Sometimes I get bored with my main multi-chapter story, so I spent the day writing this. The most I have ever written as one chapter-thing, I think. Enjoy!
This hadn't been his idea. Not at all.
If Christophe had his way, he wouldn't be going to some crappy diner with Gregory for a double-date with people he didn't even know. Right now, he could be at home, reading his book and having a calming smoke on the porch. He could've done something productive, instead of letting himself get dragged into this by Gregory. The blond assured him that the other couple they were meeting would be one that he'd definitely like. At that, Christophe just rolled his eyes and took in another puff of smoke.
Gregory turned to look at him from the driver's seat and frowned. "You better be nice to them. Pip's a little...sensitive." he said.
Christophe just crossed his arms and scowled.
"It won't be so bad." the well-groomed blond continued. "You're going to like his partner, I guarantee it."
"'Ow do you know?" the brunette asked his partner.
"He's got a lot of the same..opinions." Gregory said, focusing on the road.
Christophe just let out a snort of disgust as they pulled into the diner. It was an old, run-down place, obviously distinguishable from the hotels and modern places around them. The place looked like it had stayed in another era, while everything around it evolved into the present-day.
They got out of Gregory's sleek black BMW, and stepped in.
It was just like any stereotypical diner. The walls were tiled black and white, and a counter stood opposite the doorway, with stale-looking pieces of cake resting underneath glass covers.
"Seence when do you dine at anyzing less zen five-strs, Gregory?" Christophe, staring back at the chubby, bored-looking waitress that was giving them a death glare.
"Can I help you?" she barked.
Gregory nodded politely. "We're here to meet two people. Have they arrived yet?"
The waitress' gaze flickered over to a booth, where two other boys sat. One of them was blond, like Gregory, and wore a rather unflattering golf cap, paired with a tweed jacket and trousers—as Gregory called them—with fancy-looking shoes underneath them. His face was round and had a look of femininity to it, a feeling of innocence that seemed clingy and irritating to Christophe. He could never stand such innocence. Sure, Gregory was a Brit, too—he could tell this boy was, just by the clothes—but he was conceited and didn't care much about anyone or anything, aside from himself. Gregory and Christophe were pretty much the same—aside from the fact that Gregory put some effort into hiding his flaws.
But it wasn't the small, odd-looking boy sitting in the booth that caught Christophe's attention. It was the boy sitting to his right.
He was tall and dressed in a black turtleneck. On his neck was a chain with an Antichrist symbol. His hair was jet-black and, from the angle Christophe was standing at, hid his face from view. He seemed to be smiling. It didn't look like one that was friendly.
How those two boys got together, Christophe didn't know. One thing he did know, though, was that he was more interested now than he was when he walked in.
"Oh, Pip! It's been such a long time!" Gregory smiled , showing off his dazzling toothpaste-commercial incisors. He wrapped his arms around the other Brit in a warm embrace.
"Gregory, it's so great to see you again!" Pip replied in a high-pitched voice. His blue eyes were shining. They sure were happy to see each other.
"Oh, and Damien. My goodness..." Gregory trailed off, at a loss for words. Christophe couldn't blame him.
Damien said nothing, just stuck out a long-fingered hand for Gregory to shake. Gregory did so and took a seat, the worn-down leather squeaking as he sat down.
Christophe cleared his throat.
Gregory immediately realized, and grinned again sheepishly.
"Oh, yes. This is my partner, Christophe."
Pip gave him a plastered-on smile and a "Hello, chap". Christophe could see it, though—the little blond was intimidated by him.
Good, he thought. Let him.
The tallest of the four boys—Damien—again, said nothing. He just kept grinning. Christophe couldn't really picture what his eyes looked like under that ebony-black hair. The Frenchman gave Pip an almost inaudible mumble of "'Ello". He didn't even bother to try and force anything close to a smile. What was the point, anyway?
Gregory coughed. "So, Pip. You've been here before. What's good on the menu?"
Pip scanned over the laminated piece of paper before answering.
"They've got great waffles."
"Eet's two een ze afternoon." Christophe stated flatly.
He heard a soft, low chuckle come from Damien. It sounded dark and evil. Which made Christophe's fascination only grow.
