"Snow can wait, I forgot my mittens
Wipe my nose, get my new boots on
I get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter
I put my hand in my father's glove
I run off where the drifts get deeper
Sleeping beauty trips me with a frown
I hear a voice, 'you must learn to stand up
For yourself cause I can't always be around.'
He says: 'When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?
When you gonna make up your mind?
Cause things are gonna change so fast
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that I'll always want you near
You say that things change, my dear…'"
—"Winter", Tori Amos

I'm sorry it's been so long since I last updated. I've been really busy with school.

But here's where we start to ease into BLU. Now I know that this is what you all have been waiting for—to see how I incorporate the movie into this story—so…here we go. We begin with a delve back into the present; a suggestion made by the fabulous Oyaji. Love him, he is brilliant.

MY FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY IS IN FOURTEEN DAYS (spazz) which means it's been almost a year since I began writing South Park fanfiction. Wheee :D

Chapter Nine

Christophe is quiet, still. He has been for the past hour, as Gregory has been relaying the story of their childhood; smoking occasionally, thoughtfully, staring out over the water with his legs drawn up close to him. Gregory has been chancing looks over at him every once in a while, when he says something particularly memorable, but all he ever really seems to get is a solemn nod out of the Frenchman, and once, a very secretive smile. Gregory is beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, and he takes this moment to pause in his story; to join his oldest friend in staring out over the water.

"…Eet eez beautiful," Christophe murmurs; the first words he's spoken in a very long time. Gregory nods.

"Yes," the Brit sighs. "I've always enjoyed this sight. It's much more lovely at night, when you cunnot see the garbage in the water—"

"No…not zat. I mean…ze way you speak," the brunette says softly, scratching at the stubble on his chin. He looks over at Gregory, and Gregory looks back, wide-eyed. "…You remember everysing, don't you? Every last detail."

"I…well…I suppose I do, yes," the blonde replies sheepishly, his face flushing a bit. "It…it's not something that I…ever really want to forget…so I suppose that's really a good thing…"

Christophe lets out a little grunt of laughter and cannot stifle a cough; it's hard and rough, damp and ragged from the cigarettes. Gregory's eyes find Christophe's boots, for lack of anything more interesting to look at, now. They're frayed and very loved, and Gregory remembers suddenly, with a tiny spark of pride and deep affection, that he is the one who bought these boots for Christophe. That was after everything, though, he remembers sadly; after that night, and after the scar on his lip and that surreal conversation. He wonders where these boots have taken his friend over the years, and if, beneath the fabric, that little flower is still blooming on Christophe's ankle.

Their eyes meet again, and Gregory can't deny the fact that the green gaze is tinted with anxiety; he knows now that Gregory is going to repeat everything. But he wants to hear it; he wants to remember the feelings and the words and the way that they danced.

"…Well…" Christophe wheezes; he clears his throat to fix his voice. "…Do you remember what 'appened next? After we arrived back 'ome?"

Gregory hesitates for just a moment, then nods grimly, pursing his lips. "…Yes, that…that was the day that I first saw your scars," he says softly, his eyes wandering to his own hands. Christophe shifts, a bit uncomfortably, beside him on the bridge. "…But that was later…after we arrived back in Colorado, your mother started on you again almost immediately…but my mum…"

Katherine cried when her son stepped off of the bus. She ran to him and locked her arms around him; picked him up and swung him around, smothering him with kisses before she set him down and began examining him for cuts and bruises and asking him if they had treated him all right at the Academy. Gregory smiled at her and lied to her, saying: "yes, Mum, everyone was very nice. I made quite a lot of friends and had a wonderful time."

When The Mole stepped off, immediately after Gregory, he scanned the thin crowd of parents for a few seconds before he found his own mother's eyes, cold and gray-green, staring back at him with a sort of contempt that didn't belong in the eyes of any worthy mother. Despite his reluctance, Mole dragged his suitcase over to Nicole Delorne and dropped it at her feet, meeting her gaze powerfully. She smiled vaguely at him, giving him a dim sense of hope that perhaps this reunion would not be quite as laborious as he had been dreading it would be.

"…Son," she murmured.

"…Muzar," he replied. They exchanged calculating looks before Mole stepped forward and hugged her around her middle. Despite the fact that she was a cruel, cold-hearted woman, she was still his mother, and he still did care for her, to some degree. Her skeletal fingers found his shoulder and lightly stroked his hair, and he heard her sniff disgustedly above him.

