This story contains Yaoi and a bit of violence but nothing too gruesome so if you can't handle it, leave now.

For those that have decided to stay, please enjoy this Christophe x Gregory story myself and my friend Funkychik rped on Gaia. So not all the credit goes to myself.

Average Fanatic played Gregory Yardale, a spoiled rich kid whose life was changed with a near death experience.

Funkychik played Christophe DeLorne, an angry French boy who will one day fall for the British swine and protect him (even though Gregory insists he can protect himself).

I do not own South Park, if I did... well lets just say Kyle would be a little, oblivious man whore, Wendy wouldn't exist, Damien, Christophe, and Gregory would come back, and oh the yaoi... =w=

We love comments.

Christophe DeLarne, or The Mole as he prefers, is just a simple young fourteen year old mercenary. Yeah so maybe he's not so simple, but he needs something to do. And being a mercenary makes him happy, unlike everything else in this messed up world. Sure he keeps his little hobby a secret from his mother, but who doesn't keep secrets from their parents? Especially when they intimidate you into listening to them, but lie to them and say you love God and they are putty in your hands. That lie is never easy though, Christophe seems to die a little on the inside each and every time he uses it.

Tonight's mission is a little special, of course they all are but this one is different. Gregory Yardale, a spoiled rich boy brat who lives in the nicest mansion in town. How completely annoying. Some British kid who happens to be the same age as the Mole is the target.

Mission:
Track down target Gregory Yardale, age fourteen, British, blonde.

Objective:
Kill Gregory.

Seems simple enough, but there always has to be some annoying inconvenience. British people are high up on Christophe's list of people and things he hates. So killing some British kid will actually bring some good in his life, unlike God who seems to always ruin his life. Living in London has been hard on the Mole, everywhere he goes he hears the same annoying British accent, and the same mannerisms. Why his mother wanted to move here, he'll never know. Dressed in a tight black shirt, black pants, black boots, and black fingerless gloves Christophe makes his way into the Yardale's yard. With his trusty shovel safely secured to his back, he takes a quick look around the yard. The very last thing the Mole needs is guard dogs attacking. Seeing the coast as being clear, Christophe smirked to himself as he made his way towards the house.

Now if any doors were unlocked, this would be a piece of cake. But alas none were. If Christophe didn't know how to pick locks he would of just broke a window. Good thing he can pick locks, a talent that only fools wouldn't see as useful. Now which lock to pick? Back door? No, far too predictable. Everyone always breaks in through the back door. So what's left? The front door. Walking to the door he pulled out his lock picking kit and within moments was able to successfully pick to the lock. Too easy. Stupid Brits. Stuffing the kit back into his pocket the Mole slowly pushed the door open and walked inside. Christophe, of course, closed the door. He didn't want any unwanted noise to get out. Now here's the real question, where would the British pig be hiding, and who else is home?

Meanwhile, Gregory Yardale was the son of a very powerful business man and a merciless lawyer. Everything has always been proper, the best, and absolutely no failure. Failure was not accepted in this household and Gregory was just fine with that. He had tutors come over to teach him. Never would he set foot in a school, not even a private school. His parents wanted him molded into the perfect child, a prodigy and Gregory was just content with that. This fourteen year old boy was on the second floor, in the library reading a calculus book. Yes, calculus. His IQ was already far beyond that of any political representative but it still wasn't good enough.

He just sat there in silence, wearing a pressed white blouse, black pants, and dress shoes. His hair was neat, bangs covering his forehead but never getting in the way that would be unacceptable. No, he was clean cut and proper just like his parents who were not home, they rarely were but that was normal. He was used to spending time alone with his thoughts, playing the piano, or studying. That was his life, that was all that existed.

Stretching he massaged the back of his neck, growing tired. Closing his book he set it to the side and stood, pushing his chair in and turning off the lights. He walks out of the library, closing the door behind him and listened to any sound at all. Nothing but silence. He chef must have gone home for the night. That was fine, there would be something lift in the kitchen like always. Walking down the stairs he wondered if he'd see his parents for Christmas but cast away the thought. No need for such... hopes. They wouldn't be there, like always.

Flipping on the sitting rooms lights he looked around. Something smelled like... dirt. He scrunched up his nose in disgust. Who would be foolish enough to trail dirt into this house? Maybe that stupid gardener who kept coming inside because it was "so cold outside". He should be used to it, it was his job. Such worthless help. Glancing around the room he thought he had heard footsteps. "Mother? Father?" he called out wondering if they were home early. But they never were so why would today be any different?

