3.
FRENCH.
Silver or lead?
That is the question.
If the answer is silver then there will be the question of how much is to be exchanged; if the answer is lead then there will be no more questions. There will be no body for the family to lament, no clue save the empty testimony and man dressed in black, walking away with just a bit more than he started with.
When asked about his profession, his detestable 'life choice' he will say nothing. The man dressed in black has no words with which to describe why – how – he does what he does; comrades wonder if the human in him chose lead a long time ago and vanished like all the others. Each has their own method of coping with their vocation, for some it is a means to an end, for others a hobby, something to pass the time. For him it seems to be neither. It is a calling.
The man dressed in black tells himself that the thrill is his raison d'être. But, sometimes, he finds himself waiting – not on bated breath, oh no – for the moment when his brain refuses to take anymore. The day when he gives up and the guilt and pain he's been running from for so long catch up to him. The day his own actions reduce him to nothingness.
Times rarer still, the man dressed in black finds himself waiting, wondering, when they'll ask him the question.
Silver or lead? Sadly, he already knows his answer.
What was it about the French? Even the most sordid, guttural phrases sounded exquisite falling from their lips. Their words wrapped around each other in a sensual embrace, flowing, flawless as new-spun silk. Wait, no; not silk, velvet. Crushed velvet. Hardly as smooth as silk, but as a fabric it was deeper, warmer and more inviting after a long, hard day in the cold. Kyle loved French.
Sadly, the Jew wasn't exactly confident with foreign languages.
Yes, vocabulary could easily be learned by rote, as could idioms and "key" phrases – i.e. insults –, but the grammar always escaped him. While many of the other students in the class had a fairly even skill set, his was biased towards the words themselves. With English, he could just feel the way the sentence should fall on the page. It was easy; his thoughts just trickled from down his arm and in turn the pen nib with no effort expelled. Having to think about things before he said them, really having to put the clauses together carefully to attain the same level of precision as in his native tongue, was difficult.
It wasn't often the young redhead found things so challenging.
But challenge was something that thrilled him; or, it would have done. Now it just seemed utterly pointless.
French AP was his second class of the day and by far the most mentally exhausting. Annoyingly, the Jew was already starting to fall asleep, head creeping slowly towards the desk with each passing second. Their teacher, a waif of a woman with short, neat blond hair, would have taken a sympathetic stance with her student; while Madame Jones was infamous for her strict work ethic, she was also known for her unforgiving favouritism. Thankfully, the sleepy teenager with bright carmine hair and even brighter eyes, slumped over his desk in the middle of the classroom, was on that short list.
Speaking of the list…
For the first time, he noticed the tall stranger that had spoken to him behind the lunch hall the day before. Christophe. The French dude who was taking French AP for an easy ride. Smart, that – to take your own language as a subject. At least he could rest easy with the knowledge that he'd get an A come rain or shine. Lucky bastard.
Really, it was no wonder Mrs Jones adored the sullen European.
"Maintenant, prenez votre livres." Snapping back to reality with a thud as text books crashed open across the small room, he noticed the detailed paragraphs written on the board in his teacher's patented cursive handwriting. "Page… 154, exercise three."
It took a few moments for everyone to read the small blue box full of writing, before smiles broke out on people's faces. "Oui, partner-up, people." On her command, chairs began scraping across the linoleum floor, desks shifting closer to one another as his fellow classmates joined their friends for a good gossip. Under the guise of French oral practice, of course.
Resigned to having to work with Sally again, another poor soul in his class who'd been stranded in a room without her friends, he went to get up to wind his way through the carnage. Only, before he could rise from his seat, a chair was slung haphazardly in front of his desk with a loud clatter.
"'Allo, Kyle." Christophe planted himself in the chair by the freckled boy's desk. "Partner wiz me?"
The offer seemed innocent enough, and it wasn't as if Kyle was eager to join the brace-faced girl once more. "Sure, dude."
"So, 'ow are we going to do zis?"
"Uhm, I don't know. You can start if you want. You're probably a lot better at this than I am, anyway." Kyle chuckled, prompting Christophe to do the same.
Sighing, the Frenchman smiled amicably. It looked strained. "Mais, mon ami, I am not ze one who needs ze practice. No offence, but you are right: I 'ave ze French, as you say, 'down'."
