ⱴɨⱴɑ Ɫɑ ʀɛʂɨʂʈɑɳcɛ [Yaoi SP One-on-One]

[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxⱴɨⱴɑ Ɫɑ ʀɛʂɨʂʈɑɳcɛ

ɡʀɛɡᴏʀʏ Ӿ cʀɨʂʈᴏҏɦɛxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTheTweek and xxX K-Squared Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

[TheTweek]

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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The television flickered weakly through the darkness of the room, narrating along in fluent French dubbing over the English conversations in the background to drown out the accented babble as the people gestured madly about, the people at the broadcast of the meeting hooting and screaming in favour of their wretched country. Cigarette smoke misted the screen as the young woman on the tele babbled away to France in an emergency broadcast, the background image illustrating marching lines of men with weapons and fleets of airships rolling through the skies.

"... as the opposing lines of offence stretch toward the border from the English Channel into Amiens and Rennes. Civilians are advised to evacuate their homes immediately in the audited locations for review and protection. Civilians are encouraged to not interfere; drafts have been made to each family and remaining townspeople are being dismissed from their homes as we speak. The Neo-Nazi's have finally declared a call of war after multiple governmental figures were taken down within the last month in the ongoing debate on land and ownership..."

The report continued but the man watching was no longer paying attention. Licking his lips as he watched the background scenes, he marvelled the activity of the English with interest, sorting carefully through papers within the hold of his hands. His cigarette bobbed on his lip as he sighed through his nose, expelling smoke again throughout the little burrow that he called a home. There was a pretentious moment where last week's assassination of one of the British leaders was displayed for public viewing. The bullet was a clean shot while he stood on his podium, and a small smirk curled onto the brunette's lips as he admired his work, finally finding the desired page in his rifling. Uncapping a red sharpie, he bit the lid between his teeth as he doodled a red bullet hole in the centre of the man's forehead, striking x's through his eyes and a frown on his ugly mug.

"Pas problème... pas difficile..." he muttered, curling his fingers around the lid of the marker with his cigarette still neatly balanced between his lips. Capping the utensil, he tossed it lazily over his shoulder before sliding his papers back into his folder, taking a deserving sniff before tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, withdrawing a deep breath.

"OIIII! MAMA! Nous sommes déplaçer ce soir. Emballez vos merde... L'Angleterre a fait guerre." There was an assortment of furious shrieking from the kitchen as he sniffed indignantly, rising from his chair and stuffing his manila folder within the safe hold of his jacket before zipping it up. Strolling into the kitchen as the blustering woman cussed loudly in fluent French, he patted her cheek and kissed her on top of her greying head before musing to himself, grabbing an apple off of the counter and taking a righteous bite out of it. Christophe turned to her as she muttered something to him quietly about where they were going, and he laughed at her, speaking in heavily accented English.

"Not me pairmanentlee, mama. Just you. I 'ave beeznis to take care of in ze war, you know zees."

Angrily his mother turned on him, smacking his arm. "NON! You said you wair not going to be drafted! You told me I would not looz my baby to war! I 'ave already lost a spouse. You are a liar of a son!" She crippled slightly against the counter, and he looked down at her with bored pity, patting her on the shoulder. "Neizzair of us are dying in zees war. France will win, Mama. You know I will nevair die. E'specially not at ze 'ands of English Nah'zee peegs."

The woman seemed unconvinced as he stepped by her after back into the livingroom, glancing up slightly as he spied the television once more. Once again he was no longer drawn in by the babbling of the woman on the screen, but the picture displayed on it, and the headline beneath.

Commander Thorne á la Bureau d'Angleterre

Christophe stared for a long time, slowly straightening as he stuffed his hand within the holds of his none-too-neatly ironed jacket, flipping the manila envelope open as he stood, carefully pulling out a paper and staring at its contents, before holding it up to hang adjacent by the screen, comparing the face on the screen to the photograph and name at hand with a bitter smile.

"A shame we should meet again zis way, Gregory..."

Christophe DeLorne left his home in silence; it would be a weary trip to Rennes.

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[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory Thorne, the commander of the troops currently pushing their way into France, was standing in a meeting room with his top-ranking officers, looking around at the six other men with a calm, arrogant look on his face. He knew that he deserved this position. Despite the fact that their group had dropped from ten to seven in less than a month, Gregory was unafraid. He was not going to be assassinated anytime soon. He kept his head down, allowed others to relay messages as he plotted the next movement, directed the Neo-Nazi troops on where to go, on what to do.

