Hello one and all! My very first fanfiction which I am extremely nervous about so please humour me X3
Belongingness: Nope I didn't think this all up (I wish) characters belong to the people that invented south park: Trey Parker and…ermmm… Matt Stone? (Is that right?)
NB1: This is a slash fanfic, ok? God I feel like such a perv…
NB2: I actually love France! Don't take offense! X3
Kyle x Christophe
What was the point in going to Europe? Sixteen-year-old Kyle Broflovski wondered sulkily as he stared out of the car window at the scenery flying past. True, the French countryside was alright; all green hills and wandering sheep. But there were more than enough green hills just beyond North Park and besides, who needs sheep when you have the South Park Cows?
Thinking of the South Park Cows only made matters worse as a wave of homesickness chose that exact moment to wash over him. Stan. Still his Super Best friend after all these years and the ever shining star of the football team, was back at home hanging out with Kenny and that bloody fatass Cartman, probably watching Asses of Fire and laughing their heads off.
Heh, there weren't many times in Kyle's life that he would gladly have swapped places with Eric Cartman, but this was one of them
"Are you alright, Buhbie?" His mother squinted back at him from the front seat, a pair of reading glassed perched precariously on her flabby button nose. "Do you want to see where we are on the map?" as with the last half a dozen times, she didn't wait for an answer, rattling off list after list of stupid little unpronounceable hamlets within a hundred kilometre radius of their location. Whose idea had it been to go on a fucking driving holiday in France? Whose idea had it been to plan a route across every single bloody country lane in the whole damn nation? Who had refused to use go anywhere near Paris or Lyon or any of the other places normal tourists visited in favour of some dumbass village in the back of the French beyond?
Three guesses.
"Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!" whined seven-year-old Ike, kicking the heels his sensible Jewish shoes against the car's battered back seat. "Kyle's taking up the whole car! I can't breeeaaatheeee."
"Am not!" Kyle grunted back, withdrawing one of his slender legs from Ike's side of the car. With a mother like Sheila, most people had expected Kyle to retain the above-average shortness that he'd had at the age of nine. Now, seven years later, hardly anyone had predicted the real result. The oldest Broflovski boy was a towering six-foot beanpole, slim waisted and broad shouldered with high chiselled cheekbones and piercing green eyes that had gradually won over more girl's than even Stan's long list could compete with. But despite his surprisingly striking looks, Rebecca remained the only girl Kyle had ever kissed. It wasn't that he didn't like girls…he'd had a fair few other crushes in the following years, but more that he wasn't interested. Having taken and aced his high school exams two years earlier than his classmates, become captain of the Basketball and fencing teams and enrolled in Mensa, the redhead had more than enough going on in his hectic teenage life right now.
A hectic teenage life that he sure as hell would like to get back to that very minute.
"Holy Moses!" His dad spoke for the first time in at least an hour, his voice edged with irritation. "It's pouring!" Sure enough, his father's voice could barely be heard over the drumming of a thousand tonnes of water on the roof of their rented Renault as the heavens opened above them with no warning whatsoever. As though to top it all, a thick grey mist seemed to rise out from behind the hedges, enveloping them all in a dense shifting shroud.
"Shit." Kyle muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead hard on the icy window. Good thing he still had his scruffy green hat in his bag; those tattered old earflaps were still the world's best pillow.
Fishing the threadbare cap from his rucksack, the redhead jammed it firmly over his eyes and leaned back into the seat. Mumbling expletives, he turned away from the sopping view, his emerald eyes slowly drooping shut…
"Geraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllld! Not so fast! We don't know where we're going!" Sheila's panicked shriek shook Kyle roughly out of slumber. He jerked upright at the exactly the same moment that the car took a crazy right turn, thwacking his skull painfully against the left window pane. Face pressed up against the glass, the teen caught a quick glimpse of matted black hedges, wreathed in fog, before a wheeling left turn sent him crashing down on top of Ike, who yelled accordingly.
"Shut up both of you!" Sheila screeched "The last thing we need right now is- Gerald! Look! It's a sign! Moses! A sign!"
