1.

BACK TO THE START.

It all started with a cigarette.

Actually, no. That's a lie; the seeds of this story were sown long ago, hidden under thick brown soil and long forgotten memories. The game was rigged before anyone even knew it was a game, before anyone knew better than to start a war no one could possibly win. Horrible, deplorable violence begets nothing but more of the same; it destroys everything in it's path, leaving nothing save the small, niggling feeling that things didn't have to turn out this way. It could have been stopped. No one had to die. Even if peace was restored, the damage was already done, the idea planted, it's roots digging down into the minds of every youth and soldier and civilian even in the aftermath. Some of the flowers would wither and die, most stayed behind the veil of consciousness; some blossomed and the hatred from which they were born, the aggression, the untainted rage, became them. For an unlucky majority, this built up and manifested itself in the destruction of what they saw around them. As more and more violence, yet more intolerance, gripped the world, it fed the monster inside. They corrupted the outside to mirror what they were on the inside: tainted, hateful and ignorant. The remainder turned in on themselves, trauma from childhood resulting in a downward spiral of self-destruction.

This is a story about that self-destruction.

"My, my, my, what's a filthy little Jew-rat like you doing in out here?"

Kyle looks up from his position on the concrete stairs, mild surprise mixed with disgust on his face. "Where's Kenny, Cartman?" He averts his gaze to the wall opposite, away from the bulky sadist, who, despite the offhand insult, seems happy to see him. And a 'happy' Cartman isn't good for the Jewish race. Or any other minority, for that matter. His malicious tendencies tend to fluctuate with his moods, meaning that a depressed, emo!Cartman would probably be better for all involved.

"Probably having some butt-fun with Stan. Dude, you know those two are so hot for each other—"

"Hey! Shut the fuck up, fatass!"

"Ay! You shut the fuck up, you fucking Jew. I'm not the one who wants to fuck that asswipe Stan." Eric has descended the steps and now stands on the snow-covered black tarmac, facing the redhead. He looks giddy, like a little kid with a piece of its favourite candy – apart from the fact the candy is kosher, and in Eric's mind kosher candy sucks ass. (Kyle would readily agree with him, but that would be going against all of his Nazi-hating principles.)

The boy with the green hat wished that Cartman could go back to being depressed. Really, it was a lot better than the grinning, cackling, fucking creepy piece of shit he is when… Actually, when Butters is around. 'So that's why he's been so fucking chipper? His little blondie's back from Texas. Ha.'

The Jew rolls his eyes at the other's hypocrisy and continues, hoping that the brunette will pick up on his unwillingness to fight and get the fuck away from him. "I don't know why you think 'Jew' is an insult, fatass."

"Why are you so interested in my ass, Kahl?"

"I'm not interested in your ass, Cartman. It just happens to be difficult to ignore, seeing as it's twice the size of fucking China." He leans back against the cold concrete, trying to forget about the six-foot-something hulking mass that's getting all "up in his grill", as Kenny oh-so eloquently puts it.

China isn't a word that should ever be uttered within ear-shot of Cartman. Kyle remembers this too late.

Instead of the fiery, screeching reply he's come to expect, the Nazi addresses him in a tone bordering on silky. "Oh, you may not be interested in my ass, but I know whose ass you are interested in, you faggot. Wonder what he'd think if he knew you were a fucking gay fag?"

"Fuck you, Cartman. I'm not the one who's been boning Butters!"

Butters and Eric as butt-buddies has been a well kept secret for some time now; the only reason Kyle knows anything about it was his tendency to use his awesome technological skills to hack his enemy's computer for incriminating evidence. What he found on one of his routine checks was enough to give him nightmares, rather than the typically "squeaky clean" hard-drive of the pseudo-sociopath. He had enough blackmail on Cartman to last him the rest of his natural born life.

What Kyle never counted on was the fat Nazi having something on him. But, Kyle guessed it was only a matter of time – after all, his vice was the kind that left scars. Homosexuality – while dabbled in – didn't often do that, unless you're kinky as shit (and Kyle thinks Cartman probably is, though he has no interest in finding out the extent of his "fucked up way of fucking").

