His apartment smelled like stale cigarettes. Not the kind of semi-sweet smoke that he could breathe through his lips and enjoy as the nicoteine rush soothed his brain; but the aftermath. That was always the worst part. He reached for his lighter, a plain silver, and flicked it open effortlessly. A new smoke to sweeten the air while he searched for food.
Christophe dragged his feet across the floor, scratching at the skin of his back. He could never seem to reach the spot that itched the most… it was always something. God was a miserable asshole who lived only to inconvenience. Really, it wouldn't have killed him to give people a few extra inches on their wingspan in order to avoid such inconvenience. He scowled, looking down at himself in his state of undress. He never much cared for sleeping in clothes, or wearing clothes at all. Boxers were his wardrobe 24/5. Day six he would throw on jeans in order to venture outside of the house to buy food. Day seven he typically had a job to do, which required clothing and then some. He fucking hated the way bulletproof vests weighed him down… but he also knew that bullets hurt like a bitch.
He made a noise of contemplation, pulling open and staring down into the refrigerator. The eggs were bad. The vegetables were bad. There was a Tupperware filled with something- it looked like soup, but Christophe couldn't recall making something of the sort. It might've been solid at some point? He let it close with a thump, and let out a long drag of white smoke. There was pasta in the cabinet, but no sauce. He'd have to go out again today… fuck.
His breath momentarily caught in his throat as he eyed a small white envelope. He remained like this for some time, his cigarette ashing on the floor as he remained unblinking; unmoving. He didn't receive mail. Hell, even online he had two different ghost tracers covering his IP address. Nobody knew who, or where Christophe was… and living in the middle of nowhere didn't typically garner any junkmail. He took a few shallow steps backwards, pursing his lips as if his breathing might give him away. It was only partially relieving as the cold steel of his handgun slid between his fingers, and even the sound of the safety clicking back was nearly deafening amidst the silence as he edged closer to the door.
He crept forward, not daring to blink as he approached. He slid a dirt-clodden nail beneath the strip of duct tape covering the seeing hole in the door, and carefully, quietly peeled it back. He saw in a video once that a man had his eye stabbed out by looking directly into a door-peephole. It's a guaranteed hit- now he always stood a few inches back to be sure. He checked it for ten seconds, fifteen, and then lowered his weapon. There was nobody there. He kept the firearm in hand in case anyone cared (and dared) to linger about, but a check of all windows confirmed that they were most likely long gone. Fuck- adrenaline quickly melted into anger as he narrowed his brow. He picked the envelope up lightly, carefully, as if it may fall to dust if he gripped it too tightly. His fears were confirmed when he turned the paper over, his mouth forming into a tight snarl and revealing just a sliver of teeth. On the envelope's front in thin, meticulous cursive writing was one word; one name which he'd come to know better than his real one: "Mole".
His hands trembled. Shit. This was bad- somebody knew where he was and that means he'd have to move again. He actually enjoyed this place. It was quiet and he didn't have to constantly be around people, and the only animals he had to deal with were deer and the occasional badger… He moved to drag off of his cigarette, and cursed to find it burnt down to its filter. Crushed it went, down into a graveyard of others amidst a glassy tray. He turned the envelope over in his hands, sliding his thumb beneath the sticky seal with a hesitantly slow precision. He really didn't want to see what was written on the inside.
The paper came out easily, and written on it was the same handwriting as on the envelope. The writing was nearly illegibly neat, with its swoops and curls and dots in all the right places. Cursive writing assholes- it was so unnecessarily pretentious. He read the letter over, and again, and then again once more. It read:
"Dearest Mole, (he winced at the term of endearment)
I know that this letter will find you well, and I apologize for being unable to deliver it myself. Fear not, for it was someone who I trust greatly that has travelled to your address. I'm sure that It's still the case that you are not the most welcoming of visitors, so I'm writing this in advance to give you some time to mull things over.
To keep it brief, I require your assistance. I am prepared to offer you a substantial payment in exchange for your services, as it is of upmost importance that it is carried out correctly. You are the only one who I feel I can trust in this matter.
Meet me in the square of Richmont and Pence at 20:00. I look forward to further correspondence."
And beneath all this in lieu of a signature, and in even curlier handwriting than Christophe had thought possible, were the words:
"Viva la Resistance."
"That fucking asshole!" Christophe seethed, his fingers crinkling into the paper nearly hard enough to tear. Of course it was the prissy little British boy, with his girlish handwriting and fancy language. Viva la Resistance, eh? It'd been awhile since he'd heard the phrase. It wasn't exactly the best memory to revisit. Being killed and somehow brought back through the stupid fucking magic of South Park is sure to do that to a guy. Throughout the whole ordeal, he'd only learned one thing: trust no one. Not idiots who only join revolution because they want to fuck some stupid girl, not fat pricks who can't follow the simplest of instructions, and especially not British pretty-boys who don't even come to rescue you as you lay bleeding out in the dirt. All in the midst of a war you didn't care about. No- Christophe was done playing with others.