"Sheila, even if Moses did want to turn up here and give us a sign we wouldn't be able to see him in this fog, and besides we don't have any pasta pictures so…"
"No! A real sign! A road sign! Turn left!" The world blurred sideways again and Kyle saw a brief square of white with the words
Village prochain: D'Idylle. (Deux Kilomètres)
emblazoned down the centre, flash past. Then the road dissolved into rain again and there was nothing more to see. Unfortuntely, this was down what must have been one of the most pot-holed tracks in the entire western hemisphere and, twenty jarring minutes later, the entire Broflovski family was bruised, battered and seething with French-induced rage.
"We should have got there by now." Kyle was the calmest and had stolen the map as a result. "It said two kilometers so…"
"There!" Ike squeaked, pointing to something beyond the misty glass. "It's Diddly!"
"D'Idylle!"
"That's what I said!"
Sure enough, their car had emerged at the top of a wide cobbled street, flanked on either side by about twenty little thatches cottages. Sodden thatched roves drooped like frowning fringes on the American family, but almost every light was on in the windows and figures flitted to and fro behind the glass. Gerald eased the car to a halt and the four stared wistfully out at the nearest glowing windowpane.
"Maybe we should go and say hello." Sheila voiced everyone's thoughts "They could have some rooms free and…"
"We couldn't intrude…" Gerald advised carefully, "Maybe we should just go and find that motel a few miles back-"
"-and face that horrible track again? There's no-"
"Muuuuum I'm bored! And I'm cold! And-"
Kyle rolled his eyes; it looked like it was going to be up to him to make the first move. Shoving his hat into his bag and swinging his rucksack onto one shoulder, he shoved open the side door and stepped out into the streaming torrent. Icy water soaked him instantly to the skin but he didn't care: it made a nice change from the stuffiness of the Renault. He waded over to the nearest house and stood bedraggled and shivering on the doorstep, jabbing at the doorbell for all he was worth. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the rest of his family was still in the car, peering from behind the fogged windows, watching him.
"Oui? Qui vous est? Que voulez-vous?" Sharp words pelted him in the back and Kyle whirled around to find the door open and someone staring back at him…
…a very familiar someone.
A sweep of midnight hair over strong, tanned brows, a face level with his own if not slightly higher, wide, muscular shoulders and eyes…such captivating, wonderful eyes, like black pits that sucked his soul inside them and cradled it close, trapped deliciously forever…
Woah, he definitely did NOT just think that.
Who was this person?
"Oh. Je suisdésolé. I meant; Who are you? What is eet that you want?" the French youth repeated, shifting his weight so that the door widened a little. Kyle supposed that he was about his own age, but something in his face told of maturity way beyond his years "Eet ees too wet for leetle boys like you to be out…ah," He had followed Kyle's gaze over his shoulder at his family. "I see leetle boy 'as brought hees familie too." What was that in his voice? Annoyance? Disappointment? But Kyle couldn't hear past his warm rich accent. So tender, so soft, so smooth. It held the promise of a thousand hot chocolates, a thousand snug embraces, a thousand cosy nights side by side before a blazing fire…
What the hell was wrong with him?
"…eet is nasty out, no?" Oh crap, he'd been speaking while he'd spaced "And as muzzar ees avay in Toulon, I have ze 'ouse to myself…pairhaps I could show a leetle French 'ospitality…" His eyes met Kyle's and the American boy flinched as a spark flashed between them, what kind remained a mystery, but Kyle quickly turned away as his cheeks burned. Shyness; that was it. He was only being shy.
One quick beckoning motion sent his whole family bundling out of the car, belongings draped higgledy-piggledy from every limb, past the French youth without so much as a Bonjour and into the house beyond.
Kyle blushed again and looked at his feet, this time it really was from shame.
"Sorry…I mean, um …désolé…my family's hardly perfect and politeness isn't exactly one of their strengths." It wasn't really meant to be a joke, but a throaty chuckle bubbled out of the French youth. Clapping the bedraggled Semite on the back, the French boy led him inside to the warm hallway, brightly lit and already strewn with Broflovski luggage. The two boys made their way to a small cloakroom set into the side of the hall, barely two metres square and hung thickly with soft winter coats. Kyle peeled off his coat thankfully and winced visibly at the mess his family had made of the once spotless hall. The French boy must have seen his face for he replied smoothly,
"C'est rien, ma petite. Your god 'ates me zo I am used to ze misfortune." The youth said from the doorway, leaning heavily against it as Kyle peeled off his sodden jumper for good measure.
