It's always a surreal thing, waking up without being stirred by something specific. No alarm, no sunlight; just your brain saying that it's had enough. Christophe dug his fingertips into his palm, letting out a long groan as he stretched his muscles. Another day of no work, no plans, and plenty of sleep. He certainly couldn't complain.

Half of his limbs were still insisting on staying still as he arose from his bed, groggily slumping over to the kitchen. He may not have any food, but if he was lucky there might be some milk that wasn't too far expired… he wasn't banking on it.

The light from the fridge was the only thing which illuminated the house, which was shrouded in blackout curtains just the way Christophe liked it. He winced at the intrusion, blinking his eyes a few times at the various items filling the space. Fruit, eggs, vegetables, meat… Christophe was lazy, sure, but he could still cook for himself. This was a lot of food- when did he buy so much food? He inhaled the cool air from inside, reaching his hand forward for only a moment before his vision blurred. He felt a sudden head rush, quickly grasping at the handle to the freezer to stabilize himself. Yellow, yellow, yellow- that was all he could see for a few frightening seconds as he clutched tightly to the appliance. He took a few shallow breaths in, waiting for his vision to clear before attempting to stand straight again. Fuck, he needed caffeine before he even moved in the morning now? Maybe he needed to cut back… another day.

He stood on his toes in order to reach for his favorite coffee mug from the taller cabinet (really it was just brown, but he loved it regardless). He was content; a mug of coffee in hand while slugging into the living room, sinking himself deeply into the couch. He wouldn't trade this lifestyle for anything. All he had to worry about were which re-runs he'd have to avoid in order to be entertained for the day, and maybe a raccoon getting into his trash. He liked to watch them from the window. They were scavengers, like him. Everybody had to make a living somehow, even if that living was taking shadier jobs he found in the dark web.

Halfway through his mug of coffee and his second cigarette, his glance fell upon the small silver device near the edge of his coffee table. Christophe had no recollection of where it may have come from, and that was enough to make his knuckles whiten against the handle of his mug. His eyes darted around the house suspiciously, as if someone else may be inside it with him- but he'd surely have seen them by now. He set his mug down quietly as he could and picked up the device. It was rectangular like a cell phone, but the front was thin like the cover of a book. He handled it carefully, like it might explode if he held it wrong, and he flipped it open.

It was a simple thing. Small electronic icons for alarms, a calendar, and some journal-type application. Clicking over to journal (as the most obvious starting point) he found that there were two entries written: one dated nearly a month ago, and one dated yesterday. Yesterday? Shit. Then where the hell did this come from? He thumbed over the entry from the day before, his breath halting as he read over the words.

Gregory's a fucking asshole. He's a faggot that thinks his good looks can get anyone in his pants. 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. Non- I'm writing because I want to prove his pretty British ass wrong. I hate him. He thinks that he's smarter than me, but I won't be fooled.

And if Christophe's heart weren't beating fast enough, the next line certainly did it:

He looks good with blood in his teeth. Maybe I'll do it again sometime.

Christophe read it over, more times than necessary, and stared at the screen until it timed out and went blank. What the fuck? It sounded so… like himself. He'd nearly read it in his own voice. And Gregory? He hadn't thought about that blonde asshole in ages. Scrolling over the sentences again did nothing but irritate him further. None of it made sense- Cartman? Cartman as in the creator? Shit, saying that the guy who supposedly created the universe could time travel was a really roundabout way of describing omnipotence. Granted, Christophe still thought Cartman was a fucking asshole. Anyone who creates a world filled with such shit has gotta be an asshole, right?

And Gregory… and blood? Each sentence left him more confused than the last, but he could picture it. He could imagine a whole scenario: Gregory half staggered against a couch, wiping blood from his lips across the tips of his knuckles and looking at him with that sneer… Fuck, it was sort of hot. Maybe that's why his head felt so foggy. He had some bullshit dream about a former classmate, and he's still half-asleep thinking about it.

His eyes returned to the silver device in his hands. But 'non' is written… so either someone's royally fucking with him… well, he didn't have another answer for it. Someone was imitating him on purpose- someone who knew that he had been friends with Gregory. But something about it also felt so… off. He flicked open his pack of cigarettes, lighting up and taking a long drag as his free hand fiddled with the e-journal. There was still one other document.