He threw the paper to the ground, fishing in his pocket for a new cigarette. A loud, mangled swear left his lips as his fingers brushed against nothing but the sides of an empty box. Sign #2 that he needed to go out today. Stupid cigarettes. Stupid British piece of shit. He hadn't seen Gregory in years, after the asshole ditched to go to some fucking elitist college in America. He had no idea how the blonde had managed to track him down… but he was sure as hell going to find out.
Richmond and Pence was a two-hour train ride away, plus the 30-minute hike he had to take to get out of the boondocks. Not that he was going to say yes to such a bullshit request anyways- but Gregory needed to know to stay the fuck out of his business. Somebody knew his address now. Hell, two people. Leave it to that bastard to fuck up everything Christophe had set himself up with. Just like old times, right?
He slid into a pair of tan cargos that he thought were decently clean, and a plain black T-Shirt. Atop that he set himself into a dark green hoodie, where could occupy his hands when he wasn't smoking. He sneered down at the discarded letter, its contents memorized. Gregory would probably show up in a fucking business suit. Somehow the blonde could look and act like an asshole all he wanted, and people still followed him like he was some martyr. He took class president, valedictorian, and prom king. Fucking prince charming bullshit. High school was nearly six years gone and Christophe still couldn't get enough space. He frowned, stuffing his wallet into his pocket. Fuck- he really had to do this... Gregory had better be ready to have that perfect grin punched right off his face.
The train was loud, and strangers kept to themselves. Not many people were looking to strike up conversation with a man whose hood was pulled all the way over his face. Only an array of brown locks hung down nearly to his eyes, with a scowl that would make even a punk wary. Christophe crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the seat, and thought about a lot of things that he hated. High school. Girls. Boys. Gregory. People who can't mind their own fucking business. The train ride that was too long. It was able to keep himself more or less occupied in the time it took to arrive.
The square was just as unpleasant as he'd remembered it to be. He squinted his eyes against the sun, cursing the asshat who supposedly created it. "Fucking Cartman" he breathed, then furrowed his brow. Wait, what? It sounded unnatural rolling off his tongue. A horrifically loud sound screamed through the air, seemingly right into his eardrum. His hands gripped desperately at his head for some kind of respite, which did not come as he'd hoped. It felt as if someone were groping around in his brain with fingers of needles. "Merde, ce qui au nom… de ERIC…est cette?!" ((Fuck, what in… ERIC'S name… is this?!)) he growled- nearly screaming through clenched teeth. Eric? Who the fuck was Eric? He crumpled to his knees, the stinging accompanied by an ear-piercing ringing that nobody around seemed to notice.
A woman in a light yellow blouse ran to Christophe's side, shouting at him over his wails. "Watch his heathenistic mouth!" She screeched, taking a whack at him with her purse. Another man quickly came to her side and joined in, and soon there were multiple people barking at him in addition to the noise as they yelled for a guard. "How dare you speak His name with your filthy tongue, you street vermin!"
Christophe was only half aware as a firm hand yanked his around his shoulder, begging apologies and hurriedly dragging him away from the scene.
"Come on, you need to walk." The man stated firmly. Christophe did as he was told the best he could, the anguish in his head not allowing for any thoughts otherwise. He could vaguely recognize the ground as cobblestones now through his blurred vision, and he took a deep breath in to try and push down the feeling of needing to vomit rising in his stomach. Each breath in was a hassle, each breath out was his gut begging for relief- not that he'd eaten anything of substance anyways.
"What's happening?" He managed, hardly able to lift his head. "What in Eric's… FUCK-"
The man let Christophe slump to the ground against the wall of the darker alley, just barely away from the business of town. His eyes darted back and forth, clearly aware that this wasn't the best of places to be lying low. "Don't say his name. You're drawing too much attention to yourself." He brushed at the sleeves of his orange button down shirt, which was neatly tucked into a pair of black slacks. He folded his arms together, and just barely bent over in order to speak more quietly. "Are you alright?"
Christophe blinked his eyes, the screeching in his head dulling to a low grinding headache as he breathed. He didn't need to look up at the man who had brought him here to know who it was- he'd recognize that accent anywhere, no matter how many years it'd been. The hero, the savior, and the same asshole that he had remembered him to be. "Fucking peachy."
Gregory didn't falter. He met Christophe's gaze and offered his hand, his expression not quite as carefree as Christophe had remembered it. "We need to go somewhere else. It's not safe here."
Christophe narrowed his brow. Fucking wonderful- and he still didn't have his cigarettes. He disregarded Gregory's hand, pushing himself up using his hands on his knees. He wobbled just a moment before catching his balance, but not before Gregory noticed.
"It's normal. It happened to me also."
"What are you talking about?"
Gregory shook his head. "Not here."
That was all the conversation that Christophe could weasel out of the blonde, which was astounding. He had remembered Gregory to be the type to ramble on, and make speeches, and generally put him to sleep. Now the man was being secretive and skeptical- which be a nice change of pace if it weren't for the horrid mixture of paranoia and physical illness in his gut.