"Ah, yes. Well, they've got excellent burgers and chips, too." Pip replied shyly.
"Sounds good." Gregory responded. Christophe knew he was lying—the only type of meat Gregory ever ate was Filet Mignon.
"What can I getcha?" the waitress cawed at them. Christophe winced as a small drop of spit from her mouth made its way onto his cheek.
"I'll have a burger and chi—fries." Pip corrected himself.
"How do ya want it cooked?"
"Well done, please." he said.
The waitress scribbled it down on a piece of notebook paper. "What about you, pretty boy?" she acknowledged Gregory. He laughed and ordered some type of sandwich with way too many condiments and way too many preferences. This has to be toasted, with a touch of salt, and not too much mayo, and whatnot. Christophe never paid attention. Gregory got him a burger without asking him—the Brit already knew Christophe didn't care one way or the other.
The waitress glanced over at Damien, who had remained silent.
"What about you?"
"A steak." was Damien's answer. He didn't look up at her when he spoke, just kept his eyes fixed on the tabletop.
"How do you want it?"
"Rare." was all he said.
Christophe was surprised at Damien's voice. It was soft and low. At first glance, it seemed innocent enough, but there was an undertone, something wicked and demonic that Christophe didn't think anyone else got. Well, maybe Pip. But Gregory seemed oblivious.
The waitress left, screaming in that language that only low-class restaurant workers know how to understand.
"My, she doesn't seem to like us much, doesn't she?" Pip gave Gregory a startled glance.
"She's probably just crabby all the time." Gregory shrugged. He looked over at Christophe and Damien, who hadn't spoken much for the short span of time in which they had been in the diner. "So, uh, Damien. Tell me what you're up to."
"You know, the usual. Torturing evil spirits for eternity, all that jazz." he said darkly, laughing softly at his own joke.
Gregory squirmed, obviously uncomfortable. "These bloody seats.." he grumbled.
Christophe flickered his gaze over to the blond, smirking.
"Eet's so funny to see you out of your 'abeetat, Gregory." he said. "Welcome to ze real world. Ze seats aren't always top-notch, you know."
Pip giggled.
"Now move you ass, I need a smoke." Christophe shoved Gregory over, causing the blond to fall to the ground, swearing. Everyone laughed, except, of course, Gregory. Christophe just stepped over him as he scrambled to get up and cursed at him. Ignoring Gregory, he stepped outside for a cigarette. As he lit up, he automatically felt himself relax. Smoking had been a habit that Gregory had tried to convince him to break, but it was no use. Besides, so what if Christophe's lungs were black? He was bound to die someday, so what was the point?
He exhaled, watching the smoke fly up into the air with ease and wrap itself around him. It was almost comforting, like it was telling him Don't worry. This day can't get any worse.
"Can I have one?" a soft voice called from behind him.
Christophe turned. It was Damien.
"Uh...sure." he offered the other boy a cancer stick and his lighter. Damien took the cigarette, but didn't take the other object. Instead, he flicked his index finger effortlessly, and a small flame drifted towards him and lit the cigarette.
"What ze 'ell was zat?" Christophe asked.
Damien took a long drag before answering. "Heredity."
Christophe raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"My dad's the devil." he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
Christophe felt his stomach drop. And it wasn't the cigarette. The devil, huh? That meant...
"So you...don't like God?"
Damien took another puff, clenching his teeth. "No. Words cannot describe how I despise him."
Whatever this feeling was in Christophe's gut, it didn't feel good.
"I feel ze same way." he murmured. "I saw your necklace."
"Mmhmm." Damien nodded, then he looked through the window of the diner. Gregory and Pip were laughing about something as they waited for their food. They were so alike, those two. Outgoing, smart, British.
Him and Damien were alike, too. Withdrawn, dark, choosing instead to isolate themselves over joining in with everyone else.
"Look at them. They're perfect." Damien said, looking through the dirty glass. Still, Christophe couldn't see his eyes.
"Zey are, aren't zey?" he asked. "And zen look at us."
"Two schmucks who had the stupidity to go out with two Brits." Damien grinned again.
Christophe really, really wanted to see what color those eyes were.
