If a poll had been taking throughout South Park's high school asking who the resident badass would be considered, the general consensus would point to Christophe DeLorne. Various sources concluded that he was an undercover mercenary for hire, with a special tact for weapons that were often mastered only by lead weapon specialists in the armed forces; that his temper was one to act first and ask questions later. When the pipers or electricians laying lines ran into problems, they called the Mole due to his vast knowledge of the soil density, and his archived records of the town and outskirts, plotted on grids that made the top surveyors in the county jealous.
While all of that could be said true, he was just an unsuspecting teenager with meticulous habits and a particularly large soft spot for a special blonde boy.
At nine, his parents had been ripped apart by a vicious divorce, his mother accusing his dad of loving his work more than the stability of the family life. Which had been true; his father was a part of the special forces and often was torn away to be stationed places he couldn't talk about to teach soldiers things he couldn't talk about. He loved his work, and serving the country he proudly called home. Wild accusations of lovers abroad surfaced and ran rampant through the small mountain town, of diplomats that had been dispersed of at the hands of Emaurri DeLorne.
The DeLorne name was revered, if not slightly feared because of this. But that had no effect on his mother's incessant thirst for love. When he was twelve, the search came to a screeching halt when she married Roger Donovan after two years of dating. And while his own father played a huge role in his life, for six years he had been grinding his teeth as he was expected to play nice with the man now deemed his step-father, and the asshole step-brother that came along with the marriage, Clyde Donovan.
Which is how he had been dragged into the whirlwind of calamity known as Tweek Tweak in the first place.
During the insanity of their parents' honeymoonesque relationship that turned serious very quick, Clyde had decided he may as well get to know the brother he was going to achieve out of his dad's lunacies. The attempt had been poor, leaving destroyed tacos and a crying Donovan in Christophe's wake. But slowly he warmed to the idea as Clyde brought him around his friends, and Christophe had become enamored by the twitchy blonde boy and the scorned looks that were thrown to the blue-hatted boy referred to as "Craig".
While the other four boys chatted wildly about plans, Christophe observed, taking mental notes that he filed away during those long lunch hours, or nights outside of school during video game parties and sporting events. He watched the blonde draw inward and stray from the raven-haired boy that, he had been told, was once his very best friend. He watched as mug after mug of caffeinated sludge was thrown back and nerves soothed to the taste of hazelnut or mocha; he watched as girls tasted those coffee-flavored lips and held shaking hands, as hazel eyes avoided the visage of Craig Tucker.
He watched frail pale wrist run red in guilt, in self-loathing, in shame, and grasped shaking hands to pull Tweek away from the edge of destruction. It was that moment of understanding, of admittance, that they had been drawn together as best friends.
And best friends they were as Tweek struggled with his feelings for Craig, struggled with the idea of hiding them from the world when they entered highschool and found them to be platonic. So he heard every grimace-filled tale of Craig's tongue sessions with his girlfriends, every bitter note in the blonde's tone when he addressed the girlfriend of the week for the Tucker boy. And he hated how Tweek took it from Craig, let himself be used and played as second best in the world of Tuckers, hated every night Tweek cried himself to sleep or rampaged over text into the bright burning hours of the morning, hated knowing there was nothing he could do to soothe the blonde.
He wasn't sure when he realized his boiling hatred for Craig was caused by jealousy, couldn't pinpoint the moment in time his friendship had blossomed in his head into something romantic. But over the years his stormy demeanor softened at the edges and tangled into the mayhem known as Tweek. He had tried to redirect the curious flutter in his stomach when his best friend brushed too close or demanded haughtily to have a migraine messaged delicately from his temples, tried to distance himself with sarcasm and a crass attitude to avoid the heavy dreams that filmed from his subconscious in the few sleeping hours he allowed himself.
It wasn't that Christophe considered himself gay; he absolutely wasn't interested in the strange commitments that a relationship called for. When teenage hormones drove him crazy, he'd drive to Middle Park or into North Park for a night of carnal intrigue with a cute girl, and bring himself back without feeling shamed or slighted. In his own tiny town, he couldn't imagine ruining any tedious friendships with girls he'd grown up with just to relinquish the edge of his needs. But more and more he'd been having to stamp down the instant rush of desire around Tweek like a burned-to cigarette – lately he used his addictions as a means of escape to sooth that burning edge that lay just under the skin.
So it had been like a dam bursting when Tweek had unexpectedly landed his shivering, blue lips on his under the night sky of Stark's pond, a lost cause to try to restrain his resolve to the situation. He had told himself it was a bad idea when Tweek had climbed in besides him in his truck and licked at the dripping water from his ear, sending shivers of control through his taut body. He had told himself that Tweek wasn't in the right state of mind, as they stumbled over each other through the door to the Tweak residence and spent a tantalizingly long time stripping soaked clothes off of each other in the hallway. He had tried to keep control of the situation – but having trained Tweek in both close-quarters combat and defense – he wasn't surprised when the blonde took advantage of the situation and pinned him down at his weak points and slowly tortured him with teeth and tongue. And he told himself as he clamped his eyes shut and bit his lip to the leaping of his beating heart that the last thing Tweek could handle at that point was the cold shove of rejection.