It was the perfect war. Hitler had been the perfect leader; his idea of world conquest had been perfect. This time, they were using an updated plan, including not only Hitler’s ‘enemies’, the Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals, along with countless others, but every race. There was no race that would survive the holocaust they were wreaking, aside from the Anglo-Saxons. Britain had controlled most of the world once, the leader, the boss, and then it had fallen from grace.

Gregory was in charge of bringing it back. There were two people higher than him: General Atkins, a man of great renown, who happened to pass most of his information onto Greg directly. Above that was Denzel Brown, the ‘Hitler’ of their operation and a reclusive man who was constantly surrounded by guards. Gregory had met him but once, and he cut an imposing figure, a man who matched the cruelty and intensity behind his eyes.

Gregory was not as large as Denzel, or, rather, most of the other commanders, but he was imposing at all times, his blue eyes leaving an impression in those beneath him and anyone he came in contact with. He was arrogant, but he had every right to be; barely in his thirties and he was already commanding the largest invasion since the D-Day invasion of 1944. A cruel smirk passed his face; the circumstances were reversed. Instead of saving France, they were destroying it. Gregory, for one, had been pleased they had come to France, first.

He had someone he needed to find here.

The blonde looked around the room once again, that same unfeeling smirk that never touched his eyes plastered across his face. “We need to be in Paris by tomorrow evening, at least. I know we can push the troops forward and arrive there in time, yes? I will stay in Rennes for the time being; there is business to be done here. I will be in Paris by next week, however, I expect the plans we conferenced about earlier to be already well underway.”

Another quick glance around and then he called the room to attention, the officers beneath him standing immediately. Greg spoke, his voice icy. “Dismissed. Get some rest. You are useless to me if you are tired.”

The men shuffled from the room as Gregory lifted his laptop, sliding it into a case and flicking his eyes around once again, nervously. He adjusted the scarlet epaulette on his shoulder; his uniform was a throwback to the Revolutionary War, very Victorian in style and fitting his calm demeanor at almost all times.

He sighed, leaving the meeting room and going back to the room that had been given him on the second floor. Gregory stepped inside, guards in the hallway outside, and walked over to the bed, unbuttoning his coat and licking his lips, looking around. He hung it up and began working on the rest of his clothing, unbuttoning his shirt swiftly and laying it on the bed before working his pants off, setting them down as well and then simply laying on his bed, senses fully heightened and a gun nearby as he stared at the ceiling.

He hadn’t been in France in years. It was bringing back unpleasant memories. Well, no, that wasn’t true. The events were pleasant. The parting had not been. The blonde fiddled with the fleur-de-lis around his neck, a necklace he kept concealed beneath his uniform, and sighed, letting his usually arrogant visage slip into a rather sad one.

He was tired, and although he knew that the cause they were pushing for was the best, he felt… empty. Sad, sort of. Maybe he was just lonely. A prostitute might dispel those feelings…

[TheTweek]

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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People were already going through perilous levels of physical pushing to get out of Rennes, mixed between thrusting threads of Englishman as they poured their operations through the city. People fell left and right, stragglers were caught and held prisoner or dragged back to various bases. No mercy was felt with the revolutionary air of human equality; men, women and children alike were obtained, or destroyed.

It was almost enough to make Christophe sick.

Seeing the English trump through his territory really made him question the past of things. Hanging upside-down amongst gargoyles atop a clock tower was a less than pleasant location for hiding, however it was the simplest way of disguise. The common flaw in every human was their common misguidance, and forgetting to look up. A few had, of course, but in the sleek black clothing with blood red rufflets to blend him well into the fiery-clouded sky, he blended will with his stoney, monstrous comrades as they roared off the apex of the clock tower in a resemblance of good architecture and a nesting place for birds.

By night fall the clocktower was as invaded as the rest of Rennes and likely Amiens to the north-east. Occasionally a patrolsman would peer out of the window yards and yards below his perch, but all would make the common-law mistake of all the rest, and it made him smirk. Where he was not usually one to typically roam the skyline, it was an interesting switch. The grounds far below, however, were no place for anyone but the English to be trapezing right now if they valued their lives. As the final fingers of sunlight bled away over the horizon, Christophe swung up among his stone friends, perched on the edge of the roof, and carefully unzipping his travelling pack.

Instead of a cigarette he pulled out a stick of Nicorette with bitter hatred, sticking the piece into his mouth and trying to pretend that the zap of nicotine was in the form of smoke. There was no time to risk anyone spotting the ember atop the roof, however, and it would have to do for soothing his addiction for the time being. Pulling a pair of binoculars from his pack, he set them to an acceptable level before reclining against the rooftop and peering down to his destination. It would take less than ten minutes to scale the buildings to the scout towers, where men could already be seen tucking in for the night. Spotlights shrouded the location like pale ghosts through the dark as patrols littered the building on each and every balcony.

