I want to thank everyone for the fantastic reviews I've been getting. It's really great to get so much support. I love you guys for reading this vomit…I really, really do. :P

Here's a nice long hunka-chunkin' chapter for you, because I love you all and I'm nucking futs. Wooh! (glee)

Chapter Six

Gregory was, by most peoples' standards, a good boy.

Christophe had always been the exact opposite.

The blonde knew this because there was a boy in his grade at Yardale who reminded Gregory immensely of his young brunette friend. He was dark and angry and threw fits about everything an awful lot (in that way, he was not like Christophe…Christophe usually hid his feelings until he was alone and then cried it all away), and Gregory had often heard the teachers talking about how bad of a kid that other boy was. And Gregory agreed with them on the subject of that other boy, which was a bit bizarre, considering he rather disliked thinking of Christophe as being "bad". Because Christophe wasn't bad, at least not by Gregory's standards. Christophe was a good boy. He was simply misunderstood by most people.

Not that Gregory understood him any better than those other people, half of the time. After the first week of camp, when they had the weekend to relax and enjoy themselves, Christophe (freshly christened "The Mole" by his fellow campers) had acted as though spending a moment away from Gregory would be fatal to both of them. The blonde was highly confused by this, considering his best friend's distant behavior throughout the past week, and he never really was given an answer as to why Christophe had suddenly had such a remarkable change of heart. Perhaps it was his new name that had brought him back. So Gregory called him "Mole", as well, though mostly just to see him smile like he did.

There was a bookshelf in the back of Cabin H, covered in dust and loaded with all the classics. Gregory and Mole quickly realized that the other boys all flocked to the rec room on the weekends, so they had the Cabin to themselves…and, given this opportunity, Gregory attacked the bookshelf and buried himself in words and pictures and poetry, curling up on his bed and staring intently at the pages while The Mole, for the first few hours, at least, lie on his own bed in a fetal position and watched Gregory with great intensity in his eyes. Every now and again, Gregory would look over at him and smile brightly, and the brunette would smile back, though hardly with as much fervor.

Just after lunchtime on their first Sunday at camp, Gregory was quite thoroughly indulged in James and the Giant Peach when he felt the bed tilt and creak near his feet. He looked over the edge of the tattered old book and saw that Mole was now crouched at the foot of his bed, grinning. Gregory blinked.

"S'matter?" he asked, confused. Mole crept forward and gently tossed Gregory's book aside, the stubby, callused fingers sliding carefully over the blonde's neck and jaw. The green eyes glowed, that grin still plastered on his face, and there was some degree of insanity to his expression, though Gregory didn't identify it as madness. He saw it as something that he could not explain, yet. Concerned, Gregory furrowed his eyebrows and sat up, staring at The Mole. "What are you doing?"

"…I mees you," Mole breathed, leaning forward and pressing his thin face into the chest of Gregory's warm, yielding shirt. The Brit—baffled but still accepting of this odd gesture—wrapped his arms around The Mole's waist, feeling the uneven rise and fall of the brunette's chest against his belly. Mole breathed deeply, and Gregory looked down at him when he felt the soft sensation of lips against his ribs. "…You smell different. Not like zem. You smell like—"

"Mole, you're being weird."

There was a brief silence between them after these words passed Gregory's lips, and then the thin body twisted, catlike, against Gregory's. The brunette's belly pressed into the blonde's thighs. "…I am…just tired, mon chéri. I always act strangely when I am tired."

"…Oh," Gregory said, leaning back into the pillow and closing his eyes. His hands found Christophe's hair, playing with the locks absentmindedly. "Well…I miss you, too. But I'm right here. Why do you miss me?"

"…Eet eez better, now," Mole whispered vaguely, his bare fingers curling softly around Gregory's bed sheets. He exhaled long and hard through his nose, and Gregory felt the eyes close against his stomach. For some reason, it felt like they were home again. "…I am sorry zat I left you."