God hates…realization stuck the American redhead like a hammer blow
No.
It couldn't be…
"…Christophe? Christophe Delorne?" the word was out before Kyle even realized what he was doing. The French youth's shoulders immediately went taut, black eyes widening as they stared into his own piercing green ones.
"Mais oui. And 'ow did you know zis, my American friend?" There was a hint of steel in that voice now, a wolfish glint in his pearly white smile. "I have nevair seen you in my life, zo air you spying on me? Oo air you verking for?" Christophe's heavy hand closed over Kyle's shoulder, unexpected muscles gripping it vice-like between long supple fingers. The room was too small, too close and the only way out was behind the other boy. No escape. "Oo air you, eh? Me dire maintenant ou je ferai…"
"I'm Kyle." The Jewish teen stuttered over the French boy's foreign threats. "K-Kyle Broflovski, wh-whose mum tried to destroy the world, remember? Remember the war? The tunnel? The dogs? The…and…when…you…when you died-"
"…In your arms." Christophe murmured, his gaze boring into Kyle's like a blade, daring him to lie. The hand slowly withdrew and Kyle slumped in relief as the other boy gave a short, scornful laugh.
"Bah! I reemembair you. Ze leetle pussy oo vas so scared of ees mommy zat 'ee called in ze famous mole to 'elp 'eem, no?" Kyle's cheeks now matched his curls. With a mother like Sheila, fear was a survival technique, but not many people could understand that; least of all a teen who had been a mercenary since childhood. "Ze leetle pussy oos fatass friend zet ze dogs on me zat night and vounded me, no? Ze leetle pussy oo actually obeys Gregorie, ze biggest pussy of zem all. Et finalement… ze leetle pussy oo…" His voice faltered and he stepped closer to Kyle, leaning in as though ashamed that what he had to say would be overheard. "…oo 'eld me as I died. Oo talked to me. Oo told me to ''old on' as zo I had a reason for leeving."
Kyle looked up and Christophe and Christophe looked down at Kyle, the familiar spark jumping between them like a lightening bolt, growing stronger and stronger as the French boy's proximity sent tremors running up and down Kyle's shivering body.
Suddenly, seven years slipped away and he was back in the pavilion in the heart of the chaos, soldiers cheering, his mum screaming and Terrence and Philip making stupid fart jokes in the background. But none of that mattered. All he could see was the face. A face, rounded by childhood but with the same spellbinding black eyes, glazing over with death as they stare up from his lap. Imploring, loving, longing. He never understood it that night but with a sudden rush Kyle realized that, in his last moments, Christophe Delorne and Kyle Broflovski has connected in a way that neither of their childish hearts could have understood. Now, time had aged and matured the two of them, throwing them together for one last chance at what had begun on that fateful night.
Fate…or was it Christophe's ever hating God?
Kyle started as Christophe ducked closer still, sensitive lips pursed ever so slightly, just centimeters from his own…oh it was so close in here, so stifling. The French boy's presence washed over him, intoxicating, dizzying, until his knees shook and he had to lean against the coat rack on the wall to support himself. Christophe's body enclosed his utterly now; there was no way that he could move without touching him…and right now that didn't seem like such a bad thing. Noses brushing now, their breaths mingling for a moment in perfect sync, heartbeats side by side in the darkness. Kyle's heart was lodged somewhere in the back of his throat, his words knotting themselves over and over as he searched for something to break the moment…a moment that his mind wanted to end but his heart wanted to carry on forever. Slowly timidly, he felt himself straighten, neck craning ever so slightly to close the gap between the two of them until…
Lips. Soft and warm, like butterfly wings as they lightly brushed his own. The tiniest hint of spicy tobacco before Christophe's taste swept him off his feet. It was unlike anything he had ever imagined, all his favorite things blended magically in one hypnotizing formula, far better than Rebecca, far better than his fantasies with Bebe or Wendy, far better than…
He didn't even care. He just wanted more.
