Title: Redeye to Denver
Author: Kameko-chan
Series: South Park
Pairings: Christophe/Kyle
Notes: Theme # 20, 'The Road Home'
Christophe wasn't home much. It was understandable—there wasn't much call in the sticks for his profession—but that didn't mean it was an easy reality to live with, for either party involved.
He'd been away for a month when he shuffled on the red eye flight to Denver. The window seat was wasted on him, just as the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe and the bright lights of Paris at midnight had been wasted on him. His mind was far too busy to take in the sights he'd seen a dozen times before, was filled with feverish pictures of a redhead stretched out by a hearth in rural Colorado.
The movie was horrible and the food was worse, Gigli accompanied by congealed gravy and undercooked potatoes. A woman with a screaming newborn slept through her baby's shrieks, not giving a shit for the rest of the passengers so long as she could catch a nap. Of all the flights he could have picked, of course he would end up on the stereotypically bad one, it fucking figured. Add another point in the "God hates me" column.
Christ, he hated flying.
His body told him it was an absolutely ungodly hour when he finally stumbled into Denver International, but in by the local clocks Christophe arrived at approximately three in the afternoon. He didn't take much solace in that.
Baggage claim was a mob, as baggage claim often is. He contemplated leaving the bulging black bag on the luggage carousel indefinitely, but the reminder of his favorite black sweater quickly shoved that idea out the window. Instead, he jostled through the poking, pushing, prodding crowd and wrested his monstrosity of a suitcase away from baggage claim and towards the waiting bus bound for his final destination.
The trip to South Park from Denver proved uneventful and he took the opportunity to sleep, nearly missing his stop. After a bleary-eyed thank you to the man who woke him and a barely cohesive call to a cab company, Christophe found himself leadenly trudging up the stairs to his door. He smiled, just a little. Home. Blue clapboard and white trim. Cobblestone walkways hidden with snow for half the year. Hardwood floors and cheap white wine. A warm bed to share.
The door opened just as he reached for the handle. Christophe found his arms filled with a familiar weight. He breathed in. He twirled red curls in his fingers.
"Kyle."
The embraces were violent. And the kisses—oh, the homecoming kisses were the sweetest, full of distilled desire and desperation. The kisses almost made it worth leaving in the first place.
"I love you."
And the redeye flight and the screaming infant and Gigli were all worth it, to be home with him again.
END