Chapter I: The Devil's Embrace
thank you for reading this (idek what this is lol)
AND THANKS FOR THOSE WHO REVIEWED IT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME (it actually really motivated me to complete this faster so thank you!)
here is the long awaited chapter 1! christophe and damien's confrontation hehehe~
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Blood had a way of sticking to the soul. Like dust.
But it also had a way to enrage a memory (in this case hell)—to make them forget.
Much of the past was unknown to Christophe—lost in the violence and chaos that shaped his life, but it still clung to him, like a second skin—a distant evocation. It was a weight he'd learned to carry over the years but could never quite shake off. Because he couldn't remember a thing. He couldn't remember anything, no matter what.
But the scent of blood brought familiarity to him, something that was embedded in his system to react to. The scent of it always lingered—metallic, heavy, suffocating—no matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many graves he had dug. It was in his veins now, something foreign that didn't belong in his system- but he couldn't get it out.
And it wouldn't get out. Even if he tried to not think of it, helplessly, he did.
Because of this phenomenon Christophe has been blessed with, by the Gods or the Devils—he couldn't tell and he didn't know—if he were to find out it was indeed by the Gods he would dig his own grave and bury himself alive without any source of hesitation—in all conscientiousness, he would rather dig his way into hell (therefore perish) with his own bare hands than ascend to heaven. Not that he ever would; even he knew that his soul was far too tainted, far too gone for any kind of salvation.
For that, at least, he was thankful.
But it was dilatory, he could feel it thrive in his bone marrow, how his own body in a languidly-grotesque way morphed—his DNA changing. It was like he was experiencing his own metamorphosis in his own skin, yet physically- he had not changed one bit.
The pain was almost unbearable, his body remained the same while his soul—his mind transformed into something unrecognisable.
Yet, here he was again. Where his life went downhill. More downhill than it already was.
It made him rather have to beg on his knees to God for a cigarette than have to do this. Which, admittedly, was a lie. But it was still a cigarette after all.
But what good is one from heaven itself?
The air fluttered, casting strands of wind to course through Christophe's messy hair. They had just left their shitty apartment in Denver, not bothering to look back at the shambling place.
But before he walked out, Gregory had stopped him. Shoving the garbage bag—Christophe had for some reason brought into their apartment inexplicably, into his arms. It had a more putrid, tangy smell that began to sink in its residue. It was rotting. And the smell began to linger and douse Christophe's clothes and flesh in a filthy stink, he almost lost it.
By now someone must have smelt it. A disappointed look made its way on the calculated blonde's face, and Christophe had to stop for a moment, to really sink his features into his mind. He really wanted to punch that guy.
He held back, even though his instincts were screaming at him to beat the son of a bitch, he tolerated it, for now.
"You forgot to throw this out," Gregory said, a sigh motioning through his phlegmatic voice. They have gone through this 'scolding' multiple times, yet Christophe cannot learn from his mistakes. Mainly because he couldn't care less. "You need to stop bringing these bags into our home. There's multiple ways to dispose of these. But bringing this into our home is utmost stupid. You know better than that, Christophe." He crossed his arms, attitude slowly breaching through his apathetic stature. Pip watched with close eyes, awkwardly standing behind Gregory as he began flickering his eyes everywhere but the duo in front of him.
The brunette scoffed, grabbing the heavy—filled with decaying flesh and carcass bag by the knotted handles. His patience was running thin, and all he really wanted to do was shove a nice, solid metal item—that was so dear to him into this Antichrist guy's skull.
"I'm so sorry zat I 'ave so much work to do. And zat I don't 'ave any time to be able to discard it because of ze many people surrounding me. Next time I will definitely do as you say."
There was a protracted sense of tension surrounding the two and it was so thick- suffocating that it made Pip's throat burn and dry up like a snail that had just consumed salt.
Gregory's eyes narrowed towards the other but he let it go, although he was notably bothered by him there were much more counteracting measures taking place presently. And he knew that starting a fight with the other had an inevitable consequence. That being the snarky remarks that rolled off of the stubborn French's tongue.
"Just… be careful, Christophe. I don't want to lose you, again…"
In a shiver of cold, unspoken words, Christophe stiffened, if only for a brief heartbeat. But he could feel the words penetrate through his spine, and reside deep in his body. The words that left Gregory were what felt like home. To how things were. And Christophe nearly crumbled under the words of his only friend. But he throttled with his inner voice and kept that hard shell-like persona awake.
Gregory stood still for a moment, analysing Christophe—trying to see anything- anything that could show that he was still alive. But it was inexorable. He sighed and threw a piece of fabric on the shorter's head. Covering the other's sight before sauntering past him and leading the way as Pip hurriedly—still awkwardly walked behind him, obviously uncomfortable for what he just witnessed. But he shakes his head and continues to tag along with Gregory. Unaware of the fuming mess Gregory had left behind.
Christophe's hands clenched, his grip on his right tightening against the plastic of the garbage bag, using his free hand he snatches the article of clothing off of his head, hanging it out in front of him to observe it, it was another copy of his favourite green camo-like shirt.
And he almost smiled. But he was still angry, so he didn't. Because that wouldn't make him look as cool if he were getting excited over some stupid shirt he just got from the guy he said he wanted to punch. Sort of. But his point still stood. And because of reasons he didn't want to describe.
Christophe sneered but complied, uncaring about the people who walked by him as he practically ripped his already torn, bloodied shirt off after he had placed the miasmic bag on the side of the wall. A small remnant from his shirt slightly compressed his wound (which needed to be attended at again) but he ignored the strike of pain that barely numbed his senses and flips the new shirt on, poking his head out from the neckline and tucking his arms into the sleeves of the shirt- they poke out as well. And he feels fresh for a moment before the smell kicks back in. And he feels just as shitty as his apartment.
He throws the shirt to the side, against the reeking garbage bag—which the substance that began to leak from the bottom had now stained the crappy carpeted floor.
"Sheet…" He mumbled before he shrugged, picked up the bag and shirt and walked away, out into the foyer of the apartment. It was small, cramped—but a perfect place to dig- if there was any sort of emergency evacuation that he and Gregory had to achieve. And if (for some reason) under some unfortunate circumstances all the exits were blocked.
But he doesn't think about that right now. After all, Gregory was right, there were more important measures taking place.
And so, back to where he was, he walks outside, the soft gentle breeze welcoming him in a small embrace. The weather was actually decent for once, and for one of the first times in his life, Christophe felt like he could breathe. But that moment was short-lived.
A burst of wind flies past him as a fist pounds into the middle of his stomach. His vision blurs and all he could see was a flash of blue- the sky… did it always look so calm?
His head smashes into the pavemented ground, and it feels warm for a moment- he feels warm. And now he's lying there, still holding the rancid garbage bag in his right hand and the torn shirt in his left as he laid on his back—not necessarily in pain but also not in the right mind. He was too busy taking in more of the beautifully encrypted sky. Which was filled with mysteries and hatred.
