Gregory sighs again for the umpteenth time that evening, adjusting his magnifier over the dial on the radio. His thin, nimble fingers turn the dial another millionth of an inch counter-clockwise, and when that produces no results he turns it two millionths the other way.
"Zis is getting ridiculous," Christophe groans from the other side of the room, posted up in the archway separating the kitchen from the dining room.
"You think it's ridiculous, I think it's fucking stupid," Gregory whispers, causing the Mole to smirk cheekily, amused. It's quite entertaining when Gregory swears. "I'm surprised you can't make out this handwriting."
Gregory gestures towards a slip of paper on the counter next to him with specific directions on which radio channel he needs to dial. On that channel would be a numbers channel spitting out a hyper-specific stream of numbers that only three people on the planet would understand— Gregory himself, the Mole, and their confidant, because those are the three who invented the cipher. To anyone else, ideally, it would remain a secret. Obviously, the secret was too damn hidden because without these instructions there was virtually no way to access the channel.
"Me?" The Frenchman lifts his chin, fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette. Once he finds one and tucks it between his lips, he looks back to Gregory. "Why me, of all people?"
"Oh please," Gregory scoffs. "Your handwriting is anything but neat. I assume you all understand one another's handwriting. Takes one to know one, yes?"
"Says you with your 4.0 GPA," Christophe bites back, suddenly looking for a surface to strike his match on. God knows where he's found that. You have your women with the entire earth and space contained in their handbags, and then there's Christophe DeLorne who possesses the moon and stars in his cargo pants pockets. Among other things. "They don't teach you 'ow to read in pussy princess bitch academy?"
"It's called Yardale Academy, and it's the highest rank in the Ivy League," Gregory seethes, finally removing his hand from the radio and pressing the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. He hasn't slept in 36 hours, and it's beginning to show. "…Mole, please promise me this whole thing will be over soon."
In response to Gregory breaking somewhat, Christophe huffs and slips his jacket off, led only by the scarlet glow of the cigarette between his lips, and drapes the garment over Gregory's shoulders. Gregory's hands drop to the table below and he looks up at Christophe thankfully, the weariness outlining his features somewhat. Tightening his lips and balling a fist, Gregory returns to the task at hand and tries one more time to dial the right channel.
"Go to sleep," Christophe says, his hands, work-worn and gloved, traveling to Gregory's shoulders and massaging the tight muscles there. "Let me finish it. I think I can read it. Let me see ze note."
"No, Chris," Gregory denies rather firmly and takes the note and slams it under his palm, the sudden slam causing the table to shake and the static to peak. "I can handle this. You go to bed; I'll meet you there in a minute."
"You said zat four hours ago."
"Well I wasn't tired then," Gregory remarks, defiantly ignoring Mole's eyes and continuing to focus on this terrible task he's gotten himself obsessed over. "The sooner I find this Godforsaken channel the sooner we can be done with this mission and go back home."
"Well, zere is your problem," Mole smiles, his hands returning to Gregory's shoulders and squeezing tight which elicits a strained purr from the blond who has always had a bad shoulder. He decides to have a little fun now, lest they both be in awful moods. "Involving Him in zings in which He does not need to be involved. If zere is a God, a benevolent God, he'd have tuned zat radio with his own bitch hands."
Gregory chuckles in spite of it all, causing his hand to shake and turn the dial a fraction of a centimeter too far, rousing a sudden high-pitched squeal from the device. Gregory cringes, his hand pulling away sharply for a moment in fear that he's done something to upset the device and ruin his progress. After a few stressful moments of tinny buzzing and popping, a different sound starts to pour from the speakers, but it's different from the monotone crackling they'd gotten used to.
A spark of hope travels through Gregory and he sits up immediately as he notes the change in the sound, the color returning to his features, and his body seeming to forget the lack of sleep and adequate nutrition it'd endured these rough few hours. Christophe freezes behind him for a second before slowly withdrawing his hands and bringing them back to his sides.
But, as quickly as it came, it ended; the sound that the device returned was not of numeric value: useless.
Instead of the number channel Gregory bloody ached for, now more literally than figuratively, music began to fall from the small radio.
Gregory slumps back in his chair, defeated. It'd be his luck to mistakenly stumble upon an odd little forgotten channel like this, but of course, it wouldn't be the one he meant to find.
"Oh," Christophe chirps from behind Gregory, sounding softly surprised. He steps around to the side of the table and tilts his head at the radio in amusement. "C'est intéressant. I zink I know this one."
Gregory does not share Christophe's optimism about the situation, pouting still. "I have been at this for days, Mole, and this is all the progress I have to show for it, a bloody music channel," he complains. "...Has it been days?" Gregory wonders aloud, hoping Christophe will fill in the blanks his mind refuses to. He laughs darkly. "Surely I'm losing it."
