Okay…got some remarks about Christophe's accent, and I agreed that it needed to be changed. So I edited chapter one, and Christophe no longer says "V" in place of "W".

If you haven't already guessed, the majority of this story (meaning every chapter from now until at least the next-to-last one) is going to be a flashback. One very long, very in-depth flashback. Fun, no? I figured I'd done enough first-person-present-tense stories…just trying to expand my horizons a bit.

As usual, I'm glad you guys like it. Gregory/Christophe is just so adorable.

Chapter Two

Katherine Thorne lived in a three-bedroom apartment—one for herself, one for Gregory, and one for guests—though she and Gregory generally only used one, because Gregory had trouble sleeping more often than not and needed his mother there late at night. Ever since his father had died two and a half years ago, things had been different; the son who had once slept soundly on his own was now awoken by horrible nightmares and the sounds of monsters calling for him from under his bed. So Mrs. Thorne kept her son close by, just in case he needed her to fight the monsters off.

But now that the Delornes were moving in, things would be different.

Katherine urged Gregory inside gently, Ms. Delorne and Christophe following closely behind. Both of them looked intently around themselves, amazed by the simplest things, like the color of the paint on the wall or the floor molding. Gregory bit his lips together, watching Christophe as he carefully inspected a potted azalea on his mother's favorite end table. Mrs. Thorne beamed at her new roommates.

"Welcome home!" she said, taking their coats. Christophe seemed reluctant to give his up, but did so. She looked down at Gregory as she headed for the closet. "Sweetie, why don't you show Christophe your room? You'll be sharing it, now."

He blinked back up at her, his curls hanging in his face. "…But…but Mum…what about the monsters…?"

"Christophe will help you fight them off, honey. And if you really need Mum, I'll be right down the hall." She gave his rear end a motherly pat, nudging him toward the little brunette boy, who furrowed his eyebrows at Gregory and scowled when he realized that he was being approached again. Apparently, he had forgotten about sleeping on Gregory and holding his hand in the car. Gregory shuffled his feet meekly as his mother burst into French again, guiding Nicole around the house.

Christophe pouted for a moment, drawing himself up to be as tall as he could and looking down on Gregory arrogantly. He snorted. "Leetil beetch. I will show you 'oo eez een charge 'ear." The blonde boy blushed sheepishly, still not understanding half of what Christophe said. He held out his hand, and Christophe started, fearing another slap. His face screwed up when he realized he had leapt unnecessarily, and he smacked Gregory's hand away. "Don't touch me, you fucking beetch."

"…M-my mum wants me to…to show you where your bed is…"

"Hmph," Christophe grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "I am sleeping with you, no?"

"Um…" Gregory rearranged his feet again, looking down at his toes shyly. Christophe had an awfully strict handle over the English language when his mother wasn't around, Gregory noticed. "Y-yes…we…we'll be…sharing a room…"

Christophe was silent for a few moments, looking Gregory over; sizing him up. He grinned slyly at his new companion. "You are afraid of me, Gregory, zat eez eet?" he stated more than asked, his voice as smooth as a newborn's skin. Gregory shivered and wished his mother were there.

"…No…"

He wouldn't admit it, even if he were, and Christophe knew it. The French boy laughed, his green eyes sparkling, and Gregory looked up at him, startled by the sound. Christophe didn't seem like the type of person who would laugh. The brunette stepped forward, placed both of his hands on Gregory's shoulders, and startled the hell out of the poor boy by kissing his forehead, as if in some ceremonial way, finalizing what he said next:

"I sink zat we will be ze best of friends, Gregory."

He then promptly hit Gregory hard enough in the back of the head to knock him to the floor, running off down the hall toward the unknown territories of the Thorne apartment and cackling evilly as he went.

Gregory got to his feet, his eyes watering and his head throbbing, his lower lip jutting out in an aggravated manner. He rubbed the back of his skull, toddling down the hall and searching for Christophe with spite brewing in his young mind. His head hurt, and he was tired; and now he was being forced to share his bedroom with this…this animal? He didn't know how he was going to live.

