Chapter III; Part III: From Ashes to Constellations I
ok so this first part is kinda recapping everything and adding onto his life so it might seem like it's a bit repetitive or wtvr sorry :')
but now everything seems to be getting better in christophe's life
and once again if Christophe doesn't have an accent, he is speaking French (there will be times where he is speaking actual french, but it will just be some basic words like maybe oui, non, quoi (what (if u didn't know what that meant) (still only Gregory knows how to speak French btw!))
this is going to be long but,
hope you enjoy!
—
Christophe had learned early on that the world never owed him kindness.
It never owed him salvation.
It never even owed him hope.
He was owed for damnation.
And the world owned him for that resentment. Trapping him like a dog.
. . .
It was like an everyday lesson that was drilled into him with every loss, every rejection, every reminder that he was an inconvenience to the people that never cared for him in the first place. That he was just another soul lost in the dust, something that would eventually rot and be left to corrode in ashes.
Life, in all its bitter chaos, had shown him nothing but fleeting moments of warmth and an endless stream of cold. It showed him the false feelings of hope and desperation, it showed him the wrongdoings of how cruel this 'God' could be to his own kind. It showed him that he was a child with nothing in a big, lonely world.
But then, that boy happened.
Not a saviour, not a hero—no, Gregory was something else entirely—like an angel. He was relentless where Christophe had resigned where he just contained jagged edges and raw survival, calm where Christophe raged. Gregory was unyielding in his composure and maddeningly persistent in his optimism. He was not afraid to challenge him, to argue, to push against Christophe's anger or the storm of bitterness he carried. Because somehow, he always stayed and helped the broken pieces of Christophe be collected—he helped put the shattered parts together, and although the puzzle may never be completed, Gregory, despite it all, is still helping Christophe search for those never-to-be-found pieces. Gregory never demanded Christophe change. Christophe didn't know what to make of it, but somewhere along the way, he realised Gregory wasn't there to fix him. He was simply there to stay. As a friend.
And this change had undeniably terrified him. To the point where he wasn't even sure he was the same person (not like he really thought that anyway with how much he had already changed).
But this perspective—this sudden change was because Christophe had never truly trusted anyone. He was taught to be afraid, taught to be alone at the very age of five. But for some reason, Gregory had a way of making him want to believe—if only for a moment—that the world might not always be so cruel. He had a way of making him think that the world was okay, normal, natural. And that he deserved some sort of resemblance to an actual childhood, despite being so filled with this so-called 'sin' (that Gregory still didn't see in Christophe somehow).
And since the beginning, Christophe's life had always been a collection of memories that loomed over him, too fragmented to piece together—too traumatising to remember, but heavy enough to always set a reminder on himself. He doesn't recall—can't recall when he first felt that very same weight of the world settled deep inside his bones, he only knows that it had never left him. But in this small, cruel world, it was the moments of peace he longed for but never came to warm him but enough to remind him of what he lacked.
And from the night before, he realised one thing as he lay in the comfortable bed with giraffe covers embracing him in a tight cuddle of warmth was that it was the quiet that frightened him most—the stillness that always prompted him of the hollow places within himself, carved out by years of neglect and his Mama. And throughout the night, he could still hear her whispering voice ring in his ears. Unworthy. Damned. Filthy. Each word scarred him, leaving no part of him untouched by guilt and shame. These events made Christophe believe they were truths that he was forced to swallow, truths that settled like stone in his stomach, truths that he'd never and will never be able to shred.
And this hurt him more than anything.
To know he couldn't be—wouldn't be like Gregory, whom he had so early on admired.
But during that night, he had also realised just how much the past clung to him. That was until Gregory extended a hand (though he was reluctant to take it at first—still is)—not with pity, but with an unfathomable kindness that Christophe could and might not ever understand. Because deep inside his instinct wasn't to take it but to brace for the blow that might follow. After all, nothing in his life came without strings attached, without a cost he wasn't sure he could pay other than accepting his sin and trying to get rid of it through every broken bone, every broken part of himself being lost in the mix.
And yet, there he was. Dinner eaten. Clothes changed. And Gregory's smile—subtle and sincere—lingering in his mind like an unfamiliar melody he just wanted to know more about—to understand. Christophe had never known generosity without consequence, but in this house, with the accompaniment of Gregory's presence, he felt something change- stir in him. It wasn't exactly trust; trust was a luxury Christophe couldn't afford, something his mind had made him forget. But it wasn't hope either, for that had been stripped from him long ago. No, this was something smaller, like a whisper of warmth he didn't yet know how to name.
And that warmth carried along with him, and for the longest time, he couldn't understand why.
. . .
A year had passed since Christophe first laid his feet on the frozen grounds of South Park. A year since the person he called a mom had left him to the embrace of the cold air, prickly against his wounded skin. A year since the brash, angry boy had met the curious, composed Englishman who had inexplicably decided to bring him home. A year since he first found the meaning of home, the meaning of a childhood. They were both seven years old then, but Christophe showed the resilience and harshness of someone who wasn't quite their age. Like someone who had lived too many lifetimes in too little time. And Gregory, with his kindness that no one else has ever given to Christophe, was unlike anyone the brunette had met.
And throughout that time, when Christophe's 8th birthday had passed (with the birthday boy expecting nothing again). That was the day where he realised, the tv delusion could also be a reality. That was the day where he realised, he could too have a childhood, have something at least that resembles a childhood. And throughout that day, it was the most special time he could have ever dreamt of. That October 7th morning, when the chilly breeze was starting to warm up from the bright sunlight casting through the opened blinds creating a warm ambience to settle in around Christophe until his succumbing numb mind which was filled of recollections of the past was only answered by a soft knock on his door—interrupting him gratefully.
He stared at the door for a while, uncertain and scared. What if this was the day where Gregory too would grab him by the hand and lead him outside, onto the bus, off the bus and onto an unfamiliar street where his life would repeat. He swallowed that thought away, his voice so quiet and weak but he had regained that confidence- to speak without worrying about repercussions—because this time, there were no repercussions. Because throughout that year (although technically around 11 months) Gregory had taught Christophe that speaking wasn't a privilege, but a right. Something that everyone could have. "Come in, Gregory."
The door opens gently, the lock latching off and the hinges creaking. But it didn't scare Christophe as to how it would before, because during his short time there (or what felt short) he came to understand that Gregory was standing right next to the truth of what he said a year before.
Gregory peaks around the corner with a small smile, watching as Christophe lays in his favourite giraffe covers up to his neck. The brunette turns his head to watch the other curiously.
"Good morning, Christophe." He chuckled a bit at Christophe's position under the blankets. "Go get dressed and meet me downstairs." Was the only explanation Christophe got before the blond closed the door behind.
And so, Christophe got dressed and quickly came down the stairs, but this was different. It was different from how his Mama would call him downstairs- instead of her yelling, not including his name because it was a filthy name—he would drag his sore feet down the wooden, creaky steps and engage in a silent conversation with his Mama though it never spoke of any words, Christophe could sense her insults sit on her tongue and hide in her eyes.
He would force himself to sit down and eat his sluggish meal. Wanting to just puke it out and starve to death instead. Because in those moments, death felt like an escape.
But no, with Gregory, the blond instead had knocked politely on his door, making sure he was okay and left him to his own solitude.
And this time, as he stepped on the firm ground below, feet not sore or numb, he walked towards the very same table where he had Cheerios. Christophe takes a seat.
But Gregory was nowhere to be seen.
And this sudden awareness scared Christophe, he felt uneasy as the walls seemed to elongate shadows, dancing around him with mockery as he stared at the sliding door he and Gregory walked through a near year before. Where he had first gotten his shovel. He stares at the firm wood in his hands, the shovel seemed new as he held it firmly, grasping it like it carried the strength he never had—it gave him the strength he wanted to have. Because all though this shovel had a completely different feel, look. All he could see was Clementine.