Cartman pales. His massive form is perfectly still, his head bowed. Kyle isn't sure if it's embarrassment or pure rage that's brought him to a complete halt; the outcome for either isn't something he wants to see first-hand. Not again.

"How dare you?" The taller boy lashes out with one pudgy hand and grabs Kyle by his coat collar, hoisting him up into the air. The redhead struggles, legs kicking wildly, hitting nothing but cold air; he uses his arms to try and loosen the vice-like grip holding him aloft. A sadistic grin flashes across his round face as he watches the skinny Jew writhe and snarl in his grasp; he leans in close to Kyle, until their gazes are level, smug brown eyes gazing into defiant green ones. "You know, Kahl, I'd hate it if people found out about what you and young Kenneth do behind closed doors – behind the bike shed – because you know how people would react. You'd be thrown out of South Park so fucking fast." He seems to savour that thought for a few seconds, a smile playing across his lips.

Suddenly, he shakes Kyle violently, the Jew's breaths coming out in gasps as he struggles for oxygen. Cartman doesn't relent, instead, pulling the redhead's face close to his, he speaks again in the most sinister voice Kyle has ever heard. "You tell anyone, and I swear to god, you fucking piece of shit, I will fuck you up. And not in the way I'm sure you'd enjoy. Do you understand me?"

Kyle nods, trying to force back the tears that are stinging his eyes.

"I said: do you fucking understand me, Jew?"

"Y-yes. I-I understand." Eric releases his grip, letting Kyle fall to the ground in a breathless heap of orange and green. It takes him a minute or two to get his breath back, all the while cursing the rotund slab of lard that always insisted on pulling random shit like this. Oh no, the holocaust wasn't enough for Herr Cartman; there were still far too many Jews left traipsing about with their menorahs and – and… Whatever Cartman thought Jews traipsed about with. Eric wasn't exactly known for his encyclopaedic knowledge on world religions. Hell, he hadn't even read the fucking Bible.

By the time Kyle gets up, Cartman is gone.

"Motherfucker." He murmurs the expletive under his breath, re-adjusting his lime ushanka.

But, the redhead isn't going to go back inside any time soon, so he resumes sitting on the steps, waiting for Kenny to finally show up.

Lunch break finishes; Kyle finally starts to get up.

He knows that Kenny isn't coming. Secretly, he knows he never was.

He knows he'll see him two hours later when school's over, at his house, in his room with a glass pipe in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.

From a distance, a dark-haired boy watched the fight with barely veiled disinterest. He looked on as the fat kid waddled off – probably to cause more chaos, maybe even an earthquake if he had gym – and, strangely, the scrawny, pale boy sat back down on the steps.

The brunette took a long drag on his cigarette, silently observing from the corner, half of his form hidden from view. If the green-eyed boy were to so much as glance in his direction, he would be at serious risk of appearing to be some sort of stalker. Not that he was staring – no, he was just curious. Simple curiosity might have killed the proverbial cat, but that cat was probably a bitch and deserved to die. Or god hated it. Whatever.

But, see, what was curious about this boy wasn't his appearance. Yes, his fashion sense may have been an affront to humanity – orange and green should never be seen, unless there's something else in between – and the dark circles around his sunken eyes, not terribly noticeable to the untrained eye, were of no interest to him either. Garden variety addict, most probably; or, like the boy so intently watching him, insomnia and, uh, stress. (Being a mercenary was not a relaxing job, no matter what the goddamn brochure said.)

What was really, really interesting about the boy, was that he was sitting in a place he'd dubbed "Smoker's Alley", sans cigarette.

And no one – no one – came to the alley without a cigarette. Even the druggies came here with a pack or two to bribe the other kids so they wouldn't tell.

