/Here is that sequel I promised :3 /

Mole laid back in the bed, his eyes half-open and half-shut. His body was numb and he felt like he'd been in a car wreck. Wait a minute…..

The brunette shot up quickly and a sudden rush of pain was sent through his body, causing him to groan and look around. This wasn't home. This wasn't where he would wake up and smell the strong scent of coffee, cigarettes, and Gregory's hairspray. This wasn't the little house they could barely afford. No. This was a bright white room with a light scent of a candle and it was too bright, causing him to squint hard but still able to see. Where was he? What happened? Why was his body so damn sore? Why was he here in the first place? When did he get these stitches on his left arm? The questions scrambled around in his head, causing a terrible headache. Chris didn't care. He only cared about one thing; where was Gregory?

The Frenchman looked around for a minute and then stood up, then slightly slipped on the slick hospital floor under him. He yelped a little but pulled himself up. Nothing here was right. Nothing was ever right here. Chris didn't like it here and felt to weak and light-headed to even stand on his own two feet, he just wanted to lay back down, but he mustn't'. Gregory was here somewhere and he wanted to find him now. A low and painful growl left his throat as he walked out of the room, suddenly making things darker and it was easier for him to look around and see where he was. This couldn't be right. It mustn't be right. The boy had come to find out he woke up in the morgue. His heart began to beat a whole lot faster than it should have, causing him to grab his chest and think to himself: "Am I dead? Is Gregory dead?" These thoughts bounced around in his minds with the other questions. Doctors were speaking in front of some teen's body and soon covered the body back up and left the room, one shaking their head and the other whispered to him "Poor thing".

This made Christophe curious. Letting out a small sigh, he walked over to the dead body and gulped. It wasn't him. It couldn't be. This was all a dream and he would wake up when his lover came upstairs and snuggled up to him, right?

Right?

His hand began to shake and he gulped harder the second time before pulling the white sheet back and stepping back with a gasp. Gregory. He lay there dead, on the cold metal. The poor boy was bloody and had a few glass shards sticking from his stomach. Christophe teared up and held back each tear he wanted to just let out, but didn't. He never cried and today wasn't the day. Not yet. Not today. Not here. Poor Gregory died for the Frenchman's stupid choice to try and kill them both due to their cover being blown. He eyed the boy for a minute. This body was Gregory's but… It just didn't look like him. You could see each rib perfectly through this skin, he was naked, and his hips bones were plainly visible too. Why did he look like this? The brunette thought and tried to remember what happened. It was just so hard. Too hard. Too hard to remember even what happened or to bare the pain and face the fact that Gregory was gone. There was nothing he could do but wait and see what goes on and what they do.

-2 weeks later-

Christophe looked in the mirror of his bedroom dresser. Messy. Dirty. The Brit's words ran through his head and he could positively swear he hears him calling from at the bottom of the stairs. He knew it was him, he knew it. But the other half of his heart told him to keep getting ready. No one was there. No one lived there but the Frenchman. He was alone. Once he finished, he looked in the mirror again and he didn't too much different. The only thing gone was the dirt on his face and arms. The boy sighed and walked to the car, holding a piece of paper he scribbled directions on. He'd never thought this day would come, Never.

It took an hour or two but he finally arrived at the South Park Funeral Home. This was bigger than all the houses in this town. Almost like a church, and by reading the sign out front, it was. Groaning, he stepped from the 1969 Chevelle and looked at the outside. White, yellow and lights. Just like every other dumbass church he seen. Chris didn't want to go to Church and he always threw fits when Gregory wanted him to go one time. The blonde was going with Stan and Kyle just for kicks, which was still bad on the brunette's end of the deal. It involved God so he wouldn't go for all the tea in China. Christophe stepped through the front doors, being blinded by the bright lights and sunshine coming through the windows. He groaned once more and made his way through the halls, hoping he wouldn't lose his temper and break something. Surprisingly, it worked and he made his way to the end of the hallway. For a weird reason he felt calm, but on the inside he felt hurt and wanted his revenge but there was no one to get revenge on. This was his idea. He made Gregory die. Nothing could change that now.

Christophe looked at the window and painting/photo in front of him. God. Ew….. Stainless glass window. Ehh… The brunette looked to his right. Doors, made from solid oak and polished to shine in perfection. Then he looked to his left. Men. 2 huge men were carrying a glossy dark brown coffin. An expensive on too. Chris was confused for a minute but then remembered the whole reason he was here. Gregory. That was him. The brit's family and some of his own didn't want to see him here. They probably don't expect him to be here anyhow. The smoky eyed boy stepped a few steps back and watched as they passed him by. Their faces looked fake, like they weren't meant to blink. They weren't meant to move. Like a statue. As he watched them walk by, his chest began to have a sharp pain on the left side, where his heart was. Why was this happening? This never happened before. The hell was this?