"I guess this is the little shit." A loud, strong voice alerted him from his daze, and Christophe jolted from his spot and sat up. The sudden rush made him light headed, but he ignored the feeling, quickly fixing himself to stand upright. Although his head pounded and his ears slightly rang black and white, almost staticy, he stood his ground. Ready for anything- by that meaning, ready to pull out his cher.
"Who are you calling 'little sheet'? If you are 'ere to make a deal I want to let you know that I do not make deals with cocksucking beetches like you…" Christophe growled out. Just as he was reaching behind his back, waiting for the strong handle of the shovel to rest under his fingertips—even though his hands were full, the man suddenly lunged forwards, springing on their feet in an instant. It doesn't take long before Christophe is forced to use brute force, instinct flashing faster than logic. He reels his occupied fist back and swings the black bag to the side of the man's face, it collides on impact, pulling the man into a vulnerable state as his head whips back, almost looking as if it would twist in a way that was inhuman.
A small crunch resounds, and he couldn't tell if that was the man's skull or the decapitated head that was now probably sloshing around in the bag filled with its own fluids.
A small gasp escapes Christophe as fingernails morphed into claws and pale skin transcended into a dark abyss. The sharp nails dug into his hand, blood withdrawing through skin. He was about to pull his hand away but the demon splayed its fingers—grasping at anything before latching onto the plastic bag, tearing it into shreds.
In an instant, the bag rips open and the mouldering head flies out, smashing against the side of the building that they had just exited. It explodes in mushy chunks of decayed flesh, coagulated blood curling and sprawling as if it were alive, scattering grotesquely across the ground in an unwelcoming surprise. Thank God there were no people walking around the streets on this beautiful day… surprisingly. Questioningly.
"Oh, sheet! Oops-"
Behind himself, he could hear the clicking of heavy footsteps collide and create impact on the sidewalk where his… battle(?) was taking place. Gregory was not going to be happy with this sight.
"Oh my fucking God- bloody hell! Why would you hit that with the damn bag!?"
"Eet was ze 'ardest zing I had in my hand!"
"Christ…—forget the bag! Focus on the hellspawn." Gregory snarled, deciding to watch how it played out as he stood behind the mess that was in front of him. He looked back towards Pip who had an unimpressed look on his face.
Christophe wanted to go on with his words—he really should feed Pip to a demon- maybe even the one in front of him that was now charging towards him in a fit of rage.
"Sheet!"
He really, really, needed a cigarette right now.
With swift, hasty reactions, Christophe threw his shirt at the demon and unsheathed his trusty shovel and defensively held it in front of him. Both hands on the wooden areas—he used it as a shield as the demon shook its head, throwing the shirt off his eyes and secured its fingers- wrapping it around the shovel. Its teeth vomiting saliva as it gnarled at him, and its eyes gleaming more than rage—It was one of the mindless ones that roamed without a thought and attacked when its true form was visible. In a quick motion between the edges of life and death, the two pursue each other around the street before Christophe's back hit the wall, and he knew he was in trouble.
He couldn't go out like this. He still needed to shove his shovel between the Antichrist's eyes and taste that sweet, sweet surge of dopamine-!
BANG. . .
A shrilling din rumbled throughout the area.
It echoed, and for a moment, Christophe thought about running the hell away from there- someone probably called the stupid police by now.
Slowly, the demon sluggishly falls over, slumped lifelessly against the cold hard ground. Its head was thrown back at a disproportionate angle. Black ooze leaked from a clean hole in between its eyes. The acrid stench of burnt, melted flesh filtered the air, mingling with the rot of the now obliterated garbage bag.
Gregory stood a few feet away, his gun pointed up as the barrel continued to smoke in the air. He sighed, flicking the gun- twirling it around his finger, as if it was an old-fashioned revolver before blowing out the last wisps of smoke lingering from the heated weapons muzzle.
"You always create problems I have to fix on my own, Christophe."
Christophe's eyes narrowed as he kicked the demon to the side. Its limbs dislocating from its bulky body. "I could've taken care of eet on my own. It was a low-class mindless cocksucker. You didn't 'ave to do zat."
Gregory scoffed, pulling his gun down to his side, "Oh, really? Would that perhaps be before, or after the demon had you pinned to the wall?"
Christophe rolled his eyes, stepping away from the wall and the clump of mass before shouldering his shovel. "I 'ad it under control until you barged in. And don't act like you fixed zat problem- it only caught me because I was not paying attention."
"Yeah, sure. Of course you had it under control by looking like you were about to get your insides rearranged by those claws," Gregory muttered dryly, finally lowering his gun as he stepped closer to the corpse. His shoes crunched against the remains of the demon. "I'm not exactly eager to scrape you off the pavement."
"I would not 'ave died." Christophe shot him a side-eye glare, tightening his grip on the shovel. "You 'ave so little faith."
"Faith? In you?" Gregory raised an eyebrow, holstering his gun. "The man who brings rotting trash bags into the apartment? Forgive me if I don't feel like letting you play hero when you can barely take out the garbage."
Christophe scoffed, tossing a glance at the smouldering remains of the demon. "I was going to kill eet—just needed a moment. And like I said, there were so many people around. There wasn't any place to discard eet."
Gregory paused for a moment, nodding his head. "Well, it looked like you were one moment away from becoming demon chow."
Christophe's lips twitched, an exasperated groan escaping as he turned away from the mess. "Fine. Whatever. Next time, I'll let ze damn zing kill me so you can feel guilty for ze rest of your miserable life."
Gregory chuckled under his breath, glancing down at the mess of ichor and entrails splattered across the pavement. "Yeah, let's not make that the plan, alright?"
Christophe kicked a piece of the demon's flesh aside. "At least we do not 'ave to get rid of ze evidence."
Gregory gave him a sharp look, crossing his arms. "Right. Because it's splayed all over like a crime scene. You think that counts as 'taking care of it'? Come on, Christophe. You're smarter than that."
Christophe shrugged, trying to look indifferent. "Could be worse. At least eet's dead."
Gregory shook his head with an irritated sigh. "Christophe you could've been hurt if I wasn't-"
"I know, I know." Christophe interrupted, throwing up his hands in mock defeat. "You saved my sorry ass. Can we move on zough? I'm missing my cigarette break now."
"Typical." He rolled his eyes before walking towards Christophe. "Here, take this. You'll need it as another safety precaution—and so you can use it in case of an emergency. Because that shovel of yours will not suffice between you and the Antichrist." He passes an assault rifle—a SA80 that was in a white plastic bag to be precise—to the brunette. Chirstophe rolled his eyes, of course it had to be a British gun that the Englishman had to give him. Gregory, who now was looking away, stepped over the demon's corpse, and looked around the scene.