And that soothed him more than anything ever could. So he held it tighter in his frail hands, moving it closer to his chest.
Christophe anxiously dangles his feet, kicking them chaotically around before he catches the glimpse of orange around one of the corners through the entrance of the kitchen when he turns around with anticipation, he stops kicking his feet. He turns his gaze towards that area before watching as Gregory walks in, a large box in his hand and a peculiar cone shaped hat with sparkles on his head.
The blond places the box in front of Christophe, he gives him a quick glance before placing a warm hand on his shoulder, and this time, Christophe didn't flinch.
The box was plain white but with the embodiment of sparkles lacing around with strings dangling across the sides. It looked hideous, but at the same time, it looked beautiful.
Christophe looks up at Gregory with confusion. "What is this?"
"A gift," Gregory had responded, no resentment undertoning his voice, no hard resolvement flickering through his eyes, just a care that Christophe wished his Mama had given him.
But by now, he had forgotten who his Mama even was, drained away just like the hope that diluted his eyes, the hope that used to be there. But sometimes. He wishes his Mama would be here too. Not as a figure in his life that would have harmed him. But as a Mama who could have just treated him like a child, who could have just treated him like her son, who could have just treated him as Christophe Delorne.
But no, this time, unlike all his previous birthdays that had passed by like a blur of apathetic stares and gestures and the harsh brutalness of reality. This time, his 8th birthday held so much more significance than just a measly gift from Gregory.
It showed that the blond cared.
It showed that the brunette had someone.
It showed that he wasn't, truly wasn't alone anymore.
And Christophe finally realised what salvation felt like, what it felt like when God finally noticed, although his wish wasn't exactly answered, Christophe didn't care because he was safe now, ready to live like this forever if it was with Gregory.
And Christophe couldn't have been more happy in that moment, a feeling erupting inside himself that he had never felt before, or had long forgotten he could feel.
He looked up at Gregory once he opened the box and placed down his shovel nearby, the box revealed a small cake for the both of them to enjoy (though Gregory hoped Christophe would enjoy it the most) with a beautiful encrypted message, 'Happy Birthday, Christophe!' and under a bit, sparking the prickly sensation the brunette had been feeling towards Gregory for a while now. 'I hope this Birthday marks a new beginning for you' and then there were a few hearts enveloped around the sides of the cake in sweet frosting.
"Thank you, Gregory."
The blond smiled at him, nodding.
"Of course, Christophe. You're my friend."
Then they would cut it together, send birthday wishes and everything Christophe could have imagined as he watched other children get something he never did on the tv back in a place that was so cold, that never felt like home. Then they ate the sweet treat together, the frosting smeared on each other's faces with the accompaniment of heartfelt laughs and the calm enjoyment of each other's presence in a world that has rejected both of them.
And right there felt like the beginning of Christophe's life.
His real life not as a child born with sin.
But as Christophe Delorne.
. . .
A few days past after Christophe's birthday, the same sun, stretching lazily across the frost-laden streets of South Park quickly greeted Christophe as light filtered through the thin blinds of the room he called his, and in the house he called home. He stirred around as the sun's faint warmth brushed against his face, he was in peace until a quiet knock at the door pulled him fully from the haze of sleep.
Gregory had woken him up with a quiet nudge after knocking the door a couple times before getting no response so he had opened the door with a mixture of concern and amusement. He smiled at Christophe's small form covered in blankets as he walked towards him, hushed whispers surrounded Christophe in a daze as a warm voice engulfs his ears.
"Wake up, Christophe," Gregory said, gently nudging the covers off of Christophe but not to the point of them falling off his body and exposing it.
Sluggishly, Christophe had gotten up unwillingly with rancorously slow movements. He squinted his eyes once the bright sunlight hit his face and he turned towards Gregory who had a soft faint smile.
"What's going on, Gregory?" Christophe asked, rubbing (or trying to) the sleep out of his eyes as he gave out a quick quiet yawn, the contagious gesture triggering Gregory to follow with a more softer yawn.
Gregory swallowed, blinking tears away before chuckling and helping Christophe out of bed and to put on his slippers, crouching down in the process. "Something important."
. . .
Once they had gotten down the stairs with Christophe trudging behind Gregory, still half-asleep, and into the kitchen, they shared a simple breakfast of Cheerios drizzled with honey. Only the rhythmic clinking of their spoons and ceramic bowls filled the silence until the blond placed his spoon down in his bowl. He gives Christophe a long glance, eyes saying more words than he could say in that moment.
"There's something I want to discuss about." Gregory began, his voice beginning to sound steady although it shook a bit, and Christophe was scared he would be abandoned again.
The brunette glanced up, his tired expression hardening into fear.
And during that small—not direct explanation (Gregory never gave those). Instead, he laid the groundwork for something that would happen over the next few days. And although Christophe didn't entirely understand what Gregory was doing at first—throughout those following days there were meetings with school administrators, many phone calls back and forth, forms filled out in Gregory's surprisingly meticulous handwriting, and a lot of Gregory's calm but insistent voice in discussions Christophe could barely even comprehend.
And the following week came as quickly as it passed by, they were sitting at the dining table again, eating their famous breakfast together as Gregory spoke up. "You'll be attending South Park Elementary now, Christophe."
Christophe nearly dropped his fork, fingers twitching and trembling as he's thrown back into the past of his previous enrollment of a school that contained a religion he believed in that didn't believe in him. He looks up at Gregory. "What?" He stammered, voice shaking. "Gregory, I-"
"You deserve this, Christophe. It's something you should experience." The blond interjected. "You'll fit in just fine. Besides." He adds a faint smile before placing a warm hand on Christophe's cold one. "I'll be there too. You're not doing it alone. And if anyone picks on you, tell me right away."
Christophe only nodded, but he didn't exactly understand what Gregory meant. After all, he was so used to bottling everything in, nothing coming out but everything coming in.
And it made him feel alone.
Then, the brunette looked down in his lap. "Am I allowed to bring Clementine?"
Gregory looks towards him, gaze dropping in acknowledgement and understanding. "No, I'm afraid not. If you need, I could buy something smaller that'd be allowed in the school. I'm sorry Christophe, I wish you could."
Christophe looked away. "It's okay."
But no, it wasn't.
Without Clementine to guide him, to show him the way from figures in his life that never did.
Christophe felt truly alone despite Gregory being right next to him.
Because at that moment, it truly felt like Gregory didn't understand Christophe at all.
And at that time, that statement couldn't have been more truthful.
. . .
And as shown throughout that past week, Gregory had somehow managed to get Christophe into South Park Elementary school—though Christophe didn't entirely understand how (nor wanting to exactly know how despite being there when it happened) he was grateful to spend even more time by Gregory's side whether that be through the halls, in the library, in the cafeteria or even in class during pop quizzes and such. He was happy that there was a much bigger world out there with kids that he could've been like.
He felt like himself.
But it wasn't the same without Clementine being there to guide him physically instead of in his head.
Over the weeks that followed, Christophe began to slowly find himself. He had picked up the English language quickly (also thanks to Gregory's tutoring), practicing it in public to blend in but reverting to French in private with Gregory. Those moments felt sacred—a return to something familiar like a language that held pieces of his identity he wasn't ready to let go of yet. And Gregory quickly understood, only wanting to help guide and heal him through time. Because in those moments when they spoke his native tongue, Christophe felt something close to normalcy.
. . .
