Here's chapter 7! I can't believe I've made it all the way here already. Holy crap. So yeah, unfortunately, this one's sort of a filler, but some of the stuff is important for the next chapter, which is going to be one of the most important in the story. Also, there isn't any French in this chapter, or that much dialogue, for that matter. Sorry...but seriously. It's important for the next part, which is going to be interesting.

-M

The following day, it was as if nothing had happened. Christophe and Damien seemed to make an agreement, a silent decision not to talk about the incident of yesterday. They simply acted as if it never occurred.

But, the thing was, neither of the two boys wanted to forget the kiss. And neither of them knew that the other felt the same way.

Christophe tore himself apart. His mind was someplace else throughout the whole day, wishing he could go back to that incident and relive it. It was so confusing, feeling these new emotions he'd never felt before. Christophe couldn't hold it back any more—he was, indeed, addicted to Damien Thorn, much to his discontent.

Damien had came to that realization months before the Frenchman did, and the moment they shared the day before only increased his want for the brunette. He wouldn't settle for just that. Damien wanted more, and fast. He was getting impatient. He couldn't wait for much longer.

After an agonizing day at school, Christophe trudged home alone. He and Damien were ahead of their project, giving them a perfectly valid excuse for them not to see each other. It was a great relief for Christophe, and another obstacle for Damien, making his patience run thin and his frustration rise.

Christophe lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, thinking about what to write. He needed to turn this essay in the next day, and, with all the surprise of yesterday, he hadn't started yet. But it was difficult to think. He was still numb.

So his mind began to wander. He thought about Damien some more—his hungry eyes, his fluffy hair, his tall physique, those wicked, addictive lips...

Christophe couldn't take it anymore. He frowned and tugged at his messy brown hair, exasperated. He had to find an outlet, to release all of his emotion. Then he remembered Damien's dark, cryptic poetry. Sighing, he took out a blank sheet of lined paper and a pen, and began scribbling down everything that was on his mind, pouring out all of his emotions onto the paper until it was drenched with words.

Meanwhile, Damien worked on his newest work of art. He had done many portrayals of mental disorders—OCD, scizophrenia, depression, and panic disorders naming only a few—but now he was doing something different—anorexia.

The whole thing, he knew, was metaphorical. He was deprived of something he needed desperately. He was the skeleton, starving himself to death. Without quick action, he would eventually crumble into a pile of skin and bones. Though he knew that he would disintegrate without the thing—the person—he wanted so much, he kept pushing it away, or it pushed him away. He had to take action. And fast.

Christophe stared at the paper, mortified and impressed, all at the same time. If anyone read this, he would be done for. Slowly, he read over the words again. The words that Damien would never hear. The words that were for his eyes, and his eyes only. Christophe looked around for a place to hide the paper, folding it up into a small, neat wad. He decided that the back of his messy desk drawer would be appropriate. Looking at the folded paper one last time, Christophe then shoved it into the drawer and sighed. Now that that was over, it was finally time to get to his English paper.

Damien felt his pencil break for the second time as it pressed down into the paper. He sighed and got up to sharpen it, getting a glance from the other students. It was the third time this had happened in this class. He shot his peers a glare and sharpened his pencil again.

"Mr. Thorn, do you need another pencil?" he heard the teacher ask. He didn't even respond to the comment, just returned to his seat and wrote his notes, trying hard not to let his pencil break again.

"You see, kids, the Persian army was about ten times larger than the Greeks..."

Damien tuned out his professor's lecture on the Persian and Greek wars and looked around the class at his classmates, trying not to let his eyes fall on the person he really did want to look at. Beside him, the blond coffee kid was twitching and getting eye-raped by a skyscraper that was sitting in the back of the class with his friends, who were snickering. He showed them his middle finger and continued to glance over at the nervous boy. Damien guessed that Twitch—or whatever the coffee kid's name was—knew what was happening, because his eyes widened and his face turned red. When he saw Damien looking at him, he screamed "DON'T SEND ME TO HELL!" and cowered, covering his face with his open textbook. The teacher shot Coffee Boy a look, then turned back to the board and scribbled down a note for the students to write down. Damien rolled his eyes and looked elsewhere, his eyes finding Kenny McCormick passing a note to Kyle Broflovski, one of his best friends. Damien despised Broflovski. He was too uptight. Too prissy. He then looked over at Christophe, who was sitting a few seats in front of him. The brunette and the redhead were complete opposites. Kyle's features, such as his hair and eyes, were extremely saturated, colorful to the point where it almost hurt Damien—who was used to all black, all the time—to look at the Jewish boy. Christophe, however, was way less exaggerated. His dark hair and tanned skin didn't create that much contrast, unlike that of Broflovski's extremely red locks and his pale, freckled face.

Christophe could almost feel Damien's eyes burning into the back of his head. It was second nature to when whether or not the Antichrist was staring at him, after being tormented by him so much over the years. Christophe almost felt like Damien knew about the confession he had written down and stowed away, for no one to see. He then began to worry—could Damien read his mind? It was a ridiculous thought—but who knew? Maybe, with his odd Satanic powers, it could happen. Then, Christophe waved the thought away. If Damien could read his mind, things would be much, much worse than what they already were, if that was possible.