Christophe took one look around and instantly hated the place, it smelt like… linens and flowers. And it smelt nothing like the earth and cigarette smell that went along with the brunette. If Christophe had been an arsonist this would be one of his targets. But arson was a child's crime, and the Mole was no child. Taking a casual stroll through the house, he had to guess that only little Gregory was home. Perfect, no need to act so innocent with others. Hearing a voice, which he assumed was Gregory's, confirmed it. No one else was home, this would be too easy that is would be laughable. Walking towards the voice he entered one of the rooms the fancy rich called "sitting rooms" and the very idea upset him. Maybe it was because everything opposite from Christophe upset him.

Seeing the target alone gave Christophe a headache, so annoying. "'ello Gregory…" he said simply as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Flipping it open he brought the pack to his face and pulled out a cigarette with his lips, moving it to the corner of his mouth with his tongue he stuffed the pack back into his pocket. To Gregory, Christophe probably looked like a workers son. Or at least would be stupid enough to believe so. Pulling out a cheap lighter he lit his cigarette and took a long drag, might as well enjoy work. Stuffing the lighter into his pocket, the Mole smirked. "Your mozzer and fazzer, zey are not 'ome… oui?" He questioned already knowing the answer.

Pulling his shovel off of his back he used it as a crutch to lean against, the shovel of course getting dirt on the carpet. Having been a mercenary since he was nine, Christophe learned it's best to enjoy each and every mission. Till kill someone, to take them away from loved ones, to be hated by so many, Christophe didn't care. He didn't care what others thought about him, he'd always act the same and nothing would change that sweet fact.

The smell was more prominent now. Gregory looked over his shoulder and scrunched up his nose again. That smoke, his dirty close, just everything about him was utterly revolting. The dirty boy looked around the same age as himself, maybe a few months older but still the same age. He assumed it was the son of one of the help, maybe the gardener. But why was he here? Family members of the help weren't allowed. It seems one of them broke the rules. He's have to fire whoever his father or mother was. Sad but he wouldn't dwell too much on it if not at all.

Crossing his arms he raised an eyebrow. "You know my name, isn't it only right to know yours?" he stated in a bored tone. His eyes narrowed as he lit the disgusting cancer stick. Placing his hand to his nose in a proper yet rude manner he glared. "Do not smoke that in here..." he began and realized he was French by his accent and shook his head. "Of course... only your kind would be so rude as to do that in someone else's home." Looking him over again he smirked and laughed in a way making it obvious he looked down on him. "Just get back from an approved school?" he asked mockingly.

He tiled his head at the question. "Why would you like to know that? If you're hoping for money then you'd best leave. We do not associate with beggars," he scoffed and looked over at the clock. It was getting late and it was his routine to already be in the shower. He hated it when his routine was broken. His eyes widened as the shovel was set on his nice, clean carpet. Just what was he thinking doing something like that? "I am becoming browned off," he growled and glared at the offending dirt that was so obvious to see on the white carpet.

Christophe took a long hit from his cigarette, oh how much he loved the sweet nicotine filling his lungs. Christophe, deciding on being somewhat nice, choose to give the British swine his name, "Christophe." That was all he would be getting out of the Mole on his name, the boy didn't need to know anything else. Listening to the boy speak it was almost funny, almost. Taking another hit he blew the smoke towards Gregory to mock the blonde, "Why?" He chuckled ignoring the demand. "I do not care boy, did you zink I would?" He chuckled. Christophe shook his head, sure he was a bad kid but he has never been caught. The blonde was just assuming things, like hell he'd be going to such a place.

"Gregory, your mozzer she iz lawyer, no? Your fazzer 'e iz business man, no?" He rolled his eyes at the other thinking Christophe was a beggar. "I am not 'ere to get money from you, my pay will come when I leave." He stated simply in a matter of fact tone. Listening to Gregory say he was annoyed all Christophe did was roll his eyes. So annoying… Christophe tapped his shovel on the ground a few more times putting more dirt on the ground. Why not annoy the British fag a bit more before getting down to business. "England, a good land… too bad she iz filled with trash." He grinned as he lifted up his shovel and rested it on his shoulder. "Among three Italians you will find two clergymen; among three Spaniards two braggarts; among three Germans two soldiers; among three Frenchmen, two chefs, and among three Englishmen two whoremongers." He placed his cigarette back in the corner of his mouth. Not an impressive insult but one that would bother a stuck up rich boy that's for sure.

Christophe... Such a common French name. It was disgusting. Gregory's eyebrow twitched in annoyance as he elegantly waved away the smoke from his face. This was definitely just a commoner, a poorly taught commoner at that. "Anyone with the slightest hint of manners would," he stated simply as if it was obvious. Gregory had never met a commoner before, he was only told by his mother and father that they were greedy, that they would do anything to get their hands on their money. Not only that but they were also dirty, stupid, and just a complete waste of their time and Gregory believed every word of it. Why wouldn't he believe it? His parent would never lie to him and he had never met a commoner before.

