A/N: Yep... it's a proper story now with more parts to come. Thank you if you're one of the amazing people that left a review. I love you and so does Stan.

Stan's morning was going quite as well as he'd expected considering the pain he was in, with three different areas competing for the most attention. Over both his head and his ankle combined, his rear end certainly won that competition. It was a pain that took throbbing and sent an evil piercing through it at regular intervals. Stan was sitting on pins, without even sitting. In fact, the very thought of sitting was making him almost sweat, even in the freezing weather.

Luckily, his mother hadn't been at home when he got back. There was a message on the ansaphone from her, assuming Stan was still asleep and saying she'd be going straight from her boyfriend's to work. Stan had taken a quick shower - the hot water helping a little for the sore muscles that hanging from a tree could lead to, but doing nothing for the other pains. He almost felt like faking sickness and taking the day off. Indeed, he certainly would have if not for the growing feeling inside of him that wanted to see Christophe.

It had played over in his head all the way home, in the shower, eating breakfast - different scenarios. Stan would casually bump into him and make a clever remark, then smirk and walk away. Christophe would think him a terribly smooth and intriguing person, so cool about one-night stands, like he had them all the time. Christophe would follow him wanting to know more; Stan would have him hooked.

Then he realised that this was so implausible, because Christophe knew he'd never done that before. And what type of smooth person gets stuck in a tree?

Instead he thought of engaging Christophe in a casual talk about a mutual interest, or something in the news. But then of course realised no; he'd seem pathetic, because he had no idea what their mutual interests were and he didn't read the news... Besides, Christophe had much better things to do than talk to Stan.

When he saw that the only probable scenario was that they'd both leave the other alone like they didn't exist, or at least were only ever made to speak by a common link (Gregory), who did not help them get along, Stan's minds turned to other things. These were the implausible scenarios; the ones he only rationalised he was having as a remembrance of the intense pleasure from the previous night, and not any other possible feelings.

He started to see him and Christophe meeting in the corridor, eyes linking, hearts racing. They would step closer to each other, perfectly in sync; arms fluidly outstretching and grazing past. A small spark would run between them and around their bodies. The spark would be a magnet that would bring their chests closer, as the arms continued their movements. Christophe's hands would find Stan's waist at precisely the same time Stan's would find Christophe's shoulders.

There would be a moment, right before the inevitable kiss, where breath would meet and bodies would shift to the simultaneous rise and fall of their chests, and their eyes would slowly close; the bright green leaving Stan's sight and into his mind, where it would intensify, the colour flowing as a kiss fell onto his lips. Stan would groan; Christophe would groan. Their bodies would react so suddenly that they'd have to hide somewhere, or else screw it and kiss fervently in plain sight.

He had a few of these day-dreams on his way to school. Luckily Kyle had given both him and Bebe a lift that day. And with Bebe sitting in the front, taking most of Kyle's attention, Stan's silence and far-away look wasn't questioned.

He only really had his first proper conversation of the day when an annoying voice by the lockers cut through his silence. So British and perfectly formed, every word rolling together and fitting the next to create a sentence of not only words but feelings. And Stan's was primarily hatred.

"Get out of my way, Stanley."

Stan jolted and turned from his locker into the arrogant, stupid smirking face of Gregory Thorne. He could tell without looking down that Gregory would be wearing a crisp expensive shirt and tight-fitting pants designed so everyone could look at how amazing his legs and ass were. Stan scowled and flicked his eyes down - light blue shirt, navy trousers.

"Just go around, you dick," he growled in reply. "There's plenty of room."

Gregory sighed dramatically and raised his eyebrows at Stan, as if Stan was the one out of line. "You have to try starting an argument, don't you? You can't just simply step aside with a smile and avoid all this?"

"I don't take directions from you." Stan narrowed his eyes. "There's plenty of room to walk around."

Gregory shook his head and walked around Stan like he was doing him a great favour. Stan felt like punching him. He turned back to rummage in his locker but it looked like Gregory had no intention of leaving.

"What is it?" snapped Stan.

"I just feel like a chat." Gregory leant against a locker and smiled in fake innocence. He put one hand on his hip as if the action came naturally - there was definitely something about Gregory that seemed to scream 'gay', though stealing Wendy suggested otherwise. "How are you?"

"Not good since I'm being harassed by an arrogant blond who needs to learn how to fuck off."

"That's a shame; I really wish I could help you."

"You can, by getting lost."

