Please remember I do not own South Park
Everything is a fight with him, and by that I mean everything. Sometimes I wonder why I'm even with him.
"Answer ze fucking question!" Christophe screams, and shoves me to the floor. "You want 'im don't you?" We're fighting over Stan again. He's got it stuck in his head that I'm sleeping with him.
"He's my best friend, nothing more. I've told you this a hundred times!" I desperately try and wipe at the blood that trickles down from my nose and into my mouth.
"I see ze way you look at 'im. I'm not stupid Kyle…admit it." He grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me up so we're face to face.
"Christophe, I don't want him. We're just friends; please you have to believe me." At times like this, I wish I was fucking around with Stan. Because then I'd at least deserve this treatment, you know?
"Tell me Kyle, do you zink about zat boy ven we are in bed?" I can't take it anymore. I forcibly push him away from me, he stumbles a little but I can see a glint in his eyes. This is the reaction he was looking for. He want's a fight.
I'm a little shaky, because I mean he's a trained mercenary and could easily kill me. "This is fucked up." I mutter and turn my back on him.
Mistake number one: Never turn your back on Christophe DeLorn…ever.
He grabs me again, and spins me around so once more we're eye to eye. Before I have the chance to think, he's got his gun in my face.
"You want to know what eez fucked up? I'll show you what's fucked up." His brown eyes stare right through me. I wish I could say I haven't been here before. However I'm not unfamiliar with guns being pointed in my direction. "I am." He cocks his gun and that's all the warning I need.
I don't dare say a word; I won't even let myself breathe.
He's told me he can sense fear. This guy is like an animal I swear. After a long drawn out minute he slaps me in the face with the barrel. I wince as the metal cuts into my skin. But if that's all I'm getting, then I'm not complaining.
"Fix your face." He hisses, lowly.
He shoves me away from him and quickly storms out of the room. I sigh with relief and practically throw myself onto our bed.
He'll be back in a few hours. Calm down, yet cocky all the same. I like him best after our fights. I adore that smirk, the one he wears when he knows he's won.
I can't say I miss the old him, because hell this is the old him. He hasn't changed one bit since grade school.
I'm just as fucked up as he is though, maybe even more.
Don't get me wrong, it doesn't always end like that. Sometimes I get a few good punches in. I know what he likes, and that's a challenge.
"You zink you can take me? Zink carefully Mon Chérie." He's got me cornered in the bathroom this time, the sink digging painfully into my lower back. I know I'll have a bruise the next day.
Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, pent up anger fueling me. I jab my fist into his face, loving the deep hollow sound it makes as it connects with his flesh.
He doesn't even flinch. Not even when blood seeps out of his mouth. He spits the blood out onto the floor and laughs. The French Bastard laughs right in my face.
"Sheet, 'it a little 'arder next time and eet might acuttaly 'urt." He pushes a strand of lose hair out of my eyes and I really expected him to punch me right then.
"What, are you done? Come on, vous can do better zen zat! 'It me again Kyle, see eef vous can fucking 'urt me!" He yells, his native tongue slipping into his words. I vaguely notice the blood being splattered.
I do, I hit him harder than I ever hit somebody before. Again and again I ram my fist into his grinning face. By the time I run out of energy he's a bloodied up mess. He's laughing hysterically, and then he beats the shit out of me.
Mistake number two: Never expect a free hit from a mercenary. You'll always be sorry.
Christophe is crazy, he's insane. I really believe this.
It's not always physical though, sometimes it's verbal and this is a game I'm fairly good. He's not bad though, we're equally matched. I hate it when we fight like this. We have no boundaries. There are no rules to this game of ours.
He can't look at me and realize if I'm dying or not. Just like I can't look at him and tell if I've left scars.
If we could kill with our words, we'd both be dead.
"What Chris, what is it? Did your mommy hit you too many times? Is that why you like to rough me up?" I can see the gears turn inside that head of his. "Or was it your nonexistent father?"
"Maybe, 'et least she was around. Your mozzer was too busy starting fights to worry about you." He pauses to take a drag of his cigarette before finishing. "You're just like your fazzer. A faggot."
"Well what can I do, go with a Marsh?" He stars at me and I know instantly, once again, that I'm heading for trouble.
"What's zat suppose to mean?"
"Exactly how it sounds." He slowly gets up from the sofa and roughly grabs my arm. He puts his cigarette out on the pale skin.
"Shit, what the hell is wrong with you!" I cry out in pain, he lets go but grabs me by the hair. "Mother Fucker." I spat, hoping against all odds he'd let go.
"You von't ever leave me. I'll kill you before I let zat 'appen." He's growls deeply, words full of venom. "I kill ze Marsh kid, zen you…zen myself. Do understand me?"
I smile weakly, and let a few tears roll down my face. Not something I would normally do. He brushes them away. I nod, not even caring about the burning sensation in my forearm anymore
"D-Didn't know you c-cared."
You wouldn't understand, but I know at these moments that he really does care.
These are the moments I use to remind myself why I stay with him.
I know he loves me. You don't beat the living hell out of somebody and not care. If he didn't love me, he'd leave. He wouldn't waste his time.
"Always."
A/N: This is the only thing I've written that wasn't too awful in the past week. Sorry if it's not my best work. Maybe it's because I'm sleep deprived and I have to leave for work in an hour? I honestly hope I didn't offend anybody in writing this; this isn't something I've done before. Anyway enough of my ranting! I hope you enjoyed it!