"You said eet. Gregory can be a 'andful someti—"
Christophe was cut off by what he saw in the window. Gregory had moved to Pip's side of the table and was holding him close, stroking his hair affectionately.
The Frenchman's mouth went dry.
So when Gregory tilted Pip's head back and gave him a kiss on the lips, he had to try his best not to shove his fist through the window. It took all of his self control not to barge in and curse as loud as he could in French.
Christophe didn't notice that he was shaking with fury until a hand rested on his shoulder. The brunette took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled deeply, trying his best to calm himself down.
He had thought Gregory was the most selfish, annoying, greedy, posh, and picky person in the whole world. But he had loved him, despite all that.
The whole mood, however, was lightened when Damien decided that his bangs were getting in the way. He moved his head to the side, swiftly flicking them out of the way.
And then Christophe saw his eyes.
They were a deep crimson color, with flecks of bright red circling the pupil. They had a captivating, hypnotizing quality. As Christophe looked into them, he forgot completely about Gregory. He didn't know if it was some sort of magic spell, because of Damien's Satanic powers, but he didn't care. He could look into those eyes for days, weeks, years—they would always interest him.
"Well, that was an...interesting change of events." Damien said, his dull voice not matching the maroon orbs that were swirling with emotions.
Needless to say, the two left, without so much as a "goodbye" to their ex-partners.
xXx
Years later, Christophe paced back and forth restlessly in the alleyway. He was expecting his teammate to meet him here at midnight on the dot for an assassination.
The alley was dark and musty, littered with broken beer bottles and cigarettes that had long been put out. There were puddles of murky water on the floor, and the dim light of the streetlamp flickered, not making finding his colleague very easy.
Christophe leaned against the brick wall, sighing in annoyance and lighting another cigarette. On the outside, the young man looked calm, but on the inside, he was feeling uneasy. Who wouldn't feel that way in a dark alley in the middle of the night?
Suddenly, a shape appeared in the shadows of the weak light. It was a person—Christophe was sure. But who?
The silhouette drew nearer, at a slow and steady pace. The brunette's hand dropped the cigarette and flew to his left pocket, where he kept his knife at all times, just in case of an emergency.
The dark, unknown person stepped behind the dumpster that was in the center of the alley. The large object concealed him well. The Frenchman knew, at that moment, that this person wasn't his partner at all. If he was, why would he hide? Christophe hesitantly inched forward, his breath coming out in small gasps. He could feel his heart hammering in his ears, and his adrenaline increasing tenfold.
After a minute or so, the figure still hadn't moved. Christophe had reached the other side of the dumpster. He silently pressed his ear to the metal, jolting as he did so, thanks to the icy-cold bite of the November air.
Nothing. He heard nothing.
Slowly, he made his way across the side, wincing at every step. Every tiny sound the man made now could—and probably would—be his last.
After taking a deep breath, he slowly but steadily leant forward, to finally find his taget's face.
Before Christophe could get a clear view of the other person, he was knocked to the ground by a seemingly invisible force. He gasped for air, but then realized that there was none around him. After realizing that his eyes were squeezed shut, he opened them.
Hovering over him was a blond in a shady-looking black trenchcoat. His face was still hidden in the shadows, however.
He could feel the man's nails digging into the flesh of his wrists. Christophe struggled with all of his might, kicking and yelling out profanities, trying his best to get to his knife. But it was no use. As soon as he heard a familiar click, he knew there was no hope.
And then the man fired.
Not in the head, no. In the stomach.
"I want to see the light fade from your eyes." the shooter hissed in a soft accent.
Christophe's face contorted into a grimace of sudden agony as he clutched his stomach. The fire that had set his insides ablaze was spreading quickly to his limbs and into his chest. He coughed harshly, trying to put it out. But it didn't help. Soon, he knew, that that same fire would make its way to his mind and completely take him over.
So this is death, he thought. This is how it ends. With a bullet in the stomach, and in an alley at midnight. How cliché. But I suppose it's better than dying of lung cancer...then it wouldn't be intenti
Before the Frenchman could finish his thought, the ground beneath him caved and he felt himself fall. The last thing the young man felt consciously was the intense scent of minty toothpaste.
xXx
As quickly as he had died, the boy woke up in a damp, dark place, as if rising from a bad dream.