"…You smell like tobacco, Christophe," she told him. "You've been smoking, 'aven't you? You dirty boy…feelthy..." He said nothing, choosing instead to ignore the irritated words and enjoy what little love he was managing to coax out of her. All of this was quickly lost when her fist closed around a clump of his hair, jerking it painfully back and away from him. He let go and was pulled away from his mother with tears in his eyes from the sharp sting of pain. When her fingers relaxed and returned to her side, her eyes caught by the sight of Mrs. Thorne and Gregory, a few thin locks of dark brown hair fluttered lifelessly to the cold cement ground. The Mole turned around and faced his friend and his mother, his hand running numbly over the little amorphous bald spot now on the back of his head. Gregory saw the green eyes flash with loathing before they shot to the ground, fixating on the lost pieces of hair. The blonde did not look at Ms. Delorne, knowing that if he did, he would most likely succeed only in making things worse for The Mole.

Katherine beamed down at Mole and knelt down in front of him, placing her hands lovingly on his face and rubbing a smudge of dirt off of his cheek. He smiled at her. "And how are you, Christophe? Did you take good care of Gregory while you were at camp?"

"…Ah, well…actually…I believe eet was Gregory 'oo took good care of me."

Mrs. Thorne's eyes sparkled. "Is that so?" she asked, and when Mole nodded, she laughed and kissed his forehead. "Well, it's good to have the both of you back. The house got far too lonely without you two playing War all the time."

Gregory was very surprised to see The Mole's face tint slightly pink at the touch of Katherine's lips; the emerald eyes glistened distantly and a very blissful grin crept slowly up his cheeks. "…Well…now we will be playing eet nonstop, so zat should make you 'appy, Meesus Zorne."

She tussled his hair lightly and gave both boys one last happy smile before she turned to gather their suitcases. Gregory watched Mole carefully, examining the red flush on his cheeks with a very interested eye; he had never seen his friend react to anything in such a manner before. Katherine nodded to them, their bags in hand, and gestured for them to follow Ms. Delorne out of the bus station. They did so happily, smiling at each other and laughing. More than anything, the two of them were happy to be back in a place that they remembered.

They found the old Jetta very easily and clambered into it, situating themselves in the backseat before Mrs. Thorne started the engine and they began the long drive home. Gregory stared out his window as they left the parking lot, his eyes fixated on the bus station all the way. He thanked God that he wouldn't have to see that miserable sight again for another whole year.

They played War for three hours before Katherine called them out for dinner. They had burgers and told their mothers all about the Academy (of course, they left out a few crucial details, but they would never find out about those, would they?), occasionally exchanging knowing glances. Katherine seemed much more at ease after they had finished their stories, and she managed to finish dinner with a smile on her face. Gregory and The Mole fled back to their room and settled around their soldiers, and the blonde stared at the brunette for a moment, a soldier held tightly in his palm.

"…Mole?" he asked quietly. The green eyes found his face and glistened in dissatisfaction; he could hear something that he didn't like in Gregory's voice. "…At the bus station…your mother…I saw—"

"Gregory," Mole growled, deep in his throat. Gregory bit his tongue, but still swore that he saw a bit of shame in his best friend's face. The Mole shook his head grimly. "…'ow many times…eet eez nuhsing to be concerned about. I've leeved with eet for ze past seven years, I will leeve with eet for ze next eleven."

Gregory's eyebrows furrowed sadly, and he allowed the soldier to drop to the carpet. Mole stared up at him, almost angry with him for not letting it go. "…But you shouldn't have to," he murmured, and he leaned over and kissed the dirty French cheek. The Mole sighed heavily and dropped his own toys, turning away from the Brit so that he couldn't read his eyes anymore. Gregory closed his eyes and shook his head. "I…God, I hate it when you just deny it like this…"

"…What am I supposed to do, mon chéri…" Mole breathed softly, drawing his knees up to his eyes and burying them in each other. "…Eet…eet just makes eet easier for me…to make believe zat eet will all be better soon. Eef I deedn't do zees…eet would 'urt me zat much more." He folded his arms around his legs, trying to trap himself inside of some protective universe of flesh and bone. "…I just wish you could see zat." Gregory felt a sob wrack his body, though he wasn't anywhere close to tears.

