Philip noticed four things upon waking; the first, he realized, was that he had no idea where he was; the second was that he could feel a pair of eyes watching him—something that would sound impossible to most people, but he often spent the night with Damien, and it wasn't rare for him to wake up only to find the boy-slash-demon's red eyes resting on him; thirdly, his stomach was having a bit of a fit, a fact that he unfortunately realized when he tried to sit up, which led to the fourth realization—he was in someone's room. More specifically, he was laying on someone's very unfamiliar bed—a bed that smelt like smoke.

Oh dear.

Damien hadn't taken him to Hell again, had he? The last visit was rather tiring. But, no, he would have recognized the room that he was currently in if that was the case. As far as he could remember, he had never seen the bed sheets, the furniture, the French posters on the—well, he felt rather silly at not having realized where he was sooner.

He was in Christophe's room.

Again, oh dear.

He tried to sit up again, but he felt nauseous and had to lay back down. He felt as if he was going to throw up; passing out had always done that to him, and he hadn't missed the feeling. The smell that had made him feel sick earlier—the smell of burning flesh—was also a factor, but he didn't want to think about that at the moment; he forced the thoughts away.

"Oh, my poor aching tummy." The smell of smoke, which he had always disliked, was making him dizzy. "I'll just..rest my head a bit." And he did—he laid his head down so it was resting on one of Christophe's pillows. The sheets were soft against his skin, and if he didn't fight it, he would lose consciousness once again—Christophe's voice put an end to that though.

"Do not try to 'ove around so 'ery much. You were sick, yes?"

His voice was rasphy—a result of being choked for such a long period of time as Christophe had been. Philip hadn't noticed it before, but he rather liked Christophe's usual voice. It was deep, slightly husky, powerful—it held qualities that his own soft voice was lacking. The girls in their grade agreed with him, he knew; he could remember them making a list of which boys had the best voices back in the fifth grade, the last year that they were still young enough to bother with such things. He could remember Christophe placing somewhere in the top five, his own place being somewhere in the lower three. At the time he had thought that it had something to do with his accent, but now that he—oh blimey, his accent! Here he was, a British boy, sitting on a French boy's bed, thinking about how attractive said boy's voice is! He had never felt like such a traitor to his mother country, not even when he moved from it. Oh dear. That would just not do.

Really though, it couldn't be helped. He had decided to try to get to know Christophe, after all, and if he was going to be friends with someone, he couldn't act as if he was better than them; being a gentleman meant just that, after all—being a gentle man to everyone, even the French, it seemed. Besides, Christophe's voice usually was quite attractive. Philip had known for years that he preferred lads over girls—the reason that he was no longer with Estella—and Christophe had something about him that seemed to draw people in; of course, he never took an interest in them, and even if he did, Philip doubted that he would want him. Besides, Damien would never allow it. Speaking of Damien though...

"Oh, I'm jolly good. Don't worry about little old me."

He tried to sit up again, gritting his teeth to help keep back the urge to vomit, but he only managed to sit half way upright on his own; Christophe, who had been sitting on top of a desk placed by a window in the corner of the room, moved by the edge of the bed to help him sit up the rest of the way. Now propped up against the headboard of the bed, he could see Christophe, who had sat by him on the other side of the bed, better than he would have been able to if he had stayed laying down. The boy's hair was as mused as it usually was, his clothes—steel toe boots; a dark, thin green shirt; a pair of gloves with holes in them for his thin fingers to poke through; a pair of dark trousers with chains hanging off of them; a studded belt—seemed to be the same from earlier that day, and he seemed to be fine other than the gauze wrapped around his neck; it was the gauze that worried Philip though.

"It's you that we should worry about. Why, Damien nearly killed you!"

And he would give him a stern talking to for that later—not that it would do any good. Still, it seemed like the proper thing to do, and Philip was a proper young lad.

"Nonsense. It is you that needs medical attenzion. You could 'ave burned trying to save me."

The French boy reached a hand out, his nimble fingers brushing hair away from Philip's neck. The blond wasn't watching them though; his eyes were focused on Christophe's own, watching as they searched his body once again for more burns. He swallowed, the attention from the other boy making him nervous—and then Christophe's words, 'medical attention', came back to him.