Woozy, Christophe looked around him. The damp ground underneath him, paired with the coal-colored stalagtites that hung dangerously from the high ceiling proved to him that he was in a cave of some sort. The torches that were hooked into the wall cast a flickering orange shadow on the opposite wall. In looking at this, Christophe realized that he was not alone. Lying near him was another man, who seemed to be waking up at the same time. Christophe stared at the orange-clad back, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle.
"Oh, shit! Not again!" the man groaned suddenly, sitting up. He looked around for a moment before resting his gaze on Christophe.
As Christophe looked back at the man, he realized that he wasn't a man at all, but a young adult of his age. He had shaggy blond hair that fell in a mop-like way over his ocean-blue eyes, and what seemed to be a permanent look of boredom on his face. It brightened, though, when he saw Christophe.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Christophe was surprised at himself when he realized that his vocal cords were still intact.
"Where ze fuck am I?" he looked around.
"Hell." said the boy simply.
"Zis ees a dream, oui?" Christophe scoffed. "Zis cannot be real."
The blond boy shook his head. "Nope, it's real. Now, answer my question. Who the hell are you?"
"Christophe." said boy replied curtly.
"I'm Kenny." he said. "How did you die?"
"Eesn't eet obvious?" he asked, gesturing at his stomach. Kenny shook his head. Christophe looked down at his chest. There was no blood, no bullet, nothing. It was as if he hadn't even died.
"I got shot." he said.
"Lucky." Kenny sighed. "I can't even remember today's. Or this morning's."
Christophe raised an eyebrow.
"This is part of my daily routine." Kenny explained. "I die and go to hell for a while, hang out with Damien, maybe, then get sent back home by some weird force against my will. Nobody ever joins me here, though. Damien's fun, but all that talk about God can be really, really boring."
Christophe's mouth opened slightly. Damien? Where had he heard that name before? He racked his brain for the answer—the name sounded extremely familiar.
Then it came to him. Damien was the boy he had met a few years ago on that date that had gone so wrong.
"I know 'im."
"Damien?"
"Yes." Christophe said, running a hand through his unkempt brown hair.
"From where?"
"'E and I met at a sheety diner. We were dragged over by ze two Breeteesh ones." he explained.
Kenny nodded. "Interesting." he said. "Damien almost never goes up to Earth anymore."
"Eet was years ago."
"What was the date of the day you met?"
"Ze eighth of August, zree years ago."
Kenny's eyes widened? "Seriously? I'll be damned..."
"What?"
"That was the day where he decided never to return to Earth again."
"Deed 'e tell you why?"
Kenny rolled his eyes. "No. He never tells me anything, even though we're best friends. So secretive, that guy."
"Who's secretive?" a third, familiar voice echoed from the other side of the cave.
Christophe knew that voice anywhere.
"Oh, hey, Damien." Kenny grinned, standing up and waving at the other boy.
Damien walked towards them and kneeled down, so he was eye level with Christophe. The Frenchman was still on the ground. As Damien approached, he pushed himself up to sit on his knees.
"Who are you?" he asked sharply.
"Christophe." the brunette said for the second time in only a few moments.
"Do you know why you're here?" he looked into Christophe's eyes with his own.
He hadn't felt the same sensation in years. That feeling he got three years ago from looking into Damien's eyes, the hypnotized, odd feeling—he hadn't experienced it since that fateful August day.
"I got shot?" Christophe tried to answer.
"Partly." Damien said. "Also, I was looking for you?"
"What?"
"I've been waiting for you, Christophe." Damien said, his lips curling into a closed-mouth smile as he used one hand to trace Christophe's jawline.
"What ze 'ell are you talkeeng about?"
Damien's smile just grew, as if he knew something Christophe didn't.
"I was going to bring you here myself." he murmured. "But then you just...dropped in. It took you long enough, didn't it?"
His soft voice was making Christophe's head spin. Kenny, who was grinning like an idiot, pumped his fist in victory.
"I knew it!" he cheered. "I knew this was the guy you were talking about! He fit the description perfectly!"
At this point, Christophe was beyond confused.
"Three years." Damien mused. "It took you three years. Well, that's alright. I've got you now, and that's all I care about."