Cranky from lack of sleep, he just about registered what his partner was saying. Though, after years of having to work with Cartman and Kenny, little sirens started going off in his head. "Well, then why did you want to partner with me if you aren't gonna fucking do anything?" He slid down further into the cold plastic chair. People always did this to him: asking to work with him, and then, annoyingly, doing none of said 'work' themselves.
Christophe simply chuckled at the other's tone, ignoring the strange tinge of hurt lacing the words. "We are bitchy today, are we not? I jus' want to get to know you better, zere iz nozing wrong wiz zat."
The Jewish boy seethed, glaring over his books. "You wanted to be my partner so you could fucking hit on me? Are you fucking kidding me, dude?"
This was not going according to plan. Hell, Christophe had asked around the school (or, two people) about the scrawny redhead. Apparently, he was very nice. Apparently. Somehow, they'd failed to mention the little shit's temper. How could you miss it? He was like a fucking petrol bomb! And the Frenchman didn't even do anything!
"What iz it wiz you fucking Americans?" Now he was getting the brunette all wound up, which wasn't the most intelligent idea of the day. Trying to be pleasant wasn't one of Christophe's many talents, and having it thrown back in his face did little else but infuriate him. "I am not 'hitting on you', you fucking idiot. I jus' want to fucking talk to you. Why iz zis so 'ard for you?"
Snorting, the redhead willed himself to calm down and opened his mouth to reply, very civilly, when he was interrupted by their teacher. "Boys, that sounds distinctly like English." She shuffled the papers about on her desk, eyeing them before continuing her marking, occasionally looking up to check the state of affairs.
"Alors, salope, maintentant nous parlons le francais, d'accord?"
"Oui." With a sigh of resignation, Kyle read through some of the example questions. Understandably, he chose the easiest first. "Où habites-tu? Avec ton famille, ou seul?"
"Pourqoui t'es un émmerdant? Les Américains... J'sais pas." The lightly tanned teenager murmured under his breath before turning his attention to the question. In a bored tone, he began, rummaging through his pockets for a pen and paper. "J'habitait avec ma mère jusqu'y a à un an. Ma mère elle était une salope. Alors, en ce moment, j'habite dans un petit maison seulement… excepté mon chat, evidement." He focused on slowing down his speech and enunciating the words, trying to leave out annoying slang terms that would only serve to confuse.
"O-kay…" Laughing nervously, Kyle blushed a little. It was from the embarrassment. Yeah. Not the fact that the French sounded fantastic to his weary ears. Of course not. "I didn't understand any of that. A bit too fast for me."
"Basically, I lived wiz my mozer until a year ago, when I moved out. Now I live alone… Or, wiz my cat." Scribbling a few words on the paper, he returned it to his pocket. "Anyway, are we calm now? You 'ave ze mood swings of a woman wiz child."
"I do not have mood swings!" Another lie. 'Control, calm…' He repeated it in his head like a mantra. 'Let the sharks of anger swim away…' "I'm perfectly calm now. Just stop insulting me, Frenchy."
"Zen stop calling me Frenchy."
"No."
Christophe snickered at the way his partner's cheeks lit up at the slightest emotion. For a boy, Kyle was cute… in a 'touch me and I kill you' sort of way. Completely the opposite to the brunette's taskmaster. "Zen we will 'ave a problem." Smirking at the almost fearful expression that was returned, he leaned his elbows on the laminate desk. "Tu-habites avec ta famille?"
With the brunette making his towering height and impressive build yet more noticeable, subtly imposing his dominance in the conversation and purring at him in that deep, pleasantly gravelly, French, Kyle found it hard to suppress a shiver. This wasn't the first time the redhead had found himself physically attracted to someone so obviously straight; he blamed those fucking teenage hormones lighting his veins on fire. Hell, any reasonably good-looking guy with an accent would have been in with a chance if his libido got its way; thank Jehovah for self-control. Fuck being just another teenage boy.
"Où habites-tu?" He repeated the question, his impatience barely noticeable.
"Uh, j'habite avec ma famille, dans une grande maison, parce-ce il y a quatre personnes dans ma famille." Happy with his short, succinct, well-practiced, answer, he smiled. Christophe was impressed by his accent, but rather less than impressed by his sentence structure.