"It…it's okay," Gregory replied. The Cabin felt strangely quiet, all of a sudden. Empty and safe, as if they could have done anything and no one would have seen. He remembered the way that The Mole had laughed on Friday, and how he had suddenly been convinced, by that simple sound, that everything and everyone belonged to his best friend. Mole could be that powerful. Mole would grow up and hold the universe in his hand like a snow globe, Gregory thought, and he shuddered at the idea. It seemed so dark a prospect. He had a mental image of Mole smashing the snow globe universe with a hammer and laughing in that smooth, glasslike way. Gregory's fingers were knotted up in locks of soft, chocolate hair. "…I still love you."

Mole chuckled softly against him, and Gregory thought that it sounded slightly mocking, as if Mole didn't really believe that Gregory felt that way. He craned his neck and kissed the top of the shaggy head, his blue eyes narrowed in frustration. Mole breathed out and Gregory caught a whine in the exhale, so he leaned back again and tried to relax, for his friend's sake. The taller boy shivered dimly against him, and Gregory felt fingertips tracing the subtle curve of his sides, pausing at his hips before they reached back up and laced with Gregory's hands. The Mole didn't cry, but Gregory could tell that he had wanted to.

He just had no idea why.

The next week, the first-years were given a different assignment. They would go off with Moustache and learn basic desert survival skills, while the second-years stayed behind and continued to dig. Gregory saw the yearning in the second-years' faces, but he also knew that they had all probably learned their basic skills the previous year; they just wanted to get out of digging. He smirked at them spitefully along with the other first-years and headed out toward the wasteland at The Mole's side every morning.

The first-years had quickly realized that everything that was truly important had been told to them on the first day out in the desert, so there was really no point in listening to the things that Moustache said every day. He didn't really notice it when they talked amongst themselves, anyway, so they took advantage of his absentmindedness and chatted merrily away about nothing in particular. Anything to pass the time. Gregory hadn't minded this, at first, until the other boys began to flock around him and Mole and focus all of their attention on the French boy. He felt a spike of indignation whenever one of the boys gave him a bitter look, as if they were thinking: Who the hell are you, and why do you think that HE would ever care about a nerd like YOU, you deluded poser? Mole could usually make it better, though; whenever someone actually voiced this thought (though never in that precise way), he would cock his eyebrows and respond:

"Zees eez Gregory. 'E eez my best friend."

Usually the boy who had asked the question would back off sheepishly and eye Gregory enviously for the rest of the day. Sometimes he would laugh and ask if Mole was joking. And on the Tuesday of the second week of camp, he had actually looked over at Gregory for a moment before leaning down and asking Mole if the blonde was retarded, and he had to keep him close because he had promised his parents that he would. That boy had finished the day with a bloody nose, and Mole had been lectured by Mr. Milfrey for a good hour on the subject of peer cooperation. The brunette had smiled in an unreadable way at dinner that night, through The Anthem and chicken noodle soup, and Gregory felt rough fingers brush his own casually a few times during the meal. Those fingers were enough to reassure him that things between them were still right as rain.

And he loved that they were.

…But, of course, he had to find a way to screw things up again by opening his fat, British mouth.

Thursday, during group therapy. The Mole was, as usual, pretending to sleep while one of the other boys talked about his dog and bored the rest of the campers to death. Gregory and a few of the others giggled at Mole's antics, and Milfrey, hearing the disturbance, looked up from his clipboard. His brown eyes found The Mole's drooling face and narrowed angrily as the other boy stopped talking.

"That's real nice, Thomas," Milfrey murmured, glaring at Mole. "…CHRISTOPHE DELORNE!" he screamed, sending Mole shooting up into a sitting position. He scowled irritably at Mr. Milfrey (who had dared to use his real name), his green eyes flashing. "…Do you have somethin' you would like to share with the rest of us, since you're so bored out of your mind by what the other boys have to say?"

The Mole's fanclub looked at him expectantly, awaiting some witty comment with grins on their dirty little faces. Mole shrugged and wiped his mouth, adjusted the baldric he had begun wearing earlier that week (to carry a shovel around with him and further humor his fans…none of the administration had really seemed to notice this), smiling easily against their expectations. "Well…I 'ave always wondered where dirt comes from. Could you answer zat question for me, Meestar Milfrey?"