This was way too easy.

Swinging down from the clocktower in a matter of moments, the man moved like a bat through the night. Perching soon atop the residential building of the higher marked candidates of the Anglo-Saxons, he licked his lips tenderly, hanging once more like some kind of night-going animal from the edge of the building, and feeling very humorously like Spiderman.

"Aye, mate. See you in the morning, rest up, aye?" A voice from within the window spoke strongly.

"That I will sir, and yourself. Long day tomorrow. Paris!" A second followed, nearer to the open window.

"Paris!" the other man toasted, before the door was shut, and only idle movement could be heard from within.

Moments passed before the man peered out the window with interest to inspect the city with care, raising a lit cigarette to his lip. He barely had time to take a lasting drag when a pair of gloved hands slid down, snapping the gentleman's neck with one swift movement and no hesitation. Chris bit back a swear as the cigarette dropped from the man's lips as his body went limp over the windowsil, just managing to snatch it in his hand. The embers pit into his palm as they outed in his fist, but he made no noise, taking that second to drag the fellow up and out of the window. A careful stuffing of the b*****d down a chimney and Christophe was safely tucked away in his room, with the curtains drawn, the lights low, and the window shut.

He admired the uniform now carefully fixed onto his figure. The other fellow had been slightly fatter than himself but it fitted well enough to pass as his own as he carefully gelled his hair with the fellow's comb into the acceptable form that was prominent in style amongst the Englishmen in order to reflect that of their leaders. He felt filthy in the freshly pressed clothes, his own carefully hidden. His accent would not be a problem; plenty of Francophones had immediately sided with the English. Despite the dispute of war in land, there were still many in France not pleased with the government or the organization. Many sided with England in the political affairs - the most popular group, of course, was that of Les Renégats, or, rather, The Renegades.

These people disappointed him. Traitors at best, but it was England's own fault for trusting the French, for there were pieces within the Renegades that Christophe knew were definitely not there to help any petty Anglo-Saxon.

He pressed his hands down his body to identify the majority of his weaponry, before finally placing the blasted hat on his head, and shining the silver strip of metal across his breast pocket with a risen eyebrow of interest.

How quaint. It appeared as though he was a first lieutenant today.

He marched out into the hallway with a cigarette between his lips, tipping his hat keenly to passing 'comrades' as they eased through the corridors to their designated sleeping quarters. The clean-shaven brunette did little more than this for the first little while, entirely familiar with the inside of the building, not only from multiple reviews of blueprints, but because it had been a governmental residence not a day previous that he had been in on missions far too many times. The annoying jingle of the metal decor on the carefully tailored boots of his uniform were more than a piss-off but he did his best to ignore it as he tugged the white leather gloves on his hands keenly, turning a corner.

"Hey! Who're you?"

Ah, it was only a matter of time. Turning, he was almost surprised to see someone as minute as a cadet staring back at him. The tawny-haired male met his dark eyes, before letting his eyes slide down to the silver strip over his pocket. Christophe simply looked at him narrowly, lifting his chin, and sliding a bit of an English accent into his French one to give the misguidance that he had been residing as a loyal man of England for some time.

"Some re-zpect for your higher ranks, cadet," he drawled briskly, rapping his palm on the side of the kid's face. Looking a mix between embarrassed and insulted, he thumbed over his shoulder to the dorming area. "Paris tomorrow. You best be watching your arse, if you ever plan to get somewhere in zis war. Hail England."

"H-hail England!"

The insult was completely drowned out by embarrassment now as the youngster saluted him reespectfully and took off. Christophe simply shook his head, almost feeling bad. The kid would be one of many to die in this war, and so early, too. It was sad. He barely looked a day past nineteen.

Trapezing through the corridors still however, he rested the gun on his shoulder carefully as he strolled along, not making eye contact with anyone unless it was necessary. No, he had people to find. Not just those of whom were his targets, but those of whom were his potential allies on better days. He always worked alone, of course... but it was always nice to have ears on the inside.

"Ahhh, zair you are, ... Lieutenant... Laurant." He turned carefully, looking at the cadet that had called for him. Ah, speak of the devil. It was nice to not have to search the whole godforsaken building for someone he knew. Nodding carefully at the Renegade as he stared at him as though he was criticizing him for taking on a higher ranked position than himself, he was pleased to see him dressed in the same ironed uniform. Brushing his shoulder off as he tapped his cigarette carelessly, he nodded at the 'traitor'.

"Ah, Dubois. Fine time as any, non? We have some fi-nair zings to discuss, do we not? Please, come. To my post."

