It was difficult not to dwell in nostalgia as they walked the city streets of London. Gregory used to invite him here during breaks- insisting that Christophe not spend all of his summers "mulling about" while Gregory's travelled through Europe. He remembered the blonde pointing at every little thing, so eager to teach Mole the details of his hometown. Now as an adult, his vision of the town was largely skewed from before. People hurried busily to their destinations, younger generations entwining their fingertips and whispering forget-me-nots, as those who were older sighed into their cups of coffee. The cobblestone pillars were no longer "home-base", and the market was no longer an "objective". One thing, however, was the same- the two were still wary around men of uniform. At that fact, Christophe lips curled into a semblance of one who stared closely enough might call a smile. Some things never change.

"I'm going to purchase bread. Would you care for anything?" The blonde was always too carefree for his own good.

The aroma of freshly baked goods made Christophe's mouth water, but his stomach protested. "Non. I want to be 'ome." Which home, he didn't specify. His wording seemed to make Gregory smile, so he didn't correct himself. He'd give anything to be in a dark room with a pillow over his head. He'd sleep soundly on the god-damned floor at this point. Anything to get that damned sun out of his face, which made his head pound every time he moved.

Gregory still purchased a loaf, with oats- the one Mole had always opted for in their younger days. Gregory's memory was a scary thing indeed. The shopkeeper was young, in her early 20's, and smiling a bit too eagerly at the blonde customer. She twisted a finger through her long brown locks, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth at the end of each sentence. Gregory leaned over the counter on one arm, whispering something a bit too closely to her that Mole couldn't quite catch. Whatever it was had made the girl's face flush red, while she giggled and added a few other things to the bag.

Christophe rolled his eyes, and paid the price with a fresh round of pain making his stomach roll along with them. Damned stupid prince charming Gregory. He still had yet to punch him- and now he deserved it twice as much. The bastard would flirt with anything with legs, he was sure. He shouldn't blame the girl for being so flustered in the face of those golden curls. They had only seemed to become more vibrant from when Christophe had known him last, as Gregory had grown from a young, ambitious student into a man. Gregory knew just how lower his eyelids so that amber lashes just barely skirted the icy blue hues of his eyes. The accent, the low chuckle he always faked when he was trying to get something out of someone… Christophe had memorized it all. It was pathetic, the whole act. He turned his head from the situation, thinking about just how soft Gregory's lips had felt on his ear- how husked his voice had become as he yanked him back by the hair, instructing him…

"Are you alright, Christophe?" Gregory asked innocently, his bags in hand.

The brunette nearly jumped, his eyes immediately narrowing into their usual scowl. "Bien entendu, I'm fantastic. Feel free to continue eye-fucking zat salope." He shot bitterly.

"Good to see you're still yourself!" The cheer in Gregory's voice was most certainly sarcastic, and the passing moment of the grin that Christophe caught on the blonde's face made him want to scratch it off. Stupid fucking Brit.

Christophe raised his brow in surprise when Gregory turned onto a doorstep of a humble house just on the outskirts of town. The house was a dull yellow with light blue shutters, and a few windows scattered about. There was a flowerbox in each window, vibrantly decorating the exterior with hues of pink, yellow, and blue. Mole stepped slowly, his eyes taking in every feature of just the outside. The sidewalk leading up to the front door was lined carefully with little round stones. Every few stones, one may say "happiness", or "determination" in a black, curly font. It was cheesy and unnecessary, sort of like Gregory. The house, however, was much more modest. It was strange; nothing like Gregory's parents' house.

"You live here?" Christophe watched the blonde continue walking ahead of him, who pulled a small keyring from his pocket and pushed the door open with a small 'click'.

"Please come in. Ah- I must request that you take off your shoes. I've still an aversion to dirt on the carpet."

Christophe snorted in response, though undid the laces of his sneakers before kicking them off in the entryway. He'd learned to pick his battles- and one regarding shoes was one he learned he'd never win. While Gregory busied himself putting away his groceries, Christophe let his curiosity lead him around the house as he ventured further in. There weren't pictures of family or friends adorning the walls, instead there were paintings. Flowers, scenery; nothing of any grand worth from what Christophe could tell. The couches were a seafoam green, just faded enough to be considered homey amidst the hardwood floors.