"I do not need zis."
He looks back at Christophe, no emotion or anything that underlaid his intention, only care. "Trust me, you will."
He turns back around and aims his direction of attention towards Pip. Leaving Christophe in heavy contemplation as he took the gun out of the bag- crumpling the bag into a ball in his fist before he stared at the rifle. He wanted to throw this thing away, but it did look cool slung on his shoulder from the strap it was attached to. And on the plus side, it complimented his cher.
"Pip, go and clean this up would you? Thanks."
The smaller blonde nodded, disappearing into the mess of remains without a hint of complaint.
Christophe stares at Gregory, pulling the strap of the gun up and off his head as the rifle slides off of his shoulder. He then places it back in the crumpled plastic bag, "You are going to let zis… Pip, clean zis all up?"
"Great observation, I'm very impressed." There was a brief pause, as if Gregory wanted those words to really sink into Christophe's skull, the brunette only glared. Gregory sniggered disdainfully. "He'll be quick, I promise." His mocking smile doesn't disappear.
Christophe didn't like promises. He despised them. All they held were words with nothing to back them up. They were like glass, so fragile and easy to break. But in this situation, a promise held so little to him.
Rolling his eyes and presenting Gregory with his favourite finger, he walked up to one of the other nearby buildings and placed the bag and shovel on the ground. He placed his shovel on an angle so the handle was touching the wall, the tip of the blade touched the ground as he leaned against the cold brick. It slightly dug through his thin shirt and scratched at his rough skin, it felt relieving.
He muttered a string of curses under his breath (which were directed towards Gregory) as he decided that now would be the perfect time to destress himself. Quickly, he dug into his pocket before grabbing an oh too familiar box out.
Pulling it out, he grabs the igniter along with it, lighting a cigarette and relaxing in the familiar notion as he placed it in his mouth and sucked on it. He takes a look at his hand, it had already healed. He mentally smiled, having these powers that he got seemingly out of nowhere did help in some cases. So that was a nice perk.
"All right, let's move along now. We're wasting time."
Christophe scoffed as he blew out the smoke, "As eef we deedn't waste enough time already in ze stupid shithole zat we live in… and now we move- right when I am 'aving a smoke. Fucking beetch."
Gregory gave the other a short glare but pursued his actions, he began to walk (faster) without any thought to Christophe. As he called out to Pip—who surprisingly finished cleaning everything even throwing Chrstophe's old shirt, somewhere. Making sure there was no sign of blood splattered on the walls or the black gunk of demon remains oozing out from any pore of the earth, tagged along with Gregory.
"Hey! You mozzerfucker- wait for me you son of a beetch!" He called out as Gregory and Pip strolled ahead, seemingly oblivious to his frustration.
Gregory continued to walk with Pip who slightly trailed behind him in a sign of respect. Christophe sprinted to catch up, grabbing and slinging his shovel over his shoulder—and making sure to grab the bag as well. The hidden gun that rested in the bag in his other hand swung around, and he cursed as he looked around for anyone who could see.
He slowed to a stop once he caught up. They then silently walked together, the sun beginning to set as clouds began to conceal the sun and cast a shadowing bloom of oranges and pinks and yellows to filter the sky of its beautiful colourful blues.
Finally, they reach the bus stop, and Christophe is annoyed by the whole ordeal but continues to smoke his cigarette. In a matter of minutes the bus rolls to a stop in front of them, the pipes on its doors squeaking open.
Gregory looked towards Christophe, his eyes lingering down to his lips.
"Put that out, Christophe."
"Why?"
"Because you can't smoke on the bus."
"Fuck you too." Christophe growled under his breath but still complied as he flicked the remainder of his cigarette onto the ground (although it was basically finished), smashing it with the heel of his boot.
And then Gregory, without missing a beat, fished out some cash from his wallet and paid for their tickets as they all entered the bus. Christophe shoots him an unimpressed look but makes his way towards the very back—sending glares at the passengers who sent him wary glances because of his unusual appearance. He then promptly flopped into his seat with a loud huff, placing the bag with the murderous weapon on his lap. Gregory sat on his left—who was sitting by the window and Pip on the other side of him. He was still annoyed about the cigarette situation but he let it go considering the situation he was in.
"Zis ees stupid. We look so stupid." Christophe mumbled, crossing his arms as he glared at the mundane amount of passengers surrounding them, completely in their own worlds.
"Christophe, relax. No one even understands our situation—why would they care anyway? To them, we are all in the same position. Just trying to live on."
Christophe scoffed, throwing his hands in the air slightly, "Ya, but zey are not going to go to ze battleground. Zey are living what ees considered normal lives, while us? We are killing ze filth zat pollutes zis world."
"I beg to differ…" Pip interjected in from his side, his tone annoyingly cheerful. "In their own way, they're fighting too. Perhaps not demons, but life is its own-"
"Shut ze fuck up, Pip. That ees fucking stupid."
Pip, completely unperturbed, mumbles quietly. "Oh, alright then."
The bus grumbled as the door closed. Its engine hummed beneath them as it began to travel towards South Park. The trio sat in relative silence, each one lost in their own secluded thoughts. Christophe's eyes wandered to the window, watching the city of Denver blur past him, then, his gaze wandered towards Gregory- who was staring out the window and he couldn't help but stare fixedly at him. Abiding the features of his jawline. The way his shoulders became more broad as he stood up straight. It was alluring.
Christophe gulped and quickly looked away, but Gregory knew. He always knew.
Silently sitting made Christophe feel like he was bathing in his sweat. After what felt like an eternity of awkward peace, Christophe breaks the silence because he couldn't stand it. "Zey really should make special transportation for mercenaries or somezing. Zis public sheet ees killing me."
Gregory sighed, shaking his head, crossing his leg over the other as he pressed the left part of his head into his hand that rested on the side of the fogging window. "You really can't go five minutes without complaining, can you?"
Christophe shrugged. "Eet's part of my charm."
Gregory sighed and looked out of the window, unimpressed.
As they sat, engulfed in another swarm of silence, the bus screeched to a halt. Passengers flood on and off of the vehicle. Gregory gets up, pushing Christophe over with his knee.
"Come on, this is our stop. We have multiple other buses to catch after."
"Okay, stop nagging, you old British cocksucking f*g." Christophe grumbled, sluggishly getting up before he yelped a bit as his shoulder was met with a hard fist. He rubs it with a frown and looks up towards Gregory who had a dark glare.
"It humours me to hear you call me that. After all, don't you remember what happened that one night when-"
"Shut your fucking mouth, beetch!"
Gregory smirked as he stepped off the bus, his infamous orange blouse whipping slightly in the cold breeze as Christophe followed. "Struck a nerve, did I? Still sensitive after all these years, Chris?"