Milfrey's frown actually twitched, flashing an amused smile for a split-second before it became a full-fledged sneer again. "…It's decomposed shit from God's toilet," he said dryly. The entire table laughed. Milfrey rubbed his nose to hide his own snicker. "Does anyone else have somethin' to say before we wrap things up here?"

Gregory didn't even realize that he had raised his hand until his mouth opened and The Mole's eyes shot to his face. "Mr. Milfrey? Umm…I have a friend…whose mother hits him when she's mad at him. Or she does it for no reason at all, sometimes. And I've seen her do it…and it…it's horrible. He gets bruises and scars, and he cries a lot at night because of it…Mr. Milfrey, I really hate to see this friend of mine in any kind of pain…so I just want to know…why does his mum hit him when he's not even being bad?"

In reality, these thoughts had been bothering Gregory for years. He had just never really had anyone to discuss them with. Whenever he asked Mole about it, the brunette would either shrug it off and change the subject or grow angry with him and storm off for however long, until he cooled down and forgot that Gregory had even asked. Gregory had tried to talk to his own mother about it, but her response was always the same: "I'll tell you when you're older, sweetheart." And, of course, he was far too terrified of Ms. Delorne to even think of asking her why she did what she did. But it frustrated him that he couldn't know, and, apparently, on that night, his mouth had decided that he had waited long enough for an answer.

…After Gregory had finished his question, the entire room immediately went deathly silent, as if God had just pressed the mute button on His great Universal Remote. Milfrey's eyes were wide and shocked, fixated on Gregory with a sort of awed horror, and the boys at the table seemed unsure just what to think. Most of them looked as if they would have very much liked to leave the room; others looked amused, like they thought that Gregory was joking. The Mole was shaking in his seat, and Gregory could hear the brunette's teeth grinding angrily behind his lips. The bare fists were clenched in disgust against the table, the skin pulled so tight that it looked as if it might split open.

Milfrey cleared his throat awkwardly, just to bring some sound back into the room. "Gregory…are you bein' serious about this? Because this isn't somethin' you should joke about—"

"I'm very serious, Mr. Milfrey," Gregory said quietly. A few of the boys shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, and the old counselor stared across the table at the young British boy, a pained look in his eyes that reminded Gregory very much of the look his mother always gave him whenever he asked her this question. Milfrey glanced around at the other boys for a moment, and his eyes rested on The Mole for a second, taking in the hateful look the French boy was shooting at Gregory.

Milfrey sighed wearily. "Boys…I want you all to go and shower up, now. Gregory…come here, please. I need to talk to you."

The other boys got up and made their way out of the cafeteria, not at all reluctantly. Gregory hesitated in his seat, staring at The Mole, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but Mole wasn't in the mood to hear it. He pinched Gregory hard on the arm and pushed him curtly into the table before he stomped out of the room, muttering curses to himself. The blonde nursed his arm and got up from the table, walking sheepishly up to Mr. Milfrey. The counselor was squeezing the bridge of his nose and looked much, much older than he had just a minute ago. He looked up when Gregory sat down opposite him.

"…Yes, sir?" the blonde asked. The brown eyes were dark and tired and seemed, somehow, to accentuate the wrinkles on Mr. Milfrey's greasy old face. Gregory noticed that the counselor's hands were shaking a little against the tabletop.

"…Gregory," he sighed, "you…you have to understand somethin'. Some grown-ups…have problems. Serious problems with their minds, and with their self-control. And most of the time, when parents beat their children…it's because they're alcoholics, which means, of course, that more often than not, they drink too much alcohol. Do you know what alcohol is?"

Gregory furrowed his eyebrows. "You mean like…beer?"

Milfrey looked slightly relieved that he didn't have to explain this to Gregory. "Yeah. Beer and wine and all that other stuff. Now I'm not sayin' that this is what's wrong with your friend's mother…but…maybe she drinks too much, and maybe she can't tell what she's doin' to him, because she's drunk. When grown-ups get drunk, they tend to have a hard time rememberin' what they do the morning afterward. They get headaches and get sick and all they want to do is sleep, and when they realize what they did when they were drunk, usually they feel bad about it."