"…But it's there, Christophe, and you cunnot just tell yourself that it doesn't even exist. It's a terrible thing, what she does to you, and I know that there has to be a way to fight her—"

"Shut UP!" The Mole spat, glaring up at Gregory with leaking green eyes. "You 'ave 'elped me enough! Stop trying to make eet better, Gregory, eet eez not going away! I know damn well zat eet fucking sucks! I don't fucking need you to tell me zat I should cry about eet!"

"I'm not saying that at all," Gregory said gently, and the anger faltered in The Mole's face. The brunette looked a little sick. "…Just…I want you to tell me how it makes you feel when she…does this."

"And what are you; my serapeest?" Mole growled, blinking hard. "I don't want to be fucking analyzed, Gregory, zat only makes sings 'arder. But you nevar mind your own beezinus, do you?"

The blonde reached over and ran his fingers over the back of Mole's head, stroking the bald spot tenderly. The French boy bit his lips together.

"I'm not trying to be your therapist, Mole. I'm trying to be your friend, and I wish that you would let me."

Mole had no response to this, and a very awkward silence followed. Gregory shifted uncomfortably, and his hand found The Mole's. The hard fingers were strangely cold to the touch, and green eyes met blue eyes after a moment or so. "…Eet makes me…" he whispered, and he shuddered as he searched for the right word. "Eet makes me feel…alone…and…afraid…and I 'ate zat, Gregory, I f-fucking 'ate eet…eet makes me so mad at 'er…so upset zat I can't g-get 'er to stop…zat I let 'er chase m-my fazur off with eet. Eet makes me f-feel…like zer's nuhsing out zer f-for me…and zat everysing I'll ever get eez right 'ear, right now."

Gregory's fingers tensed automatically around Mole's, and a tear dripped freely out of the corner of the French boy's eye. He sniffed and wiped his nose, grinding his teeth. "Eez zat what you w-wanted to 'ear, G-Gregory? Does zat make eet bettar? NO. Eet only m-makes you worry about me, and I 'ate zat, t-too…I 'ate making you b-bear my burden…I w-won't let you do eet anymore…"

Mrs. Thorne's voice broke through the solitude of their room, and both of them flinched when they felt the privacy crack around them. "Boys! One of you has to take a bath, now!"

They were both very quiet for a moment, then Mole wiped his eye and snickered a little under his breath. It was very forced. "Eh…she 'ad to come een now, deedn't she?" he asked quietly, more to himself than to Gregory. He stood up without waiting for his blonde friend and gathered up his pajamas, drifting out of the door before Gregory had a chance to respond. He sat there on the carpeted floor among the soldiers, staring at the doorway, wondering how in the hell he was going to convince his best friend that the one thing he was denying him was the only thing that he truly wanted to do.

Bedtime came much too slowly.

Gregory knew that this was the only time that Mole would really open up to him, so he could only look forward to it. And once they had arrived there, and his mother turned the light out and shut the door behind her, he waited, just as he had always done before. He lay as still as he could, hardly daring to breathe as he awaited that gentle creak of mattress springs…the soft shuffle of feet on the carpet…and then the little hands, pulling back the sheets to allow entrance into what had been, once upon a time, Gregory's own private universe. He shared it now, though, and gladly, with the one and only other person who could ever understand the majesty of its mystery. His blue eyes focused on the ceiling and he waited, listening…listening…

Finally it came, though much later than it should have, and he let out his breath, as silently as he could. Mole climbed readily into his designated place; curled up against Gregory's torso, his forehead buried in the crook of the blonde's neck. Gregory felt a very subtle dampness against his skin, and he closed his eyes into the soft brown hair, reaching up and smoothing the locks down over the bare spot soothingly. It was hard to imagine—hard to accept the fact—that not twenty-four hours ago, The Mole had been known to practically everyone at Wilma Williams's Military Academy for Boys as the toughest kid in the whole damn facility. Now, he was lying in bed with the biggest geek in the Academy, his eyes filled with tears and his body trembling softly as he struggled not to sob. For a single quiet, desolate moment, Gregory felt a very strange sensation at the realization that he was the only person in the world who had ever been this close to Christophe Delorne.

Perhaps it was pride; he couldn't tell. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

Mole turned his head a bit, readjusting himself against the Brit's neck, and Gregory leaned forward and kissed the bald spot tenderly. The Mole sniffled.