He furrowed his brow, teeth grazing over the filter of his cigarette as he read the words:

Gregory Anderson

57 Shenfield rd

CM15 8AA

That blonde faggot again. Maybe that's where the device had come from. Gregory must have somehow broken into his house and was playing some kind of stupid prank. But at the same time, for Gregory to write about himself in such a strange way… he'd probably have worded it something closer to 'His lips are as soft as the silken weavings of-' He froze, suddenly remembering something. Part of a dream?

His lips.

Christophe felt the stale air burning in his lungs, as heat rose to his ears. Okay, so he'd definitely had a stupid dream was that involved Gregory, it was definitely still somewhere in his subconscious. He wished he could punch the dream-weaver, or the sand-man, or whatever stupid fucking asshole it was who'd decided to give him such a dumb fantasy. He settled for heading off to punch the real Gregory, the one who'd put some stupid electronic calling card with his address in it. The one who wrote shit about being good-looking and about time travel in the same paragraph. The one who he couldn't stop thinking about hitting (among many other less than virtuous things, thanks to his stupid fucking brain) as he put on his jacket and headed out the door.

The air of the forest was a welcome change to the smell of smoke-stained upholstery. He knew that he needed to quit, just as soon as he could pass an hour without wanting to pry somebody's head off. Smells of pine and cedar were much more pleasant compared to the odor of sweaty train passengers in the coming hours. But what Christophe found much, much more unnerving occurred after arrival. What made him tense was standing outside of a small two-story yellow house with blue shutters, and small round stones leading up to the door. Even fiddling with the end of his cigarette didn't prove to calm his nerves- stupid jitters after not seeing the bastard for years. The number of the house was clearly written on the outside, and even if it weren't Christophe still felt as if it were definitely Gregory's. He wasn't sure how, but he with a shaky hand rapping on the door he was sure that he knew.

His knocks on the door sounded much too quiet for a normal person to have heard, yet Gregory appeared in the doorway mere moments after he'd made them. He looked the same as he'd remembered; better even. A tight orange button-down accentuating the blonde's broad shoulders, tucked neatly into black slacks which looked like they'd been tailored just for him (and they probably were). Christophe swallowed hard, forgetting his manners in saying "hello". Gregory still had those same blonde curls which looked more like those of an angel than a mortal, a few of which fell gracefully across the man's forehead. The smile on Gregory's lips looked far too expecting for this to have been mere coincidence. Mole simply stared, in anticipation of some sort of answer to a question he hadn't asked. Luckily (and as much as he hated it most days), Gregory was known for having all the answers before even being asked.

"I'm so glad you came. You wrote in the journal as I'd requested of you, correct?" A self-satisfied smile. "Please, come inside." He waved, welcoming the 'stranger' into his house.

So he knew about the device after all. Christophe grit his teeth, finding it difficult to keep his own tone in check. "I didn't write shit. There was something with your address in my house." He fished the silver device out of his pocket, holding it up between them both. Upon seeing the recognition reflected in the blonde's eyes, Christophe furled his lip into a frown. "Why?"

Gregory frowned. "You wrote all that, before Cartman's time travelling caused a shift."

"What sort of bullshit is this? I don't hear a word from you in six years, and this is what you start with? Some stupid joke?"

"Stupid joke?!" Gregory scowled. "I told you that you would forget everything! That's why I had you write a journal. Didn't you write anything important, anything that we talked about yesterday?!" He snatched the loosely held device from Christophe, who growled and chased after it in gusto.

"Non- give it back!" He decided, quickly running after the blonde further inside the house. Gregory seemed to know the device much better than he, however, and easily accessed exactly what he was looking for.

"Gregory is a fucking asshole", Gregory read flatly, rolling his eyes. "He's a faggot… that thinks his good looks-nNPH" Christophe's shoulder lurched hard into Gregory's stomach, forcing the air from Gregory's lungs with a hard 'OOF', and sending the two men reeling to the floor.

The device skidded underneath a nearby cabinet, while Christophe landed safely atop something warm and soft. Namely, Gregory.

"Get off of me you buffoon!" Gregory struggled, hands raking at the ones holding his shoulders to the floor.

"NON, you will get the wrong idea reading it. I simply wanted to call you a faggot, eez all."

Gregory paused, his familiar arrogant grin returning to his face. Christophe grimaced in return despite his flustered face, but it did nothing to bother the blonde's confidence. "So you do remember writing it then!"

Christophe had yet to figure out how someone could be so irritating yet so fucking attractive at the same time. Especially when said person is inches away from your face, grinning beneath you. Even pinned against the floor, Gregory always seemed to be winning. "I didn't say that."

"You most certainly did! And you called me a faggot too. That's twice now, Christophe."