Christophe scowled, trudging after him with exaggerated reluctance as his shoulders slouch in defiance. "Zat's because you always bring eet up! I 'ave selective memory for a reason."
"I'm sure you do," Gregory replied with a chuckle. "But I wouldn't mind refreshing it for you."
Christophe almost froze in shock, but he quickly looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. "Do zat and I'll shove my cher so far up your ass you'll be sheeting metal for a week." But he couldn't hide his burning red face and his merciless beating heart from cooling down.
And Gregory knew.
Only responding with a chuckle they walk through the dimly lit bus terminal, manoeuvring through the heavy crowds as they look for the next transportation ride. They continue to argue among themselves.
Pip, walking beside them, raised an eyebrow but remained quiet. His eyes darted between the two, but the tension didn't seem to faze him. He had grown used to their bickering.
But he did want to know what they were talking about.
He shakes his head as he watches the two cross through the herds of busybodies before quickly catching sight of their next ride. He runs to catch up with them.
Christophe muttered something inaudible under his breath as they boarded yet another bus. He practically threw himself into the nearest seat—that being directly at the front by the window, he crossed his arms tightly, and narrowed his eyes in displeasure. "'ow many more of zese miserable rides are we taking?"
"About two more," Gregory responded calmly, settling into the seat next to Christophe with the same irritatingly composed demeanour he always carried. Pip sat behind the two, against the window.
Christophe sighed with a loud, exaggerated head roll, he hung his head down in ultimate defeat. "Zis is torture. You always torture me."
Gregory sighs, he leaned in closer to Christophe, his expression caught somewhere between indignation and amusement. His voice became a teasing whisper, "You say that like you don't enjoy every minute of it."
Christophe's eyes widened for a split second before narrowing in a glare. "Enjoy eet? I'd rather be eaten alive by ze guard dogs." For a moment he regretted saying that, but he already went with it and at that moment there was no turning back because Gregory always had something to say. He stiffens under Gregory's gaze. But his eyes softened for a moment, he could see something in Gregory's cerulean blue eyes. It was longing. And that scared Christophe.
"We'll see then." He turns his head away, staring at the window through the front of the bus. "But if I'm the worst torture you've endured, you've had it easy."
Christophe scoffed, turning his head away, suddenly finding the view outside much more interesting. "Eet's always ze same with you, Gregory. You get off on zis, don't you?"
"Only when it's with you," Gregory quipped back, straightening up as they continued down the dimly lit street. "But if you want real torture, just wait until we reach South Park. Then you'll have something to complain about."
Christophe stayed silent the rest of the way there.
. . .
The cold breeze swarmed around Christophe, it howled in the darkening silent night as he looked only ahead of himself. Watching as the same replicated houses with only different hues of colour pass by him in a slight blur of motion.
More of the small town loomed ahead, its crooked skyline stretching out. A hell of its own making. This was where it had all begun.
"Ugh, zis place is as welcoming as a rabid guard dog." He shivers at the thought.
Christophe kept a quick pace ahead, not wanting to communicate with the others, with every breath he took it created a smoky cloud which was barely visible in the damp mist that clung to the city, like a suffocating shroud. It reminded him of the terrible pollution that inhabited this place. South Park.
He hated (still does) this place. It reeked of stagnation, of lives lived in cycles of ignorance and depravity. Yet, here he was again, reliving the cycle that he sought to forget- he wanted to not ever turn back here ever again but yet. He was back to the same place that held nothing but bad memories and festering wounds to be instilled in his brain. It was all coming back now.
He should have never returned.
But the reward showed differently. It showed how desperate he was to barely think twice.
And it showed that Damien—the Antichrist—had come back here after many supposed years- like a moth drawn to a dying flame. Christophe wasn't sure what had pulled the hellspawn back to this cursed, impotent, crucifying, inadequate, barren, lifeless-... town. Maybe it was the same magnetic pull that drew Christophe here (although his mother had forced him to live there, dropping him off like he was some bag to be thrown around so he really couldn't relate to anyone who would want to live here).
But Christophe knew one thing, every bad circumstance is in correlation or somehow related to this putrid town. South Park.
"Why zis place?" He had muttered to himself words taking over his head, it was an innuendo to the fact that he had to retouch his unwanted history with this place. His breath fogged his vision for a moment, he looked around catching sight of the street name.
Abaddon Avenue.
The sight of such filth gathers an automatic reaction from Christophe—he grips his shovel tightly, the cold metal familiar and comforting in his half gloved hands. Christophe had never gone anywhere without the wooden tool, ever since he had stolen it from one of the first ever stores he went to with his mother; surprisingly, unsurprisingly, the gardening store. He couldn't not live without it, he took it everywhere he went.
It always reminded him of his purpose, the path he had chosen as soon as he picked it up, as soon as he was revived, as soon as he became a mercenary. Whether he liked it or not, he didn't intend to walk away from this hole he had dug since he was born at all.
As he stared out into the distance, his mind drifted back to the conversation he'd had with Gregory earlier that morning. Gregory's calm, calculated voice forming together fragments of information about the Antichrist's whereabouts. Christophe had wanted to act—immediately, without thinking. But Gregory's insistence on strategy had irritated him to no end (especially since this Pip("squeak") guy came waltzing in).
But when Gregory kept on being consistent about, "This isn't just another battle with a low-class, or a high-class demon. This is the Antichrist." Christophe couldn't help but want to laugh.
He wasn't afraid of demons, at least, not anymore. He had faced almost as many as he did with humans in his commissions. By now, it was like a daily thing to him. Get up abruptly from Gregory's voice, listen to Gregory bicker like the annoying Brit he was, have Gregory assign him a mission that he had no idea about, go and smash demon or human brain in the skull, then come back to Gregory to let him tend to his wounds and take care of him, which he didn't actually mind. It was quite nice really. But it was a cycle of repetition. Something that kept happening, and there were no signs of it stopping.
But both demons and humans had something similar in common.
They bled like anyone else, they screamed like anyone else. They died like anyone else.
But Gregory begged to differ, after all it was different. Damien was different. He was not just a demon. He was born as a hellspawn, born to one day become ruler of all hell.
He was born as the Antichrist. And that label itself made Christophe feel like he was walking on eggshells. It didn't feel natural, and it didn't feel right. That he, as a human—with supernatural abilities that most humans (unless they were put in his situation) wouldn't have. Has been put in this situation. What the hell was the requester thinking? Did they know of Christophe's undeniable strength and resistance? Or maybe, just maybe…
At the thought of the merciless power(s) that this Antichrist could have made Christophe's blood run cold. But he forced the shiver down, stomping it out with a flicker of rage. Damien wasn't going to make him hesitate (although he hesitated with that one low-class demon—he still doesn't understand why he did and he didn't want to think of that flash of weakness he showed). No one would. Not even Gregory, with his constant reminders of caution that had managed to slow him down in the end.