"…W-we…" he whispered, his thick little fingers grasping Gregory's nightshirt more tightly as he spoke, "…we will always b-be friends, Gregory…I p-promise you zat m-much…"

The blonde sighed quietly and nodded to show that he understood what the other boy was trying to say, and Mole wrapped his arms around Gregory's torso, pulling them together. Gregory held him back and said nothing to break the moment, resting his chin lightly in the forest of dark brown hair, breathing slowly and evenly against the French boy's own strong chest. Mole was like a puppy sometimes, Gregory thought dimly; loyal and fun and protective, and very caring when it counted most. But still, as it turned out, he was the one who needed the most care of all. Maybe, the blonde considered, that wasn't really a bad thing. After all, Gregory enjoyed caring for The Mole. He liked to feel needed, especially by such a powerful young man.

…For the first time, as far as Gregory could remember, Mole fell asleep before him. He soon found himself pressed against a gently snoring young Mr. Delorne, the face still stained with tears, the nightshirt only half-buttoned and leaving the chest exposed. Gregory's fingers found the buttons for his friend and started to close them, when Mole rolled over and caught the blue eyes with something sickeningly strange.

Jagged and raised along The Mole's chest were several long, undefined scars. Gregory counted seven pale lines marring the tanned skin, his entire body paralyzed as his blood ran cold in his veins. What the hell were those, he wondered darkly, and where had they come from? He hadn't noticed them before, while they were at camp…was it just because the light had never hit Mole in the right way while they were there? Or had he simply not had them before, and gotten them during a mistake in drills? It seemed much more logical that they had just not been there before, Gregory thought, but he dared to reach out and gently touch one of them. Mole trembled beneath the caress; sighed in his sleep, and Gregory looked up into his best friend's face. The scars were old. They were healed much too securely for them to be any younger than a year old.

But where did he GET them?

His mind lingered on Ms. Delorne for a second, but he closed his eyes and shook that thought off. She may have been insane, but these scars looked like they were from something much different than fingernails or a belt. For some reason, he gave her the benefit of the doubt, deciding that even crazy people had their limitations. Ms. Delorne would not go so far as to deliberately cut her son, no matter how fucked up she was.

Shuddering involuntarily, he finished buttoning up the shirt, hiding those hideous marks from himself. He wanted to ask Mole what they were from, but he highly doubted that he would get any kind of response other than "I don't know." Smoothing the shirt down over Mole's chest, Gregory looked up into the older boy's face, smiling weakly at how innocent he looked when he was asleep. So soft and helpless, and as young and beautiful as he truly was. Gregory lay down into Mole's side, nuzzling the sallow, defined cheek with his nose, and wrapped his arms carefully around the French boy's shoulders. Mole made a soft "mmm" noise and turned his head to the side a little, leaving that bald spot exposed again. Gregory stared at it, hating it and all that it represented.

He kissed the hairless patch on his best friend's head one last time before he curled up and went to sleep.

The typical morning serenity back home was marred by patches of darkness blotting Gregory's vision whenever he remembered the scars on The Mole's chest. They sat and played War for an hour or so after a breakfast of Fruit Loops, with Gregory's movements lacking valor and Mole pretending not to notice. Had Gregory's soldiers been real, he assumed, they would have had a mutiny and planted his head on a stake out in front of their tent for carelessly making them lose so many troops.

Mole had just run over John P. Johnson's face with the remote-controlled tank (much to the dismay of Erick F. Erickson, who was John P. Johnson's drinking buddy back home in southern Alabama) when Nicole stepped casually into the room. She announced something that shook all vestiges of scar-related blackness out of Gregory's field of vision, setting his sights on something newly terrible and agonizing. The Mole's head snapped around toward his mother, his thumb slipping on the tank control and relieving Erick F. Erickson of his grief. Gregory's fist clenched around Jeremy K. Jeremiah, trembling with rage.

"WHAT?" The Mole cried, his voice cracking in disbelief. Gregory turned to face her, and it sickened him that she looked so proud of herself. She stood there in the doorway with a huge smile on her face, wrinkles gathered at the corners of her cold, glistening gray-green eyes, her auburn hair swept neatly back with a headband. She had one palm on the doorframe, the other on her waist, and she was wearing a billowing green dress with large, blue flowers embroidered on it. Gregory had never hated her more than he did at that precise moment.

"We are moving, Christophe! We are leaving ze Zornes and moving to our own 'ouse, een a town furzer down ze mountain."