"Vous êtes un fagot."

"Says the man pinning another man to the ground."

Christophe scrambled off, quickly reaching a hand beneath the cabinet and retrieving the device. It was much safer in his pocket, for sure. Safe from prying eyes and stupid fucking Brits who can't keep their noses out of other people's business. Maybe he did write it. It was a blur, like he got too fucking drunk and can't remember what had happened. It felt like he had all this extra time which his brain couldn't quite sift through. He didn't remember drinking, but if he had been drinking it would explain why he couldn't remember in the first place. Then there was the problem of not having a hangover… no, it still wasn't adding up.

"Explain shit. I do not remember meeting you, but every time I look at you it hurts my 'ead…." He tried distracting his vision, looking everywhere but at the blonde on the floor. "It's like… like something z'at should be there isn't."

Gregory came to his feet, not speaking a word until he had brushed off his thighs, arms, and ass. Damn that perfect fucker, couldn't stand to be less than pristine for even a moment. "Please close the door behind you" he said. "I promise that it'll all make sense soon enough."

Like most people who had ever been within the vicinity of such a charming blonde, Christophe soon found himself overwhelmed with logic and explanation. Unlike most people in Gregory's vicinity, Christophe still swore and called him 'fucking delisional' every few sentences.

"I felt everything you feel right now. Confusion. Disbelief. Disorientation… I know it isn't easy."

Christophe scoffed, crossing his arms like a child. "Quit acting like you understand every little thing. It's annoying."

"But do you trust me?" A gleam of worry flashed through Gregory's eyes, and Christophe glared at him with a knitted brow. Gregory was telling the truth… or he was a great actor.

He turned his head away, his own expression dramatically bitter. "Non."

The house remained silent and without protest for a few awkward seconds afterward; purposefully so. Christophe knew that Gregory was waiting on a real answer, and he really didn't want to give him one. Gregory was the only one who could play him for a fool. Every time the brunette had heard the words "time travel" spoken aloud in the last 30 minutes, he was reminded how impossible everything that he was being told really was.

"It started when I'd began writing in that laptop, I didn't think anything odd of it back then. I'd written about associates of Cartman inc. publishing a scholarly journal about time-travel. The next day when I'd resumed my own journal, the top story on the news blaring from my television had advertised Eric as becoming mayor- completely different from what I'd apparently written the day before. Eric was senator the day after. It continued all the same: president, miracle worker… even God. They said he was -God-, Christophe. It wasn't like that before! I remembered none of it; nothing I'd written had held true for more than a day or two." He'd run a hand through his hair, his volume steadily increasing.

"The journals just didn't add up. Cartman is messing with our memories... He's ruining history, and I can't even remember what in the bloody hell it is that he's destroyed!" Gregory's voice had wavered then, as if the words coming from his mouth were physically hurting him. Either he was lying, or he was batshit-crazy enough to believe what he was saying. Gregory had always been stupid, but not unintelligent. It'd take a lot of hard evidence to convince the blonde of something so… unbelievable.

Christophe crossed his arms, fingertips dancing across his skin anxiously. Whether it was the blonde's tone, or the near desperate expression he wore when recounting his tale, Christophe's mind found it a more likely story than 'I got drunk and can't remember'. Despite it all, Gregory still had a way of making himself convincing. Christophe was jealous of the way he could influence people with a few words and a smile. At his best, the brunette could make people swoon with a few smoothly spoken words of French. Gregory could probably lead an entire army if he wanted to, and never have to touch a sword.

No… the sword would surely be Christophe's job in such a war. Weapons weren't made for people who had leadership skills like Gregory Anderson. The two of them would be a battalion against God; or at least, maybe it was God. Not like it mattered- Christophe had always hated the bastard anyways. God, Cartman; they were all assholes in the end, and he himself was always in need of a good paycheck.

An audible groan preluded Christophe's concession, but Gregory caught the corners of a smile rising on the brunette's lips. "I mean, It's not like I 'ave much choice, do I?" Gregory smiled in return, beaming with a real genuine smile which left Christophe a bit stunned. It took him a moment to break eye contact, feigning a cough. "…but this 'ad better be worth my while, mon cher. I don't work for faggy reasons like freedom and pride."

"No, I never supposed that you would." Gregory hummed, letting his tight posture fall into something more relaxed. "I suppose that some things never change, do they?" He held out his right hand with a friendly confidence.

Christophe paused, hesitating for one final moment before giving a slight nod and accepting a firm handshake. "You 'ave no idea."