"You speak it well – you 'ave a beautiful voice for such zings. You speak 'ebrew?"
Maybe the French's tendency to flirt was genetic. Kyle just thought it was nice to have someone compliment him, for a change. Still, he didn't have any sort of response ready; he'd left his wit along with his hat. "Uh, thanks dude. And, yeah, kinda. I'm Jewish."
Christophe chuckled lightly, shook his head and turned to their teacher, who was ringing a tiny gold bell in the hopes of attracting the class' attention. The short Jew was just too… something. He wasn't sure there was a word for it. Infuriating? Yes. Insecure? Perhaps.
"Exusé!" A few turned to look at her, while the rest continued talking in a language that most definitely was not French.
"ÉXUSE-MOI!"
Silence.
"Bon! Now that I have everyone's attention…"
"Kyle!"
The cafeteria was crowded, students filling up the tables with increasing speed as fewer and fewer were left to claim; the older students, and the more popular younger ones, had no reason to join in the hurry, though, and walked to their tables with the same arrogant gait as always. Obviously, they already had their assigned tables, by some unwritten "rule of cool". Or some gay shit like that.
Today, Kenny, Cartman and Butters were already seated, and their resident fatass had commenced his ritual of eating everything off of his 'friend's' trays, much to both of the blond's dismay. Or, Butters' dismay – didn't look like he gave a shit, instead waving the Broflovski boy over.
"KYLE! Dude, get over here, man!" Kenny had taken to wearing the parka without the hood after realizing that girls were a lot easier to pick up if they could understand what you were saying… But, in Kenny's case, it was a double-edged sword. "KYYYYLE~!"
Smiling, he made his way over to his friends. "Hey guys." He slid his tray next to his blond, blue eyed, perverted friend before sitting.
"H-Hey Kyle," murmured Butters, grinding his knuckles together in his habitually nervous way. Is someone ever took the time to look at the skin on his knuckles, someone who actually cared, they'd notice the dried red scabs, painfully ugly against such a pale complexion. It was a shame no one fit the description; not even the guy who was fucking him. "H-How're you d-doing?"
"Fine, Butters. How're you?"
"I'm g-good, thanks, Kyle."
Taking a bite of his sandwich, the Jew glanced over at the large boy across from him, who was busy shoveling food down his throat as was humanly possible. As always, the display was disgusting; he wondered how sweet little Butters could put up with something as vile and downright revolting as Cartman, simply as a friend, let alone as something closer to a lover. Fuck. The thought was enough to put him off his lunch.
Kenny saw the look of horror on Kyle's face and the brunette's smirk between mouthfuls of his BLT. He also saw the way the other blond studied the overweight bully's features fondly, but chose to ignore this. He'd have to give the naïve idiot 'the talk' later.
"Jesus, Cartman, slow down." It was Kyle who said what he and Kenny had both been thinking, deciding that Cartman was likely to rip on/beat the living shit out of him anyway. The Jew didn't mind giving him an excuse. "No wonder you're such a fucking fatass."
His blond giggled, while Cartman's looked terrified. Poor little guy; always on the receiving end of the Nazi's fist.
"Don't call me fat, you fucking Jew!"
"Don't call me a fucking Jew, you fucking piece of shit!"
It was simply another routine argument: Kyle red in the face and gnashing his teeth like a rabid dog, Cartman with his fists balled screaming bloody murder, the veins on his forehead and neck sticking out. The blonds moved along to the far end of the table, out of range in case a fight broke out, and also out of range from the food and spit flying from Cartman's large mouth.
"Do us all a big favour and get that sand out of your fucking vagina!"
"I DO NOT HAVE A VAGINA, FUCKTARD!"
"Calm down, Kahl. It's not your fault you're a pissy little Jew-rat."
"FUCK. YOU."
"I mean, technically, it's your mom's fault. She's such a fucking—"
"Don't you dare, Cartman!"
"Bitch. Your mom is a big, fat, fucking Jewish bitch."
"DON'T CALL MY MOM A BITCH YOU FUCKING TUB OF LARD!"
"'AY! DON'T CALL ME FAT, YOU FUCKING JEW!"