He inhaled deeply, a fresh scent helping his stomach to settle a bit as he lowered himself down into the sofa. It was a bit nice, breathing in something that wasn't stale cigarettes. It smelled a bit like fresh laundry, a sunny patio, and cedar. Everything seemed to be just old enough to be vintage, while new enough to be fashionable. Fact # 458 about Gregory: He was good at interior decorating. Christophe could hardly complain as he let his eyes flutter shut, slouching with his arms folded over his stomach. What a stupid thing to be good at. Interior decoration. It was comfortable though, he wouldn't argue that point.

He opened his eyes a few moments later to the sound of footsteps entering, and the smell of something fantastic. It was nothing grandiose, the silver tray set in front of him, but his headache had astonishingly almost completely vanished. Atop the tray there sat a white ornate porcelain teapot, two cups with matching trays, and a small saucer for milk. An array of small biscuits and cookies lined the opposing side while miniature sandwiches sat amidst the middle, each ordained with its own toothpick.

"You made all z'is in the last few minutes?" He quipped, eyes raking over all the fresh food.

Gregory chuckled. "You've been sleeping for nearly two hours, Christophe. I was afraid you might murder me if I tried to wake you." He picked up the pot and poured out a cup for each of them, watching Christophe try to decide if he should be the first to eat. "Please, go ahead."

Christophe hesitated no longer, picking up a sliced cucumber sandwich and making the entire morsel disappear in one single bite. "Mershi", he managed between a mouth full of food. Gregory was being awfully nice. Too nice. Christophe had fallen asleep in a house he'd never been inside before, around a man he hadn't seen in years. That made two fatal mistakes in only a few hours. He cursed himself for being so comfortable- he also blamed the headache.

Gregory took a small, polite sip of his tea before placing it down carefully. Christophe knew that look. The one where Gregory made only a moment's worth of eye contact before flitting his attention elsewhere, taking in a long breath through his nose. He had something to say, a lot probably, but it wasn't perfectly written in his brain. The blonde spent far too much time formulating his words so that they're perfect.

Christophe huffed, devouring a cookie with the same vigor as the sandwich. That's why he loved pissing off Gregory so much, aside from it being really, really funny. He got to see him out of his element- the real Gregory. Not the carefully calculated, prince charming bullshit. He liked the real Gregory far better, even if he only got to see it when Gregory was near set off with rage. Sometimes, you have to make do with what you can.

"So, regarding the events which occurred earlier…" Gregory started, clearly not interested in the food. "It's… a long story. I'm not entirely sure where would be most beneficial to begin, or rather; when."

"Now would be nice."

Gregory sighed. "Not what I meant." He put a hand on his knee and pushed himself up, folding his arms and staring towards the wall. Staring anywhere except Christophe, as he tried to organize his thoughts. "What do you know about… Him?"

"You're going to 'ave to be more specific. I'm not a mind reader." Though sometimes he really wished he were, if for no other reason than to fuck with the blonde.

Gregory pulled the window curtain to the side, eyes shifting as if someone might have their ear pressed against the glass. And here Christophe thought he was the paranoid one. "You know, the so-called 'creator'." He turned back and took a seat much closer to Christophe, to the man's obvious distain. He continued as if speaking in a higher decibel than a whisper might somehow kill him. "Eric Cartman."

"Easy. He's a fat chubby piece of- nnGH" Christophe brought his hand to his forehead, his fingernails digging into his scalp. He remembered the war, the stupid Canadian fuckers, the dogs; and it was that man's fault- but then he remembered church, the pews, sitting with his mother as the choir hummed in unison behind the preacher. Our father, our lord, our creator, e-r-i-c, alleluia, alleluiaaa…

A hand on his shoulder snapped him from the barrage of images, and he shuddered away with a growl. "W-what the fuck is this?! I- It was the Canadian war, oui? But then, why do I feel like 'e is also a religious cocksucker?"

"You… remember? Christophe, you actually- wait, no I have to go back. How is this possible?!" A wide smile of childish glee washed over Gregory's features, and Christophe couldn't be any more confused. Gregory knew that Christophe was quickly becoming agitated again, so he continued quickly. "The Canadian War, I don't remember it, but I've read about it and it's fascinating- and you remember. This is- this is phenomenal Christophe! How much do you remember? Everything? Pieces?"