The cadet followed him along as they strolled together, now looking must more trustworthy as a pair of soldiers as opposed to the singular one that he had been earlier. Sliding onto a balcony, the two looked at eachother, and 'Dubois' began speaking immediately in code, though his gestures told Christophe everything he needed to know.

"Ze wind is coming in heavy from ze west tonight. Gunman are enlisted to either side, our focus iz below on eizair side, just in case of Frensh invasion." He gestured to the furthest window, to the West, where Gregory's resting quarters would be. It was in perfect adjacency to the clock tower, making for an easy escape. There were going to be guards in both corridors, in case any assassins would show to break through and try to kill him - in case Christophe showed up to try and kill him. But ten guards were nothing for Christophe, guns or no guns. Dubois continued.

"As you know, of course, ze windows weel lock at ze crack of midnight and zere will be no ins and outs. Patrols will be locked for ze rest of ze night until dawn, when we will move eento Paris. Our commandair iz a strong man, he haz everything under control."

Cristophe nodded slowly, speaking back in a similar code. "Tonight, Rennes, tomorrow, Paris. Our commander can do no ill work. He is a strong man." Christophe narrowed his eyes slightly, mouth a straight line. "He always has been. Tomorrow, organize a meeting wiz our people. Zere are big matters to discuss."

The cadet nodded solidly, handing him an envelope, before taking off. Christophe took another few careful drags of his cigarette before he headed back inside, making his way through corridors and dipping in and out of patrolling balconies, as though making sure that each man was doing his job. Eventually he came to the main hall that would lead him to Gregory's room, and he stood at the end of the hall in silence. The guards outside conversed between themselves wearily. Christophe gazed down at the envelope in his hands, the royal seal closing it into confidentiality in the form of a stamp of red wax. The queen's own lips had touched this piece of paper by force at gunpoint, but Christophe LeLorne couldn't have cared less.

Plucking a decorative platter off of the wall almost lazily, with his gun still strapped to his back, he set the envelope neatly at the centre of the platter and began down the guarded hallway.

Immediately there was an erratic clicking of guns as they pointed in his direction, but he simply halted holding out the platter to display the sealed envelope as he bowed in respect, putting on his best English accent after many years of practise.

"A notice for our Commander, from the Queen herself. Please, this is a royal message of urgency."

A few guns cocked backward, but not before a man stepped forward to carefully examine the envelope, holding it up to the light only to reveal paper inside and nothing more. The seal was validated, and his gun was taken carefully from his back after a further examination. "The Commander is resting. Where is your position to deliver such a message at such a fine hour?"

"There is no time in the line of duty, sir. If you please, a moment. I'll even be so polite as to knock."

And he did just that, the careful rap of a fist on the door with his gloved knuckles, the platter in his other hand. He looked quite different now, and with his carefully practised accent in place and his uniform on, even Gregory couldn't shoot him on sight as a traitor if he recognized him. It was fair game. All he wanted to do was... talk, of course.

Waiting for the door to open patiently, he glanced up into those murderous blue eyes with his own of a deeper, muddy hue, his expression respectful and flat. "Good evening, Commander. A private note from the Queen, if you are not too busy. It is urgent." He let no twinkle of familiarity dance behind his eyes in his well-kept shape, playing ignorant. "If you please."

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[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory had been so close to finding that much needed rest; sleep did not come easily for the blonde, not after the events that had transpire in the last fifteen years or so. Especially not since joining the military at eighteen. A heightened sense of awareness came with a price, and Gregory was lucky to get more than an hour of sleep on a regular night. This had been one of the nights where he was starting to think he would get a relatively decent rest…

And then the knock came.

Gregory sighed, sliding out of bed and hastily pulling on pajamas, fixing his hair in the mirror before walking over and opening it. There was a dark-haired man in the English uniform standing there, and while he looked vaguely familiar, Gregory was not one to jump to conclusions. His shrewd blue eyes scanned the other immediately, taking in the scent of tobacco that clung to the man. That was what triggered his memory.

He showed no sign of it, though, masking his face as carefully as he could, giving the other no sign that Gregory recognized him. Rather, he lifted the envelope, looked it over, and allowed his eyes to fall on Christophe again, sizing him up. Gregory nodded, placing a hand on the other man’s arm and looking at one of the guards. ”I need to speak to this man alone. If I am not out in an hour, then come and check.”

”Sir, are you sure you should be alone with him?” One of the captains stepped forward, looking uncertain and unwilling to let Christophe alone with Gregory.

Gregory glanced at the man and spoke, his voice rather haughty.”He is obviously one of us. If you would like to complain, take it up with someone else. I need to speak with this man.”