He found Christophe in the proper room; Gregory's nearly unused bedroom, which boasted blue walls and a single bed against the right-hand wall, with a railing set up on the exposed side to prevent his falling out, and Veggie Tales blankets. Gregory had a small bookshelf on the opposite wall, its top surface adorned with superhero action figures, its shelves filled with coloring books and the numerous works of Dr. Suess. There was a window against the far wall that filtered in soft, afternoon light, with white, lacy curtains and handprints on the lower panes of glass. All of his toys were organized neatly in the corner to the left of the doorway, his closet and dresser full of clothes to the right, past the end of the bed. Christophe was standing in the middle of the room, his breathing strained, his head pointed down toward the floor, and Gregory approached him cautiously, not sure what to expect, now. He heard a faint sigh and stopped walking.

"…Where will I sleep, zen? On ze floor?"

"N-no…I…I think Mum will get you a cot…"

Christophe sat and brought his knees up again, sitting like he had in the lobby of the homeless shelter, with his elbows around his knees and his eyes in his arms. He mumbled angry French words to himself, and Gregory just stood in the doorway, scared half-insane of the little boy muttering to himself in his bedroom. Not sure what else to do, Gregory turned away from Christophe and preoccupied himself with clearing his Playskool desk of Beanie Babies, tugging it out of the corner and setting it up against the wall. He sat down in it, pulled paper and crayons out of a drawer in the front, and, with a final look at Christophe—who was still deep in conversation with himself—Gregory began to ignore his new friend.

Christophe didn't talk to himself for long. Gregory soon felt the French boy's presence over his shoulder, watching him as he made careful strokes with his crayons, drawing a fat, round sun in the sky and flat grass on the ground, as young children tend to do. He continued to draw, feeling strangely as though he were accomplishing something, with Christophe's hot breath grazing his ear and curious green eyes observing his every move. Gregory drew two little boys—one with curly yellow hair and blue eyes, the other with a lot of clothes and green eyes—and as he reached for the brown crayon, he felt Christophe's hand over his. He blinked up at his adversary.

"…S'matter?" he asked, confused. Christophe breathed for a few moments, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips pursed. He looked anxious about something.

"…What…what are you doing?"

Gregory swallowed and pointed to the picture. "I'm drawing. See, that's you, there…"

Christophe let out a pained sound, and Gregory looked back at him, a little worried. Their hands were still connected, heat gathering in Christophe's palm. The brunette blinked, his expression a little hurt. Gregory felt the strange sensation that Christophe had never seen crayons before, and that made him feel odd in the depths of his heart.

"…Can you…teach me 'ow to draw, Gregory?" Christophe asked softly, blushing a bit. Gregory gave him a look. Kids were supposed to know how to draw…or at least, he had thought that they were. Apparently, formerly homeless children, like Christophe Delorne, had no say in the matter, and thus, could not do so. Gregory patted the little hand over his own lovingly, his smile like the sun in a hurricane to the shaggy-haired brunette.

"Of course I cun, Christophe," he replied soothingly, locating the brown crayon and holding it out toward his friend. "Here…you cun finish your hair."

Christophe took the wax stick somewhat hesitantly, gripping it with his fist instead of his fingers. Gregory took Christophe's fist in his hands and gently placed the tip of the crayon on the paper, guiding Christophe's unsure hand over the drawing and making little spikes of brown hair. Christophe's breathing was strained and nervous, and he leaned hard into Gregory's back, as if he were afraid that he would somehow mess up Gregory's lovely drawing, even with guidance. Eight seconds later, Christophe's hair was complete, and Gregory lifted his friend's fist from the paper, showing him what he had done. Christophe put the crayon down and touched the paper, smearing the colored wax a little with his fingers. Gregory grabbed the red and drew happy smiles on both of the little boys.

