Here it is! The first chapter of Francium. Just let me say, Christien is like my favorite pairing, but I never see it, like anywhere. Therefore, I am going to write a kickass story for you guys! CONFIDENCE! :3
Enjoy!
-M
Christophe hated God.
He hated the fact that God was the supposed "lord" of everyone and everything. He didn't like being told what to do by some being that probably didn't even exist. He hated the idea of being a pawn for some higher being to play with. He hated the idea that people worshiped a guy who didn't even do anything to help anybody. He was a cruel man, and when he did something bad to the Earth, people just waved it away, saying that God was angry that they weren't liking him enough. Christophe got angry when people told him not to say the Lord's name in vain. He would rant about how God deserved it, for doing all the bad things to people, and how blind people were to just forgive God for everything.
Christophe wasn't blind, though. He knew what God was up to, and he wasn't going to fall for His shit. He would say anything, just to piss off the almighty ruler, or whatever.
Though God wasn't the only thing Christophe hated. He hated anything that was unreal, fake—anything that wasn't genuine. He disliked most music—realizing how it was edited so much that what really came from the artist's soul was bullshit. He hated girls, too— explaining why he was gay-how they hid their faces with makeup, how they giggled and gossiped about things he didn't care about. They, too, were fake, never exposing their true selves, for fear of being alone or isolated. Christophe scoffed at their monophobia. To him, being alone wasn't just something that happened from time to time—it was a lifestyle.
But overall, over everything else—Christophe hated Damien Thorn. With a passion. Many people assumed that a French Atheist and the son of Satan would get along—but they didn't. At all. Damien was cruel, malicious in a way that Christophe couldn't describe without ranting. Christophe shut everyone out—he hadn't loved anything in his entire life—but he wasn't bloodthirsty like Damien was. The red-eyed Antichrist had just an aura around him that radiated something that Christophe could only place as evil.
Christophe thought about as he walked into school, reluctantly putting out his cigarette. The unimportant paper object dropped to the ground and gave a final attempt at burning, but it was suffocated quickly by the snow around it. Christophe watched the fire in it die, then stalked into the school, muttering French profanities under his breath.
He got to his locker and opened it, pulling the jammed thing forcefully, until it finally gave up and opened. Disorganized binders filled to the brim with notes toppled over one another like dominoes, falling all around him. Christophe swore loudly as he picked the damned things up. Everything the brown-haired boy did, he did it against the way God would tell him to. So he picked up the items, cursing the Big Man for putting this upon him.
Christophe got what he needed for his first class—Chemistry. He despised that class. All of the numbers and symbols made no sense, they got all jumbled in his brain like alphabet-and-number soup. What was more, he had the fucking class with Damien, or the Dark Prince, as he insisted people call him. Christophe, though, referred to him as the Royal Pain In The Ass.
The royal asshole was sitting in his chair already when Christophe walked in. The Antichrist was smirking cheekily as the French boy took his seat reluctantly.
"Bonjour, connard." he murmured in his soft, low voice. Damien had taken the liberty of learning French, just to annoy Christophe. Well, partly. Secretly, Damien wished that Christophe would be impressed by his smooth, un-accented French. But he hid away those thoughts. They were locked in a place in his mind where no one could find them. Christophe knew Damien was just trying to get a rise out of him, so all he did was give the Antichrist a glare.
"What is it, princesse? Shy today?" Damien asked, his gentle tone of voice not matching his scathing words. He knew Christophe hated being called "princesse."
Damien's smirk grew as Christophe's dark hazel eyes flashed. He loved it when Christophe got angry. It was a reassurance, in a way—it made him aware that Christophe cared about him. Maybe not in the way he wanted to, but he cared nonetheless.
"Va te faire foutre, batard." Christophe replies. He hadn't put much thought into the response—he was feeling particularly cynical today.
"What's wrong, 'Tophe? You seem a bit sad today." Damien said in a tone of mock sweetness. Behind the mask of softness, his voice was razor sharp, cutting Christophe to the bone. Damien walked over to Christophe, invading the Frenchman's much-needed personal space.
"Get away from me, Damien. I don't feel like dealing wiz you today." Christophe muttered, his voice soft and weak. Damien sometimes wondered if he should. That is, leave Christophe alone. He knew that abusing the Frenchman wasn't right, but it was the only thing he knew how to do. He was from Hell, and in Hell, all everyone knew was chaos and peril. But Christophe seemed significantly different today. His green eyes—that always captivated Damien—were sunken and lifeless, making have a dead-looking face. Even then, Damien wanted to caress the Frenchman's cheek, feel Christophe's tanned skin beneath his own—
No. He refused to think about it.
Damien did have feelings toward Christophe, but Christophe had nothing in his soul but hate for the Antichrist. Christophe hated Damien more than anything in the world.
"I just wanted to let you know, Christophe..." Damien murmured in Christophe's ear. Christophe flinched. Damien rarely said his full name before. "...That you are nothing. You are a miserable, useless nothing that no one cares about. Nobody cares if you live or die. Nobody, except me." Damien whispered.
Realizing what the black-haired boy just said, both of them tensed. Christophe was stiff and frozen, not moving a muscle.
"I like having you here." Damien continued. "Because I can torture you. That's all you're good for. You're my torture toy."
Damien felt guilt sweep over him, a feeling of remorse that was impossible to hide. All that was coming out of his mouth was lies. Ugly, disgusting lies that he would never say to Christophe if the brunette only understood...
Damien's thoughts were interrupted by Christophe's fist slamming into the left side of his face. He felt liquid ooze out of his nose, knowing that it was blood. He couldn't help but let a sick smirk crawl over his face. He had fueled Christophe's fire enough to start a fight. He loved fighting the French boy. It meant contact, and contact was what Damien longed for.
Instinctively, Christophe grabbed Damien's collar and pinned him against the wall. This happened every single day. They both knew the routine—Damien would beat Christophe down with words, and the Frenchman would retaliate with his fists. Yes—Christophe was less a man of words and more one of action, while Damien thrived off of stabbing the other boy verbally. Christophe had to admit—it hurt. The words had taken a toll on him for the past few years. He would never admit it, but sometimes he would cry a bit into his pillow before he drifted off into his—for once—peaceful realm of sleep.
Damien heard his nose crack as Christophe punched him again. Sick as it was, he enjoyed it. His dark chuckles made the brunette pull away for a moment.
"Why are you laugheeng, beetch?" Christophe growled.
Damien stopped. What was with him today? He had slipped up twice—that locked up part of him, which he thought was hidden far away, where no one else could see it—had suddenly come out to play in public.
"Shut up, Frenchy. Sit down, the teacher's coming." Damien muttered under his breath, wiping the blood from his aching nose. The two boys did agree on something—they wouldn't be seen fighting. They would both get in huge trouble. And both the Frenchman and the Antichrist loved hurting one another too much to give the other up.
French stuff
Bonjour, connard-Hello, asshole
Princesse-Princess
Va te faire foutre, batard - Fuck you, bastard
I speak French fluently, so yeah, I know all this stuff. :D