The scruffy brunette was ready, definitely ready to finally face whatever was waiting for him. And if he were any less confident, he would be screaming at the skies by now.
"Let's just get zis over with." He muttered, more to himself than to the two figures following behind.
A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you always this charming before a fight, Christophe?"
They were closer to him than he thought.
Christophe scowled, not bothering to turn around. "Shut ze fuck up."
He didn't wait for their reply. He stared ahead, fingers tightening around the handle of his shovel. He could still feel the cold touch of the blood from something years ago, back when everything had spiralled out of control. Back when he had chosen defiance over submission.
But he had realised something, his path was soaked not just in the blood of his or others, but in damnation.
He wasn't just a mercenary anymore that fought and killed many of those—despite them being evil, he still had killed (and revelled in it) many souls. But now. He was an entirely different entity from how he was before.
He felt the sound of his boots clashing against the cracked concrete beneath his feet. The direction felt almost too obvious. Almost like there was an invisible rope tied tightly around his neck, reeling him straight to hell's lair. He could feel the pull, the slow, insidious weight dragging him toward that inevitable confrontation.
And he welcomed it.
As he stood in front of the Antichrist's home (that he for some reason owned) he recalled back to what Gregory had found about it on some wiki page that was conveniently made. Coincidental? Potentially.
"Seriously, 'ours of research only to find eet on some stupid site made by ze people of South Park? Ze most stupid people to ever exeest?"
"Getting information from the source- the origin of the place is often quite the ideal way to gather intellectual information, Christophe."
"Ya, but you look stupid, like some weird cocksucking beetch who forgot to study for zeir math test."
"Is that a reference from the 4th Grade? Where you were practically begging me to tutor you-?"
"Fuck you! And no, eet was just somezing I made up. How do you even remember that anyway- non. Quit your beetching and let's just kill this spawn of a beetch."
An argument further instilled. And Christophe's mind went hazy. He shakes his head and thoughts.
The Devil's Embrace. Is what the kids around the town called the desolate home. More precisely, the Antichrist's home—Damien Thorn's home.
But that was not something he cared about knowing, in seconds, he could feel the air change. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and for some reason the ever-present scent of blood seemed to grow stronger, more pungent not only on the outside, but the inside. It confused him.
But upon further inspection, the house itself was an old, decrepit structure that was isolated from all of the other houses around. It was half-falling apart, its windows dark and lifeless. But there was something else—a presence.
Pip shivered under the heavy sensation from the hellspawn nearby. His voice quietly trembled, "That's power. The dark power- I recall this feeling oh too well back in the clouds above. When one of the hellspawn had been summoned to send a message…"
Christophe's brow raised and he stared at the short Brit for a second, "Are you seriously talking about 'eaven?" He practically spat the word, his smirk tinged with bitterness. The very idea of it made his skin crawl. As if heaven was the last place he'd ever want to end up.
"Why yes, I had to stay there for a few years. For some reason there was some issue." Pip snarled, and for a moment Christophe felt shock rise in him.
Pip looked angry.
"I see." He didn't want to press any further.
"He's close, stay alert," Gregory warned, though his calm demeanor suggested he believed Christophe was anything but focused. And maybe he was right.
But he couldn't focus- not when the same electric hum of adrenaline right before the blood started to spill kept pestering him. It's the same feeling of the final moments before he entered battle. Only this time, the air felt unusual with a different kind of something unknowable. And maybe the Antichrist was the cause of it all.
Or maybe.
It was because of how Gregory had his doubts—Christophe knew that no matter how calm Gregory can stay, despite the world crumbling, he knew the blonde had doubts.
And doubts get you killed in this environment.
Unlike the other houses, this one had gates. And they towered before them, overgrown with ivy and rust from being neglected to be cleansed. Christophe stopped just short of the entrance, his heart pounding deep in his ribcage. It was an ominous feeling, something that didn't regularly swell up in his body. But he pushed those meaningless thoughts away; because he had a job that he was assigned to do.
But the feeling felt familiar. Almost comforting. Knowing that there were more things that were just like him. Filthy.
Without another word, he kicked the gate open, its rusted hinges screeching in protest. Gregory and Pip followed closely behind, but Christophe didn't care to check if they were keeping up. His focus was entirely on the house—on the one he had come to kill.
He paused just in front of the door, his fingers tightening around the handle of his shovel. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for. His mind raced, adrenaline pumping through his veins, drowning out the last remnants of caution.
With a swift motion, he kicked the door open, the creak of rusted hinges followed by the groan of ancient wood splintering under the force reverberated a loud, eerie sound. Inside, an entrance hall that was dark welcomed the three as dust hung in the air.
Christophe stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots.
And then, like the snap of a whip, the feeling hit him full force—a wave of malice, dark and consuming, washing over him like the blood-soaked brimstone of his own violent resurrection.
"Christophe..." Gregory's voice was a low warning, but Christophe was already moving forward, he pulled his shovel in front of him, readying himself for any type of engagement in a battle. His heart pounding in his chest.
In the room ahead, they could feel it. The Antichrist knew they had encroached his abode. And all he was doing was waiting.
As Christophe entered the kitchen, a light flickered on and he jolted, strutting his arms to surge the shovel in front of him in defiance. Ready to deflect any sort of damage that would have tried to be inflicted on him.
Seated on a wooden dining chair, his eyes gleamed and swirled a fiery red. He smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that showed his power, his control.
Damien. The Antichrist.
"You finally came," Damien said, his voice curling with malevolence. "As I knew you would. You can't resist a good fight, can you, Christophe-"
As he slowly stood up from the chair, a cracking sound escaped from it as the wood snapped, crumbling onto the floor.
"Fucking damn it. That was supposed to be good fucking quality. I got fucking scammed, stupid Walkart." Damien looked up towards his executioners and he groaned, rolling his eyes, "Well something just had to go wrong. Now my introduction is pointless."
The trio in front of Damien stand quiet, either in deadpan confusion, or amusement.
Christophe's lips curled into a snarl, half from fear, half from trying not to lose it from laughter. But mainly, why did the Antichrist know his name? He shook that thought away and ignored the awkward moment from before. "Zis ees not a fight. Eet's an execution."
Damien's laughter echoed throughout the room, sharp and cruel. But it was hard to take him seriously after what had just happened. "Execution? No, Christophe. This is a reckoning. You've stepped into my playground. There's no going back."
"Stop calling me by my name. 'ow do you know eet anyway?"
"I don't know why that should really concern you, I'm the Antichrist after all. I know everything."
Christophe stiffened, if only just a little. He bit back his words, not wanting to sound irrational and end up losing his guard. But Damien ignored the amusing reactions and shifted his gaze past Christophe, locking onto Pip, who tensed under the intense scrutiny. "Oh, the 'angel'. I see you've brought him along."