"Well I am supposed to be meeting Wendy now," bragged Gregory. Stan didn't want this comment to have any effect on him, but it did. He knew he no longer had romantic feelings for Wendy (she wasn't a boy). The jolt of hatred came instead because of how easily Gregory won her over. All it took was a few carefully planned lines, a waft of his scent, a gaze into his eyes. Even with a prominent place on the football team, Stan felt so second-rate. Kyle could point out as many girls as possible who seemed interested in him but Stan was only bothered by how Gregory was better.

"Good for you."

"It's going very well with her." Gregory smirked.

"I don't give a fuck."

"Well you obviously didn't give a good enough one to keep her. That's why she so readily came to me."

Just one punch. One punch in that arrogant face. Stan sighed and shook his head, slamming his locker and deciding not to rise to it. It was such a cleverly placed remark because Stan worried that he had never been good enough sexually for Wendy, finding that he was gradually getting less excited by her, his mind always guiltily flicking to imagining hot men to keep him in the mood. He still thought he loved her at that point and tried not to dwell on it, tried to repress it and keep her, keep the normality.

"Where did you get that?" Gregory poked Stan's neck. Stan jumped back and glared at him, smacking a hand to his neck. The one moment of the day he'd loosened his coat a little.

"None of your business."

"Ohhh. Stan's got a secret lover." Gregory smirked. "Who?"

"Fuck off. I'm not telling you anything."

"Why? Is he terribly embarrassing."

Stan's eyes went wide. "W-What do you mean, he?"

Gregory rolled his eyes. "You're so gay, Stanley. Don't even try to deny it."

Stan shook his head and frowned. "So are you. Leave me alone." He turned to storm away (because he had no idea how to reply) but walked smack into Christophe. Their heads collided with a force that Stan really could have done without, and Christophe probably wished to avoid as well. He'd never noticed the French boy the other side of him, too caught up in his hatred for Gregory.

This was not how he'd planned 'running into him' at all!

Christophe glared. "Did I ask for a kiss, Marsh?" He walked around him to stand next to Gregory and raised his eyebrow at Stan's neck. It looked as if he was surprised by his own work. He wiped the expression and turned to Gregory. "Let's go, beetch."

Stan zipped his coat back up to hide the mark and felt even more hatred at having both Christophe and Gregory there together. He felt the overwhelming need to make it appear like he hated Christophe. It was weird but he felt like the truth between them needed to be very hidden.

Gregory nodded. "Yes, do come on. I'm going to go see my beautiful girlfriend..."

"Once again I really don't give a fuck!" snapped Stan.

Gregory smirked and turned around, then seemed to catch the eye of his English teacher and remember something. "Oh, I need to talk to Mr Evans about tomorrow."

Stan watched him go and gritted his teeth. From the corner of his eye, he saw Christophe smirk, and turned with a slightly quickening pulse to look at him.

"Eet sounds like you do give a fuck, Marsh," he whispered. Leaning closer he added, "A very good one." He winked and then turned to follow Gregory.

Stan could tell he was violently blushing without even feeling his cheeks or looking in a mirror. He stared after Christophe, eyes taking in his body, trailing down his shoulders and back, all the way to that incredible ass. Memories from the previous night entered his head. He imagined Christophe's pants disappearing and his own hands reaching out slowly to cup...

It caused him great alarm when Christophe glanced over his shoulder and saw from down the corridor that Stan was still staring at him. Stan jumped and span around, urgently walking towards the bathroom. He wasn't quick enough to avoid hearing Christophe's strangely magical laugh.

And screw what Gregory said. If Christophe said that Stan gave a good fuck, well, that was just fine.

The rest of the day went by very slowly, but he'd managed to stay fairly hidden. It wasn't often that Stan didn't want attention from everyone; he loved attention. Anything that would make him popular was a good thing, right? He was respected and not just because of sports: people mainly thought that he was a nice guy, one who was pleasant and occasionally tried to make a difference.

This popular opinion could and probably would change if everyone found out he'd taken it up the ass, even if the person who gave it was one of the hottest but most feared in the school. Everyone knew that Christophe had no need or concern to harm any of them. Sure at times he'd gotten angry, but physical violence was only used when someone was deliberately asking for it. Generally if you were polite to him, you'd be fine, and probably ignored.

Saying this, even the councillor seemed to keep his distance. Rumours had circulated that he'd been shot before, others that he'd been the one doing the shooting. Another said that he slept with his shovel in case one of his enemy's tried to capture him in the night. And some people simply stated that he was a very fucked up guy, with a severe hatred of God and should be avoided. (Though you'd be excused for melting under his hot, French charm if he showed interest. Most of the girls in the school had dreamed in some way.)