"There!" he announced, putting the red crayon back in the pile and beaming down at their creation. "It's done!"

Christophe looked the picture over thoughtfully, examining the lines he had helped make with a critiquing eye. He sighed obtusely and wandered away from the desk, and Gregory thought for a moment before turning around and fixing Christophe with a curious gaze. "Hey…how do you know so much English if your mum cun hardly speak any?"

The little French boy wandered over to the middle of the floor again, settling down and folding his legs over one another, Indian-style. He picked at a stray piece of fuzz on the carpet. "…I went to a teacher…" he murmured. "I know almost ze same amount of English as I know French. Muzar wants me to teach 'er English. She sent me to learn so zat I could understand what eez going on 'ear in America. So zat I can do well with ze ozar children."

"That's awful nice of her," Gregory murmured, smiling shyly at Christophe. The brunette frowned at him in response.

"Why are you so 'appy?"

Gregory blinked, a little startled by the question. He shrugged after a moment of contemplation. "…I don't know. I guess…because I like you, even if you are a bit scary…and I'm happy that you're going to be living with us."

Christophe shivered, and Gregory wondered why; it wasn't cold at all in the room. The French boy closed his eyes and hugged himself, lowering his eyebrows and wrinkling the skin on the bridge of his nose. Gregory wondered why Christophe was so angry. "…I 'ave nuhsing to be 'appy about…"

"…But…we're friends now, aren't we?"

"Yes of course you stupeed fool," Christophe growled, shaking his head. "But…you do not understand…I 'ate eet 'ear…eet smells like ze sewer and eet eez too loud…"

"So why did you move here?"

Christophe glowered at Gregory, who was badly shocked by the searing hatred in his friend's emerald eyes. "…Zat eez none of your beezinus, Gregory."

"B-but…why New York…?"

Christophe sighed stiffly. "…We are poor. We spent nearly all of our money to simply get to America…Muzar applied us for American citizenship a year ago, when we first moved 'ear, and we are almost Americans. She eez almost able to get a job and get us off of ze streets."

"…Oh," Gregory murmured, fiddling with his fingers anxiously. He could tell that Christophe was angry with him, though he wasn't quite sure if he really had reason to be angry. How was Gregory supposed to know that Christophe's mother wasn't able to get a job? "…I…I'm s—"

"Gregory!"

Both of the boys started, surprised by the call. Gregory scrambled to his feet and tripped out of his bedroom, toddling down the hall and assuring his mother that; "I'm coming, Mum!" Christophe was left to his own devices in the bedroom. Gregory turned the corner and smiled up at his mother, who beamed down at him. Ms. Delorne looked a little preoccupied over on the sofa, in the living room.

"Gregory, dear, did you show Christophe your room?"

"Yes, Mum. I think he likes it."

"Good. Take him around and show him the rest of the house real quick for me, and then bring him in here…Ms. Delorne and I have a few things to discuss with you boys."

Gregory blinked. "…Okay, Mum."

He turned on his heel and teetered back to his bedroom, calling for Christophe as he went. He stumbled through the doorway, glanced the room over quickly, and saw that the little Frenchman was nowhere to be found. He blinked, confused, and looked behind the door, then under his bed, then in his play area. He saw that Christophe had taken the black crayon, for reasons unbeknownst to Gregory, and had used it down to the labeling paper on Gregory's cartoon Christophe. What had once been a happy representation of the brunette was now a pudgy ball of clothes with an angry, black scribble for a face.

Gregory touched the smooth surface of the black wax for a second before remembering what he had been enlisted to do, and then he turned around and headed back into the hallway, calling Christophe's name again. He heard a grunt coming from the room to his left; the bathroom.