The first day of school for Christophe was a heavy weight that bore with him through the whole day, it stuck at the back of his head and stayed there, with no sign of retrieving back to the land of the unknown. The large brick walls, dirtied and stained with colours and substances he didn't want to identity made him feel trapped again, just like when he was in the confinements of his home, and the long, barren, empty classrooms reminded him of the first time he went to his Catholic school back in his hometown. Where the children and the adults looked at him weirdly, like he carried a darkness that described more than just mere sin. And as the children's eyes lingered in the back of his skull in this new school, burning daggers through his body and erupting him in a sparkle of nerves that fired every bone in his body, he shivered, being brought back to his past. Back to a past he couldn't forget, no matter what.
But this time, this time he wasn't alone. This time was different. This time he had Gregory. And as he walked through the hallway with Gregory by his side he could feel those numb, hidden emotions quickly flicker away, like the light that was being ignited unwittingly—helplessly, was dying, to be buried and locked. To hopefully never surface again. And Christophe prayed for this moment to last longer and for that fire to truly burn out.
And then he stood in front of the doors of his 4th grade class with Gregory by his side, the blond turned to him. "I understand that this is an entirely new environment for you. You have probably never even experienced what school is like so you have every right to be nervous, anxious, scared." Christophe only nodded his head although he knew that Gregory was obviously wrong (other than the emotions part of course). But he didn't really feel like the Catholic school had taught him anything worthy other than his apparent sin, especially for the short time he was there. So in reality, he really had nothing.
The blond hesitates a bit as he stares at the old wooden door that paint had slowly been peeled off with, water rot drenching the poor crevices. "If you'd want to, we can walk in together, if you'd like or…" He drifts off as he reconnects his gaze with Christophe, quickly expecting an answer as to whether or not the new situation was overwhelming him or not. But there were no objections to that request and Christophe quickly put a hand on Gregory's arm.
"Together," He said, declaring something so obvious. "I want to do it together."
Gregory only smiled at him before pushing the wooden door forwards, creaking it open as the lock detaches from the wall and the baby blue classroom appears, the door feeling so distant for Christophe and everyone in the room seemed so much more closer. He started scratching at his fingers, nervously pinching his skin to keep him from potentially fainting at that moment.
The classroom showed children in their seats conversing with another as they all sat in separate desks a few feet away from each other. And as soon as the door creeps open, their heads turn and twist towards the new face with expectancy and enthrallment as to why the door opened with no answer.
And Christophe could feel it, how his head became light-headed—disorienting himself from the present as he derives his spirit back towards the beginning of his life, flashing by in fragmented memories all at once, he feels the air get sucked out of him as a pressurising emotion fills his void of a body, and all of a sudden he had this feeling that he just wanted to grab Clementine and dig away, wherever his shovel led him. But Gregory's reassuring glance and subtle smile stopped those thoughts, that was until the blonde left him, and walked towards his desk next to a pretty girl with a pink beret and purple coat. She eagerly opens her mouth once he sits down, quickly engaging in a conversation with him giving Christophe a few glances here and there.
The class' eyes bore into Christophe, and the brunette felt extremely overwhelmed, everything in the room began to spin and his shuffled feet anxiously waddle their way towards the corner of the room, he backed into it like his eyes saw something completely different than an ordinary classroom.
The teacher, Mrs. Malcolmson turned to Christophe with a polite gesture that spoke of friendliness, her heels clicked against the flooring and Christophe felt like rolling into a ball and pleading for her to not hit him.
He shuddered a bit, flinching away once the teacher grabbed him.
"Non!" He yelped, smacking her hand away, and in that moment, Christophe felt like running away once the class erupted in whispers, eyes drilling into him, surrounding him in a state that was so self-conscious he felt like his clothes were torn off him, humiliating him in every way.
Mrs. Malcomson jerks away with surprise, she holds her hand with a stern gaze before it softens. And hesitance creeps onto her face as she articulates words with meticulous ease. As if she wasn't just hit—because she knew that she had frightened a boy that has already gone through so much. "... Christophe, right?" She had asked, the said boy could feel his heart beating so fast in his ribs, reverberating through his head as he felt like he would puke out the residue of that morning's breakfast. He stared at her with a gaze that spoke of fear and acceptance all at once.
She stays quiet for a moment, giving the class a look of resentment scowled on her face as she sees a large boy in a red coat snicker, mumbling something to his peers in an inaudible voice. She turned back towards Christophe with a small smile on her face instead. "I'm sorry for suddenly touching you like that."
Then there was another profound silence, the class' continuous eyes staring deep into Christophe. He didn't say anything in response, looking away with shame before connecting his eyes with Gregory, and he felt his breath hitch, heart stopping in his throat. It was the small smile that Gregory gave that helped Christophe calm down—or what he felt like was calm.
When he looks back at the teacher, finding new resolvement—new confidence, he sees her hand in front of him. He takes it. "Why don't you introduce yourself to the class? I'm sure everyone is eager to know you." She smiled, guiding him slowly towards the front of the chalkboard, her firm hand soft in his rough one. And this time, Christophe understood how it felt like to hold a hand properly. Like how a Mama should hold their child's hand.
But that warmth dissipates as quickly as it came once her intertwined fingers disappeared from his. He turns his body towards everything, suddenly finding the windows showcasing the fogged, frosty window more captivating than anything in that room (and maybe other than Gregory).
"As you can see, class." Mrs. Malcolmson began, staring at some children individually before settling her gaze on Christophe. "We have a new student joining us today."
"Oh great, another weird, smelly British kid." The large boy turns his body towards Gregory, a sly smirk embracing his lips as he mutters loud enough for the class to hear. And although he could feel Mrs. Malcomson's sudden gaze of shock and anger boring into him, her eyes narrowing in disapproval, he took that as a perfect moment to continue. "Looks like Gregory brought his boyfriend to school- HA!" His laugh bursts across the room, mingling with the stifled giggles of his friends and a few of his classmates, while others—that girl with the pink beret and Gregory—exchange awkward glances. Their lips in a thin tight line of disinterest.
"Eric Cartman!" The teacher howled, balling her fists in a fury of blind anger. "That is no way to address another student!"
Cartman rolls his eyes, scoffing in the process as he kicks his feet up onto his desk, leaning back into his seat with his arms laced behind his head. "Ohh, I'm so sorry that I can't help but tell the truth!" He exclaimed with sarcasm. He gives Christophe one last long look, his smirk glinting with his teeth as his cold relentless eyes streamed through Christophe's. The French boy felt completely exposed, completely at the mercy of the other. "Did you bring your stinky biscuits and chips as well? That's what you call them, innit?" He mocked, suckering himself into another fit of wild guttural laughs, his jaw wide open and his eyes tightly squeezed shut.
That was the last straw Christophe could take.
It was the last thing he could take after a year of a perfect home. After 7 years of a revolting house that only gave him sin. After 7 years of living with a religion that never deemed him. After 7 years of living with someone he thought he could trust. After 7 years of living in a place he could never ever call home.
He stomps towards the obese boy, his fists clenched as tight as possible as his knuckles twisted into a boney white colour, his face twists into a scowl as he grinds his teeth in pure anger before stopping in front of Cartman's desk, the other stops laughing, his face souring with disgust, he belches, gagging. "Oh god, ew! It might have diseases or something-"
The boy's jaw was met hard with the knuckles of Christophe, Cartman twirls, swiveling in his seat before sprawling to the floor with a trail of blood leaking from his tongue as he bit deeply into it, his cries of pain felt like a melody of something long forgotten in Christophe.
The desk shakes a bit before tumbling over Cartman once his foot twists around the metal leg.
And the class gasps—some kids smiling and laughing at Cartman but that laughter quickly dies, subsiding as he cries out loud on the floor, his own blood smeared and trailing down his chubby cheeks.