Before anyone else could protest, including Christophe, Gregory had pulled the Frenchman into the bedroom, closing the door behind them but not locking it. He walked over to his mirror and looked in it, his eyes flickering to Christophe’s reflection. He fixed his hair again and then turned, looking worn out and tired, like he always felt.

He spoke, his voice soft. “Christophe, I know you aren’t on our side. You’re far too much of a loyalist. Why are you here, then?”

Gregory wanted to think, out of some misguided emotions, that Christophe was there for him. He knew that wasn’t true, though, and couldn’t let feelings he had been harboring for years get in the way of killing the other man if that’s what it came to.

He sighed slightly, messing his blonde hair up before going to sit on the bed. ”Christophe, I won’t hesitate to kill you if that is what I need to do. Now, say what you came here to say. You always have a reason.”

He hadn’t talked to the other in who knew how many years and this was their reunion? Terrible.

[TheTweek]

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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The french man stood respectively at a distance as he entered the room, admiring its surrounding innocently enough for a quick moment with an unplaced expression before he entered further, listening to his friend talk with a vacant nonchalance as he adjusted the collar and again slid his gloves back on more properly. Patting himself down a moment, he sighed, searching the crisp fit of the uniform for the pack of cigarettes that the man had drawn the one from that burnt his hand earlier. Pulling it from the left behind pocket of his trousers, he tugged out a f** and lit it up. Natives. How sad.

"But you are hezeetating right now. You are indeefrent to ze lives of ozzairs now, are you not? Take a look for yourself."

He dismissed the rest of the conversation for the time being as he approached Gregory's window, peering out over the city after firmly placing his fist against the glass. His country. Despite his cold front to everything he did, within his heart, he ached. To see so many of his people destroyed, for no reason. The same could be said for the English side, but a fair fight would have been to kill political figures back. Seizing the country and obliterating everything in their path seemed hardly necessary, in Christophe's eyes. Then again, it was a government against a government. It was his political customers now who had ordered him to do these things that had the English now trampling their entire country. Bitterly, he stared out the window longer, before turning away from the cool pane of glass.

Folding his hands carefully behind his back with the letter now pinched between his index and middle finger, he licked his lips slowly before setting the platter carefully down on Gregory's desk. Turning to face the half-dressed gentleman now, he removed his hat and tipped it, before setting it back onto his head.

"I am ash'ually, 'onestly, 'ere to give you zees lettair."

Strutting across the room carefully, he approached Gregory's bedside, standing directly before him now as he handed it towards the captain carefully, and cautiously. Both of them were in marring distance now. However, with the little intent that Christophe presently had for killing the captain of the brigade, he could not presently say the same for Gregory Thorne. The thought was depressing, for Christophe, at least.

"I am also 'ere to tell you zat you are a dees-grace. I am so deesappointed in you. I zought you wair a better man zan zis." He rose a hand sharply, but not violently, his true anger over the whole situation finally shining through as he gestured dramatically to the outdoors. "I do nah' undairstand your moteeves. Howevair, it iz nevair an excuse. Zis iz sickening. You disgust me as you smile on our televisions. I zought you should know."

He gave the blond a firm look, but made no move to harm him in any way. Still peering down at him as he waited patiently for him to open the envelope, he fell silent as he sipped the nicotine from his cigarette, shaking his head with a vacant sigh.

"I am alzo here to warn you zat ze moment your troops ztep into Paris, Monsieur Atkins will die. It iz undair your choice how to take zis information. It iz all I know, and all I am obligated to say."

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[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory sat at the edge of his bed, tight-lipped and empty eyed as the only man he had ever cared about denounced his actions and pretty much put his disgust on display. He stayed emotionless, though, his mask carefully in place as he attempted to play off how badly this hurt him. This was his job now. He had worked for years to get where he was at the moment; he was successful, plastered across televisions worldwide, all eyes on him, and the year before he had been the most eligible bachelor in all of Great Britain, the fact that he was gay falling to the wayside.

He looked up at Christophe when the other approached him, taking the envelope and running his slim, pale fingers over the seal easily. He stood, dropping envelope on the bed, and put his hand on Christophe’s neck, blue eyes piercing the dark-haired boy’s mud-coloured hues. He ran his thumb over Christophe’s cheek, speaking in a soft, intimate tone, one they had shared many times in the past. “Christophe… You are my oldest friend. You know me better than anyone. If you think that I am a cruel person or anything of the like, then I suppose we both had each other pegged incorrectly. And for that, I am sorry.”

Gregory let his blue eyes fall once more, gazing at the lushly carpeted floor for a few long moments before letting his blue eyes meet Christophe’s again. He stared at the other’s lips for a moment before chuckling wryly, although the laugh held no humour whatsoever. He was in a terrible mood now, now that he knew that Christophe seemingly hated him. ”I thought you were going to quit smoking, Christophe… You’ll die before forty.”