A stifled gagging sound clawed its way out of Mole's mouth before he found words again. His face was extraordinarily pale, and Gregory wondered half-consciously if he was going to vomit. "…Wuh-w-why?" the French boy whimpered, his mouth hanging open, his lower jaw trembling violently. His body seemed unsure how to react to heartbreaking news such as this. "I…w-we are 'appy 'ear, M-Muzar, I do n-not underst-stand—"

"I deed not expect you to," Nicole said in her all-too-familiar wintry voice, her eyelids lowering smoothly over the gray orbs. Gregory wished deeply that Ms. Delorne had been under the tank's wheels in place of John P. Johnson, and his fist tightened so much around Jeremy K. Jeremiah's little plastic body that he could feel the intricate designs of the soldier's uniform engraving themselves into the flesh of his hand. His eyes clouded with tears and Mole's mouth remained agape as Ms. Delorne lost interest in the two of them and made one final comment—"we are leaving een two days, so get packing"—before twirling around and leaving them alone, hopelessly confused and in shock, sitting on the floor in the middle of their room.

Gregory had only lost two other people that he had truly loved before in his life, but that had been at a time when he had been far too young to truly comprehend the meaning of "losing someone". Still, he recognized the feelings of pain in his heart that he sometimes felt when he remembered his father and his uncle as a side-effect of that loss, and he knew that it was entirely probable that he would feel that pain for anyone else that he lost. He dropped Jeremy K. Jeremiah onto the stained carpet of his and The Mole's bedroom and quietly sank back onto his heels, curling his fingers weakly into fists on his thighs as the tears pushed through his eyelids. He did not want to feel that pain for Mole. Because Mole was…somehow different than his father and his uncle. Not like a friend, really…not even so much like a brother. Deeper than that, maybe. It was strange and he couldn't even begin to explain it, but still, that didn't make it okay to tear it away from him like that.

Gregory sobbed and wiped his face, hating that he always had to be such a crybaby. Mole was staring at the remote-controlled tank with a look of pure emptiness painted onto his bronzed face, lines etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth from years of frowning like that. The blonde buried his face in his hands, tore at his eyes furiously, fighting the tears back. He looked down at The Mole with red, puffy eyes, his teeth chattering from the effort of biting back the sobs, and he hiccuped.

"…Christophe…?" he asked gently, and the brunette turned his head ever so slowly to face him. Their eyes met for a split second before it all went to Hell, and though he didn't realize it until much, much later, in that instant, Gregory saw everything that The Mole was going to do after he turned away. He saw the burst of flame in his eyes when he started, and the screams and the tears and the explosion of plaster and plastic above his bed when the remote-controlled tank hit the wall and died. He saw the front door open and let the French boy outside, running off into the foul world shrieking and crying about how nothing was ever going to be okay again. He saw himself running after his best friend, physically able to chase but not emotionally stable enough; tripping and falling into the ice and scraping his forehead against the cold ground. He only really woke up after he raised his head from the snow, though, staring down at the pink ground below him and realizing that he was bleeding but no longer crying. His eyes found the forest, and everything seemed so surreal, knocked golden-blue from his bump on the head. Brush moved and he staggered to his feet, running after the noises and clutching at his skull.

"Mole!"

It was like chasing a ghost. Every time Gregory thought he had caught a glimpse of The Mole, branches would move and cover the elusive seven-year-old once more. The two of them went further and further up the slope, cold and tearstained, Gregory's raw forehead stinging nastily in the chill of the wind. His legs began to throb and ache from digging through virgin snow.

At long last, though, they came to a clearing, and The Mole stopped.

He knelt down in the ice, soaking his pants but not seeming to care, his head bowed and his fingers fumbling angrily with his pocket fastening. Gregory leaned against a tree for a moment and attempted to gather his bearings, ignoring the dribble of blood that was making its way down the bridge of his nose. Then he stumbled through more snow, making his way over to Mole, who had found what he had been looking for in his pocket and was now smoking heavily. The cigarette trembled in his fingers, burning yellow-orange-gold like Gregory's hair.

Mole coughed and did not look at his friend. "I k-keep zem…een a secret p-place…no one finds zem zer…"

"Finds what?" Gregory murmured, sniffing and hating the pitiful sound of his own strangled breathing. Mole ashed on the snow and it melted a little from the distant warmth.

