Friday:

"Will you fucking WORK already? Jesus Christ!"

"I am! You just won't use any of my ideas!"

"I would if zhey weren't all so idiotic!"

"They're not! You just won't give them a chance!"

It took a lot to make Philip "Pip" Pirrup get so angry that he screamed at someone, but he had been arguing with Christophe since the class had begun, and he was loosing his temper; there was only thirty minutes left of class, and if they didn't hurry and finish their PowerPoint, then they would have to work on it at Christophe's house because Pip didn't have his own computer. And Pip did not want to go into enemy grounds.

Pip didn't cry often. He was an orphan, yes, and his sister treated him like dirt, but he wasn't lonely like he had been during his earlier years in South Park—he had Damien, and Damien never let him become lonely. Pip still missed his parents, of course, but he had accepted years ago that they were in a better place, and that he didn't need to worry about them. They were happy, he was sure, wherever they were at that moment.

He, however, wasn't. He wasn't lonely, no; though Damien was working on his own project (well, making his partner do all of the work while he instructed), the prince was still in the room with him, and if Pip asked him to, he would move across the room to where Pip was sitting with Christophe, drop everything that he was doing, all to keep him company. So, no, Pip wasn't lonely.

He was becoming frustrated—rather quickly, too. Christophe wouldn't listen to a thing that he said, and it was bothering him; he wanted a good grade, and he was brighter than Christophe was, though he was above pointing this out to the other boy, so Christophe should at least listen to his suggestions.

Philip Pirrup, though he hated that he did it, couldn't help his natural reaction when he became frustrated—he cried. He wasn't sure when or why he picked the nasty habit up, but if he had to guess, it would be because after years of patience and loneliness his body couldn't take it anymore—it needed to vent, and it took every opportunity to do so that he allowed it. He couldn't remember crying when he became frustrated during the dodge ball games that he had participated in when he was younger, so it had to have happened sometime after that—sometime during middle school, he would guess.

It didn't matter when it started though, just when it happened—and it was happening at that very moment.

He was sure that Christophe would laugh at him; Pip was sure that their hatred was mutual, and Christophe certainly acted like he hated him. Just earlier that very day, Philip had decided to be polite and had wished him a good morning; the very moment that he had said Christophe's name though, the boy gave him an odd look and looked away, all the while gritting his teeth. Really, what an odd fellow. The only thing that Pip could conclude was that Christophe really did hate him.

So why was he not being laughed at?

The other students in their class would have laughed at him, so why wasn't the only one that Philip didn't like doing so?

Of course, Philip was British, so he wouldn't understand that Christophe didn't laugh because the French didn't believe in laughing at things that they found beautiful—especially while said things were crying. And Christophe found Philip beautiful even while he dried; maybe more so.

And Jesus fucking Christ, he did not just think that Philip "Pip" Pirup was beautiful, did he?

His dream must have set something off; there was no way that under normal circumstances he would call Pirrup 'beautiful', even if he found the boy attractive—which he had already admitted to himself that he did. His dream must have fucked his brain up somehow; Pirrup had called him by his first name when the class had begun, and Christophe had noticed that he had liked the way that it had sounded, even if the voice pronouncing it had a British accent—before the dream, he had never noticed.

"Are you...crying?"

"Oh, Heavens! I do apologize; I must look like a mess!"

A beautiful one.

And SHET, he needed to stop thinking that. Pirrup's eyes were bloodshot, as were his cheeks. Very few tears had leaked out of his eyes, but those that had were noticeable, and it should have been irritating Christophe—people who were cried, especially around someone else, were pussies—but it wasn't.

Why the fuck in fucking hell wasn't it bothering him?

And even though Pirrup did look like a mess, why was he still so fucking...beautiful...to Christophe? Why didn't he feel like laughing at the boy?

God must have done something; it was the only thing that he could think of. God must have made his dream screw with his mind.

But when Pirrup sniffed, wiped his nose and eyes with the back of his hand, and tried to smile, it wasn't disgusting—Christophe knew that it should have been, but it wasn't—and the thought that maybe it hadn't been God, maybe he just genuinely found the boy sitting beside him beautiful, entered his head.

Shet. Shet. SHET!

There had to be something wrong with him, there had to be.

Because if God didn't tamper with his mind, then...Well, then he wanted to kiss Pirrup, he wanted to gently press his lips against the boys, he wanted to fucking hug him, he wanted to make him stop crying, he wanted all of that, and it wouldn't be God's fault.

He didn't like the idea of something going wrong in his life not being God's fault, but as Pirrup sniffed one final time, brushed his own hair out of his face, tried to smile once again, and uttered a small apology, Christophe didn't think that it was God's fault.

No, Christophe felt even more attracted to Philip Pirrup than he had the day before, but this time was different. This time he felt more drawn to the boy, and not just in a 'I want to fuck your brains out' way. The fact that he wanted to give the kid a fucking hug was proof of that.

Shet.

Shet, he was in trouble.