents, sending him so young to America to live with his aunt while they stayed getting richer in England. They never wanted a child and could not handle the sometimes threatening and calculated way Gregory behaved. They thought he'd have a better life with a more loving and tolerant relative abroad than at an expensive boarding school. Gregory loved his aunt but she was a very busy lady and also never had much time for him.
Their families had long left South Park, gone back to their respective countries.
He continued to see Christophe outside of school hours, often waiting outside the gates of Yardale. He would always grin at Christophe and receive a glare back. They grew up together and most of their memories were in some way linked. Christophe was there the first time Gregory lost a tooth and complained for days that he no longer looked any good. He was there the first time Gregory planned a successful mission to get someone's Lego back. Gregory, in turn, was there the first time Christophe smoked a cigarette, and the first time he broke a bone but refused to go to the hospital. Eventually Christophe's mother had found out and for a few months, Christophe was unable to dig. When the bone finally healed, Gregory didn't catch his friend doing much else, so he nicknamed him 'The Mole' and throughout his childhood the name stuck. Gregory still liked to use it on missions because it was convenient.
As both boys grew so did their taste for danger. They helped many people out by fucking many people up - it went with the job. They were often avoided in high school because of this. It never bothered them, though Gregory did take Wendy as a girlfriend for a while, just to prove to Stan Marsh that he could. Soon after that he decided that he really wasn't interested in girls (Wendy was not shocked at this revelation).
The question eventually arose as to whether Gregory and Christophe were involved in a secret relationship. The answer, though they'd been known to fool around together, was a very definite no. Gregory loved high cheekbones, pale faces, and dark eyes. He adored the intense and mysterious or those that opposed him in some way. Christophe had a rounder shaped face, tanned skin and surprisingly light green eyes. He did have the intense but he was never a mystery to Gregory, who believed they shared every secret and everything was already discovered. He held Christophe as forever his closest friend and the most important thing in his life. He loved him deeply, but not on a level of passion.
Gregory had never found anyone to call his own. He felt like he would be forever without anyone. The thought never really bothered him. He had the charm, he had the looks, but there was absolutely no one special enough. The only person he'd ever had sex with more than once was Christophe, their friendship being so close and unconventional that it worked. They sometimes used sex as a distraction, a comfort, a stress reliever. During the night-time of some of their harder missions, when they were squashed together in a sleazy motel with nothing better to entertain themselves, sex was used. It felt nice to be that close without feeling awkward.
Everyone else with luck enough to catch Gregory's eye had been drunken-fun and one-night stands.
In Gregory's opinion, taking the break had been a ridiculous idea. Why was Christophe so convinced that they needed to rest? It wasn't as if they weren't used to danger and people trying to kill them. Avoiding that kind of thing was what they did for a living. It seemed unusually suspicious that Christophe would suddenly want to stop at that moment.
He knew though that whatever happened, he would always stick with his best friend. The Frenchman could volunteer that they go to the Arctic and Gregory would probably agree. If Tophe knew it was for the best then he didn't doubt it probably was.
He couldn't realise that he was unknowingly heading into the most dangerous phase of his life, nor could he realise that, for some unknown destiny, he was being followed.