Gregory was not sympathetic with his pace as Christophe followed, tripping over his own feet while his headache still raged. "This is not fair connard, you write me some bullshit letter and then something fucking snaps in my 'ead and now you lead me around in the like some secret agent duckling?!" He scowled as the blonde turned to him, a few bangs hanging down from his otherwise pristine combed back hair. "Oh, I'm sorry, is me not blindly following you not a part of ze fucking plan? Eric DAMN IT you know me better than this mon deau." His voice was escalating, and he felt Gregory shove his back against the bricks of the wall.
"Will you shut up before you get us both hung for heresy you fucking cretin?!"
Okay, so Gregory was swearing. Mole saw Gregory's fists tighten, as did his in response. He opened his mouth with the start of a snarl, before a hand over it quickly stopped him.
"Who's there?" A not-so-faraway man's voice hollered. "What are you doing there?" The man was wearing a formal blue and red uniform, with short strings lining the shoulder pads. A blue cap adorned his head with a yellow tassel, and he stood with the straightness of a man who had a stick shoved straight up his ass. Christophe might've laughed at the ridiculousness of his attire if it weren't for the large gun the man held in his gloved hands.
Gregory's gaze flashed to the man and quickly back to Christophe, before taking a breath in and pressing his body flat against Christophe's. The hand on his mouth shifted to entangle itself into messy brown locks, and Gregory's lips pressed against the skin of Christophe's ear. "Don't move." He commanded in a husky whisper which made Christophe shiver down to his toes.
Christophe could feel every individual muscle in his body tensing up against the particularly invasive heat. "The fuck? Greg-" he hissed, his shove only resulting in the blonde pressing him harder against the wall.
"Shut up." He hissed, his breath hot and leaving no room for argument. His fingers lightly caressed Mole's scalp before tightening their grip and yanking harshly on the brown locks.
"fffUCK-" Mole groaned, with much less bite than he'd intended when he opened his mouth.
The stranger took a few steps closer, approaching with a gun at the ready. He frowned with disgust when he realized what it was that he had walked in on, meeting eyes with the brunette as he hissed at Gregory's roughness. In the chaos of it all, he could see the man shouldering his gun, and kicking up dirt as he about-faced with a huff. "Ugh. Get a room, fucking faggots. Can't believe the bullshit I have to deal with on duty, honestly."
Christophe could feel Gregory's heated breath against his skin as they waited, silently frozen against each other until the man was further out of sight. He could feel his own heart beating quickly against Gregory's, unsure of whether it was because he just had a gun pulled on him, or because he was pressed flush against prince fucking blondie. He could swear that he felt those fingers caress the spot that they'd hurt for just a moment, no longer than a second or two, before retreating back to the blonde's side.
"We need to keep moving." Gregory said.
"That guy had a fucking gun." Christophe whispered, now really regretting not bringing his own. "and what the fuck is this- get off!" He growled, shoving the other man back.
Gregory coughed, his own face tinged scarlet as his defenses raised. "Excuse you, but what else do people do in dark alleys, aside from planning anarchy or having a rendezvous?! I assumed that the GOP would prefer one over the other."
"Ahh right of course, mon amie! I often go on missions where I'm forced to shove my tongue in someone's ear. I understand entirely." Okay, so it hadn't gotten that far… but it was far enough that Mole still had a blush up to his ears; and he knew he had nowhere to hide.
"I just saved your life, how about 'Thank you Gregory, that was marvelous' or 'Good show Gregory, we really fooled him'? How about how I just saved you from the bloody GOP twice in ten minutes, and you're the one who can't move past thinking with your dick?!"
A retort didn't come right away, because Gregory was right as he usually was- even using his words from who knows how long ago against him. Typical, overachieving asshole. He let out a small 'Nngh', and scowled. Mole could see Gregory looking both ways again, scanning for others of the same sort. The men in the blue and red uniforms; Mole had never seen them before. It wasn't like he'd been away from this city for terribly long either, not for such drastic changes to occur. "…who are the GOP?" He muttered, in an attempt to change the subject.
The blonde furrowed his brow, his annoyed blue eyes falling to a look of genuine confusion. "Guards of piety, of course."
"Never heard of them."
Gregory paused, pursing his lips while he seemed to ponder something deeply while mumbling. "How long… have you been unaffected by the shift?"
Christophe scowled with frustration. He knew he was a bit disconnected from society, but not to the point where people are pointing guns at random citizens. He pushed himself off the wall, straightening himself despite the protests of his head. "Just get us somewhere quiet so you can tell me what the fuck is going on."
Gregory loosened up, smiling gently. "That's more or less been the goal for the last hour so… yes, gladly. My house isn't terribly far."
Any distance was fine, so long as he could get a fucking Tylenol and a cigarette. God was probably laughing from his throne of clouds, mocking him from the heavens…. The bastard. God can suck a fat one; and so can this British faggot piece of shit who was still walking like the ground should be grateful for his footsteps.
…and to think Mole might've almost forgotten how much he hated to leave the house.