"…My suh-ceegarettes," he choked, his shoulders slouching weakly. He coughed and sobbed at the same time, and neither of them were really sure just what to think or feel. "…Zey are…een a sh-shoebox. An old one of my f-fazur's. 'E…'is favorite p-pair of b-buh-boots…came een eet…"

The blonde's eyes glazed over, and he was suddenly met with the image of The Mole's scarred chest, as if the vision were some sort of alarm going off in his head at the mention of the French boy's father. Gregory murmured something indiscernible to himself before he turned to Mole, his fingers finding the trail of blood between his eyes and smearing it up one eyebrow. "…Mole…before you g-guh…go…I want…I want you to ask me two kuh-questions…anything that you w-want to know about me…"

The brunette sniffed and nodded, his eyes finally finding Gregory's face.

"B-but after I tell you, I w-want you to tell me two things about y-you that I think I should know."

Mole dropped his cigarette into the snow and nodded once again, slowly. Gregory tried to remember the happy glint he had seen before in his best friend's gaze; it would make it easier to speak, that way. He could not find it but sighed, regardless, and took Mole by the hand instead to feel the soft heat of the fingers against his own. He would not feel that ever again, if Ms. Delorne had her way. And she would have her way, he thought miserably, trying to push strength into his voice.

"…Will you…always l-love me, Gregory?" The Mole asked quietly, the words strained with emotion. He sniffled and wiped his nose, his strong shoulders shaking, pulled down by the weight of the pain. Gregory squeezed his hand as reassuringly as he could, both of them trying to stay focused on each other but neither one really succeeding.

"Of course I w-will," he murmured, attempting a smile and failing. "And you know I'll kuh-cry for hours after y-you're gone."

Mole stared at his soggy, dead cigarette, lying motionless in the snow before them. The air in the clearing smelled like fireplaces and moldy wood. "…I get one m-more question, zen?"

"Yes."

A brief pause as The Mole thought. Then he sighed, his breath billowing out of his mouth in a thin cloud of fog. "D-do you promees me…zat you w-will stay as strong as you are…even wizout m-me around?"

Gregory sank, wanting to promise anything that Mole asked but not certain that he could do it if he didn't really mean it. Those green eyes dug into the side of his face, and he shuddered. "…Yes, Christophe. I p-promise. I'll do it for you."

He felt a smile shine beside him. It was a weak smile, barely there, but it was there, nonetheless. He squeezed the fingers more tightly.

"Eet eez your turn, now, G-Gregory. I p-promees to answer you."

In truth, Gregory had thousands of questions that he wanted to ask his best friend. To pick just two was like asking a kid to pick just two of their toys to save before their house burned down. He shuddered and picked one, his mind racing to find another one that was worthwhile. "…Has your mother ever t-told you…that she l-loves you?"

"…I…" Mole mumbled, and his face turned red, though whether it was from shame or anger, Gregory really couldn't tell. "…N-no…not…I mean…no. She…she 'asn't."

Gregory felt some rage of his own biting at the pits of his stomach, but he was forced to ignore it and ask his second question. He found Mole's eyes and did his best to stay there; green grass against a blue sky, and Gregory shivered and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He didn't really think Mole would actually answer his final question, but it was worth trying, anyway.

"…Why d-do you have scars…on your chest?"

Mole's breath hitched in his throat. He did not look away, however, as Gregory had expected him to; he kept his gaze focused on Gregory's, hard and piercing and icy, yet warm deep down, loving and tender. Gregory stared back, and The Mole smiled a sick sort of smile that shouldn't have been there. It was so out of place that it was scary. "…My muzar…she t-tells me…" he said quietly, and Gregory heard the boiling hatred at the bottom of the words, "…she tells me zat eet eez my f-fault zat she lost eet on my fazur. She tells me z-zat she weeshes zat I 'ad n-nevar been born. And I agree, m-most of ze time." He murmured something that sounded like a swear word in French under his breath and coughed harshly before he continued. "…Muzar tells me…zat she 'ates me. I b-believe 'er. I bear ze m-mark of 'er 'atred."

Gregory's heart sank. He wished he hadn't asked that question. "Y-you mean your mum—?"

"Two questions, Gregory. We are f-feenished 'ear."

Gregory's legs were numb from the snow. The two of them looked at each other, long and sad, and the blonde blinked the tears out of his eyes angrily. Mole leaned forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Gregory, and Gregory hugged him back, letting out little dry sobs every few seconds. Neither of them had ever felt more alone.

There was nothing in the world that could provide solace.