Pip's teeth clenched, his fists balling from tension, "We meet again, Damien."
Damien's smirk twisted, he narrowed his eyes towards Pip, "And so we do. Would you like something? How about some fireworks to celebrate this reunion."
Pip's eyes enrage with a fire that he had never had before as he begins to storm forwards at Damien. But Gregory grabs onto his tensing shoulder, gives him a wary gaze and shakes his head. The small motion helps calm Pip down, but he really just wanted to strangle the spawn of Satan. His fists don't loosen and his jaw is tight, ready to begin telling the other off. With a non-profane approach.
Gregory steps forwards, beside Christophe. "We didn't come here to talk, Antichrist-"
"Call me Damien. Antichrist just sounds way too formal, and I doubt you have that respect for me anyway." He looks at his black nails, as they stretch a few centimetres from his fingers, curling slightly into miniature claws.
"Alright, Damien. You do understand that you are talking with your killers, right? Have you no sense of consideration?"
"Don't give yourself that title yet, you haven't even put a dent on me." He sighed before his eyes went back on Christophe. "But I don't really care about that anymore." He smiled, as if something about Christophe excited him. "I am quite interested in you though. Was before not enough for you?"
Christophe felt questions rise in his head, and he felt anxious. As if, he really did know who Damien was. But he couldn't understand his words. Gregory stared at him with a concerned 'why does he know you?' look. But Christophe couldn't hold onto his rationality any longer.
"Fuck zis!" Christophe snapped, his patience wearing thin. "I'm not standing around listening to zis sheet!" He shot forward without hesitation, his shovel raised high, the fire in his chest blazing hotter than ever. His muscles surged as he swung his shovel towards Damien with lethal precision, ready to end this.
Damien's smirk returned full force, being enlightened by the brunettes' continuous barging. As Christophe charged, he didn't flinch. Instead, he slowly approached the rampaging mercenary, stopping as soon as the other was inches away, and in a flash he gently held his shoulder and the room around them twisted violently.
Before Christophe could react, his body was jerked around—the force of an immaculate exerted strength whipped his mind around- blurring his thoughts and vision. Around him, the world began to twist. The room turned warped, the walls elongating as they slowly consumed him. Dark shadows creeped along the edges of his vision until the familiar scene of the kitchen vanished and his team members could only scream his name as he vanished from their sight, being swallowed up in a morphing cascade of darkness.
He falls onto the ground, slamming into the gooey like substance beneath him, his stomach turned and he felt bile rise in his throat, it burned as he pushed it down and he groggily got up, circling around himself. His hands clench harder onto the comforting shovel in his hands. He continuously looked around to hopefully catch any source of the demon behind this.
Christophe blinked, trying to steady himself, but the floor beneath him seemed to dissolve. He stumbled, feeling as though he'd been dropped into a void. His breath came out in short bursts, his heart racing, the only thing returning him to reality being the cold steel of the shovel still clutched in his hands.
Suddenly, a familiar sensation washed over him—one he hadn't felt in years. It was the suffocating heat of brimstone, the stench of burning flesh. He knew this place, even if he'd tried to forget.
Hell.
The scene that now materialised around him was pure chaos, as forms shuffled in the fiery depths, their faces twisted in agony. And there, standing in front of him was Damien.
The Antichrist's eyes gleamed in satisfaction. "Remember this place, Christophe?" His voice was smooth, laced with that same mockery as before. "Of course you do, how could you forget something so crucial to you." He smiled. Smiled.
Christophe could feel his blood boil, but it felt controlled, as if Damien had control over every portion, every pore of his body- like he owned him.
"What ze fuck are you doing?" He directed it towards his own, cumbling body. His knees tremble and give out. But he continues to stand, using every last fibre in his body to uphold himself, defying what Damien wanted him to give. Submission.
The air around them crackles, and a further silence pursues between them, heavy and lethal. It hanged with a level of superiority. Christophe inhaled ragged breaths as he twisted his footing, trying to give himself some sort of ground. But it was futile.
The ground underfoot to him was jagged and uneven, a mixture of cracked, obsidian-like stone and molten rivers of glowing magma snaked through the landscape like veins of a diseased body. Dying and ugly. He had trouble grasping his legs—trying to find the right balance between survival and battle. The heat radiated from the rivers, tickling and prickling his skin- he had grown immunity to the conditions in Hell- it was probably Damien's doing.
Christophe took a deep breath, it was suffocating- like an eternal flame had bellowed- sucking in his oxygen to grow bigger- more dangerous that resided in him, without leaving a chance to go away.
He didn't take anymore time to hesitate- he couldn't. Not when the target was right in front of him, waiting- accounting for anything to happen.
Damien.
The Antichrist stood there, calm and collected, his eyes flowering with anticipation. He was waiting for Christophe to make his move.
But Christophe didn't give him the satisfaction of waiting any longer.
Christophe launched forward, his shovel raised high. The moment felt inevitable, like destiny tied them together. Damien met him head-on, their movements swift, precise. They clashed like it was a routine they'd practised for so long. Christophe moved with a sense of deja vu—the strikes, the dodges, it all flowed so naturally. Too naturally.
The first clash was an employing explosive clang. Metal struck against some unseen force, a shockwave rippling through the area as their energies collided. Christophe's shovel swung down with all the strength he could muster, but Damien deflected it with a mere flick of his wrist, sending sparks flying.
The area trembled, the energy of their battle saturated the air as rocks tumbled out of the skies, clouding them in a rage of bloodlust.
But Christophe didn't falter. He couldn't. He spins around with surprising speed—one that no normal human could naturally possess. He swings the shovel horizontally, aiming for Damien's midsection to hopefully weaken the enemy and call it a night. But Damien dodges with ease, his movements unnervingly fluid, as though he could predict each strike before it even began.
Christophe gritted his teeth, his muscles tensing as the strikes flowed seamlessly from one of the next. Each attack was met with an equally precise defence. They both were strong, powerful enemies.
But there was something wrong. Something seemed too wrong. As if, their movements seemed familiarising to each other—like fitting a puzzle together. Every step and every movement felt like a repeat of something indescribable to Christophe. But he couldn't remember any battle that dreaded with cognition.
The strikes that Christophe thought were his own felt preordained, as if Damien had ingrained these patterns into him a long long time ago. There was a weird, cold, calculating precision to the way Damien moved. Like a puppeteer, pushing Christophe to fight on instinct rather than pure strategy.
"You feel it too, right? How we mend together so beautifully. Don't you think that means something- that makes us special together?" His voice dripped with mockery but Christohpe saw beyond that, he saw something that somewhat resembled affection. And his heart ached with disgust.
"It feels like you haven't learned anything since then." Damien snarled, catching onto Christophe's expressions of his words. Before using Christophe's moment of reflection to slam him into a nearby spike of moldened lava, it crumbled behind Christophe and ejected pieces of rock around them.