Then, there was this little redhead sitting there oblivious to the hordes of people just around the corner. The Goths wouldn't be too happy that another "conformist" had moved onto their territory; those annoying kids that thought they were badass might try to rough him up a little… But, most people probably wouldn't care. They were just like the brunette, going to smoke between periods or whenever they got the chance, rarely acknowledging anyone else's existence.

After about ten minutes of sitting there (and three cigarettes later for the voyeur), the boy with the green hat, Kyle… Broccoli, or something, stood up.

"'Ey, mon ami, where are you off to?"

Kyle turned around to face him, somewhat surprised. Well, it wasn't as if Christophe had spoken to him before, so why wouldn't he be apprehensive? The French teenager didn't exactly look like Captain Cheerful – au contrare, he prided himself on his menacing appearance. It was useful in his line of work.

Dressed head-to-toe in black, the mercenary sauntered down the narrow space between the two buildings. The Jewish boy leaned against the grey railings, looking at the other with confusion. "What, dude? What the hell do you want?"

"You smoke?" The question was simple.

"Uhm, kinda. I don't know. Sometimes."

A smirk. "Yes or no, mon ami? Eet iz simple."

The redhead paused, still frowning and staring at Christophe like he was a green mutant with two heads. "…Yeah, I, uh, I smoke. I guess." For a second, his expression was unreadable, like he was thinking of something that had nothing to do with the current exchange; even the brunette couldn't decipher the emotion in the other's eyes.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

"Ah, so you do smoke." Shrugging off the uneasy feeling, he pulled a packet out of his pocket and offered it to the shorter teen. "Voulez-vous une cigarette? On peut se tutoyer, non?"

Kyle took the packet of Lucky Strike offered, cautiously removed one, and tossed it back to the French guy standing next to him. "I don't speak French."

"Mais, you are in ze French AP, non?"

Green eyes almost bugged out of their sockets as he looked at the boy in black. "How do you know what classes I'm in?"

"I take ze French AP also."

"Oh." Lighting the cigarette with Christophe's yellow lighter, he took a tiny drag before letting out a little, poorly hidden, cough. "So, what did you want to talk to me about, Frenchy?"

Christophe 'tsk'ed., smirking at his inability to handle the noxious gas. "You 'ad quite ze fight earlier, wiz ze fat one."

"You were eavesdropping?"

"Non, I just saw 'im pick you up and put you down. Zat iz all, mon ami. I jus' `appened to be over zere." He nodded to the corner. Kyle took another pitiful drag and started to hack a lung up, cheeks an amusing shade of red. Though, from embarrassment or the burning pain of the smoke, the Frenchman couldn't tell. "Look, mon ami, perserverance is key. You `ave to keep up wiz eet. Eet will get better, I promise. Smoking iz not for ze quitter."

Kyle looked up at him, ignoring the advice. "What time is it, Frenchy?"

Apparently bored now, he looked at his watch. "Class time, I suppoze. I am not sure, I do not attend ze `alf of zem."

And, just like that, the cute little Jewish boy ran through the door, leaving his barely-touched cigarette on the floor. But, he was still just as interesting… maybe even more so.

Christophe couldn't shake the feeling that, besides the odd class, he knew the strange little redhead.

A good mercenary never forgets a face. And 'The Mole' was the best.

And things just didn't add up.

Snubbing out the finished Lucky Strike, he casually walked towards the car park, ever so intent on settling this confusion of his once and for all. Uncertainty led to fear. Fear led to obsession.

Obsession led to ruin.

AN. So ends my first chapter. I know it sucks… And, I know, it switches back and forth between tenses. Sorry. I felt like it xD Fanfiction is still very new to me, so apologies if it's not terribly good. And, shockingly, I have a plot for this story. An actual, honest-to-god, plot. However lame it might be xD And however OOC the the characters may be/become.

Just so you know, there's probably going to be a lot of blood, guts, violence and drugs involved in this fic. Oh, and slash. Lots of slash. Yay! for slash.

Anyway, multiple pairings, but the main one will be Kyle x Christophe. ('Tophelovski ftw. 3)

Soyeah~ Read and review? :3

— Coma.