"E'scuze me, I am peeing!" Christophe growled haughtily, and the sounds echoing forth from behind the door let Gregory know that the French boy was telling the truth. The blonde boy sighed and sat patiently beside the door, waiting for Christophe to come out. Apparently, Christophe thought that Gregory had left, because shortly afterward, he began singing "Old McDonald", and Gregory had to bite his lip to keep from giggling. When Christophe came to; "with a quack quack here, and a quack quack there", instead, to Gregory's surprise, he growled; "with a bang, bang 'ear, and a pow, pow zer, shoot zem up, fucking ducks, I fucking 'ate ducks, kill zem you stupeed farmer…"

Gregory put his hands over his mouth and waited silently for Christophe to step out of the bathroom. He heard the French boy wash his hands and flush the toilet, and then the door opened, yielding the newly-relieved brunette. Christophe let out a little sound of shock when he saw that Gregory was sitting right beside the doorway, waiting for him. His face flushed when he realized that Gregory must have heard him singing, and he looked about ready to smack his friend before he thought again and decided against it. Instead, he stormed past the curly-haired blonde and headed back for the bedroom. Gregory scrambled to his feet and ran after him.

"Mum says…come to the living room if you don't want to see the rest of the house, Christophe," he chirped. Christophe shivered again.

"…I do not want to look at anyone. Leave me alone."

He slammed the door to the bedroom shut behind himself and, cleverly, locked it. Gregory stared at his own door in bewilderment, unsure what to do. What was wrong with Christophe? Gregory had never seen someone so bitter before in his life. Shrugging, he touched the door and found it suitable to mumble; "if you get hungry…we have food in the kitchen," before turning around and skipping once again back down the hallway. He walked in on his mother and Ms. Delorne laughing about something. They smiled at him when they noticed he had joined them.

"Oh, but where's Christophe, sweetie?" Mrs. Thorne asked, looking behind her son. "Is he in the bathroom?"

"No, he just got out…he said he doesn't want to look at anybody, and to leave him alone," Gregory reported, stretching. "He's hiding in my room, Mum. Why's he so grouchy?"

"…Christophe, tu me tues avec votre stupidité," Ms. Delorne murmured, shaking her head. She put her face in her palms and sighed heavily, and Gregory cocked his eyebrows at the startled look his mother gave the Frenchwoman. What had she said about Christophe, he wondered? He scratched his rear and blinked at his mother, half-smiling.

"…So what did you want to tell us, Mum? I cun tell Christophe later…"

"Oh…" Katherine said, still looking quite disturbed by whatever Nicole had said. "I…it's nothing, honey, don't you worry about it. I'll tell you…some other time…for now, just…go and see if you can get Christophe to come out of your room. He needs a bath."

Gregory deflated. He had been expecting some sort of surprise, and bath time was certainly not very surprising, nor was it a very good thing, in his opinion. Dragging his feet, he wandered glumly back down the hall for the third time in half an hour, stopping at his bedroom door and preparing to call Christophe again. But he hesitated, because he heard a very familiar sound leaking out from between the cracks around the door.

It was the kind of sound that one does not enjoy hearing at all, unless one is an evildoer of some sort, which Gregory most certainly was not. It was as soft and strangled as the whines of a month-old puppy with a broken leg; the kind of sound that could break your heart in an instant. Gregory leaned closer to the door, wondering if he was hearing incorrectly, but once he pressed his ear into the wooden barrier, there was no mistaking it.

Christophe was sobbing.

Gregory reached up and found, to his surprise, that the door was now unlocked. He stepped in without asking first (after all, it was his room) and looked around the dark vicinity, being sure to move quietly so as not to disturb his friend. He found the French boy huddled in his play corner, surrounded by stuffed animals and hiding his face in the receiving arms of a very large stuffed kangaroo. Gregory watched him for a second, almost frozen in place, mesmerized by the way the brunette's shoulders trembled softly as he wept. It didn't dawn upon Gregory that he had never seen another child actually cry before, because not even he had ever actually cried. Everything that he had ever done had been a call for attention, or a Band-Aid, or food. Gregory didn't realize it, but Christophe was crying because he was truly, deeply sad…and being so young, the blonde had little to no understanding of what sadness really was.