"But she never feels sorry for it," Gregory argued, picking at a spot on the table. "If you saw her, you would know…she's not drunk when she hurts him. She's always the same…mean and angry and hurtful. Every single day, and he hates her for it and I hate her for it, too. Because the way she looks at him and the way that she hits him is just like…like she wishes she could just kill him. But I just want to know why she does it, and why she feels like that all the time."

"…Well if she doesn't drink, Gregory, then maybe she just doesn't like her boy very much," Milfrey said gently. Gregory's eyes widened and flashed with questions.

"B-but…if she doesn't like her son…then why did she bother to have him in the first place?" the blonde demanded, his face screwing up in frustration. "That doesn't make any sense!"

"Believe me, kid," Milfrey murmured, "I'm with you all the way on that one. But sometimes when people have babies, they want a girl, and they get a boy, instead. And sometimes people don't plan on havin' a baby at all. Sometimes they just happen. And if you didn't ask for it, sometimes you feel cheated, because you have to work so hard to care for it."

Gregory felt suddenly that maybe he should have waited until he was older to get the answer to this question, like his mother kept on saying. He only really grasped about half of what Milfrey was telling him. The rest of it just didn't seem logical at all. He bit his lower lip and tried to sort out his thoughts. "…But my mum…my mum said that I was a surprise…that I wasn't planned…and she still loves me and cares about me more than anybody else I know."

"Well, obviously, your mom doesn't feel cheated."

The blonde scratched his head irritably. "But why would you feel cheated? I mean…Mum says that a baby is the greatest gift a woman could ever ask for, whether or not they're planned, because if you have a baby, then that means that God trusts you enough to love it and care for it."

"Maybe your friend's mom doesn't believe in God."

Gregory felt something cut at his heart when Mr. Milfrey said these words. His mouth gaped, and he stared at the gray-haired man, horror-struck. "No!" he breathed, unsure exactly what to do. Denying God's existence was definitely not a good thing to do…but how to react to such a thing? "No, she…she's not allowed to do that! I…I mean…cun she do that? Wouldn't she go to Hell?"

Milfrey shrugged. "I don't know. But some people just don't believe in God. I really think you should talk to your mom about that, though.…" The Brit tried to gather his bearings, and he succeeded, although he still felt a little queasy once he had done so. Milfrey smiled weakly at him, and the doors of the cafeteria burst open, letting in a steady stream of rowdy eight-year-olds. The counselor's face fell a little at the sight of the other children. "Look, Gregory…I've got to talk to the second-years, now…but we can talk more about this on Saturday, all right?"

The blonde looked very dissatisfied about this for a moment, but then he sighed and nodded, getting slowly up from the table again. "…All right, Mr. Milfrey."

"Go and take a shower now, kid. I'll talk to you this weekend. I promise."

Gregory walked out of the cafeteria past a few straggling second-years, clambering down the steps unhappily and dragging his boots through the dirt. The sun had long since set, the sky now decorated with the distant sprinklings of stars and other planets, but he wasn't in the mood to enjoy it. He stopped by Cabin H and grabbed the pants that he had been sleeping in for the past week, along with a fresh pair of underwear, before he wandered over to the showers and found his usual stall. He locked himself inside and got undressed, kneeling down for a second and glancing under the wooden wall to his right. He saw a pair of familiar, gnarled feet, dripping and surrounded by the water from the neighboring showerhead. Gregory sighed and stood up, turning the knobs on the wall and shivering as cold water poured over his aching body.

The Mole would forgive him for this. Gregory knew that he would. He had to. They were best friends, and all he was trying to do was help. Surely Mole saw that…or he would see that, eventually. For now, Gregory knew that he had just triggered another molt, on The Mole's part, and all he could do until it was over was wait it out and pray for the both of them. God had helped once before; surely He could help again.

Gregory looked up through the open roof of his shower stall and stared at the stars, wishing.