"Oh no! I'm fine, I promise. My stomach is a bit sore, but other than that, I don't think that I'm harmed. Damien would never hurt me, after all. I just feel a bit sick." He began searching his pockets for something; the motion was making him feel sicker, but determination pushed him on. Finally, his movement produced a reward; he pulled a tube of medication from his back pocket. "He gave me this as a precaution though. Just in case something did happen. You can really never be too careful." He glanced up in an attempt to make eye contact, but his gaze feel on the gauze around Christophe's neck again; he nodded at it so the boy would better understand what he was about to get at. "It helps with burns. You-you may use it if you'd like."

He wasn't sure why he stuttered, but it could have had something to do with the fact that he was giving a gift from Damien to Christophe. His friend wouldn't like it, he knew. Damien wasn't around at the moment, and it was his fault that Christophe needed the cream in the first place. The cream would help with the boy's burns; it wasn't man-made, it was something that one of Damien's workers had made, and it would cause the burns to heal faster and cleaner than anything Christophe could buy.

He made a move to hand the tube to the boy sitting beside him, but Christophe shook his head in refusal.

"Please? It will help an awful lot, I promise!"

Christophe reached out his hand once again, but it wasn't to take the tube; instead, he rested it over Philip's. Pip could feel a blush begin to cover his cheeks, a blush that he tried to fight. It was no use though. Christophe's warm, calloused hand was covering his, and until it moved, Pip didn't think that the blush making its way across his cheeks would leave.

"I'm not refusing, you silly boy. I 'ant you to put it on me."

His slim fingers were wrapping around Pip's, and the blond was finding it hard to concentrate. If it was possible, he felt sicker than he had before, but this time it felt oddly nice—like there were butterflies flapping around in his stomach.

Oh dear, is this what love felt like?

"Good Heavens! Why ever so?"

Christophe raised his free hand, and for a small moment, Philip thought that he was going to cup his face with it. He felt his cheeks heat up more than they already were, and he felt himself a bit disappointed when the brunette rested it on his own neck; he was pulling the gauze off.

"Because I 'ant you to. That should be reason enough."

And Philip, whose blood was beginning to go south instead of to his face, nodded; he decided that yes, that was reason enough. Christophe let go of his hand and disappointment filled him at the loss of contact. It soon vanished though; Christophe tilted his head sideways so Philip would have a better angle to apply the medical cream. The blond felt nervous—shy—but the French boy looked expectant, so he uncapped the lid on the tube, smearing some of the cream inside onto his thin fingers. It was white, and if he was a perverse boy—which Christophe truly was, though Philip was ignorant of that little fact—he would think that it looked like cum. He swallowed, glancing up and making eye contact for a few seconds, before slowly reaching out to rub the cream onto Christophe's neck.

Christophe was gritting his teeth, but the scars seemed like they were already healing. Pip kept rubbing, making sure not to miss any of the scarred tissue. After a while, Christophe relaxed and let his eyes close; Pip's hands were experienced from years of rubbing ointments onto bruises put there by bullies, and the tension was slipping from the mercenary's body. He was beginning to feel warm—he hadn't felt this comfortable in...hell, he couldn't even remember when the last time was.

And then it was over. Pip had removed his hand from Christophe's neck, and he was about to screw the cap back onto the tube. Without pausing to think about it, Christophe reached out and grabbed Philip's hand before the cap was all the way on, stopping the boy before he could finish what he was doing.

"No—you're not 'inished."

Pip seemed hesitant at first, but he nodded, giving in.

"Oh..Well, of course, Christophe."

The blond screwed the lid all of the way off and placed it on the small table sitting beside Christophe's bed. He rubbed the lotion onto his skin once again, but this time he used both of his hands after Christophe suggested to do so.

His soft hands were on Christophe's neck again, and the French boy found himself quickly relaxing again. It was hard not to when Philip's warm hands were massaging his neck. He found himself imagining what it would be like for those smooth hands to be on his dick instead of his neck, and that was when he realized it—he was hard.

He hoped to the God that he hated that Pip hadn't noticed.