"Get your ass in here!" a yell echoed throughout the house. There was no response.
"Christophe! I swear to God! If you don't get your ass in here right now!"
"Don't waste your breas sweareeng to zat beetch you call god!" was the response heard, muffled from another room.
"It's a figure of speech, dammit!"
There was, once again, no response. Gregory sighed in exasperation. How hard could it possibly be to get that stubborn French prick to take a damn bath? He ran a hand through his golden locks, other hand on his hip. Two can play at this game.
"Ok. I'm going to count to three. If you're not in here by then-"
"Zen what? You'll come and get me?" Christophe scoffed, "You can't even toast a poptart! 'ow do you expect to 'get' me into zat bassroom. It won't 'appen Gregoree! Won't. 'appen."
"Ugh! Why are you such an immature prick, Christophe?"
"Why are you such a fuckeeng beetch, Gregoree?"
"ONE!"
"Beetch, I am fuckeeng not five!"
"TWO!"
"Fuck off!"
"NOW, Mole! Get in here!"
"NON!"
Gregory didn't bother saying three. He stomped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Pausing, he looked around. Christophe would be hiding either under, or in something. That's how it always was.
His instincts told him to check in the bedroom closet. Sure enough, he was right. As he opened the door, he heard Christophe mumble something unintelligible in French.
"Two and a half!" he shouted, before being forcefully pushed to the ground. Christophe ran towards the door, but abruptly stopped and turned around when he reached it.
"You're not my moz'air! Why do you inseest on naggeeng me about everysing!"
Irate, Gregory pulled himself up and stomped up to him, shouting, "Because you insist on acting like a little kid! I mean, come on, Mole! We aren't 8 anymore! We're 17! You could at least try to act your age! I have to nag you about everything because otherwise, you won't do it! Grow the hell up! Have a sense of responsibility! Take charge for once!"
"Shut up! I do take charge. I am in charge of ze meesionz. I am in charge of my own deseesionz, my life! What do you know, you stupeed Mormon?"
Gregory couldn't take it anymore, Christophe had crossed the line. Now it was his turn.
"What do I know? What, do I know?" he scoffed.
Christophe gave him a look of defiance, giving Gregory all he needed to continue. He grabbed his wrist and twisted harshly.
Smoothly, almost cockily, he stated, "I know that I will not be by your side as long as you think. I know that I will be dead one day, and you will be without me. And what will you do? Hm? I know... When that day comes, you will be nothing. You won't know what to do with yourself. You'll be lost. A dog without its master. Lonely, pitiful, filthy, nothing. I'll be gone faster than you can say 'I worship Jesus'. And you're going to sit there and wish I was there to nag you, to be the mother you never had, to tell you what to do. I know that you are a sorry excuse for a-"
Several emotions played across Christophe's face, all of them untraceable. But the last emotion made Gregory cut himself short. Pure and utter hatred. A hatred born from the depths of hell itself, and it was flowing off Christophe in waves of raw emotion. Without speaking, Christophe wrenched his hand out of Gregory's grasp, turned, and walked into the kitchen. Gregory watched silently as the French boy paused before opening the front door and walking outside.
The angry slam of the door echoed into his ears.
"All this over a shower. You really haven't changed. When will you just grow up?" the blonde murmured to himself, crossing his arms and letting himself fall back on the bed.
It seemed to always be like this now. Ever since they had joined La Resistance and fought to save Terrance and Phillip. Ever since Christophe had died. Well… Gregory guessed he didn't quite die, since Christophe was still alive and well… Not exactly well… He didn't know. But if there was anything Gregory did know, it was that whatever had happened that day made Christophe change, and he couldn't tell if it was for better or worse.