The Mole did not speak to Gregory at all on Friday. He refused to stand alongside him while the first-years endured Moustache's long, drawling lecture on desert survival, and he instead talked rapidly and openly to the other boys, moving intentionally away from the blonde whenever he came near the group. The boys who had previously stared enviously at Gregory were now laughing at him and whispering about him behind his back, and Mole did nothing to stop them.

But it was just a phase, Gregory told himself. It would pass. Things would get better between them, just like they always did.

Saturday came, and Mole went into the rec room with the other boys, leaving Gregory alone in the Cabin with his books and nothing else. And as much as Gregory adored reading, for some reason, he grew impatient, sitting there and reading without The Mole staring at him as he did so. He put his book back on the shelf and stormed out of the Cabin, making his way confidently over to the rec room.

The rec room was actually more of a rec Cabin; an entire building devoted to foosball and pool tables and television sets with the most primitive form of cable; to board games and stereos and CDs and Gameboy Colors. Gregory navigated his way around groups of older boys, doing his best not to make eye contact as he searched for Mole. He found him huddled on a ratty, mustard-colored sofa with a few other boys, staring intently at the TV as Scooby Doo solved a mystery. Gregory heaved a sigh of relief. He and The Mole had always watched Scooby Doo together, before…certainly he would be allowed back into the circle, now. He approached the couch and opened his mouth to announce himself when Mole laughed at something.

"Of course not," he said thickly, and Gregory felt some kind of repellant in these words that made him want to back up as fast as he could and get away before the rest of the words reached his ears. But he was too slow to react. "Gregory eez not really my friend. What, are you crazy? 'E eez just a big baby 'oo always needs someone zer to 'old 'is 'and. I promised 'is muzar I would take care of 'im for 'er, so zat's what I've been doing. I would never be friends with a pussy like zat."

…The world warped around Gregory for the fourth time in the past two weeks, the sounds and colors bleeding and blending into awful things that no one could ever have explained properly. He stumbled backward and his mouth cracked open, as if he had just been hit in the stomach with a spiked bowling ball. He fell back into an older boy who shouted some indiscernible expletive at him, and the boy's friends laughed as Gregory turned on his heel and ran from the rec room, tears streaming down his face.

His boots hammered down on the dirt and he flew past the showers, the administrations office, all of the school buses…he ran and cried and, for the first time in his life, he hated everything. He hated The Mole, hated that he lied, hated that nothing was ever good enough for him. All he had ever done was attempt to be there for him. Why did Mole always have to push him away? Always? He had to slow his pace when breathing became too hard, and when he stopped and turned around, the cluster of Cabins was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, like a little model of buildings in a snow globe. He remembered The Mole's snow globe universe and tore at the tears on his face, huffing and sniffling and shaking all over.

"…B-BUGGER!" Gregory shrieked, burying his eyes in his tiny hands. "FUCKING SHIT GODDAMNIT!" He sobbed into his palms, confused, devastated. What was he supposed to do now? If Mole didn't care about him anymore…he didn't have anyone left. Not here, anyway. There was no way that he would survive the next two weeks on his own. The Mole had promised him…he had promised…that if things got too hard, he would help Gregory out. Well, things were bloody hard, now! And where was Mole? Sitting on a raggedy yellow couch, watching their show, and telling everyone that he had never really liked Gregory at all.

Was it all a lie, then? All of the tears and the closeness and the kisses and the gentle whispered "I love you"s? All just some clever ploy to make Gregory lose himself in the delusion that he wasn't worthless, when really, he was? The blonde pulled his hands away from his face and hugged himself because no one else would, choking pitifully on his own sobs. He wished the Academy would catch fire. He wished that The Mole would just die. He wanted Christophe back. Because Christophe truly had loved him.

"Aww…look at this. What have we here?"

The Brit jerked around, and a hard hand shoved him squarely in the chest, giving him no time whatsoever to react. He cried out in alarm and tripped backward, landing in the arms of another boy. Laughter surrounded him. Oh, God, he thought through his tears, struggling to see them all. There are six of them. Where did they come from…? He was tossed from one boy to the next, like a rag doll, limp and helpless in their hands.