"You are losing it," Christophe confirms. He wonders if the radio has a volume dial. One might not think it, but the Mole is far from just a dirt-eating infidel; he gives plenty of attention to the finer things in life and he doesn't even need Gregory to introduce them. That's not to say he sits around making daisy chains–He much prefers what the daisies themselves are growing out of–or anything of that sort, but he can appreciate good music when he hears it. He doesn't go out of his way to look for it, but he's pleased whenever it finds him. It provides a reprieve from the lifestyle they're living. "I zink you would feel better if you slept. We will resume in the morning, yes?"
"A few more minutes," Gregory says, "I promise I'll have it cracked by then."
"And zen a few minutes becomes a few more minutes, becomes a few more hours…" Christophe goes on and on again, which then makes Gregory roll his eyes in mock annoyance. He's grown accustomed to the Mole's more lax lifestyle; he believed that it could take forever to finish the job if it needed to, as long as he got it done, which Gregory generally abhorred. The sooner the job got done, the better. In Christophe's defense, Gregory concedes, he never failed a job once. "...Zis music, it's kind of nice, non?"
"...I suppose," Gregory sighs. He wishes he weren't so drained right now; he'd surely enjoy it more. The lack of sleep and decent meals has put him in a sour mood, and he can't help the urge to reject the very thing keeping him from accomplishing his goals.
Gregory closes his eyes, letting the music soak into his tired ears. He had to admit, it was nice to listen to something that wasn't static for once. There are no words, at least none he can make out; the song itself just sounds like any other twinkling piano concerto but he finds himself drinking it in anyway. He wonders who out there is keeping a channel like this afloat: who funds it? Who else is listening in tonight? He thinks it's still nighttime, at least; time is beginning to melt together. Out there, he wonders, is there a fussy infant whose mother swears by this specific radio channel to lull her baby to sleep every night? Is someone working late, nodding off while these melodies dance about overhead? Is there a couple making love to it?
He imagines the poor soul sitting at the radio station this late at night ensuring the continued function of the station, pressing buttons and hitting switches to keep everything working.
He's roused from his train of thought when Christophe ever so tenderly lifts him by the (good) shoulder out of the chair he'd been occupying. By God, it felt so good to stretch his legs! The relief is short-lived, however, when Gregory realizes he's being forced away from his task. That won't do.
"What are you doing?" Gregory complains, furrowing his brow in a mix of confusion and, for a moment, perplexed discountenance. "You're not taking me to bed, are you? I can walk on my own; I don't need to be carried around to each location like some kind of genuine leather tote bag."
Ignoring Gregory's protests, Christophe instead pushes and pulls the man around to face him. He's met with an expectant face, clearly wanting some sort of explanation as to why he's been yanked from his workspace.
"Stop working so hard," Christophe says, his hands traveling down to Gregory's waist. Instinctively, the blond's own hands move up to hold onto the other's shoulders. Looking like a child who's been scolded, Gregory looks down and away, his lips pressing together to form a line.
"I know you worry," He replies, painfully aware, after a beat of silence populated only by the still-ongoing shimmer of classical piano music (the song must have changed at some point because this one had a violin accompaniment, which the prior song didn't seem to have.) "But I know my limits. Don't you trust me?"
"Of course I trust you, cherí," Christophe comforts, his husky voice, barely above a whisper at this point, warm like toasted sugar. It burns Gregory to his very core and colors his face pink. His hand finds Gregory's cheek, the work-worn, calloused hands working carefully not to harm his dove; by God, he does a good job of it. "How far do you intend to push zis?"
Their feet find the movement all by themselves. In short turn, they're both swaying together, barely moving. It can hardly be considered dancing, their movements devoid of any precise rhythm and purpose, but the music makes it all feel so right.
"Until I find the channel," Gregory says, and Christophe starts to feel like they're going in circles.
"And if it takes a week? You will not sleep?" Christophe asks, and Gregory once again ignores the question with an expression that could read as shame or sufferance. Christophe accepts that this is the closest he will get to hearing Gregory admit he may be wrong.
Still not vocalizing a response, Gregory simply hangs his head and rests it in the crook of Christophe's neck. "Shouldn't take a week…" He mumbles, a bit muffled.
"And if it does?"
"Then so be it," Gregory yawns, suddenly lifting his head back up again, embers in his eyes as he seems to inflate a bit with a newfound confidence. Stubborn as always! Christophe sighs, and wonders if he should just let Gregory face the consequences of his actions– Gregory rarely listens to what he's told; the man has openly opposed authority since the dawn of time, and even if Christophe technically holds no authoritative ground over Gregory Tinsley anymore, he knows that trying to preach anything to him is pointless and will only result in a fight.
Before he can ponder the matter anymore, the weight in the Mole's arms suddenly shifts dramatically and he's abruptly forced to bear 100% of the blond man's weight, stumbling back a bit at Gregory's sudden collapse into his arms. He's finally passed out, Christophe realizes with a shameful relief. No need to keep suggesting Gregory do his body a service and sleep because his biological processes said 'fuck it' and decided to check that box for him anyways. It was bound to happen anyway.
Gregory would likely be pissy about it in the morning as he is wont to do, but Christophe is a gambling man and decides that a well-rested bitch is better than a sleep-deprived one, even if it took legitimately collapsing into his arms for him to get any rest.