As soon as the men were out of his sight, he went in the same directions they went. Maybe it would lead him to the right room, and yet he might get lost and disturb someone else. He just kept quiet and tried to control his pain, as he wanted to get this over with. Chris wanted out of this hellhole. He wanted out of church and out of the waves of pain he felt overflowing his whole entire body now. The doors he saw before were shut and they might've even been locked. Maybe. Just maybe. Christophe reached for the nice golden knob and turned it slowly. Was he really going to do this? Yes. He was. HE wanted to see his best friend.

Once he felt that the doors were unlocked, he used a bit of force to push them open. This was the right room. Kyle, Stan, Kenny, Token, Craig, Bebe, Wendy (of course), Red, and many others were there. Christophe's sister, Christine was even here. She loved him to death and always greeted him with a smile and a hug, even sometimes a soft kiss to the cheek, only giving Chris a smack to the face and a firm 'Shut up or E'll breek zat fuckeeng shovel' look in her eye. The Frenchman looked around at all the people. They didn't even notice him walk in. They were all to busy looking at the television in front of the crowd. Videos. Old videos. His jaw dropped a small bit. These were videos recorded by either when Kyle came over, Gregory being a fuck tard and teasing Chris with a camera, or Christine filming them for stupid reasons. The video seemed to be from just a few years ago, when Cartman had that huge Halloween party. Amazing costumes and a lot of sex and booze. Christophe remembered that night like it was just this morning because it was a terrible night. Damien. Him. Damien was drunk and horny. You get the picture, Right?

A few more moments went by and the video came to a halt, and that's when everyone turned their heads to the Frenchman who was standing there the whole time and no one noticed until the priest did. With all this attention, he just wanted to turn around and leave, but his gut and heart told him to stay. Go. Don't turn back. Go. Don't worry about them, like they're not here. Don't give them the time of the day. They didn't deserve it.

Christophe took a deep breath and sighed heavily, then began heading towards the coffin. This was about the time he noticed two coffins. The first one was the dark glossy oak one that contained Gregory, which was now on a pedestal and had a picture of him when Christophe pimped him out for a week. A baggy shirt and combat pants with converse and a flat bill hat turned to the back, a smirk on his face and his icy blue eyes that would make you faint shined brightly like the real thing. The second was a bit smaller and a glossy black color with a shovel carved on the top. This also sat on a pedestal and had a picture on it as well. This was a picture of himself. Christophe's picture was on this one. This was his coffin. They think he's dead along with his best friend. The picture that rested on the smooth surface was one of his favorite pictures he's had taken of himself, but this on wasn't the right one. This one was /Gregory's/ favorite. This happened to be the brit's favorite because he smiled in this one. It wasn't a big happy smile, but a start to it. He was lying on their sofa in the basement; a cigarette in his hand and Gregory decided to take this picture of his tiny smile. The outfit he wore was for a mission and the brunette HATED it. It was a red Playboy outfit with the tail removed, fishnet tights, a black hat (tiny top hat), and a pair of black 5-inch heels. Why this picture? Why was it so important that it was the last one that they would use for people to see him as, even though he wasn't really dead?

Everyone kept his or her eye on him as he first walked up to his coffin. He eyed the thing for a moment and then his eyes shot up to the photograph. Disgusting. He grew angry from this, or was it really from this, and knocked it over. A loud crash filled the room and everyone gasped at this. Then after he knew his coffin contained nothing but emptiness and air, he walked over to his lover's coffin. Gregory had always looked like a little porcelain doll from China, but now it was hard to tell. The oak lid was closed and probably sealed. His eyes filled with tears as he picked up the picture and placed his lips in the cold glass. Why was his life like this? Why did he have to lose Gregory? Why couldn't Clyde lose Craig or Kyle loses Eric or Stan lose Wendy? Why him? The wet liquid dripped from his eyes and down his cheeks onto the polished oak finish.

Chris let it last for a few moments and pulled his lips away. It hurt so much. He never got to say goodbye. Christophe looked at the tiny photograph for a few more seconds and held it to his chest as he turned around and walked out. He'd have to wait to make his next move.