"It's a little pussy first-year bitch," that same voice growled, and Gregory realized that the boy must have been at least fourteen; that made him an eighth-year. "What'samatter? You miss your mommy? Huh? Faggot?" Gregory screwed up his face and saw that the others were around eleven or twelve; fifth- and sixth-years. Why were they picking on him? He hadn't done anything to make them mad…had he? None of them looked familiar…

He was suddenly pushed out of the circle of boys, and he stood rigid for a moment, beguiled. He turned around and stared at their sneering faces with his streaming eyes, almost asking what the bloody hell they expected him to do, now. A sixth-year laughed at him. "Run, bitch. We wanna catch you," he growled, and the blue eyes widened in innocent fear, making the older boys snort with laughter. Gregory glanced around for some target to reach for, and his eyes found the crater, off on the horizon. They might've left a shovel there, he thought quickly. He could use that as a weapon. Gathering himself, he clenched his fists and broke into a sprint, not giving them the satisfaction of hearing him scream for help as he fled. He could hear them running behind him; hooting and hollering wildly in insane glee as they followed him toward the hole. Gregory ran as fast as his short little legs could carry him (which was actually quite fast, for a seven-year-old) and soon he could see the hole he had helped to dig. He looked over his shoulder to see how far ahead he was…

…And he tripped over his own feet and fell into the hole.

He landed, much to his surprise, in an inch-thick layer of mud at the bottom of the rather deep hole. He lie there for a moment, in complete shock, immobile, until he heard the older boys screeching up on the rim of the crater. He struggled to his feet, dripping with mud, and when he put pressure on his left foot, his ankle immediately gave way, and he fell flat on his face again. The other boys laughed cruelly at him, the eighth-year taking his place at the head of the pack. Gregory saw dirty boots in front of him.

"Well that was fun," the teenager snorted. "You run like a girl, stupid fucking first-year."

The others snickered, and the eighth-year kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and reducing him to a feeble coughing fit there beneath them. He squeezed his pouring eyes shut and cringed in the mud, wrapping his arms around his belly and choking on air. The boy had kicked him so hard that he could feel his kidneys throbbing.

A fifth-year giggled. "Aww, look at him! He can take more than that. He's not a complete waste of our time."

"Good," the eighth-year replied coldly.

Gregory felt a barrage of boots to his tiny, helpless body, and this time he couldn't hold his screams inside. They all laughed at him, sobbing, squirming in the mud, grabbing at nothing on the ground. His ankle seared with pain, but still they kicked at him, the eighth-year leader of the group laughing longest and hardest of all. To Gregory, that eighth-year was an embodiment of everything he had feared a few minutes ago; that The Mole had been lying, that no one really cared, that things would be better if he just died. The fourteen-year-old snorted and spit in Gregory's face, making the other boys shriek with hysterical laughter. Gregory whimpered and sobbed out the first name that came to mind:

"…Kuh-Christophe…"

And as if by magic, The Mole's hard little fist collided with the eighth-year's face.

"FUCKING BASTARDS!" the French boy screamed, firing a barrage of punches at the older boy's face and landing each and every one. Blood spurted from the teenager's nose as the other boys only looked on, in shock. One eventually stepped forward and leapt at Mole, latching himself around the brunette's neck. Mole shrieked and sank his sharp teeth into his attacker's arm, making the boy cry out in pain and release him. Mole kicked him swiftly in the ass and drove his nose into the dirt. Sensing the threat that the remainder of the gang posed, he tore his shovel out of his baldric and wielded it in front of himself like a sword at the other boys. The eighth-year nursed his bleeding nose and stared up at Mole, in complete shock. The fifth- and sixth-years backed up a few steps and glared at Mole, looking now as if they were cursing the fact that they didn't have weapons of any kind on them. The sixth-year on the ground was groaning and grabbing at his backside. "STAY BACK, YOU MUZARFUCKARS! I...I'LL FUCKING KEEL YOU, YOU SHEETS! FUCKING BEETCHES!"

"Man, what the fuck's your problem?" a fifth-year demanded, though his face reflected obvious fear. At this point, none of the boys other than Gregory seemed to recall the fact that Mole was a mere pussy first-year bitch. "We was just fuckin' around!"