"Yes, father works in a building society and mother is a lawyer in his building," he said and decided to draw his gaze to something less disgusting, like his nails. He looked them over. Perfect as usual. "Oh? Going to some job at the dump?" he asked with a smile, still paying no attention to him. But when he heard the shovel tapping on the ground his eyes shot up to watch in horror. Talk about adding insult to injury. Growling he watched him. "Then go back to France you chav," he snapped. His anger began to rise listening to that insult. His hands began to form into fists and he nodded to the door. "Get out of my home before I call the copper," he stated as he began to walk towards the phone on the opposite side of the room.

Talking to Gregory was… such a waste of precious time. Sticking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he decided to make it a little bit more clear as to why he was there. "Did you know zey 'ave enemies?" He asked casually before laughing at his question. "No, no tu pourri-gâté gosse. I am 'ere to kill you." He rolled his eyes at the blondes threat, Christophe would never let the police get involved. Last thing he needed was to get caught right now. Watching Gregory all Christophe could think was, 'e's far too careless.' Quickly he walked up to the blonde, and gripped his shirt, throwing the Brit to the now dirty (because of Christophe) carpet, he placed his foot on Gregory's chest. Putting pressure on the Brit's chest to make sure he doesn't move, he shook his head looking down at him. How should he kill him? Use the shovel to bash his head in? Use the shovel to cut his head off? Pretty much anything with his shovel would make him happy.

"Are you ready to die, Gregory Yardale?" He asked with a yawn to show the other was boring him. But… was this worth it? This boy, no… this child was completely blind to everything else in the word. It was completely pathetic to hear him down talk another, did this British swine even have friends? Sure Christophe had no real friends, but he didn't care. It wasn't about friends to him, right now it was about the thrill. Friends was something he could get as an adult.

Gregory raised an eyebrow. Enemies? He never really thought about it. Who would ever hate his parents? They were good people, paid taxes, and they were smart. What is there to hate about them? He was taken aback by his statement. Here to kill him? "You must be joking soap dodger," he snickered and quickened his pace to the phone but was stopped just a foot away from it and was thrown to the dirty round. Now his shirt was wrinkled and dirty, something he'd have to send to the cleaners to fix. But more important matters needed to be taken care of at the moment, like the heavy foot on his chest. Quickly grabbing his ankle with both hands he tried to move it off of him but to no avail. He was much too weak and Christophe was too strong. He looked into the others eyes, panicking.

Shaking his head he managed to repeat the words, "No, no, no, no..." He didn't want to die. It wasn't until now, his life flashing before his eyes, did he realize how utterly boring his life was. He had rarely been into the city, kissed someone, or even had a friend. There were so many things he wanted to do now. Panting lightly, his heart beated faster and faster, threatening to pop right out of his chest in fear. He looked into the others eyes, practically begging Christophe to spare his life.

Christophe watched Gregory and rolled his eyes. Pathetic. Completely pathetic in every way possible. This was so pathetic it wasn't even funny anymore. Looking down into Gregory's eyes, he recognized the look all too well. Begging to continue on with life, and begging is something that is just disgraceful to hear. That's when Christophe realized it, "You know what Gregory?" He questioned taking a long drag from his cigarette while attaching his shovel to his back once again. "You aren't even worth eet."He put an emphasis on the word 'worth' to turn it into an insult. "You are dead whezzer I kill you or not, only difference iz in one you breath." He said finishing off his cigarette. Lifting his foot of the others chest he rolled his eyes in disgust. "'ave fun with life." He said as he turned and walked out of the sitting room. Christophe let him live because it was pointless to kill him, it would be both a waste of time and energy. The Mole walked out of the mansion and down the street back into the horrid town known as London.

All Gregory could do was fist his delicate hands around the boys' pants and pray to God that this would end painlessly or even not at all. He stared into the brunette's eyes, praying to him for mercy. "Wh-what?" he managed to say wanting to answer each of his questions just in case they might give him a way out of here. His eyes widened at his next words, releasing his pants and letting them fall to the ground. Wasn't worth it? The French boy pitied him. But should it matter? He was alive... but at what cost? His dignity and self respect left with the brunette.

He just lied there, staring at the ceiling. Dead... he was dead. His life was meaningless, trivial, boring. Something had to change, he had to prove to himself and to the brunette that he deserved to live. Pushing himself up he walked throughout the house, thinking of all that needed to be done and how to hide it. It would be easy to hide since he was always practically alone. No one would notice if he disappeared every now and then to learn how to fight. But he had to remember not to get any marks or bruises on his face, can't let the parents find out about his new hobby.

Now in his clean, polished bathroom he opened a number of drawers looking for something specific. Gel. Something he was given long ago but found no use for until now. Slicking his hair back, only a few strands rebellious enough not to stay back, he smirked. This was the new Gregory Yardale, one that wanted to live life and prove his life truly meant something.