-3 hours later-

The Frenchman was curled up in the queen-sized bed by himself. The only thing by his side was a stuffed giraffe Gregory had bought him for his last birthday, which was just a month ago. Without the blonde British boy knowing it, when he would leave for more than 20 minutes, Christophe would spray his body spray on the toy and take one of his scarves and wrap it around it's neck before curling up in bed and taking a nap. It's what kept him calm most of the time when he was alone. Now he needed it more than ever. The pillow under his sweaty hair and neck was wet, almost soaked, from his tears and sweat. The house was hot and he didn't bother to get up and turn the heat down when he got home. The brunette lay in bed just sleeping, crying, or thinking. He slept because crying made him tired and he just thought about all the things Gregory said. They were running through his head. Sooner or later after he sat up from a sudden heat flash, he looked at the clock on the bedside wood table. 2:30pm. Perfect. He petted the giraffe's stuffed head before going downstairs and out the door kind of quickly.

It might've taken an hour or hour and a half, but he finally made it to the cemetery just down the street. He looked at the gate closed. CLOSED?! They couldn't be closed! This made him furious and he growled and climbed over the fence, forgetting his shovel at home again. The Frenchman's leg was a bit scratched from the wire on the fence, but he'll survive, or so he kept telling himself. It was rusted so he might get an infection or something like that. The stinging came just a moment later when he started up the hill for section F. That's where their grave markers were at, and that's where it was planned out from a while back (curtsey of Gregory). A low growl and groan came form his throat. He didn't want to stop, but the pain was too strong for him to handle with the rest of his upper body aching. The brunette took the bandana from his pocket and tied up his leg as tight as he could without causing anymore pain, then continued up the hill until he saw the red 'F' on the old broken oak tree. Then he began to search. Each grave looked the same; old and nasty with terrible writing and description. The only grave that stood out was Gregory's. It was nice, clean, clear, and granite. He loved granite. Gregory wanted so much and yet Christophe felt he was only holding him back. The blonde told him otherwise of course, and yet the brunette never believed him on this one thing.

Christophe looked at the small stone. He wished it were bigger. The small one made them look so poor and ridiculous, or so he thought. Tears began to build up in his eyes again. So this was it. This was the last time. The Frenchman sniffled and sat in front of the grave and rested his forehead on the cold stone.

"Eem so sorry, Gregoree."

His words were soft and gentle, like speaking to a child who was afraid of scared of it's own shadow. It was in the same tone spoke to Eric.

"Moi words were cold. I never meant for zem to 'urt vous."

The tiny drops of water trickled down his soft skin and to the solid cold ground.

"Eff I showed vous 'ow much I realle cared…. Zen vous would understand why I was so angry all ze teeme when vous were out alone or I deednt go. Eem so retarded et I weel never see vous again."

Christophe knew by the way he had spoken about God, he'd never get into Heaven even if he gave God all the money in the world and went to confess at church (which he would never do anyway).

"Goodbye, moi amour. I can't 'ide what 'as come….. I 'ave to go et leave vous alone. But always know, Je T'aime."

He knew Gregory couldn't hear him. He knew he'd never see him again.

"Ze fuck am I doeeng? 'E eez dead. 'E can't 'ear m-"

He suddenly felt a cold chill come over his whole body. It was so hot outside, how in hell could he be cold? Chris thought for a moment, and then shook his head. No way. It couldn't be, not Gregory's ghost, wasn't it? No way! Ghosts weren't real. Ghosts and Spirits are fiction and didn't really exist, right? Right… The brunette breathed in warm and sighed and hot air, but no matter what the whole time he was just shivering cold. It felt like arms were hugging him. His tears dripped from his chin as he hugged himself, as if to let Gregory know he knew he was here and knew he was there to feel him and try and at least hug back.

"Goodbye, moi Lullaby"

His words returned to being soft and innocent as he stood up, kissed his hand, placed it on the tombstone, and turned to walk away. As he did this he heard someone call out for him. No…. fucking…. way.

"Bye Christophe. I love you."

This scared him and surprised him all at once, so he quickly turned his whole body and spotted the entity of Gregory. He looked so much like a little china doll; so fragile and delicate. The blonde was waving to him and smiling, his golden hair sleeked back as it always was. Christophe smiled and waved back as the little spirit said it's final words.

'Never Forget Me, Ok?"

Then it disappeared. Christophe nodded and felt the pain in his heart come back as he left the graveyard with a wet face and the bundle of roses from Gregory's grave held closely to his chest.