And Christophe swore, if he had his Clementine instead, he would've used it to bash it against the thick skull of his instead of a puny fist against his jaw. He raises the same hand that bashed Cartman in the jaw. He twists it around, admiring what he had just done.
It felt like a release.
'One hit and the kid is crying.' His brows furrowed as his face hardened. That was until he felt the arms of the teacher grab around his shoulders, yelling his name with demurral, and then, everything blurred as he connected his eyes with scared classmates, their amused faces curving into shock and expressions filled with worry. He didn't understand what had come over him other than the continuous rage of rebellion building up throughout the years. And he also didn't understand why they were so scared—no one was scared, no one felt empathy when he was hit, pushed, yelled at. It made him more angry, and he didn't even know why. But that flame of rebellion only flickered for a moment as his own eyes darkened until they met Gregory—who had a shock and somewhat pitying look.
And Christophe felt his heart sink deep in his chest, resting in his stomach once he stared at Gregory with his pitying look.
But it wasn't a pity.
It was fear.
And Christophe was scared for the first time in a while.
He was scared that Gregory was scared of him.
And it was a look he couldn't get out of his head the whole day.
. . .
After a talk with the teacher outside telling him that his behaviour was not acceptable and that he should apologise to Eric immediately (which he would never do)—and a nice chat with the principal telling him how she would let it slide because of his situation and reintroducing Christophe to the class again—with Cartman going to the nurses' office. It was now the first bell, signifying the end of class and the start of recess.
Kids usher themselves out of the room with excited 'woohoos!' as they quickly run out into the snow covered courtyard filled with all sorts of intricate toys Christophe had only seen on tv.
But at that moment, recess didn't matter since Gregory had left quickly, telling Christophe that he had some sort of meeting with the girl with the pink beret he now knew as Wendy.
So there Christophe was, hands in his pockets as his gruff frown reddened from a cold type of warmth, he was walking outside onto the snow, the crunch of it from his boots being muffled by children's laughter and shouts. His breath misted in the cold air as he kicked a few lumps. Gregory's absence had a significant toll on Christophe, making the brunette find it difficult to be able to see where he fit in this unfamiliar environment but that thought slipped away as a pair of sudden boots stomped into his view. He looked up slowly, his sharp brown eyes meeting the round figure of Eric Cartman whom had a white tissue which was by now twisting into a bright red hue up his nose.
"Hey, kid." Cartman barked, his voice tinged with 'authority' as he stomped intimidatingly (or tried to be) at Christophe, snow slightly flinging and drenching Christophe's already soiled boots. A football was tucked between his arm as his free hand jabbed in Christophe's direction. Three other boys stood behind him, forming a loose semi-circle that felt more like a trap than a crowd.
Christophe stared disinterestedly towards them, blinking with innocence as he tilted his head slightly in confusion, nerves kicking in him as he fumbled around with how to reply. But the fat boy beat him to it.
"Hey, I said something! Don't pretend that you didn't hear it."
Christophe gulped his nerves away, scrambling a quick. "Quoi?" As his eyes darted between the four boys.
Cartman's scowl deepened as he pokes a pudgy finger into Christophe's chest, the harsh gesture pushing the boy back a step. "Cow? Is that what you just said!?" He repeated mockingly, his tone thick with derision and once the word came out of his mouth, Christophe's face twisted in confusion, his lips parting to respond, but Cartman didn't give him any chance. The fat boy puffed out his chest like a pint-sized dictator, leaning in closer to Christophe's face, sneering his lips into a contorted smile. "Who are you calling a cow? You think you can just come to my school, mumble whatever gibberish that was, and disrespect my authoritah!?" He stomps his foot again for emphasis, his bravado as inflated as his apparent somehow existing ego.
'What is this boy on about?' Christophe thought, somewhat scared but mainly confused out of his mind. 'And where did he hear this cow?'
As silence fills in the space, Cartman's sneer deepened, his eyes narrowing more as he let his mouth run wild. "Oh, what's wrong, Brit? Your boyfriend's here to back you up, right—oh wait, he isn't here!" He laughed smugly as if everyone was laughing with him like he had just delivered the most defeating insult in existence.
Christophe stared at him, one eyebrow twitching as if silently debating whether Cartman was worth the effort and worth a swing of his shovel that he unfortunately didn't have at that moment. And then he narrowed his own eyes towards Cartman, trying to figure out if the boy was joking or not. Gregory wasn't his boyfriend, so why did this boy keep acknowledging that statement as if it was true. Unless he meant as a boy friend.
"Don't just stare, kid!" Cartman yelled, gaining a few heads to turn towards him, stopping what they were doing as a small crowd formed around them, some children excitedly whispering for them to fight as they pumped their fists in a quick motion. "You humiliated me in front of everyone this morning, and now you're gonna pay for it!"
Christophe barely had time to process the absurdity of the claim before harsh, strong hands grip against his shoulders, and he shuddered at the impact of hands that had such a familiarising hold on him—restraining him from moving, from feeling. And he's brought back to his house from somewhere far away. His breath hitched as memories flashed in fragmented bursts, for a moment, he didn't feel like he was in the schoolyard. He felt like he was back in that house, where every touch was a reminder of his powerlessness.
Those strong hands on him began to shake his frail body around before they threw him back against the cold, hard, brick wall of the yellow school. Christophe feels the air get knocked out of his lungs once a sullen look crosses his face. He narrows his eyes threateningly towards Cartman.
The boy in the green ushanka—Stan, or was it Kyle?—Hesitated, but didn't stop Cartman as the larger boy pushed Christophe deeper into the wall, making it feel like his back was merged into the school.
"This is what happens when you mess with me, you little stupid Brit!"
"Cartman, I think he gets it. Just leave him alone." The same boy in an orange jacket and dark lime ushanka interjected as he placed two firm hands on his shoulders. But the larger ignores his friend's comment as he shrugged him off.
"Shut up, Kahl! You don't understand what this asshole did to me!"
Christophe could feel his hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white against the chill. His heart pounded furiously, but his body felt frozen, his instincts torn between fight and flight.
"Apologise to me right now or I'll-" Cartman started, but Christophe's voice cut through quickly, sending a warning—a threat that lingered coldly. And Christophe wasn't exactly sure what had compelled him to say that in that moment but something overridden his emotions, something twisted in his stomach, lurching a cold, dark, deep emotion in him—like he was turning into someone completely different.
"Touch me again, and you won't get up."
Just then, the courtyard fell into a tense silence, Cartman's sneer faltered just slightly. For a second, Christophe's piercing gaze and the edge in his voice seemed to shrink the larger boy's confidence. But Cartman recovered quickly with ease, stepping back with a scoff as he pulled his hands back.
"Whateva, dude." He muttered before drawing in a sharp breath, clearing his throat as he contracted a wet, guttural sound that rumbled through his throat, drawing up phlegm as he hacked up spit forcefully, the thick glob shooting out and tumbling into the snow, leaving a small gap by Christophe's boots. He then turned to stomp off. "You're not worth it anyway."
And as soon as the group dispersed with groans of disappointed children quickly running back to what they were doing before, Christophe let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. His fingers slowly unclenched, but the tightness in his chest stayed. And he wasn't sure what the feeling was but even though the bell had long ago rung, with the snow feeling colder against his body, he didn't move.
He couldn't.
But the words that left Cartman stayed in his head, accompanied by Gregory's fearful look for the rest of the day.
. . .