And he wouldn't grasp it completely until a good ten years later.

But for now, he was granted mobility again when Christophe choked out his name; he responded to the call and swept down gently beside the brunette, who turned away from the kangaroo and hugged his five-year-old friend, instead. Gregory fell back into the pile of Beanie Babies he had pushed to the floor earlier, and hugged Christophe back, not comprehending precisely what was happening but realizing that Christophe was crying, so he needed to be hugged. Hugs made the tears stop, as Gregory had learned at a very young age, and kisses often helped as well. So he kissed Christophe's face tenderly and held the little boy's shaking body against his own, whispering soft reassurances that it'll be all right, and don't worry, and Mum is making pancakes for dinner.

Christophe stopped sobbing, but his tears continued to make spots on Gregory's shoulder, his quivering lips pressing into the blonde's arm and his flushed cheeks into Gregory's shirt. He tilted his head to the right and looked up into his friend's smiling face, wiping tears from his eyes before asking; "…Where eez y-your fazur…?"

There was a good minute of silence on Gregory's part before he looked back down into Christophe's deep, green eyes. "…My Dad is…dead," he said quietly, and Christophe's eyes widened further. "…He got sick and died when…I was three."

Christophe coughed feebly, his tiny fingers grasping at Gregory's blue tee shirt, asking for comfort, and it suddenly struck Gregory that it was possible that Christophe was crying because he missed his father. The French boy sniffed. "…Do you r-recall anysing about 'im…?"

Gregory stroked Christophe's hair and patted his back, thinking hard for a minute. "…Not a lot…but Mum says he was really nice to me, and that he loved us an awful lot…sometimes I cun remember what he looked like in my dreams, but it's hard because we don't have any pictures…he was big, though. Real big. And strong and smart, too…at least…until the last few months or so." Gregory sighed. "I wish he would've lived…so I could've got to know him better."

Gregory had seen the American boys playing catch with their fathers in the parks enough times to yearn for his own dad; to see his smiling face, laughing as his son caught the ball and threw it skillfully back to him. Gregory hated the sickness and what it had taken from him, and he hugged Christophe into himself, upset just thinking about it. Christophe pushed against the Beanie Babies and pulled away for a moment, looking Gregory in the face as if he had just realized something.

"…Y-you…" he murmured, his eyebrows lowering a little. The white parts of his eyes were pink and bloodshot from his salty tears. "…You keesed me…"

There was a brief, awkward silence between them.

"…S-so…so what? You kissed me, too," Gregory accused him, sticking out his lower lip. "You kissed my head earlier, remember?"

Christophe considered this, sniffing the tears away, and then he scowled down at Gregory, his cheeks pink from shyness now instead of sadness. "…Don't kees me, Gregory. Eet eez gross."

"Well then why'd you do it?" Gregory demanded, puckering his lips and making a face at the brunette. Christophe's eyes teared up again and he buried his face in Gregory's chest, sobbing roughly. Gregory blinked, unsure. Christophe was confusing him a lot.

"Ma mère ne m'aime pas...elle ne se soucie pas..." Christophe choked, his chest rising and falling in a strange pattern against Gregory's belly. And though Gregory had no clue what that meant, he had a feeling that it wasn't anything good. He hugged Christophe gently and tried to calm him down, not knowing that a few years later, it would be the other way around, and he would be asking himself the same thing that Christophe was asking himself now:

...Why do I trust this boy?

Bath time was not something that Gregory generally enjoyed; getting oneself clean was not at all a riveting process, he felt, even if it was the only time that he could play with foamy water and not get in trouble. He didn't really like getting wet; it made his hair feel weird, and when it was drying, the cold water often dripped onto his back; a feeling that he detested. So, as per usual, he protested his nighttime bath, even though his mother had made him pancakes for dinner, as she had promised. She tried to use this against him, but it didn't work; Gregory refused to get into the tub, and he was going to stay out at all costs.