The brunette scowled, the word on the tip of his tongue was "everything", but his brain disagreed. "The meeting with z'at cocksucker, and you. Going to… a show? The fucking-" he paused, his headache looming and threatening to return with a vengeance. "The dogs." He said quietly. His expression fell, his features crumpling in frustration. He felt like he was trying to remember a dream that he once had, and yet amidst the cloudiness he could still feel the sting of teeth sinking into his skin, tearing flesh from bone as he crawled quickly, desperately. Choking on his own blood. He ran a hand over the arm, along the place where white scars lined and speckled his skin.

They weren't there.

Gregory frowned, Christophe's chest rising and falling much faster than before. Panic. That wasn't his intent. "It's okay! It's okay. Listen, He changed everything. The past, history. He… he changed everything."

Christophe's eyes still stared down at his arm, his fingers brushing over smooth, dark skin. "What the fuck? What the actual fuck?"

"Please, breathe. It was all real alright? You're hardly crazy- it seems you're the sanest person I've met all month." Gregory bit his lip. Panicked Christophe was unnerving, he'd vastly prefer yelling to… whatever this was. "I can show you. I have it all logged, everything- the real history. The things that everyone has forgotten." He met Christophe's gaze for a moment, the brunette's eyes eerily vacant. Not arrogant, not angry… just confused. He'd daresay that the brunette was close to scared.

"I died, I fucking died… right?" He was more so cursing to himself than he was to the blonde, who he'd temporarily forgotten.

Gregory rose quickly, taking the tray off the table and stepping off into the next room. He returned as quickly as he could with his laptop, fumbling with it a moment before situating himself next to Christophe. "Look, I have it all written here in my journals. This computer, it's one of three things that somehow don't get erased when the timeline is shifted." He scanned through his files, eyes darting over dates before he found dated 'June 30'. "Here, see? It's the war- it's a record of it all. You're here. You were there and…" He held his breath a moment, unsure of how far to continue. "And yes… you died."

Christophe huffed, folding his arms and letting his eyes scan over a few sentences of the words typed up on the screen. All in Gregory's arrogant, wordy POV. He let out a small chuckle, and then a laugh, and the volume only grew until Gregory shifted away his gaze, uncomfortably.

"You know what the funniest part is?" Christophe bellowed, wiping the moisture from his eye. "I almost fucking believed you. Shit- was the guard a part of this too? To call me after all these years only to convince me z'at I'm fucking nuts and that fat bastard somehow has the power to change time?" His breathing was still coming in quick, short bursts, and sweat had formed along the top of his forehead.

Gregory frowned, searching quickly through his files. "Look, during the war- Satan left a case behind. Most of the things inside were trivial, and quite frankly disgusting…" He paused at the unpleasant thought. "But there were electronics. And somehow- somehow they're unaffected by the shifts. I have them. I've logged everything!"

Christophe's laughter was nearly cackles at this point. Desperately confused cackles.

"Just, Christophe just look for a moment and I'll prove it to you! Cartman somehow figured out how to build a time machine, and every night he's-"

"You're a real asshole, you know z'at?"

Gregory staring desperately at the brunette, unsure of how to make himself sound less crazy than he felt. The silence made him feel like his throat was closing up. Like he was suffocating. "No, but!"

"Non. I'm going home. Don't fucking contact me again."

Gregory's fists clenched in his lap, his breath quickening before hastily getting up and heading to the other room, coming back and throwing a small device in Christophe's direction.

The brunette caught it on reflex, scowling before turning it over in his hands. It had a small screen, and barely what you could call a keyboard. The thing looked like some bullshit out of a 90's movie. "What is this?"

"It's a personal planner. You take notes on it."

Christophe threw it back. "I don't want this shit."

Gregory walked forward, shoving it back into Christophe's hand's personally. "Take this and write in it. I don't care what, just, something that'll make you remember. My address is in it." His voice sounded pathetic and agitated, and Christophe quirked a brow at him. "That's one of the items I spoke of. The laptop, the planner, and a camera. They're the only things I have… they're the only reason I remember and that… the fat bastard isn't God." He wanted to fall apart. Everything sounded so hopeless when he put it into words- he was nearly ready to institutionalize himself for goodness sake. "He isn't God, Christophe. I know it… Nobody will fucking believe me, and I can't fix this alone…"

"You're a fucking lunatic." Christophe spat, standing and shoving the device into his pocket. "I don't know what your goal is here, but I won't be played for a fucking idiot."