The heated battle was only broken up by Butters screams of horror as Kenny choked to death on his pickle.
Pointing and laughing at his dying friend, Cartman, who'd been forced to take a course in First Aid by his mother, made no move to help dislodge the offending fruit – yes, pickles were little cucumbers and cucumbers were technically a fruit – from Kenny's throat.
"You bastard! Your friend's dying and you don't even help!" Kyle, rather conveniently, seemed to forget the fact that he was doing nothing to help the boy in the orange parka either. "I don't fucking believe you."
The blond in the blue 'Hello Kitty' t-shirt looked about to burst into tears. "Y-Yea, Eric… T-That's not very nice."
"'Ay, you fucking faggots, Kenny dies all the time! He'll be back by tomorrow!" The brunette made a point not to look at the watery blue eyes looking up at him full of accusation, though the statement was directed at them rather than Kyle. For the first time in years, Cartman seemed to be justifying his actions. "Anyway, he's already dead."
Which was true; rats had already started to swarm over the dead body.
If they took the time to think, they might find it funny how no one in the cafeteria paid them any attention. After a few years of screaming, fist fights, racial slurs and Kenny dying, it wasn't any interesting. Not even Stan, who was currently whispering something into a blushing Wendy's ear two tables away, turned to acknowledge them. But, they were used to being ditched by the Marsh kid; like Kenny, he'd be back tomorrow, probably dumped, dressed like he was going to a funeral (a 'funeral for his crushed, black heart', apparently).
"You know what, Cartman?"
Eric looked at him, eyebrow arched.
"Fuck. You."
And, with that, Kyle left the cafeteria; the anger replaced by bitter hatred.
"Aw, sweet!" After the Jew had gone from sight, the fat teenager grabbed the redhead's abandoned tray with an enthusiastic grin. "So, we still on for tonight, Butters?"
Christophe sat on the concrete stairs that lead to the lunch hall with a cigarette held between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand. Today, his nicotine of choice was a pack of bog-standard Marlboro reds; not very flashy, but cheap, and with the added bonus of a nice after-taste.
Behind him, the doors flew open, the resulting crash temporarily deafening him.
"WHAT ZE FUCK?!" He reeled round, only to be confronted with a red-faced Kyle Broflovski. Seriously, this kid was everywhere.
"Sorry."
He didn't exactly seem apologetic, instead he found a seat next to the brunette and put out a hand. "Got a spare?"
Nodding and eyeing the hand with distaste, the mercenary dropped his lighter and a cigarette into his hand. "We must stop zis bumping into one anozer. Especially when you are, as your people say, 'on ze rag'."
"I'm not a fucking girl, so stop calling me one, Frenchy." He took a drag on his freshly lit cigarette, still not used to the smoke. He wished he's said he never touched the things. "I'm just pissed 'cause of that fucking fat piece of shit."
Grinning, the Mole turned back to face away from the cafeteria. "I will stop calling you a girl when you stop acting like one, mon ami." There was a brief pause. "Zis 'fat fucking shit' as you so affectionately call 'im… Iz 'e, by any chance, ze one zey call Eric Cartman?"
Kyle looked at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. "Yeah. How'd you know?"
He shrugged, grin gone, replaced by a grimace. "I know zings." ''E iz ze bastard who forgot to turn ze fucking alarms off. Fucking guard dogs. I 'ATE GUARD DOGS!'
The Jew looked like he accepted this answer, albeit grudgingly. "He's a fat, racist, Hitler-worshipping, piece of shit."
"'E sounds lovely." Kyle laughed at that, inhaling from the cigarette once more. "Why do you 'ang out wiz such a dickhead?"
"I have no idea. He's like a bad habit, I suppose." Judging by the black lines under the redhead's tired eyes and the way his skin was pulled taut over cheekbones that were too sharp to be healthy, he knew a lot about bad habits. Truth be told, Christophe did too.
The brunette coughed loudly, changing the topic to something he deemed more cheerful. "So, you know much about ze Revolution?"
"What Revolution?"
Great, he had forgotten.
"For ze project, idiot." Shaking his head, he continued, slower this time: "We 'ave to 'ave a topic for zat mozerfucking project, and I zought ze Revolution, ze French Revolution, would be a good one."