It was like Stan saw a massive difference between who everyone said Christophe was and how he had actually acted.

It was the afternoon of the next day, when Stan was nervously standing in the gym changing rooms and wanting to cry over the painful thought of running the expected four-thousand metres, that Christophe made another appearance. Stan was not yet changed, nervously staring down at his kit and wondering how he was going to put in on without everyone seeing him wincing, and more importantly how he was going to be able to hide his hickey. It wasn't looking good.

Christophe glanced around and then walked over to him, throwing his stuff down. "You want out?"

Stan frowned and moved closer to him, catching a hint of his scent and trying to act casual through the thump of his heart. "What do you mean?"

"Play along; I'll get you out."

"How?"

But Christophe held his hand up to stop Stan talking as the coach walked in. "Stop trying to act like some little hero, Marsh," he said loudly. "We don't want an hour of staring at your pained face."

Stan stared at him in confusion. "But-"

"We all know how much your ankle ees hurting. Just get eet eento zat Jock head of yours zat you're not invincible."

The coach looked over and sighed. "What is it now? Someone trying to get out of running?"

"Non, eet's ze opposite, sir." Christophe rolled his eyes. "Marsh ees een serious pain wiz 'is ankle but won't admit eet. He wants to run. He's going to hold us all back and do himself damage."

"Just get over yourself and sit this one out," snapped the coach. "I want that ankle healed for the next football game."

Stan stared at him in shock. "...Okay."

"Good." The coach nodded. "Hurry up and get changed, the lot of you and then get to the track." He threw a clipboard at Stan. "You can take the times, hero boy."

Stan stared down and nodded. "Right..." He looked back at Christophe when the coach had left with a shocked face. "Dude, how did you do that?"

Christophe shrugged. "Just knowing what to say." He smirked. "Since I created your pain, I'm glad I could 'elp soothe eet." He laughed. "You're lucky Gregory isn't here or else I'd have never got away wiz 'elping you."

Stan nodded, only knowing too well the truth of those words. He looked around. "Where is Gregory?"

Christophe pulled his shirt off, making Stan's eyes flick to gaze at his chest before he even knew what he was doing. He had to control himself not to reach his arms out and touch it, pull Christophe closer to him and kiss it. Suddenly he felt very aware of all the people around them. Luckily Kyle and Kenny had already left to the track, meaning that they couldn't notice his sudden and strange interactions with the French boy they avoided.

Christophe raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to know about Gregory?"

Stan flicked his eyes back up to the more appropriate area of Christophe's face.

"Well, he's at a funeral, eef you must know." Christophe pulled on his gym shirt and then sweater. "His Grandma's. She moved to America when they did and lived wiz zem."

"Oh." Stan's expression fell straight. He didn't know what he could possibly say to that, so they both fell silent and when Christophe had finished changing, slowly made their way to the track.

Stan didn't know how the coach expected some of them to even run four-thousand metres at all. It shouldn't take long if run correctly but he knew some of them would be doing it for ages. Where if you said the average time was about fifteen minutes, they'd double it.

Stan was going to watch them all equally, take the chance to see how long it took a person to start falling back, stop running for a while even. He wanted to see who was too unfit or didn't care enough (and walked it). He wanted to see who was good and bad, which people it was good for him to beat and the ones it would be embarrassing not to. He usually finished third of fourth when they did long distance - Christophe always first, Gregory second, then either him or Gary depending on the circumstances of the day.

However when they started running, Stan knew that his eyes were fixed on only one person, and it was clear why. Christophe's legs in Christophe's shorts were a sight he could not afford to miss. He owed it to himself as a member of the gay community to look. The way they moved, the defined muscle, every line, every curve, every hair, it was all perfect. Stan watched the way the material clung to his thigh with each forward movement and then fell loose again, repeating over. He watched Christophe's ass and remembered the way it felt, in his mind seeing through the fabric.

Stan realised that despite the cold weather, he was becoming rather hot. With his face flushed red, he stared down to regain control of himself. When he looked up again, Christophe was just passing, staring straight at him. They both turned their heads away when they met eyes and Stan only found it safe to look when Christophe was on the other side of the track.

With Christophe almost finished his third lap, most people were still struggling with completing the second (save for Gary who was around half a lap behind Christophe). Stan hated how quickly the French boy was doing it because it meant less time watching. Christophe was still keeping an effortless and steady speed - Was he even trying? Stan felt like shouting at him just to see if he could run faster.