Gregory scowled, standing and glowering in the small height advantage that he held over the brunette. "I don't think you're an idiot! I thought you'd be the only person who'd actually listen to me! But maybe you're more of a fucking ignoramus than I'd thought!" Gregory yelped as a fist came up and knocked him in the jaw, and the stinging sensation of his teeth piercing into his gums ripped through his mouth angrily.

Gregory stared up from where he'd stumbled back onto the arm of the couch, and Christophe glowered over him with tight fists. There was blood leaking from the side of the blonde's mouth, which he smeared across his skin with the side of his hand. Fuck. Even without that smug grin, Gregory still looked hot.

Christophe turned back towards the door, memorizing the image of Gregory with a bloody lip and breathing angrily through his nose in his mind. It didn't feel nearly as satisfying as he'd imagined it to.

"Just write in it. Promise me." Gregory's voice cracked, pathetically. "You'll forget! You'll forget and I need you to remember... Please Christophe."

The brunette paused for a moment in the doorway. "Whatever", he grumbled as he let the door slam shut behind him.

He was angry the entire trip home. At himself for leaving in the first place. At Gregory for being such a piece of shit for baiting him. At his dick for insisting on forcing certain memories to the forefront of his mind. The train hostess nearly yelped when Christophe shot her a look that a grown man would've crossed the street to avoid. Whatever- that just meant that he had a small section to himself. Fucking blonde Brit.

Home stunk just as badly as he'd remembered it. At least the concessions stand outside the station had sold cigarettes. He lit one up immediately, before kicking off his pants and burying himself into the broken-in couch. He flipped the "personal planner" around in his hands, fiddling with it until he managed to get a writing document open. Hell, the only things the planner had on it were 'journal', 'calendar', and 'alarm clock'. He took another deep lungful, blowing smoke at the tiny screen and watching it cloud off in every direction.

'Gregory's a fucking asshole.' He typed in self-satisfaction. With the mixture of nicotine, and finally being home, he grinned widely. Maybe there was something to this journaling thing after all. 'He has the nerve to call me to his home, make me travel, shove me into a wall and pull my hair, practically shove his tongue in my ear' He paused. So much detail wasn't necessary- his own fucking journal was going to make him horny. His memory did that well enough, much to his annoyance. He deleted the latter, simply going with 'He's a faggot that thinks his good looks can get anyone in his pants.'

He kept the cigarette in his mouth, taking small puffs from it so he could use both hands on the tiny keys. 'He thinks that the fat bastard Cartman can time travel. He's fucking crazy- or he's trying to make me crazy. He thinks I will forget, he's making me write in this stupid journal.' He paused, the ash from his cigarette landing on the floor at his feet. 'Non- I'm writing because I want to prove his pretty British ass wrong.' Prissy. He meant 'prissy'. He swore that Gregory wore pants that were just a size too tight to emphasize it. It didn't matter if you were a girl or a boy, Gregory knew how to make you swoon and blush with only a glance and a well-timed purr. Fuck.

He hated that guy. He'd never admit how much he couldn't stop thinking about him as he ate the least spoiled vegetables from the fridge, or as he flicked on the television before bed, or especially not as his sleep deprived mind betrayed him and he shivered while he touched himself beneath the sheets. The fresh memory of 'Christophe, please…' is what did him in with one final, drawled groan. Fucking blonde. Fucking sexy Brit. Fucking stupid faggot mind.

The room was dark now, illuminated only by the small electronic decide he held in his hands. 'I hate him. He thinks that he's smarter than me, but I won't be fooled.' And a new paragraph: 'He looks good with blood in his teeth. Maybe I'll do it again sometime.' He typed, unable to give a reason as to why he was still writing in the damned thing at all.

Sleep didn't come quickly after. He was anxious. He kept checking his watch to see if it was morning yet, and staring at that stupid journal. He didn't want to be crazy- he wanted it to be morning. Damned Gregory and playing on his paranoia, the bastard. He'd get him back for this somehow. Somehow…