The news of General Atkins’ assassination did not bother him in the slightest. Sacrifices had to be made in order to advance. If Atkins needed to be the next necessary casualty, then so be it. Gregory would take his place. The blonde had sworn his lover to Mother England, his homeland, and he would allow himself to be assassinated if that’s what it took to take another city.

Once Paris fell, France would fall.

It was not a difficult concept.

Gregory glanced at the clock; ten minutes had passed since he had let Christophe in the room. That left them with fifty. The thirty year old spoke, voice holding that same intimate, haunting tone that was reserved only for Christophe. ”Christophe. I don’t care how much you hate me right now. Come to bed with me. One last time. After this… we never have to see each other again. Fifty minutes is all I ask of you.”

He studied the other for a reaction before plucking the cigarette out of Christophe’s mouth, holding it in his own fingers and then kissing the other man softly. Chris had always tasted like tobacco, despite the infrequent, spaced apart kisses. It was a taste Gregory would never, ever forget.

The blonde pulled away, touching Christophe’s face again, gently, as he took a puff off the other’s cigarette. ”I know you haven’t forgotten, Chris.”

One night.

One night had ruined damn near thirteen years of friendship.

That one night, when they had been seventeen and stupid. Gregory would never, ever forget it. The pain of their parting after such a bittersweet night had been so much… too much pain for a teenager to bear. It had started Gregory’s path towards the military, was the reason he was commander of hundreds of thousands of troops, waiting at his beck and call.

It was Christophe’s fault that Gregory was no more than a tool of the military.

[TheTweek]

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Christophe could have laughed at his expression as he stared back at his day-old friend with his usually cold stone expression. Admirably Gregory had also hardened over the years but Christophe saw through those baby blues as he always had, reading straight into him like nothing. He didn't move as he the pale hands of his comrade crept onto his face, glancing wearily to the side as his best friend caressed his skin like they had just seen eachother yesterday.

There was some ache within him as he heard him continue, glaring at him stubbornly with an obvious frown as he moved onto the petty topic of Christophe smoking, glaring even more and rolling his eyes to the side as he felt the cigarette plucked from his lips. Almost unwillingly, his mouth parted slightly to only better the kiss as Gregory's lips collided with his own, responding immediately despite the decade and some that had passed between them with his own heart caught up in his throat.

He was aware. He was aware of his fault in this outcome, but never truly blamed himself for the whole thing. Their decisions had been mutual, but when the time had come, his family had needed him, and his departure had been quick. He'd written some letters but had never found the power within him to send them. His life soon became that of the careful mercenary one, and here he was so many years later, simply doing work with no fun. No time for relationships. No time for bouncing back and forth between his home and America anymore for dreamt-up summers of the good life that he figured he might have had at some point.

Maybe it was his fault, after all.

However, even if he obliged to his friend's request, they would be seeing eachother again, and Christophe knew there was no serious naivety that strong within his friend, whether he was stupidly working for the English armada or not. Licking his lips daintily to contain and savour Gregory's taste, however he took the cigarette back from his friend and outed it carelessly on a cup holder on the mahogany bedside table, pushing his friend back down against the bed and crawling over top of him with ease.

"You say zeze zings to me like some common woman in ze second world war bidding her newlywed 'uzband to ze troops..." he murmured against the other's ear, carefully running his hands up his friend's side beneath his shirt with care, spine tingling at the reunion. "You know I do nah' care if I die before I am fourty. I 'ave a feefty-year-old woman 'oo iz crying right now waiting for me at 'ome, whezzair I come dead or alive. And what do you 'ave? Nuzzing."

His words were cruel to conflict his actions as he kissed along the commander's jawline carefully, sliding his hands along his arms now and pinning them above his head with one hand, the other rested against the other man's stomach as Christophe's hat tipped off his head to the bedspread and allowed his previously neat brown hair to fall around his face in that usually haphazardly way that it always had in the past.

"You will die before me in zis way you are going now. Far too soon," he said, and leaned down again to take the Englishman's lips for his own, his grip tightening around the wrists pinned above his head while his other hand carefully withdrew a revolver, clicking off the safety and replacing his lips with the mouth of his gun in Gregory's mouth.

"So you 'ave two options. You can come wiz me quietly out zat window," he purred against the other man's lips calmly, "or I can jus' blow off your pretty 'ead now when you go calling for 'elp, and I can die atop you wiz twenty or more bullet 'oles in my back." He continued to hold his friend's wrists firmly, hooking his boots between Gregory's thighs to keep him from kicking him off.