Christophe, as soon as he heard his mother tell him it was time to wash, followed her soundlessly into the bathroom and got undressed, and within a minute's time, Gregory (who was huddled behind the potted azalea) heard the sounds of a bath echoing out from the bathroom. He scowled, irritated with Christophe for conforming and doing as his mother told him. Now Mrs. Thorne would surely use this against her own son.

"Do you hear that, Gregory? Christophe got into the bath."

"But he's dirty and…and he needs one! I am not dirty!"

"Yes you are, you're a smelly little boy," his mother declared, leaning over the barrier and grabbing her son around the waist. She lifted him up and carried him quickly to the bathroom; he kicked and shrieked the whole way, and earned himself a look from Christophe and a sigh from Ms. Delorne when he started growling about the stupidity of bathing. His mother promptly undressed him and set him in the tub beside Christophe, who looked over at him with a scowl on his face. Foam dripped from his shaggy hair.

"Eet eez better to just do as zey tell you," he preached as his mother scrubbed his back with a washcloth. "Eet eez over with much faster zat way."

"And that goes for everything, Gregory," Katherine agreed, squeezing baby shampoo into her son's hair. Gregory pouted while she washed his hair, glaring down at the pillars of soap while Christophe watched him with a bit of a curious eye. Gregory scowled back at him in response, grabbing one of his rubber bath toys and throwing it at the French boy. It hit him squarely in the chest. Christophe gave him a sour look and splashed soap-water in his face.

"Boys! Stop it," Mrs. Thorne demanded, gingerly helping her shocked son get soap out of his eyes.

Ms. Delorne pulled a lock of Christophe's hair out of his face. She sighed. "Katherine…il a besoin d'un coupe des cheveux…do tu avez n'importe quels ciseaux?"

"Oui."

"Je devrai le faire après nous sommes finis ici …"

"Muzar, I don't want a 'aircut," Christophe murmured, scratching his neck. Then, remembering that his mother probably couldn't tell what he meant, repeated in French: "Je ne veux pas celui." His mother released his hair and gently began washing his feet, cocking her eyebrows at him.

"Tant pis, Christophe, tu ressemblez à un chien," she replied in a final sort of tone. Gregory watched Christophe lower his head with a bit of a spiteful eye, wondering if Christophe ever stood up to his mother…and if, when he did, he ever managed to do so without getting a smack in the face. "Je n'aurai pas de chien pour un fils."

Gregory was surprised to hear Christophe let out a soft chuckle a few seconds later. "Woof," he said, baring his baby teeth in a full-fledged grin. Gregory couldn't help but giggle a little, and Mrs. Thorne laughed, as well. Ms. Delorne, however, did not find her son's antics amusing. She hit him on the back of the head with a wet, slapping sound, and Gregory felt his mother flinch before she turned away. Nicole hissed something in French to her son that Gregory couldn't catch, and Christophe nodded, all traces of his silly little boy's grin gone from his face.

"...Oui, Muzar" he murmured, shame evident on his face. Gregory's little heart was beating fast in his chest, and he saw his own mother lean over to speak softly to Nicole. He knew he wasn't supposed to hear what was said, but he heard it, anyway.

"…Nicole…will you please…not do that…at least not around Gregory?"

The Frenchwoman glanced over at the British woman, confusion evident on her face. "Hmm?" she asked, looking truly baffled. Gregory pretended to be interested in what Christophe was doing, even though the brunette was doing absolutely nothing of interest. He didn't look at Christophe's face. If he had, he would have seen that the boy was biting his lip hard to keep something in.

Mrs. Thorne raised her eyebrows. "Ne frappez pas s'il vous plaît votre fils," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "Il fait peur à Gregory."