And ever since that day, with the weeks that followed, Cartman had never interacted with Christophe again, not even batting an eye towards him. If anything, he avoided him entirely. Christophe noticed the absence but didn't exactly question it—simply relieved. But Gregory on the other hand, found this odd, very, very, odd. Especially coming from Eric Cartman, it was suspicious. He had never let that thought go especially after catching Cartman's gaze lingering on Christophe during class, not in fear, but in a way that suggested the gears in his head were turning. Thinking, planning, for the worst to come to the broken brunette who sat close to Gregory. But with the only small part of his body with some optimism, trying to push that anxiety crippling thought away, he was just grateful that Christophe turned out alright from the situation for the moment being.
But unbeknownst to the blond, after the incident, Christophe kept most of his emotions to himself for the rest of the day and a few days onward, partaking a mask and covering himself—bottling what he had experienced once again. Because that was all he knew what to do.
And as the thought of the cold, hard wall of not only the school, but what Christophe had built seemed to now be towering over him, being constructed by Cartman in overwhelming speed—like he had built something he could not control. It was like a reminder to who now owned him—although Cartman had really done nothing. But it was the feelings, the familiarising pattern of it all that scared Christophe—the memories. It made him think that whoever touched him like that would end up owning him. Just like his Mama.
And when the blond had heard about the confrontation between Christophe and Cartman, he had mentally cursed himself mainly because there was no way for him to help—being occupied with Wendy and just having no way to realise and all about how that was going to happen while he was in the meeting, he could feel his heart sink. It was only Chrisotophe's first day, and despite everything he's been through, his life at school—which was supposed to be a new start, a new beginning, blossoming into something he could finally understand and treat with a sense of normalcy, didn't feel any different at all.
And despite Gregory's reassurances during class the next morning, Christophe couldn't shake the gnawing unease that came with entering an unfamiliar place yet experiencing something so familiarising. And Gregory's continuous absence during some days (because he was becoming a busy man) had only made things worse, it made him feel vulnerable not only to the school but to Eric Cartman's taunting presence of what he could do (from what he'd heard) and the grip of memories he'd rather forget, but always would be reminded once he connected eyes with the boy. And Gregory did notice the sudden tension in Christophe's stiff demeanor with the way the brunette's hands would subtly clench and how his jaw would tighten when Cartman passed by, wearing his usual smugness like it was some sort of prize—acting as if nothing had happened and as if he hadn't been bruised of an non-existent ego. But neither Christophe nor Gregory would speak openly or privately about it. Even though it crippled between raw teeth so harshly like a knife scraping.
Gregory was scared for Christophe. He just wanted him to feel like a child, do things that a child would do, experience things that a child would experience. But he had never accounted for the society that lived in this mountain town. He never realised how penalising it would be to allow Christophe to settle in a place so ridden with degenerates. It made him sick.
But he thought, believed that until the end, that somewhere in this world, someone was watching over them and making sure that it would get better and that they could find their ending, together. Even in a shit world.
But he was oh so wrong.
. . .
A few months passed Cartman had still not interacted with Christophe—not even a tease like he did with everyone else. And Gregory knew that Christophe had made Cartman feel like he had been humiliated in front of the world. It was as if Christophe didn't exist to Cartman, and for someone as spiteful and vengeful as Eric Cartman, Gregory continued to find this far too peculiar to ignore.
And that dragged Gregory down a hole he wished he never dug in the first place. Every oncoming day from then on, he had always kept a sterner eye on Christophe—to the point of sometimes dragging him to the meetings he and Wendy held for the student government.
Much to Wendy's protests, it was the hidden glint of pleading in Gregory's eyes that convinced her otherwise with a heavy breath and a shrug of her shoulders. But Gregory only smiled in response, giving her a curtly nod and a quick warm hug. And she would deny that she enjoyed the contact as a mild blush blossoms on her cheeks.
Throughout those meetings, Christophe always found himself bored out of his mind, yet at the same time he appreciated the simplicities of Gregory's actions, and adored how smooth his voice trailed into his ears—hitting even the deepest part of him like a foreign song. And Christophe would watch the way he'd roll his sleeve over when he got more immersed into what he was doing, the way he'd brush a hand through his hair when emotions toiled over what was seemingly overwhelming. And even the way he'd direct his finger over Wendy's to show what he was talking about when she was 'confused'. But watching as the two connected closer each day, Christophe couldn't understand why he felt such a poisonous feeling quickly inhabit his body every time he saw Gregory and Wendy connect their eyes, lingering like something spoiled and rotten, and the smell had filled the air, but they both smiled at each other, getting deep into conversation like they had known each other since they were born—or like the conversations mean more than just mere planning and organising. And it made him feel disgusted, he felt disgusting, and he felt like the same sin that had been embedded in his body was overcoming him again, reprogramming everything he had tried so hard to forget.
But no. A sinned child stays sinned.
. . .
When the meetings were finished, Gregory would summarise everything once more, jotting down the main ideas of what they were focusing on in his notebook before shoving it in his bag and standing up, turning to Wendy who would do the same and give her a kind nod as she watched, twirling her hair between her fingers, eyes glazing hazily over his as she shuffled on her feet, smiling.
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Gregory. Make sure you bring the logistics for tomorrow's meeting. Those will be crucial to understand the demographics," She said, giving him a lopsided smile that screamed that she was nervous—or worse, in love. But Christophe had no idea what she was rambling about—nor what the look in her eyes meant (or in this case infatuation), but the look she gave Gregory and everything about the situation angered him—and he didn't have any idea why. But he clenched his fists as her gaze drifted on Gregory's hand and how she shifted her weight as if trying to look all cute in front of him.
"Don't worry, Wendy. I'm already one step ahead." He smiled back, with such warmth—which is what he thought that was only shared between them. And his smiling eyes felt like a dagger to his heart—he thought only Gregory smiled at him like that and looked at him with such affection. And with that belief, he abruptly got up, catching the hesitant gazes from across the room before he sauntered around the table, removing Gregory from his conversation by grabbing his wrist, dragging him out of the room with a harsh slam as he closed the door.
Much to Gregory's disapproval, he didn't exactly mind Christophe doing whatever he wanted with him, in fact, he found it quite amusing. But it still slightly annoyed him that Christophe thought that way—he had many things to do in his sprouting life, after all, if he wanted to achieve his dream he would have to work hard from the very beginning. And with Christophe continuously intervening and dragging Gregory away, it didn't feel as close as it could've.
"Christophe!" Gregory stammered, slightly stumbling on his feet, holding his bag tightly in one hand while his wrist was tightly constrained in Christophe's hand. "Why did you-"
"Why do you always have to have a meeting with that girl everyday?" Christophe asked, trying his best to not reveal the venom pulsing through his voice, but he inevitably fails miserably as he pulls Gregory down on a bench lightly padded with snow, the cries, laughter, and shouts from the other children quickly subside as he only focuses on the blond beside him. There was still some time until recess ended before they would have to return back to their respective classrooms filled with degenerates that drove them both up the wall.
Gregory hummed, gently tugging his wrist out of Christophe's tight hold, with little to no disdain. "Her name is Wendy." He started, looking off into the distance, feeling Christophe's brown eyes pierce his own blue ones. "The adults here aren't exactly keen on doing their jobs. I'm just offering my help to make this place better. And also because she is my friend—who surprisingly has similar interests as me despite this town being filled with idiots." He turns towards Christophe, frowning a bit as he sees the saddened scowl on the other, lips pouted and showing a glossy glint reflected from the sun. Christophe thought he was Gregory's only friend. "If you want, I could ask Wendy if I could take a break tomorrow."
Christophe didn't say anything, he didn't want Gregory to be with anyone else, because he was scared this weird feeling would continue. "Just stay with me here for now."
Gregory only smiled, resting a hand on Christophe's. He wasn't really sure why Christophe had become so possessive over him—but he also thought the answer was obvious.