Mole fake-lunged at the group of boys, and they all jumped back three feet. "...GO!" he ordered, gripping his shovel with one hand and swinging it around in a semi-circle. "GET ZE FUCK OUT OF 'EAR!"

They turned and ran, gladly. The eighth-year scrambled to his feet and grabbed the sixth-year, who limped and whined as his elder turned back around and glared at Mole, oozing crimson. "Fuck you, man," he spat, wiping his nose and wincing against the pain. "I'll fuckin' get you for this. Don't think I'm afraid of you. I got no problem with kicking a little French pansy in the balls."

Mole snorted and spat at the fourteen-year-old, making him jump to the side to avoid it. The older boy looked at the French boy with scorching hot rage in his eyes for a second more before he turned around and ran back toward the Academy with his younger friend.

Mole turned on his righteous heel and knelt down beside Gregory, clutching at his shaking hand to offer him comfort. "…Gregory," he asked, "Gregory…are you all right…?"

The blonde sobbed weakly, and the brunette leaned farther down, reaching forward tentatively and brushing dirty hair out of Gregory's face. The British boy struggled to nod, wanting to be strong. That was, after all, what he was here to learn. And now Mole was looking at him again, speaking to him…? He couldn't lose that again. The Mole frowned angrily, grinding his teeth, and Gregory felt strong hands helping him back up to his feet. He cried out against the pain in his ankle, and Mole slung his friend's arm over his shoulder without question, beginning to lead him to the first aid Cabin.

"…You definitely 'ave a sprain…zo' eet eez mild," he murmured after a few moments of consideration, growling something crude in French under his breath. "Fucking bastards…you'll be een ze eenfirmary all week with zees."

"I…I'm f-fine, Mole…ruh-r-really, I…I just t-twisted my ankle a little—"

"'Ush. I will not let zem get away with zees, Gregory. I will not let you allow zem to walk all over you. You are far too good for zat."

Gregory blushed from flattery through his tears and shame, choking and leaning into Mole to avoid putting his weight on his left side. He neglected to mention that it had only been fifteen minutes ago that The Mole had proclaimed that Gregory was a big pussy baby and that the two of them had never really been friends. But the brunette walked slowly, helping him along like only a real friend would, watching Gregory's face carefully for any signs of pain. He grunted in aggravation.

"Why were zey even attacking you like zat, anyway?" he asked softly, pausing for a moment when his friend accidentally put pressure on his injured foot and hissed in pain. Gregory grasped Mole's shirt with dirty, shaking fingers as he looked away from the French boy, still red-faced.

"…I…I h-heard them talking about you," Gregory lied quietly, embarrassed. He knew what The Mole must have been thinking about that: Why do you care about me? You were tearing me apart in therapy the other day. But he himself was still marveling at the fact that Mole had saved him not twenty minutes after announcing his dislike of him. "They were…saying awful things. I didn't think they deserved to get away with it."

"Well…zey didn't," Mole responded, chuckling warmly. Gregory felt the heat in his face flow through the rest of his body, and he leaned over and nudged his forehead against his best friend's cheek affectionately, to show that he had heard the implied forgiveness. The Mole smiled into the muddy golden curls. "Gregory…you are a terrible liar. I saw you run eento zat older boy een ze rec room…I saw you run out, zat eez 'ow I knew to come and find you. I realize zat you must 'ave 'eard what I said about you…and…I just want you to know zat I didn't really mean eet, mon chéri. I…I was angry with you…for telling Milfrey about my muzar. I am sorry zat I lied. I am sorry zat I 'urt your feelings."

…Gregory sighed softly, loving the sound of those words, his injured heart carefully mending itself with Mole's gentle, sincere tone. He smiled bashfully and felt lips pressing into his scraped forehead, as tender and caring as his own mother's kiss was whenever he scraped his knee or bumped his head. But he felt a little sick, now, for some reason, when The Mole kissed him. A good kind of sick that told him that the gesture was both enjoyed and appreciated by his tender heart. He leaned up and kissed Mole back, and the French boy grinned awkwardly and laughed.