Christophe snarled, retaliating quickly by slamming his shovel down towards Damien with brutal force, but Damien sidestepped effortlessly, letting the weapon smash into the floor. He manoeuvred his hand towards Christophe—it was a blur as he thrusted his palm against Christophe's chest. The impact was severe, sending Christophe skidding backwards, boots scraping against the ground and his body shattering against the spike he was already against.
He felt bones crack- and he wasn't even sure at that point of what part of his body broke- his mind, his physical being? Both? But he ignored it, ignoring the dripping of blood falling down his head, his teeth, his back. He only focused on what was important in front of him.
Sluggishly regaining his balance, Christophe surged forward again, unrelenting. This time he aimed for Damien's head, twisting the shovel in his grip to bring the blade down in a vicious arc.
Damien ducked, and in one swift motion, grabbed Christophe by the wrist. With a cruel smirk, he twisted Christophe's arm, forcing the shovel from his grasp and sending it clattering to the floor.
"Without your precious shovel, what are you, Christophe?" Damien taunted, tightening his grip on Christophe's arm as he moved closer, his mouth inches to his ear. The other clenched his teeth in a fit of masked rage. "Just a dog chasing its own tail."
Christophe wasn't about to give Damien the satisfaction of breaking him. Gritting his teeth, he twisted out of Damien's hold, delivering a sharp kick to the Antichrist's side. The impact sent Damien staggering back, his smirk faltering for the briefest of moments. Christophe lunged, seizing the opportunity, and tackled Damien to the ground.
They grappled, fists flying in a flurry of brutal blows. Christophe's knuckles slammed into Damien's face, again and again, fueled by years of pent-up rage and the satisfaction of his face mending—bending brutally against his bloodied fists. But Damien didn't stay down for long. With a burst of strength, he flipped them both, pinning Christophe beneath him. His hand clamped around Christophe's throat, squeezing just enough to cut off his air but not enough to end him. Damien's eyes glowed with a fiery red hue as he leaned closer, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.
"You think you can defeat me? After everything I've done to you? You owe your very existence to me, Christophe. I made you." His head was deranged, bone mended, morphed into something inhumane. If he were a human he would probably be dead, but it wasn't until he finished the sentence that he slowly rejuvenated-healing at a supernatural speed. And then there he was, the Damien that Christophe had met, full of vigour and a force that he shouldn't have reckoned with.
Christophe's vision blurred, his lungs screaming for air, but he managed to choke out a defiant growl. "Eet doesn't matter... what you gave me. I'll keel you... 'ith my own 'ands." Although it didn't show, his voice was filled with confusion. He didn't understand what the Antichrist was talking about, but he ignored him, his hands fumbling as Damien squeezed harder. His vision blurred and he thought back to Gregory. What would Gregory do in this situation- what would Gregory do moving forward if Christophe was no longer in his life?
He ignored the voices in his head and reached- stretched his fingers for the weapon that Gregory said he would need. Now, he understood Gregory. Without his shovel- he felt like nothing- he was nothing.
Damien's grin widened, a slow, menacing curl of his lips. "You really think you stand a chance?" His grip tightened, but before Christophe could react, Damien released him and stood up abruptly. Christophe gasped for air, coughing violently as he scrambled to his feet. Clutching the gun and pointing it towards Damien. The other only gave it a quick glance before scoffing. His expression shifted into boredom and he let out an exaggerated sigh, as if the fight was no longer entertaining to him.
"Die, beetch ass demon."
Damien stared towards Christophe before flicking his hand and sending the gun flying into the lava behind the brunette.
"Oh sheet." Quickly, Christophe lunges to the side, gripping onto his shovel and holding it in front of him. "Fuck you, that sheet probably costed like 60 boxes of Cheerios that I could've eaten."
Damien chuckled, "You haven't really changed since, Christophe."
Before Christophe could react, Damien, with a sudden crackle of dark energy—the air around him distorted, rippling like heat waves. In an instant, his form dissolved into a thick, swirling mist, vanishing into the shadows with an eerie, silent grace, leaving only the faint smell of brimstone in his wake.
He flashed in front of Christophe and the other couldn't resist before feeling Damien's hand on his shoulder again and then the fiery landscape dissolved, the flames extinguished as quickly as they had appeared. Christophe blinked, disoriented, and found himself back in the dimly lit room where they had started. He stared at the ground.
"Christophe!" Gregory yelled, running to the brunette's side, holding him as he fell to the ground. He kneeled one of his legs down, clutching onto Christophe's shoulder, "You…" He looks up towards Damien. Readying his hand on the handle of his gun.
Damien stood in front of them, calm, unscathed, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I grew tired of this. Thanks for your little entertainment, I guess." His voice was soft, almost dismissive.
Christophe growled, stumbling forward, but before he could reach him, Damien's voice kicked in, in a casual, almost mocking tone. And plus, not like he could do anything with Gregory's tight arms around him.
"Now go home and clean yourselves up. Because you fucking stink." With a lazy flick of his wrist, a screen of thick smoke billowed into the room. Christophe barely had time to react before the smoke engulfed him, his senses overwhelmed by the acrid stench. His head spun, lightheadedness making him feel as though he were about to pass out. The smoke clung to his skin like a spell.
"I'll be back, Christophe," Damien's voice echoed, distorted by the smoke. "I promise."
And then, just like that, Damien was gone, leaving Christophe coughing.
Once he regained his balance, Christophe staggered back once more, collapsing in Gregory's strong embrace. He coughed as the smoke dissipated. "Okay, what ze fuck ees with all zese promises? Zis ees bullsheet." He spat, wiping his face, trying to clear his head from the hazy fog Damien had left behind.
"What did he do to you, Christophe? God almighty, I told you not to go full brute force. You could've gotten yourself killed! I swear, next time, I will kill that son of a bitch…"
But Christophe wasn't listening, black spots littered his vision and the last thing he saw was Gregory, who was giving him a long glance as he closed his mouth and sighed.
. . .
There was a hum—a low, mechanical vibrating hum that seemed to radiate through the seat beneath him, it massaged his tense, aching muscles. He could feel the soreness settling deep into his bones, and he just wanted to sleep. Let it all pass by him. The tension in his body melts, slowly unwinding as he nuzzles himself deeper into the unexpected source of warmth resting against his head from underneath him. It was soft, familiar, and comforting.
Gregory.
Even in his half-conscious state, Christophe caught the scent of him—a clean, crisp smell, like freshly laundered clothes mixed with a hint of something citrusy, maybe lemons- or oranges. He couldn't tell but he didn't care, it calmed him down and that's all he wanted. Peace.