Kyle seemed impressed. "You're actually willing to do some work?"
Now it was Christophe's turn to be confused.
"Whenever I work with someone, I end up doing everything." Memories of past works haunted him; even Stan, his 'super best friend' had let him get on with the whole ordeal alone. And, every single time, he'd gotten everyone involved an A. Did they thank him? No. Did they offer to help next time around? No.
He was so underappreciated.
"Oh." The Frenchman whistled. "Zat explains so very much, mon ami."
Sighing he snubbed the smouldering cigarette out on the floor with the sole of his converse. "So, Frenchy," he put on his best 'mock-sexy' expression and purred, "your place or mine?"
Christophe cracked up, doubled over laughing. "Do- Do not do zat, mon ami!" The Jewish boy was almost offended, but chose to join the cackling teenager. "Zat," he hiccupped. "Zat does not suit you." He took a drag on his cigarette and breathed out, trying to calm himself. "And mine. I doubt I can smoke in your room, and ze cigarette iz a necessary part of my working process."
"Ooo, working process?" Snickered Kyle, amused by the Frenchman's knowledge of such a phrase.
"Oh, shut up you fucking pussy."
"…That's your car?"
"Oui."
Kyle stood outside the school gates, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. It wasn't a car at all.
"Dude, it's a fucking motorbike."
"Oui."
Apparently, Christophe thought that a seventeen year old with a motorbike was the most normal thing in the world; if anything, he was shocked by Kyle's reaction.
"It iz a Truimph, you see." He ran a tanned hand along the golden 'TRUIMPH' emblazoned on the side of the bike. The brunette was proud of all his bikes, especially the British one; there were not enough European bikes in the American markets. Besides, there was something about European engineering that no American or Asian could ever recreate; they lacked the spirit – the character – of vehicles made in his native continent. "A Triumph Daytona 675, special edition. Not ze rarest or best, but it was a present. So I use it as my 'school-run' vehicle."
The Jewish boy thought that his jaw might fall off soon unless the brunette stopped saying things like that. "Who the hell would get you a bike for a gift?"
Oh, that came out wrong.
"What do you mean, 'who ze fuck would get you a bike'?" Glaring at the shorter boy, Christophe swung his leg over to the other side, mumbling something under his breath. "I 'ave friends, dickhead. Some of my friends 'appen to 'ave ze money to buy me zings like zis." He saw the wounded look on the American's face and sighed, rant stopped mid-flow. "Just get on ze bike, bitch. I am not in ze mood for zis right now."
Kyle bit his lip and did as instructed, putting his fear of getting killed on one of these things. "Sorry, I, uh, didn't mean to—"
"You might want to 'old on, mon ami."
The monster of a bike revved, and the redhead promptly wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's torso, utterly oblivious to the other's smirk.
AN. Still not much happening, I know, but it's a start. Next chapter should be a lot more interesting~ ;) (Not in that way. Perverts xP)
And, yeah, school projects are a very clichéd way of getting them to spend time together xD Ohwell. Forgive me? ^^;
SO, here are the French translations:
"Maintenant, prenez votre livres." = "Now, take your text books."
"Alors, salope, maintentant nous parlons le francais, d'accord?" = "So, bitch, now we speak French, okay?"
"Où habites-tu? Avec ton famille, ou seul?" = "Where do you live? With your family, or alone?"
"Pourqoui t'es un émmerdant? Les Américains... J'sais pas." = "Why are you such a major pain? Americans… I don't know."
"J'habitait avec ma mère jusqu'y a à un an. Ma mère elle était une salope. Alors, en ce moment, j'habite dans un petit maison seulement… excepté mon chat, evidement." = "I lived with my mother until a year ago. My mother was a bitch. So, at the moment, I'm living in a small house alone… Except for my cat, obviously."
"Tu-habites avec ta famille?" = "You live with your family?"
"Uh, j'habite avec ma famille, dans une grande maison, parce-ce il y a quatre personnes dans ma famille." = "Uh, I live with my family, in a big house, because there are four people in my family."
"Exusé!" / "ÉXUSE-MOI!" = "Excuse me."
Apologies if my grammar's a little off xD It's been forever since I've had to write any French.
— Coma