He had bolted upright instinctively when he heard the front door softly shut, the pattering in the kitchen, the water sucked through the tubing of the coffee machine, the quiet mumbling. He threw on his cargo pants that, sleeplessly, he had washed during the night along with a load of laundry he had picked off his friend's floor to keep his mind busy instead of worrying over what had transpired in the bed just previously. Dog tags around his neck, tawny hands running through mussed-up brunette locks, he padded gently into the hall and listened to the furious voice of Tweek hiss his displeasure.
"Stop it, Craig. This is your mistake, not mine."
"Let me explain." He heard the desperation in the throaty voice, the need, the heart break. He almost felt bad, but his mind flashed the image of Tweek on the dock, glaring into the distance, fighting to keep in control of the tears that threatened. His feeling of pity dispersed as he stepped to the edge of the stairs and looked over the banister at the two, Craig clamping the blonde into an embrace, the blonde staring at the ceiling, lost about what to do.
"Well, zis ez awkward, ezn't et?" he announced, a trickle of a smile playing his lips as he saw Craig go white as his accent flooded the room, those dusky blue eyes widening at Christophe's visage on the stairs.
Craig stepped away from Tweek, almost tripping over his feet as he shook his head, unaccepting. "W-what? Tweek, what is this?"
The blonde's hazel eyes turned stormy as he glowered at Christophe and ran shaking hands through his tousled hair. "Goddamnit, man. Craig, you were making out with Kenny."
"What the fuck…I just…I'm not doing this. Obviously you did a whole lot more than make out with that piece of shit by those fucking hickies all over him," Craig replied, a thread of anger pulsating in his voice as he turned and stormed out, slamming the door in his wake.
Tweek turned those solemn eyes on Christophe, a small wave of anger shaking the boy. "I know you heard him here. You hear everything, why the fuck would you come out now? Jesus, Chris."
He shrugged as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the banister. "Were you planning on keeping zis hush-hush? On running back to Craig's agonized arms?"
The blonde fell under the Mole's stern gaze and sunk into the worn couch, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Well, no—"
"Zen why does et matter?" he asked.
"Because I still love him, damnit," he hissed, a tremor wracking his thin frame. "Is that what you wanted to hear, Christophe?"
He sucked in air at the admittance, grinding his teeth painfully as he backed up the stairs and threw on a plain grey hoodie he had left at this house months ago, tugged on his fingerless gloves, pulled his scuffed boots over his pants, numbly tucking the laces into the sides rather than bothering with lacing them. He had known one sleepless night, blinded by hurt and sealed with comfort wouldn't solve Tweek's dependence on Craig. He had known they would awaken with heavy hearts and confused heads.
But, damnit, he'd be a liar if he didn't admit those words cut him.
Shoving his wallet and phone deep into his pockets he emerged from the room and silently slid down the stairs. His eyes landed on the blonde curled into the couch and he wished he could put a bandaid over the hurt that palpated through the room, but he knew they were long passed such a simple solution.
"So zen, what about last night?"
"It shouldn't have happened at all," the blonde said, raising his head to look at the Mole. "Fuck, what a mess, Christophe. What the Hell was that anyway, some sick way to comfort me? Did you even think about it at all?"
He stilled at the words, at the accusatory look thrown his way. Fist curled, short nails biting into the worn leather of his gloves, something snapped in him. "Did I not zink about et? Spazz, you do not know 'ow long I've zought about et. You do not know 'ow much zinking I did all night, wondering what would become of us after zat. And most certainly, you do not know 'ow much et would 'ave 'urt you worse ef I did nozing and turned away."
"So, what, you were just sparing my feelings? Jesus, I should have known, you don't even give a shit about me at all," he spat, anger his only defense.
Christophe quivered as he fought the urge to lash out, to fight, to beat into his friend's head just how unfair he was being. "Moi, not care about you? Are you fucking shitting me, Tweek? Because I 'ave not listened to you pour your 'eart out about the crappy zings Craig 'as done to you, because I 'ave never been zere when you wanted to just die, because I 'ave never tried my best to keep you from getting 'urt, ezn't zat right?"
"Because we're best friends, retard, and that's what best friends do!"
"'ow about because I love you?" he growled, brows furrowed, look dark as he turned and beelined toward the door. "But forget et, I should 'ave never crossed zat line wiz you. Au revoir, Spazz."
He ignored the shocked gasp, the sniffling that echoed through the entry alcove as he slammed the door much in the same fashion Craig had and strode to his truck. He ignored the curious look of a neighbor walking their pint-sized poodle as he turned the ignition and slammed the truck into gear, ignored the tires squealing on the pavement as he unintentionally did a clutch-stand.
Ignored the lost face of the blonde in the review mirror, ignored the flow of tears down pale cheeks, ignored the hand reaching out in desperation, ignored the quiet voice in his head telling him to turn around, ignored everything but the voice from the radio singing: Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard.
A/N: The song lyrics are from "The Scientist" by Coldplay. I also, still, have no idea where this is going, but it's going somewhere real fast. Holy crap did that get deep real quick. Thanks to the reviewers that are sticking with this unorganized piece of work. Muah! xoxox Corrie