One hand went to Christophe's waist, the other around his neck, pulling the French spy against him until he was pinned to the wall. He felt Christophe's hands ghost over his own torso to wrap around his back, closing his slightly smaller frame into the centre of the taller youth's embrace. Kyle was breathing thick and fast now, thoughts disconnected as his body burned with indescribable emotion. Butterfly kisses again and again, stronger and stronger until neither of them could bring themselves to part at all. Christophe's broad, calloused palms found their way to the Semite's mane of copper curls, winding through them, stroking them with as much love as if they were the softest of silks.
Christophe's hands clenched and Kyle let out a tiny gasp of surprise, lips parting just enough for the French boy to deepen the kiss.
So wrong, yet so right. So ridiculous, yet so real.
Blood pounded in Kyle's ears, his world retreating to blackness as his eyes closed in ecstasy. No sound, save for the gentle touching of their lips and the occasional deep throated laugh from Christophe as Kyle stiffened nervously in his grasp. The hand around the French boy's neck crept slowly up to his thick black hair, burying its long pale fingers in the lustrous strands. The Jewish boy was kissing back now, first shyly, then with more and more ferocity until even Christophe had to surrender. Something frightening was stirring deep within Kyle and he decided he liked it. Just a few seconds more and he would have to break away or else…
"Monsieur! Monsieuuuuurrrrrrrr!" Sheila Broflovski's voice shattered the thick air of the cloakroom and the two boys burst apart, Kyle's face flaming red, Christophe's lips swollen to a matching shade.
"Sheet!" the French boy cursed, running his hands fruitlessly through his hair to try and smooth it. He looked back at Kyle and his faced softened. "Une minute, mon petit chéri…" a quick peck on the lips and he was gone, leaving Kyle jelly-kneed in the stuffy dark.
"Tea, Madame Broflovski? Dans un moment!" Christophe chimed sweetly, his wolfish undertone sending fluttery goosebumps crawling across Kyle's skin. Why did he feel like this? What was wrong with him?
But it didn't feel wrong. Not at all.
It took Christophe five whole minutes to return to the cloakroom, each one drawn out to eternity in Kyle's starving mind. The moment the French boy loomed into view beyond the doorframe, a pair of strong tanned hands pulled him back into the redhead's loving embrace. Eventually, Christophe gasped out that he had sent Kyle's family to spend the night in the spare rooms of his surprisingly large house and he'd only been sent to get the bags. Reluctantly, their lips parted once more and Kyle grudgingly agreed to help bring the luggage upstairs.
"Are you alright, Buhbie?" Sheila asked him as he passed her bags through the bedroom door. "I didn't see you since we got in…Monsieur Delorne says he has another room for you across the hall, unless you'd rather stay here with us?" she gave him an unusually tender look and smiled worriedly. "You don't quite seem yourself today."
A tiny cough to his left made Kyle's bright eyes flick sideways to meet Christophe's black ones. He was standing beyond the doorframe, just out of sight of Mrs Broflovski and fixing Kyle with a look that made every fibre of his being tingle marvelously. Kyle smiled, half shy and nervous, half burning with animated certainty.
"Nah, its OK mum, I'll stay downstairs and um…practice my French a bit with Christophe. See you in the morning!" With that, Kyle Broflovski closed the bedroom door and melted into Christophe's waiting arms. There would be questions aplenty the following day, that he knew, but the morning could wait. For now, all that mattered was him, Christophe, and the wonderful night ahead of them.
French Translations:
Village Prochain- Next village
D'Idylle – Romance (haha a not-so-clever play on words that I added for fun)
(Deux Kilomètres)- Two Kilometers away
Oui? Qui vous est? Que voulez-vous?- Yes? Who are you? What do you want?
Je suis désolé- I am sorry
C'est rien, ma petite- Its nothing, my little one
Mais oui- But yes (terrible translation, sort of like 'of course' or 'why, yes')
Me dire maintenant ou je ferai...- Tell me now or I'll...
Et finalement- And finally
Une minute, mon petit chéri- One minute, my little darling
Dans un moment!- In a moment!
- 7 -