The scent of the blonde clung to the fabric of his blouse, although it was subtle it was still noticeable to Christophe, and it grounded him in the here and now, pulling him away from the dark, twisted images that had been clawing at the edges of his mind ever since the encounter with Damien happened. The battle, the blood, the suffocating fear—it was all still there, but this—this felt normal.
Until it didn't.
It wasn't until the bus hit a particularly harsh bump that Christophe stirred more fully, his eyes squeezing tight, feeling the bus's light illumination on his eyes before he blinked them open, reality settling in.
His head was nestled comfortably against Gregory's shoulder, their hands on the arm rest that laid between them, intertwined. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The realisation hit him like a slap to the face.
Instantly, he jerked upright, ripping his hand from Gregory's and recoiling from his side. His face flushed with embarrassment, being quickly masked with anger.
"Quoi!?" Christophe yelped, his voice rough and accusatory. His fingers twitched, still remembering the warmth of Gregory's hand. He wiped at his eyes, still groggy, the remnants of sleep lingering like a stubborn dog. Gregory slowly shifted his gaze towards him and Gregory was entirely too calm for Christophe's liking. "What ze fuck are you doing?"
The blonde's eyes flashed with amusement. "Me?" He asked innocently, as if it hadn't been Christophe who'd fallen asleep on him. "You're the one who decided to get all cosy."
Christophe's glare hardened, but Gregory only smiled in that infuriating way of his. "You looked so peaceful. I didn't want to disturb your 'beauty sleep', princess."
A muscle in Christophe's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. "Shut ze fuck up. Do not ever call me zat, you cocksucking British fuck." Christophe growled, flipping Gregory off without hesitation. But there was no real venom in it, just a weary frustration at the situation.
Gregory chuckled under his breath. "Such language, mon cher. I'm starting to think you're not appreciative of my kindness."
"Kindness?!" Christophe's eyes narrowed, his hands balling into fists. "You let me sleep on you like I'm some helpless fucking child. Eet's embarrassing!"
Gregory raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with mock offence. "Well, excuse me for being a decent human being. I thought you could use the rest after, you know…"
"Zat ees not ze point!" Christophe spat, his frustration rising with every word. He really didn't want this conversation to stir into what happened before. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the seat in front of him. "You don't just let me... do zat! Eet's humiliating! It's a sign of vulnerability. Weakness!"
Gregory slightly frowned. "You're really mad about this? Christophe…" He asked, a pause in his sentence. "No one here will think anything of it. Not like they can see anyway- we're much far into the back right now." He holds back onto his hand with more force despite the brunettes sneering protests- their hands whip around before Gregory pinned Christophe's right on the same arm rest. Just as Christophe thought Gregory was going to give him a calm, meaningful talk, the teasing lilt in his voice made Christophe's skin prickle. "I mean, you looked so peaceful. Maybe I should've taken a picture-"
"Don't you fucking dare!" Christophe hissed, completely forgetting the calm state he was about to be in. His face flushed deeper as he tightened the grip on Gregory's hand. The thought of Gregory snapping a photo while he slept made him feel sick with embarrassment. "I swear, I will shove zis shovel down your throat!"
"There it is." Gregory leaned back, crossing his arms as he finally let go of Christophe's hand, a smug grin plastered on his face. "The angry Frenchman I've grown so fond of."
Christophe groaned in frustration, his head thunking back against the seat with a dull thud. He dragged a hand over his face, trying to will away the pounding headache pulsing behind his eyes. "Zis ees merde," he muttered, more to himself than to Gregory.
"You're hilarious when you're pissed off, you know that?"
"Shut up," Christophe snapped, narrowing his eyes at Gregory. His voice was sharper now, though still laced with exhaustion. "Go fuck yourself."
Gregory just smiled wider, clearly enjoying every second of Christophe's irritation. "I could, but where's the challenge in that? It's much more entertaining watching you squirm."
"Fuck you," Christophe spat, flipping him off for good measure, though the gesture felt half-hearted, more reflex than anything else.
Gregory arched an eyebrow but didn't press the issue further. He seemed to mull something over for a moment, then gave a small sigh, his smile softening just a bit as he stood up. The bus had reached their stop.
"Come on," He said, stretching as if the banter hadn't affected him in the slightest. "We've got a long walk ahead of us."
Christophe just scowled and hauled himself up, still grumbling under his breath, but reluctantly got up and quickly followed the blonde from behind, slouching his shoulders dejectedly as they got off the bus and to the next station.
They changed buses two more times, trudging from stop to stop in the biting cold, the sky above dark and starless. The streets of their home, Denver, was quiet, only the occasional car rumbling past and the group of drunks fighting. There was still a slight tension from earlier, but it was something that was always there.
By the time they reached the entrance to their shitty apartment, Christophe was barely functioning. His body was worn, his mind weighed down with exhaustion, and the world around him felt distant. The walk from the stop to their shitty apartment felt like it stretched on for hours, the cold biting at his skin, but Christophe pushed through it. He'd gotten through worse. Much worse.
With relief, he opened the door and it clicked shut behind him as Gregory closed it. The sound of the city outside became muffled.
Christophe didn't waste any time. He dragged himself into the second room on the right, trudging past the small shitty table, and opened the door to their bedroom and collapsed onto his small shitty bed, his limbs heavy and defiant to move.
He curled up into a ball, pulling his knees to his chest, burying his face into the pillow. It felt like a protective cocoon, and for a brief moment, he could almost pretend that everything was normal. That there hadn't been demons and smoke and bad memories that had been engraved into his life, his mind.
He felt like he could cry for the first time in years.
As his brain numbed himself into a lul of sleep he heard the soft sound of Gregory's footsteps approaching, light and measured, and then he felt the ghosting touch of fingers over the covers. His back faced the blonde, and in that moment, he really just wanted to pass out.
"Christophe?" Gregory's voice was soft, not mocking like before, but almost hesitant.
"Leave me alone," Christophe mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow. He didn't want to talk. Not now. Not about anything.
Gregory stood there for a moment, silent, his hand lingering over the fabric. But when Christophe didn't move, Gregory let out a quiet sigh. He turned, the soft shuffle of his feet leaving a faint noise as he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him with a gentle click.
And Christophe was alone. The darkness of the room pressed in around him, but at least now, in the quiet of their shitty apartment, he could rest. Just for a little while.
—
bit of a sad ending for chap 1 but things will not get better. HAHA….
already, there are some things i wish to change but, i dont want to make it confusing so. some adjustments to my brain must be attempted (brain malfunctioning noises) not out of ideas yet.. haha (uh oh)
but on a high note- i somewhat have more of an idea of what is going to happen-just idk how to put it… but lots in store~
also sorry if the fight scene seemed to drag on and it felt weird at the end (i didnt know how to end it AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAa)
hope you enjoy—and of course, please review! its amazing and helps me a lot when i get feedback from people who are (i hope) enjoying this story! THANKS :3