This is where my Christophe and Gregory oneshots shall live, since I come up with far too many ideas for them. Slash or no slash, depending on my mood.

Christophe watches as Gregory writes Viva La Resistance on the bathroom wall in his own blood.

"Isn't zis going a bit too far?' He can't help but ask.
"Shut up, Mole."

Gregory has a cause.

He's been a civil-rights activist since he was seven years old and he found Christophe filled with bullets and dying in the gutter.

He was the one to help Christophe locate his mother.
He was the one to help Christophe burn down that godforsaken lab that gave him his supernatural abilities with his shovel.

And as he watched the place go up in flames, he realized it was not enough.

All around the world, people were suffering. Children forced to work in factories, sell themselves on the streets. The Canada-American war briefly tempered his thirst for justice.

He managed to keep his head in his studies for a few more years.

Then he learned about the neo-nazis.

They're spreading North, and the general population being what it is, people have started to pick up their ideals.

There are lynchings in South Carolina. A woman raped and murdered in Tennessee for kissing her girlfriend in public. Then, finally, the last straw, a group of foreigners ambushed and beaten late at night.
He burned with rage when he heard. How dare they taint his home with such . . . filth?
Christophe went along with his plans willingly. They organized rallies, signed petitions - Gregory even talked to the governor. Little is being done against it. And so they reformed the resistance.
At first it was just kids from their home town. Then it grew and overflowed with more and more people adding their names to the list, striping red paint over their cheeks, that it became The Resistance.

The Neo-Nazis were aware of them. They made public statements against them.

But the two groups had not confronted until today.

This morning they both set up on their stages on opposite ends of Denver. An atheist spoke about freedom of speech. A skinhead talked about 'fucking up the fags and heathens.'

Gregory wanted direct negotiation. He wanted to talk with their leader, Michael Penn, about moving his base of operations out of Colorado.
He did not expect the riot. The two groups met at the city center of town and fought with fists and broken beer bottles and knives. The death tolls rose by the second. The police broke the two groups up and ordered the arrest of the leaders. Christophe grabbed Gregory, who was in the middle of punching the shit out of an ignorant hick, and dragged him away.

That's why they're here in the bathroom.

"We should go 'ome," Christophe says. "Get out of 'ere before anyone knows we are involved."
Gregory is reapplying the red streaks on his cheeks with the blood from the wound on his arm. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Right. I'm ridiculous." Christophe is covered in mud from the brawl, splattered with other people's blood. "Right."
Gregory ignores him, trying to get the streaks just the perfect thickness. He looks rebellious now, grim and determined. Perfect. He wets his hand under the tap and slicks back his hair.
"You seriously aren't zinking of speaking tonight, are you-"
"I'm signed up to speak at nine tonight on the center stage," Gregory says, "and I intend to do so."
"Ze police 'ave probably shut us down."
"They cannot control my freedom of speech."
"You kind of started a riot."
"Must you be so contrary, Mole?" He readjusts his collar.
Christophe shakes his head. "We're royally fucked, you know zat?"
"I know that," he says.

"Zen why do you do zis?"
"How can I not?" He clenches the sides of the sink and looks at the faucet. "How do you expect me to stand by and just let people suffer when there's something I can do about it?"
Christophe stands behind him and places a bloodstained hand on his already-grimy orange shirt.
"You don't care about ze people," he says. "You just want a cause to fight for."
"Shut the fuck up, mole."

He knows its true. Christophe knows everything about him.
Christophe shakes his head and starts for the door. "I need a fucking cigarette," he mumbles.
"So what?" Gregory almost screams after him. "So what if I fight because I need to and not because I want to? So what if it's part of who I am to want to help people? Why should this need make what I do any less important?"
Christophe stops and looks back at him.
"Eet fucks wiz your judgement," he says. "I don't zink you can manage it on zat stage. I zink you'll yell and scream and get pissed off because zings 'aven't been so picture perfect so far."

Gregory runs his fingers through his hair. "Trust me," he says. "I am perfectly calm."

They're on stage, the two of them, the other senior members who managed to avoid jail around them. There's Stan, there's Kyle, there's Wendy, bruised up but grinning.
"We're going to jail for this," Kyle says, quite cheerfully. "Probably hell, too." He and Stan slap high-fives.
The crowd is almost entirely full of neo-nazis. The Resistance members shy away to clumps on the edge. The tension murmurs through the people below, shaven heads staring up at him. Police officers are already running down the streets beyond. Gregory doesn't have a lot of time to speak.
Before he can even say a word, Michael Penn steps on stage.
He's a tall man, with tattoos all over his neck and bare shoulders, white, brown hair, scarred, and pissed off. He jabs an accusing finger at Gregory.
"This country was founded for the rights of American citizens!" he shouts. "Not for fucking Brits like you to fuck around in. You have no right to be here. What is this, some sort of game for you? Fucking around with our god-given duty to eliminate the fags and heathens and fuckers who populate our beautiful country? You have no right to screw with us any longer, British elitist scum!"
Gregory raises his eyebrows and affords a sideways glance at Christophe. It's near night, but the stadium lights cast bizarre shadows on their faces. He knows everyone in the crowd can see them from this elevated spot on the stage.

"What should we do?" he murmurs.

"Piss 'im off even more," Christophe says, and spits out his cigarette and grabs Gregory for a long kiss. They mash lips for several seconds, and when Christophe pulls back he mutters, "We are so fucked."

Then the crowd ignites into beautiful fucking chaos.