Christophe hated being confused. And he was getting very much so. So, in a movement of complete frustration, he pounced on Damien and pinned him down against the damp ground.
"Get to ze point, or so help me I'll—" Christophe was cut off.
"Christophe, I've been looking for you because...because I love you."
At that, Christophe's iron grip on Damien's wrists softened to a rubber grip. Then he regained his gusto.
"We only met once. I don't even know you." he growled.
"Maybe you don't, but I know you." Damien whispered. "I've been watching you from down here for a long time, waiting for you to just die already. I promised myself I'd never go back to Earth—I couldn't bear it, when Pip was still in it. So I had to wait here until you met your demise. I'm glad you did."
Christophe didn't really know how to respond to that. He didn't know if he should take that as a compliment or an insult.
"Now." Damien said. "Would you mind letting me go?"
Christophe obliged, glaring at the black-haired demon opposite from him. But what he received in return wasn't hatred. It was a look of longing and hunger.
Kenny, while all this was occurring, was laughing his ass off. Then, he began to fade away, and, before he completely disappeared, he let out a shout of "USE PROTECTION, GUYS!"
Christophe gave him a bras d'onneur* and returned his focus to Damien. When the black haired boy licked his lips, it was almost too much for Christophe to handle. His tongue was forked and snake-like.
He really was a demon, wasn't he?
An evil, Satan-worshipping, God-hating demon. And a handsome one, at that.
Perfect.
Damien said nothing, just stroked the French boy's cheek, almost fascinated.
"You have a perfect bone structure." he murmured after a long silence.
"Zat's funny, because zey 'ave been broken many, many times." Christophe muttered.
"Exactly." Damien smiled, and, in one smooth motion, closed the distance between them. Their kiss was a soft one at first, innocent enough, if you didn't take into account that one was an assassin and the other was the spawn of Satan, but then, as the want—no, the need—between the two boys grew heavier, so did their movements.
Damien's teeth were extremely sharp, Christophe discovered as they clashed with his own, which had yellowed from his seemingly incessant smoking. The soft, pale skin that was pressed against his had a milky quality to it, which only added to the perfection of the moment. Damien's forked tongue pressed into his own, and Christophe could feel himself melting into the Antichrist that he was pressed against.
Damien broke away first, leaning forward to kiss the tanned skin on Christophe's neck.
"Don't keep me waiting any more." Damien mumbled in Christophe's ear. "I'm not very patient."
"'Ow can I?" Christophe replied. "I'm dead now. I'm going to be 'ere forever."
"Only if you want to." Damien said quietly as he scattered kisses to Christophe's jaw. Said boy used all of his control to not throw back his head and make a noise of contentment.
"Nah." Christophe said. "Ze earth ees not a good place for me. I prefer it 'ere."
"Good." Damien purred. "I wasn't planning on letting you go that easily."
"I just 'ave one leetle question."
"Shoot." said the Antichrist, as he took Christophe's calloused hand in his own.
"'Ho keeled me een ze alley?"
Damien smirked. "Do you really want to know?"
Christophe nodded.
Damien withdrew from the brunette's neck and whispered the killer's name against his lips, along with many sweet nothings. The cause of death was unimportant—the pair had been reunited, and that's all that mattered.
And to think this all began at a diner.
* - Bras d'onneur is a French thing (It translates to "Arm of Honor.") It's basically the equivalent of flipping someone off, I'm pretty sure.
How did you guys like it? I never really expected it to turn up how it did in the end. At first, I just thought of a cute little idea that "Oh, what if Pip, Damien, Ze Mole, and Gregory went on a double date, and fell for the WRONG people?"
And then it morphed into this murder/hell thing :P
As for not telling you exactly who the killer is, I did that intentionally. Think about it-blond, trench coat, toothpaste. Hmm, who could that be?
Also, I have this flaw in my writing where I always forget to describe the setting of where characters are standing. I like to focus more on the characters. So, I'd really appreciate some reviews telling me how I did on describing the diner, the alley, and Hell. I would be really, really happy if you guys did that.
This was so fun to write. But, now it's back to the good ol' world in which stripes and belts dominate. See you there! :3