Christophe was scared he would lose him. Because he was so familiar with the feelings of loss. And Gregory thought he could change that.
"Alright then." He pauses for a second before looking ahead towards the tundra scenery, white crystalised drops of snow flit down onto their eyelashes—shimmering with water from the sun. He blinks them away. "Whatever you say."
Maybe at this moment, everything would turn out okay. In the quiet of each other's presence, in each other's company—together.
And Christophe hoped, prayed. Because it was the only thing he knew how to do.
. . .
As the meetings progressed—as well as Christophe tagging along. The brunette thought that those feelings would gradually fade over time, but they seemed to only gather around him, fluttering stronger and more poignant each time. Stifling him into something unforgettable and unforgivable—like another scent. It was something he couldn't lay his finger on, and yet he couldn't bring himself to mention it to Gregory.
And so, throughout that year of discreetly watching Gregory and Wendy's interactions over time, he came to realise that the feeling he had wasn't something simple, but more complex—an emotion he had never brought himself to feel—because he had simply never known that he was even capable of fixing an emotion so compelling that it could bring him down so fast as it had brought him up.
The innocent feelings of jealousy and love. Mending and mixing together so fondly, so nostalgic although Christophe had never experienced such a thing before in the first place. And it scared him.
It scared him so much.
And throughout those years, he had tried, so desperately, to hide those feelings—to try and resemble someone who was normal. To try and be the mask of a person he wasn't. Because he wasn't even sure at that point who this 'Christophe Delorne' boy was anymore.
He gave up understanding along the way a long, long time ago.
. . .
Another year cripples on by slowly, time trickling down a river to never be found again. But during that year, celebrating each other's birthdays with hidden wishes and stolen breaths once again, from the oxygen consuming flames of the candles, they clung onto each other, finalising that this, this, was their ending. Short and sweet.
When both Christophe and Gregory had turned nine, with difficulties on adapting yet still finding solace with each other in a shitty town, being through situations Christophe thought was impossible in the short amount of time he's been there yet still haunted by his past, by then he was slowly beginning to adjust to life in South Park Elementary, though his guarded nature persisted and his hardness of expressions, scowls and memories remained—possibly never to be ridden off completely. Gregory remained his closest—and if only friend, always attentive to Christophe's needs, even when the boy refused to admit them. But as Christophe started to settle, Gregory noticed something unsettling.
And while Christophe was 9 years old, that was the first time he had ever gone to a restaurant with someone he loved.
The cold numbing bite of late November embraced the small town of South Park, a sharp wind rattled the frosted windows of the elementary school. It had been a week since the start of Grade 4, and Christophe had already become accustomed—or rather, avoidant of certain things that seemed so similar to him. About how teachers kept their distance, classmates whispered about him, he'd only glare at them—watching with a slight pride as they cower in fear, looking away.
Because he knew that everyone feared him.
Cartman had still never done anything to him, many kids—Kyle, Stan and the others seemed more than surprised at this outcome. Christophe wasn't sure if he should be relieved or what. But he was just happy he could continue to be with Gregory.
And throughout that week, he never saw Mrs. Malcomson again. She was there on the first day to introduce herself again, take attendance, and explain that she'd be teaching them English this year. But the next day, she was gone without a word, replaced by a substitute who stumbled over her words and held air nervously at Christophe's unnerving presence. Turned out she would end up being his Grade 4 teacher.
Christophe didn't bother asking why—about Mrs. Malcomsons' sudden disappearance nor the looks he got—he knew the answer to the latter of course. But to Christophe, teachers came and went; he'd learned long ago not to get attached—but helplessly, just like everyone in the world, he clung onto the psychological need—the physical want and emotional yearning that gnawed at his insides and ate him till he could only think about what felt like an addiction. And part of him screamed to let go, to not nurture and foster this building complexity, but then again, a sinned child stayed sinned. And there would be no way for him to get rid of this continuous apparent sin. And for Christophe, there were only three things he was attached to.
Clementine, Cheerios with honey, and Gregory Thompson.
And as the first week was coming to an end—days blurring like his routine. There was just one minor detail missing. An absence that Christophe couldn't ignore. No matter what.
Gregory.
Gregory was not there when Christophe woke up that morning—who was expecting a quiet knock on his door and Gregory's head to pop in- just like he always had, but it never came. And that confused Christophe. He had always greeted him this way, since the first morning he got there. He shrugged the thought off, maybe Gregory had slept in, or simply enough, maybe he had just forgotten, somehow.
Christophe flipped his comfortable thick giraffe covers off of his equally warm body as he grabbed his shovel and bounded down the stairs, hoping to find the blond at the kitchen table where he usually sits after waking the brunette up as always. But instead, there was a neatly folded note on the counter with Gregory's name finely imprinted boldly on the bottom.
When he opened it up, Gregory's neatly printed handwriting encaptures Christophe's eyes.
Christophe,
I am very sorry, but I will not be accompanying you today. There are important matters I must attend to. I promise to return home by the end of the school day.
Christophe could only stare at the note with a blank look. The words felt more hollow than how he was feeling. He stared at it for a moment longer before crumpling it into his pocket. He didn't need promises. He needed Gregory, the one person who made this strange, cold town bearable and lastly, himself to resemble something normal—to feel normal. And to help this throbbing pain in his heart to subside into something that only numbed away his silence.
But as the day progressed with a peculiar emptiness—yet something he was so familiar to—so fond to. At lunch, Christophe sat alone outside, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains visible from the playground. There were no children around except for the howling frigid air and the creaky rusted roundabout that kicked off its hinges and swayed jerkily with the wind.
There was no one there, and there was no Gregory there.
It was lonely, he felt so lonely, he felt so alone.
But although Christophe was the only one at the playground, he could still feel eyes on him, whether they were real or in his head, it didn't matter, because those feelings—those emotions—glares that settled on and in him were filled with judgement, and a weird scrutinizing waiting. But there were other feelings that mingled with the opposing ones. Like a weird form of affection—like the warmth that only Gregory gave him.
He eagerly looks around, maybe Gregory had been watching over him this whole time, waiting and observing to make sure Christophe was okay. Maybe Gregory came back in fear of Christophe going through the day without him.
But no, there was nothing but the remainder of leaves rustling and snow fluttering from branches, falling gently onto the ground, his hair, shoulders and his lunch that he had gotten from the cafeteria with money that Gregory had put in the note.
He tried to focus on the bite of the winter air and the faint warmth of the sun on his face, but knowing that Gregory wasn't sitting by him—and now missing the times of being in the meetings with him and that stupid girl made his stomach lurch with a sickness he hadn't felt in a very long time.
. . .
When the final bell rang, Christophe didn't walk home—he ran. Excitement flared in his chest, igniting that flame that sparked brighter than ever, he felt like exasperating a cry from happiness of finally being back—connected with Gregory in the only place he could call home. As he tumbled through the front door, his boots skidding and flying off his feet onto the shoe rack he looked around, feet thudding against the hardwood floor.
"Gregory!?" He called, desperately, as his voice trailed through the empty house with a fabricated hope of something that felt foreign yet mundane, he waited for an eager response. Since Gregory always replied back with a feverish exhilaration.
No answer. The stillness felt almost suffocating—like the basement. Christophe felt his excitement fizzle into frustration as he searched room after room, his small frame darting through the house like a wasp. Every door slammed against the wall, more harsher than the last.
By the time he slumped onto the couch, the note burned in his pocket like an accusation, and his hands gripped tightly around his shovel like a form of resolvement. Chrisopthe knew one thing. Gregory wasn't here. Gregory had lied.
He had lied right to Christophe without saying goodbye.
. . .