Ms. Delorne looked back at her blandly for a few seconds before she nodded solemnly and glanced down at her wet knees. "Oh…oui…of course…" she murmured, awkwardly going back to bathing Christophe. Gregory watched her thin, bony hands as she scrubbed at her son's sickly yellow skin, and he wondered if Christophe had ever had a proper bath before in his life. His skin looked raw and pink underneath the layer of yellow buildup that seemed to encase all of his body. When Gregory finally looked up into his friend's eyes, he thought they looked dull, as if his mother's last smack had knocked some of the life out of him. He looked down at his hands and said nothing for a long while after that.

Eventually, though, he had to say something. Alone in his bedroom with the young, French brunette, who was lying on a cot at the foot of Gregory's bed with a fresh haircut and skin still pink from the soap, he sighed loudly enough to let Christophe know that he was still up. The other boy sighed in response, and Gregory sat up in the dark. He felt a little sick to his stomach.

"…Christophe?" he whispered, earning himself a little quiver of bed sheets on the French boy's part. "…Christophe, please tell me…why does your mum hit you like she does…?"

Silence from the foot of the bed. The gentle sounds of one of their mothers clearing her throat somewhere down the hall; the heater running softly and sending warm air through the ventilation system opening in the far corner of the room. The sheets rustled again, and Gregory furrowed his eyebrows, climbing over his blankets and gripping the railing at the foot of the bed. The back of Christophe's less-furry head glared back at the British boy, as foreboding as the "sounds" that often kept Gregory awake late at night, echoing out from beneath his bed. Gregory shuddered, but stayed still.

"…Please answer me…"

"Gregory…" Christophe breathed, curling himself up into an even tighter ball. Gregory leaned his chin against the railing, examining his friend. His body was very, very skinny. Gregory remembered that he could see Christophe's ribs when they had been naked in the bathtub, and he had the faint idea that people who lived on the streets didn't always have enough food to eat. He remembered the way that Christophe had used very little syrup on his pancakes, as if the sweet taste made him feel sick, because he wasn't used to it. He wondered how long Ms. Delorne had been saving money to get the two of them to America.

Gregory reached between the bars of the railing and touched Christophe's shoulder. The boy started and looked over his shoulder with hard, angry eyes, quite obviously expressing that I wish to be left alone. "…Please, Christophe…I hafta know…" Gregory murmured, a soft, five-year-old's urgency in his voice. "…It…like my mum says…it's scary…mums shouldn't hit their kids…"

Christophe rolled over again, hiding his face in his pillow. Gregory's hand slid down Christophe's torso, and he felt the ribs through the brunette's borrowed nightshirt. A soft, unrecognizable sound leaked out from the boy's front, and Gregory pulled his hand away, gripping the guardrail again. "…Leave me alone…" Christophe sighed. "Eet eez none of your concern…"

His teeth clicked as he closed them, as if doing so would assuage Gregory's worries, at least until the following morning. Gregory felt something pulling at him, as if some part of him knew that he should listen to what Christophe said. He chose to listen to that small part of himself and backed off, if not a bit reluctantly, squirming back over his sheets until he felt the coolness of his pillow pressing into his face again. He could see the moonlight filtering in through the window; pale grayish-blue and beautiful. He lay on his side and stared at it for a few minutes, feeling a fog start to overcome his brain. It had been a long day. He closed his eyes with the image of a small boy standing in the moonlight in his line of sight, pulling at the bottom of his shirt with a pained expression on his face.

A few slow seconds later, Gregory felt his bed sagging with added weight, but he kept his eyes closed, even when he felt Christophe sliding under the sheets beside him. He held the hand that slipped into his own without protest; let the brunette's head lean against his chest. He sighed and listened to Christophe's breathing; faltering, unsure, strained, and he felt the little fingers clench tighter around his own when Ms. Delorne walked by outside, muttering something to herself in French. Christophe's hands were smooth and warm, still fresh from the bath, and he pulled Gregory's hands into his face, pressing them into his cheeks. Gregory's eyes opened when he felt tears beneath his fingertips, and a few moments of silence passed before the blonde closed his eyes again, not understanding and wishing that he did.

Within minutes, they were both sound asleep.