I met Christophe DeLorne when I was little. I was 5, he was 4. I had light blond hair, his was almost black. He had coal eyes; mine were blue. We ran around the town square playing catch and he sucked. I must have sucked, too, though. The days our mums would take us to play piled up and, see, when you're young, language isn't a barrier. Nothing is.

He has to wonder how they must look. Two worn and blood-stained men, one holding the other in his lap in the middle of a sad, nondescript cleaning closet. Christophe and Gregory. Slight slash.

Gregory brings home an unexpected surprise from one of his jobs. Christophe's reaction is even more surprising.

Christophe x Gregory, mildly fluffy, includes the symbolism of clean hands and gloves, and kidnapping, and murder. NOT A DEATH FIC.