It was late at night when the front door finally creaked open. Christophe hadn't moved from the couch since—despite his stomach growling in protest and his limbs aching numbly from lack of movement, he had stayed there, watching the walls, the ceiling—anything while nourishing that throbbing ache of his heart squeezing.
The brunette crossed his arms over his shovel as his eyes bestowed on the floor, blurring from hyper fixated breathless anticipation, and Gregory could feel it as soon as he walked in the home. The quiet anger of a storm radiating and brewing from Christophe.
Gregory entered the room cautiously, his usual composed demeanor softened with an anxiousness that confused Christophe despite his hunched posture ridden with a fury he hadn't felt in so long. He furrowed his brows in contemplation.
"Christophe…" He began, voice calm yet teetering on boundaries as he eyed him carefully for any sort of reactions. "I-"
"You lied." Christophe interrupted, his tone sharp with a hurtful snipe. Like he was cracking ice under his feet. The brunette didn't flinch, and he didn't even glance at Gregory.
Silence.
There were no other voices or noises being heard. Christophe took this time to analyse Gregory's features, carefully deciphering what monotonous face Gregory had on—a face of indifference that reminded him of his Mama. And he felt scared, but he masked those emotions with his usual grimace.
Gregory blinked, once in a mixture of sheer confusion and shock before he blinked again—in a mix of fear and regret. His cool facade falters as he looks at Christophe's sullied scowl. "I didn't-"
"You said you'd be back by the end of school." Christophe snapped, standing abruptly from the couch as he threw the shovel on the couch—it bounces a bit before he swirled around and stormed towards the blond. His brown eyes were fiery, burning with betrayal and fear. "You weren't there. Not when I got home, not for dinner—not even when I was supposed to go to bed."
He grabs his shoulders once Gregory doesn't respond. The blond flinches away a bit, but allows Christophe to hold him—although it wasn't exactly a comforting hug (quite the opposite), he didn't want to push the brunette away—scared he'd frighten him—remind him of who he was. His mouth tightened, pursing as he bit the inside of his cheek. He opened it to reply, but Christophe shook him a bit with a force that spoke of hurt and anger that he could no longer bottle up.
"Where were you?" Christophe demanded, although it sounded more like a beg.
Gregory let the question hang in the air for a moment before replying, "I'm sorry Christophe." He hesitated, his gaze dropping for the briefest of moments before returning to Christophe. He exhaled softly, his shoulders tense under Christophe's grip as he struggled finding words that he knew wouldn't come easy to the brunette. "I had to visit Wendy's house since she forgot her notes in her room and said I should work on the criteria at her house instead of at school."
Christophe's eyes hardened, but he showed no signs of retaliating with words. Gregory took that as a sign to continue. "Wendy's notes were critical for our plans." He explained, his tone flat but tinged with guilt. "I didn't intend to stay long, but…" He trailed off, his voice faltering like a leaf caught in the wind.
"But?" Christophe pressed, his grip tightening with more desperation. He was scared Gregory would leave again—unannounced and suddenly.
Gregory sighed, bracing himself for the confrontation. "But she insisted I stay for tea—her parents were home, and it would have seemed rude of me to refuse."
The brunette's expression darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. "So, you chose her over me…" He mumbled, looking down as his grip weakened on Gregory's shoulders, venom dripped over every syllable that slipped through his trembling mouth. "Over me, Gregory?" He looked up at him with pleading eyes.
"It's not like that!" Gregory interjected, his voice rising, though not in anger—more in desperation. "I didn't want to be there, Christophe. I would've left sooner if I could."
Christophe let go of Gregory's shoulder with a slump motion, turning away as his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Yet you were there." He muttered, the words low, leaving a bitter taste in Christophe's mouth and Gregory's heart. "I'm sure Wendy would understand that you had someone waiting at home."
Gregory paused, heart stuck in his throat as he swallowed a formulating lump creeping up. He stepped closer, carefully reaching out towards Christophe, but stopping just short of touching him—scared he would push him away again. "Christophe, please listen. I didn't mean to hurt you. I wasn't thinking about how this would affect you, and for that, I'm sorry."
Christophe didn't move, his head bowed and he grit his teeth sharply together as Gregory's words pressed down on him. That room felt as cold as the outside world. And it made him feel as lonely as he was back at a place he could never call home.
"You left me," Christophe said, his voice quiet but intense, the vulnerability in his voice felt more impacting than any shout could ever have.
"I won't leave you again." Gregory promised, his voice firm. "I'll make it right, Christophe. I swear it- I would never want to leave you. It was just an unfortunate circumstance of unluckiness that stalled me. I wanted to be here, right now—with you, just as much as you do with me."
Christophe pouted, pretending to be mad—though he was still angry, he crossed his arms with an attitude he had learned from the girls at school. "How will you make it right?" He turned around to face him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Gregory sucks in a breath, long and harsh as he pinned his eyes closed before opening them to stare at Christophe.
"Tomorrow morning," Gregory replied firmly with conviction, his calm tone and expression returning. "We'll go somewhere special tomorrow morning. Just the two of us."
Christophe hummed, studying him for a moment, his gaze probing, searching for any hint of insincerity. When he found none, he exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he approved it.
"Fine."
A small smile flickered across Gregory's lips. "I'll wake you up early, I promise. Just like I always had."
Christophe huffed as he looked away, a small blush blossoming and those peculiar emotions—that what felt like a resemblance of sin resurfaced, his heart raced, thudding anxiously deep in his ribcage. "You better not forget this time."
"I won't. I promise."
Though he didn't show it on the outside, inside, he was quietly screaming in joy, to have Gregory all to himself. And he knew it was wrong—selfish even, but at that point, he didn't care. He just wanted to know that Gregory would not be staying with that stupid bitch.
. . .
The next morning, Christophe stood at the front door, tugging at the hem of his slightly too-small coat. Gregory waited outside, admirably dressed as always, his blond hair catching the morning breeze and light.
Christophe had groggily woken up that morning—being interrupted by the soft knocks of Gregory's knuckles. Despite this being routine, it had quickly felt so foreign to him, and he scowled as Gregory walked in the room with a happy smile, gently tugging the covers off of a much recalcitrant Christophe.
"Are you ready?" Gregory asked, fixing the collar of his well worn coat as the gentle, frigid wind brushed against him.
"Yea." Christophe smiled back, for the first time in a while, he felt happy again.
"Then let's go to that special somewhere." The blond pushes out a gloved hand, gesturing that the brunette should take it. Christophe looks at it skeptically, uncertain before gasping as Gregory pulls his hand to his, intertwining their fingers together—overlapping each other's hands.
Christophe stared at their linked arms for a while, unsure of how he should be reacting before he looked away, hoping Gregory wouldn't notice his burning face. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or if the feelings were much stronger than just mere shame.
Gregory's hand was warm, firm, and safe. It made him feel safe, like his past didn't happen. Like this was his past.
And for a long time, he wanted to believe that.
. . .
The walk was brisk, the air sharp with the lingering chill of the previous night dipping into morning, basking the streets of melting snow though it was quickly covered up with new fresher layers. And although it took a while for Gregory to lead Christophe to the area, when they had reached their destination, Christophe couldn't help but open his mouth in pure astonishment. The place was a small, cozy restaurant that was located near the outskirts of town—it had just opened a few months ago and customers came and went but business wasn't as busy as when it first started. Understandably so.
Its exterior was modest, with a handwritten menu propped in the window in bright pink and blue font and the faint aroma of baked bread spilling into the street. The outside is painted with a warm, earthy brown colour that covers the bricks with bright blue awnings adorning the front, shading the area and making it seem like a nice place to take refuge from the oncoming snow.