He decided not to.

Instead, he kept watching, clapping Kyle whenever he ran past but keeping his eyes focused on just one individual. He even found himself watching how Christophe's arms moved, and how his hair ruffled in the wind with the rhythm he was keeping. It looked so good on Christophe's head.

He waited for Christophe to finish and then picked up the pen, spinning it nervously in his fingers. He heard the coach yell a time and then saw Christophe walking over to him. He'd expected to be told a time and left, but Christophe smirked and sat next to him, pink-cheeked and radiating warmth. He stretched his legs out before him and Stan had to stop himself from gazing at the way the shorts had ridden up on one leg.

Stan smiled. "Time?"

"Eleven minutes, fifty-eight seconds," Christophe replied, no trace of change in breath, no hint that he'd been running for almost twelve minutes.

"Right." Stan wrote it in. That beat Stan's record by two minutes, five seconds, and Stan would be feeling it a lot more afterwards. "That's really impressive."

"Eh." Christophe shrugged. "Good enough for school." He kept the smirk on his face and very slowly reached out his arm, not saying anything and pulling Stan's collar back. He looked at the mark on Stan's neck again, this time seeming to take his time. "Wow, I really got you good."

Stan blushed and looked out over the people who were passing - the red faces of the less fit, some even walking (Cartman), and being screamed at by the coach but not caring. "Yeah."

Just then, Gary finished his last lap, being yelled a time at. He panted and nodded, red-faced. Christophe dropped his hand as Gary grinned to himself and jogged over to Stan.

"Hey, Gary!" Stan smiled and waited, ignoring how hot his neck felt.

"Hey, Stan," panted Gary, taking a deep breath and smiling through it. "I got my time... I think... I beat my best."

"Go ahead." Stan picked up the pen.

"Thirteen, forty." Gary grinned.

Stan sighed and wrote it down. "Congratulations, dude, you've done it again. You can have third place back." He had to smile at Gary's laugh as a reply - that boy was so happy. It also amused him because Gary was approaching Gregory's personal best. "But once my ankle's better, you're going down."

"We'll see," replied Gary. "But I think you're turning into an old man. Bad ankle, bad head." He rolled his eyes. "You need to take better care of yourself."

"I-"

Christophe interrupted. "Ze idiot cannot take care of himself. He'd probably end up doing something stupid, like getting caught in a tree or falling over eef he did..."

Gary laughed. "Well nobody can watch him all the time - they'd go insane!" He grinned cheekily at Stan. "No offence, buddy."

Christophe laughed as well and then sighed dramatically. "I will take on ze burden and make sure Grandpa gets through ze day." He smirked. "Not do anything stupid by himself. No, he needs company for that."

"Whatever you say," replied Gary, who stepped aside so Token could give in his time to a blushing Stan. They both left together, discussing the previous night's football results and laughing. People always seemed to laugh with the ever-bright Gary.

Christophe leaned closer to Stan and smirked. "So where were we? How's your ass coping?"

"It's sore, dude," admitted Stan in embarrassment. "Not pleasant... but totally worth it! I m-mean, yeah... It was good, not that it wouldn't be."

"I love your awkwardness. Eet's really very endearing."

"I - uh - thanks..." Was that something to say thanks for? Did Christophe mean it? Stan looked into Christophe's eyes, which were staring back and looked extraordinarily green in the bright light. He saw interest and kindness in them like he'd never seen before. It was so strange. He'd always assumed he hated Christophe because of Gregory, but he didn't at all. This boy was nothing like the one he'd observed over the years - the anti-social, defensive, carries-a-shovel boy.

This one cared for you when you were unconscious, saw to your wounds and then had hot sex after caressing your ass. This one offered to make breakfast and sat with you. This one you were developing a massive crush on and everything in you wanted to kiss him again.

Stan couldn't pull his eyes away from Christophe, but it seemed Christophe was also having trouble doing the same. The link was only interrupted when Clyde poked him, demanding for him to take down a time. Stan did so awkwardly, feeling Christophe's eyes still on him.

They never said anything as the rest of the times came in. It was only when coach dismissed them and Stan stood up that Christophe grabbed his arm, pulling up too and leaning to whisper in his ear:

"You're at your mozer's tonight?"

Stan bit his lip and watched Christophe's eyes flick down to it. He felt his heart rate increase. "Yes."

Christophe's lips curved into a smile. "I'll be zere."