"…You really are a baby, Gregory. I always 'ave to look out for you."

"You don't have to," Gregory mumbled shyly, as they reached the first-aid Cabin. Mole knocked on the door, and the nurse (a short, skinny woman with large red lips and tiny black eyes) stared at them in disgust when she saw that they were covered in mud.

"Can I help you boys?" she asked in a nasally voice. Christophe handed Gregory dutifully over to her.

"Zees boy 'as sprained 'is ankle," he said loudly. The woman's face immediately filled with concern, and she helped Gregory over to a cot, whispering motherly reassurances to him. Mole was about to follow when a gloved hand reached out and closed the door in his face.

The brunette whirled around with his fists up, ready for battle with an angry glint in his eyes. But instead of being faced with the pissed-off eighth-year, he was met with the puzzled face of a boy he had seen many times before. He lowered his fists, but kept the angry glint. This boy had gotten on his bad side before, too.

"…What do you want?" he spat.

"Hey, Mole," the dark-skinned boy said casually, his eyebrows furrowed. "Man, I saw what you did to those guys back there."

"So?" The Mole hissed, looking emotionlessly at the older boy, his eyes like two green icicles stabbing at the boy's spine. His adversary's brown eyes sparkled mischievously.

"So that was some hardcore shit, man, and I wanted to know if you'd be interested in coming to hang out with my crew sometime." He grinned, showing off-white teeth. His smile was lop-sided. "You spend almost all of your time with that nerdy blonde kid. Why not chill with some guys who're actually in your league?"

Mole's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "…What ze fuck does zat mean? Gregory eez my best friend, I cannot just—"

The dark boy laughed and cut him off, slinging his arm around the brunette's shoulders. "Dude. You're kidding me. I've seen the way you treat him. It's all you, man, strutting around here like you own the place, with him tagging along for the ride like some little girl. And I'll bet that the only reason that you even let him follow you around is…let me guess…because he's a friend of the family?"

Mole jerked away, his upper lip pulled back into a snarl. "I 'let 'im follow me around' because 'e eez my friend, you dick! Friends stick by each ozar! Friends protect each ozar!"

"Heh. So that's why you were pretty much ignoring him until today?" the other boy asked. The Mole's snarl faltered. "Is he your bitch? Is that it? Only you're allowed to kick his ass and talk shit about him?" He held his hands up innocently. "All right. That's cool, too, dude. But still…all I'm saying is that we…meaning my friends and myself…we are more your crowd, Mole. We're the big, important people that you want to be involved with. Not like little Goober or whatever."

The brunette growled something under his breath that the dark-skinned boy couldn't understand before he muttered, "and 'ow are you more important zan ze ozars? You do ze same drills, you eat ze same sheet for every meal. 'Ow are you special?"

The dark boy grinned crookedly again and grabbed Mole's muddy, gloved hand, slapping something into it. When the French boy looked down at what he had been given, he blinked twice, a blank look on his face. A brand-new package of Camel cigarettes. The older boy snickered triumphantly as The Mole's eyes gleamed and he closed his fist around the box.

"…My name is Rodney," the dark-skinned boy said. "And I'll tell you why we're special. We're special because we've got the smokes and the porn, man! And now, you're one of us." He turned around and began to walk off, calling over his shoulder, "I know you've seen us before. Sleep in your uniform and meet us by the showers at rise-and-shine. I'll make sure to save a good Playboy just for you."

Mole stared at the back of that shaven head, watching as Rodney disappeared around the cafeteria. The box of cigarettes sat lifelessly in his trembling hand, emanating some kind of strange, welcoming warmth through his glove and into his skin, as if the tobacco inside were just begging to be burned. He tried to imagine what it must feel like to smoke a cigarette; to breathe in a thick cloud of smoke and then blow it out again, like a steam engine made of flesh and bone. To have something other than air inside of his lungs. Deep inside, he couldn't wait to try it.

Inhaling fire.

He would have to wait until tomorrow, though. The Mole licked his chapped lips in anticipation and, sliding his prize tenderly into his pocket, he headed into the infirmary with no intention of telling his best friend what had just happened.