"Besides... you know zat zey kill fags in your military." He smiled in pity, eyes boring pained holes into Gregory's blue ones as he waited for a decision, or a counter to his actions.

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[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

He had seen it coming.

How could he not have? Christophe was there for a purpose, and as much as Gregory wanted it to be, the dark-haired man was not there for Gregory’s sexual needs, despite the fact that the blonde had stayed chaste for these last thirteen years. He had never looked at another person sexually, hadn’t had sex with anyone since Christophe and he had parted ways. Christophe had been his first and last.

If there was one thing Gregory was, it was loyal. He willingly would have spent the rest of his life in a self-condemned chastity belt if it meant he could stay loyal to Christophe, at least until they had officially broken things off.

And here he was, because of that loyalty, a gun shoved in his mouth and the only person he ever loved looking at him with pity in his brown eyes. No love. Just pity. And that hurt more than anything else. Gregory looked at Christophe for the longest time before, finally, managing to rise, the gun still in his mouth and his wrists still in Christophe’s hands. He looked at his former best friend for the longest time and then, just like that, all emotion was gone from his face, nothing lingering behind his eyes. His face, eyes, and body language was dead, empty, and he merely nodded, eyes flickering towards the window to indicate his choice.

He didn’t care anymore. It hurt too much to play off Christophe’s words and actions as he usually did when the other said things to him. He had spent a long, long time in their childhood ignoring the insults that spouted from his best friend. He couldn’t do it anymore.

Gently, Gregory moved the gun out of his mouth and looked at Christophe. ”I will come with you, Christophe. If that is what you want, then that is what you’ll get.”

He watched his former best friend with those same emotionless eyes, waiting for Christophe to take him wherever they were going.

The other man had done it again. In just a few short paragraphs, Christophe had managed to break his heart all over again. He had done it before; Gregory had woken up expecting to see Christophe in bed with him and his dark-haired friend had been nowhere in sight, making Greg feel like a cheap slut and like their years of friendship had been thrown away.

He had clung to the hope that Christophe would come back to him.

Well, now he had and there was no reason to continue to cling to the love that obviously meant nothing. He spoke, his voice changing tones to something icy, cold and distant. ”If you’re kidnapping me, then do it. I don’t want to be around you any longer than I absolutely must be.”

[TheTweek]

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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There was no sadder look on a man's face in that moment then Christophe had ever seen, despite there being absolutely no readable expression at all.

In the rush of their closing time stamp, he was mad at himself somewhat that he had no time to talk it out. Instead, he snatched the case of a pillow with his gun hand, still with the blond's arms held high above his head as he kept his eyes on him. Carefully he stuck the closed end into his mouth, tearing the material with ease and tightening the ribbons of cloth around Gregory's wrists after sinking them behind his back to ensure no resistance. The second pillow case was stripped for different purposes as he slid the sack over his friend's head and drew the strong on it, leaving enough room for circulation of air so it wouldn't get too stuffy.

Upon finishing tying his knots with care, he lifted Gregory to his feet after tucking his gun back into the concealment of his uniform, swapping his captive's gun off of his table moments after and pocketing it as well for safe keeping, before pausing, and lifting the edge of the pillow up with his index finger to expose Gregory's mouth, leaving a soft kiss on his pale lips and then drawing away, voice quiet.

"Jus' so long as you do nah' say anyzing zat will corrupt zis escape, I promise, I will nah' hurt you anymore."

With that closing statement left open to the Commander's own interpretation, he tugged the pillowcase back down again carefully, before walking to the door, locking it, and then strolling to the window with Gregory in tow, wasting no time in jacking the lock clasps and sliding it open with his shoulder. He snatched his hat back before he left, and glanced at the note on the bed with a short smirk as he tossed the hat back onto his head after sweeping his hair back into it's more army-like shape. As he lead Gregory out onto the shingles of the roof top, he turned toward the room, biting off the top of his lighter, and draining the fluid onto the rug. A match followed, closing the curtains, and then the window as the plush carpet caught flame.

The journey across the roof was tedious and dangerous, but there was little difficulty aside from tile-sliding as they crossed the axis of the building with care. He lead Gregory from behind unless there was a drop to accomplish, at least feeling somewhat better now that he knew Gregory would at least be a bit agreeable. The silence between them was destructive though, and he knew that whatever friendship they had had was on the finest of silk strings at the moment, hanging by a spider's tail, but this mission was of more importance, within good reason.

Returning to the balcony where he had deposited his things, earlier, he passed the chimney where the body of the lieutenant he had haplessly murdered now rested. The stench of burning resonated through the air as smoke poured from the chimney, likely crisping the corpse, but he ignored it, sliding Gregory carefully down into the window after checking the bedroom to ensure that it hadn't been tampered with since his last escapade there. After collecting his bag and extra clothing, he went about the task of guiding Gregory down the building and back toward the clocktower, where the rest of his things would be located.