"What is this place?" Christophe asked, his wide eyes scanning the unfamiliar setting as they stepped inside. The door chimed with a chirpy jingling bell, and he was brought back to that time when he had his first hair cut with Gregory. They were quickly greeted by green plants that made it seem like they entered a jungle and were addressed by a waitress before being guided to a table near the corner of the front window—a perfect view of the outside, and a perfect view of Gregory, of course.
"Breakfast," Gregory replied before smiling at the waitress, giving her a toothy grin as she giggled and gave them their menus.
And even though Gregory had adapted so quickly to the situation, to Christophe, however, it was a new experience entirely. But as Christophe watched the waitress walk away, he could feel his eyes roll, his body fuming as he watched the girl walk away.
"Who's that?"
Gregory stayed silent, observing the other before sighing, resting his elbows on the table before leaning against his hands—his fingers interlacing with each other—holding up his chin as he spoke. "Don't act so obviously, Christophe. We have all the time in the world to ourselves. She's simply just a girl doing her job."
"Well then don't look at her like that."
The blond stares at Christophe for a moment, lifting up his head from his hands and placing them on Christophe's. "I'm not giving her any look." He bites his lip, watching Christophe's scowl deepen as he pulls his hand away.
"Christophe." Gregory asserted, grabbing Christophe's hand with a force he had never used on the other before.
The brunette looks up, a bit startled.
"I don't care about her." He sighed, brushing a hand through his straight locks, it loosened some of the strands and Christophe could notice the small bags under Gregory's eyes. He swallowed hard as he stared at Gregory.
"I don't care about anyone else but you, Christophe." Gregory observed Christophe carefully, his fingers still lightly resting over the other's hand. Christophe's scowl had softened, but his eyes darted downward, and Gregory could see the wheels in his mind turning, faster than they needed to. This wasn't just jealousy—this was fear. And as their eyes met with each other, Christophe could feel his heart race, a dull ache blossoming deep in the bottom of his stomach and he wanted to throw up.
"In all truth, I never had anything or anyone to care for until you came into my life. You know that, don't you?"
Christophe hesitated, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite push it out. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, Gregory thought he might pull away entirely.
"I don't know anything." Christophe muttered at last, and there it was—a crack in his fragile glass, a quiet confession wrapped and contorted in defiance. Gregory's chest tightened.
"Yes, you do." Gregory countered, gentler this time. His grip on Christophe's hand firmed. "You know I'm here. For you. Always."
Christophe wanted to believe him. Every word felt so certain, so easy. But easy had never been something Christophe trusted.
"I…" Christophe couldn't express himself through words nor actions, he could only stammer and watch for Gregory's next move. But he could only look away.
"Can't you just let things go?" Gregory asked, his voice tinged with frustration but laced with something gentle almost. And Christophe knew Gregory didn't mean any harm to the simple words. "I'm trying. I really am- to make you happy. To make us happy." He takes a deep breath, releasing his hold on Christophe's hand to rub his tired face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so harsh."
Christophe hesitated, his heart twisting painfully as he took in Gregory's weariness. Then, circumspectly, his hand brushed against Gregory's. It was a small, fragile, hesitant touch, as if he might retract it at any moment. Gregory glanced up, startled, meeting Christophe's lowered gaze as a frown embraced his lips and his eyebrows were lowered and knit together.
"No Gregory… I'm sorry…" Christophe murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked away, a faint flush blooming across his cheeks. "I know that I'm not treating you well right now but…" His voice faltered, his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek as he tried to summon the courage to say more.
He began to pull his hand away, but Gregory grasped it again, firmer this time—like he was afraid to let him go, scared that he would run away.
"It's fine," Gregory said softly, filled with an understanding Christophe might never understand. "I get it. You aren't used to this yet, are you?"
Christophe swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling. 'No…' he thought with a racing and achy heart. 'That isn't it at all…'
But all he could manage was a quiet, "Yeah… I guess."
. . .
When the food arrived—a stack of golden pancakes glistening with syrup and a steaming bowl of rich, velvety soup—Christophe hesitated. His gaze lingered on the meal, his hand hovering near the fork like he wasn't sure if it was meant for him. For a moment, the spread looked too perfect, too generous, like something out of a dream he didn't trust. Like it could somehow betray him.
Gregory noticed, but he didn't want to ask, instead, he gave him a gentle smile as he picked up his own utensils. "Try it. You'll like it," He said.
He clutched the fork tighter in his frail hold before digging in, cutting into the soft, fluffy stack with a sharp, rigid motion. Christophe's first bite was tentative, small, cautious. His movements slow and twitchy as if testing the waters. But as the sweetness bloomed on his tongue and the comforting warmth settled in his chest, Christophe paused, blinking as though stunned by the unfamiliar pleasure. A faint, almost imperceptible smile threatened the corners of his mouth, unbidden and uncontrolled as his shoulders softened before a faint smile finally tugged at the corners of his lips.
He gave in.
And as he glanced towards Gregory, a quick stare, a flicker of gratitude in his brown eyes, though he said nothing.
The meal was a type of soft silence, comforting between two people sharing more stories and history together than words could ever convey. It was like the tension from earlier dissolved into the fragrant air of sweet pancakes and flowers. Christophe ate in small, thoughtful bites, while Gregory occasionally glanced up, content to let the silence linger longer—and to see that soft smile stay on Christophe's lips- the glint of happiness shrouded in his eyes stay, forever.
Because at this moment, there was no need for words. It would only ruin it.
And yet, Gregory wanted to say something. To make sure Christophe was doing alright despite his happier mood.
The syrupy sweetness, the gentle richness—it was a new taste Christophe hadn't realised he'd missed. Just like the honey glazed Cheerios back at home. Christophe gave Gregory another grateful glance, but his brown eyes were more softer and less jagged, carrying a form of trust. And Gregory caught this, his lips twitching upward in a quiet, satisfied smile. His heart was warming at the sight.
"Good?" Gregory teased lightly, the atmosphere feeling more mellow and persistent with a calming serenity, his tone was laced with a type of satisfied amusement as he cradled his coffee cup—which had creamy hot chocolate in one hand, steam curling lazily towards the ceiling as he gently blew some of it away and indulging in the drink.
Christophe swallowed his bite, he made a grunt though it was muffled as he covered his mouth with the back of his hand, hiding—or well trying, the small grin that threatened to betray him. "They're fine."
But the slight tremor of happiness betrayed him.
Gregory chuckled softly, leaning back in his seat with a type of confidence of someone who'd just won a minor victory. "You're a terrible liar, Christophe."
Christophe's scowl returned like clockwork, a half-hearted glare accompanied by the slightest tilt of his lips, and the slightest tint of pink enveloping on his cheeks. He glanced back at his plate. "They taste very good, Gregory."
The blond let the moment rest, his teasing falling away into quiet contentment, knowing Christophe was recovering, slowly, but surely. And he was watching the process, seeing as the wounds were being healed but not closed. He watched Christophe eat, his expression relaxed, his hot chocolate long forgotten. And for a while, there was nothing but the soft scrape of forks against plates, the quiet conversations in the background, and the distant push of the snowstorm outside.
And as the two spent the rest of the afternoon there, talking about everything and nothing. Gregory's careful attention and kindness weren't lost on Christophe, and for the first time since he'd arrived in South Park. And somehow, along the way, he began to feel a sliver of belonging.
In that small, warm corner of the world, surrounded by the scent of baked bread and maple syrup, Christophe felt something inside him ease. The life he wanted—dreamed of, felt like a reality.
And he wanted this moment to last, forever, with the only person who cared about him.
—
ok this part was really long so i cut it into two parts. The second part of this will be posted at least a week or so- i'll try not to postpone it too long!
also! happy new years! 2025! hopefully, this year will be a good one :)