Needless to say, the journey nearer to ground level was going to be less than easy.

"Hey. You. Where are you going?"

His grip on Gregory's arm's tightened, but the rest of his composure was as collected as ever as he tilted his hat to the gentleman that had approached him, nodding toward the bagged Gregory. "More filth."

The man fell silent, glancing at the night attire. "A hide away, I suppose?"

Christophe merely nodded, offering a rough grab to the top of his best friends head as though to emphasize his business before abandoning the scout without another word before he was forced to talk more. Struggling with an English accent was difficult, particularly when you had been idling away speaking little English at all in your home country on and off for a whole decade. Multilingual from his multiple business partners, it was no shocker that he had some accents nailed better than others, but it was still a chore, and one he felt better avoiding.

He checked his watch as he collected his things from the top of the tower after a few similar situations, sighing and strapping his pack on Gregory to make it look like a reverse role even more so. He strapped a better amount of artillery to his back, however now, as he retrieved his belongings, and continued their blind journey after checking his watch. It would be about five more minutes before the guards would start struggling with the door in a blind panic as smoke finally started to leak out from beneath Gregory's bedroom door.

Christophe properly perched his prisoner atop his motorbike in the front, more so to keep him from leaning off the back and attempting some kind of suicide, and also simply because it was nice to have the blond man between him and the handlebars. Of course in Christophe's world helmets were hardly a thing to be concerned for in the face of a mission with far more dangerous aspects, and they sped away through the dark.

The sac was only removed once they were located within the safely padlocked confines of Christophe's hide away after travelling for possibly an hour or more. Alert sirens had already been going off around the brigades as they had been long ten minutes out of the city, but Christophe didn't glance to see the capital building burning to the ground. He never looked back upon anything. His solid rule to living was 'no regrets'.

Tossing Gregory down on the bed after stripping him of Christophe's luggage in the silence of his 'home', he gently pulled the pillow case from the male's blond head. He seemed to take a moment while checking him over briefly as though for any kind of damage, a cigarette already between his lips. Not untying his hands quiet yet, however, he stripped the primary upper layers of his stolen uniform, hating it of course but not minding it simply for it's co-ordinated look. Regardless, he tossed Gregory's pillow case into the fireplace that had been lit when he'd gotten there in silence, before pulling off the final shirt to the military uniform. About fifteen different weapons dropped from his wardrobe as he stripped that last layer, revealing his body as he sifted his hands through his hair to rid it of it's uncomfortable prim appearance.

Too many scars to count for, all from past wounds, and with some still there as though they had been teenagers just yesterday from occurrences in his childhood that encouraged the marks. A tattoo of a pick axe and a shovel creating a firm 'x' shape rested between his shoulder blades, as well as a memorial for his mother and father on the rise of his right arm. Across the small of his back was neatly written 'Viva La Resistance'. And lastly, in carefully designed calligraphy, the capitalized letters "GAT" were scribed across his left hip.

He seemed to take little notice however as he continued to smoke away at his cigarette, sorting through his things and organizing them, before finally turning back to Gregory with a steady expression as he moved into the kitchen from the den to shut off a whistling kettle. Returning to the bedside a moment after with two cups of tea, he set them down only to undo Gregory's wrists, before sitting on the bedside casually after leaving the binds on the floor for the time being, handing one of the floral cups that were likely his mother's to Gregory, despite there being no sign of the blustery woman.

"Tu est trés stupide," he said flatly at last, before drifting his eyes away begrudgingly as he sipped his tea with care.

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[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

"Jus' so long as you do nah' say anyzing zat will corrupt zis escape, I promise, I will nah' hurt you anymore."

It was way too late for that. Gregory, had he been all right, would be giving his life to keep Christophe away from his commanders, from his men, try to save some people… He was not all right. He was nowhere near all right. His heart hurt. It didn’t ache, it wasn’t a dull throb, it literally pained him every time it beat. His chest was tight in agony, his head hurt, his body, which was healthy and fit, was in all sorts of pain. For the first time in his thirty years of life, Gregory wanted to die.

He allowed Christophe to do whatever to him, followed him obediently (as if he had a choice), and found himself on a motorcycle with Christophe pressed against him. Under normal circumstances, he would have been aroused, happy to be in such close contact with the other man. At the moment, though, he felt sick and gross, disgusting and about to vomit. He didn’t want to be this close to the person who had just totally broken his heart.

They showed up at Christophe’s house and he was tossed unceremoniously on the bed. The pillowcase was taken off his head and he watched Christophe, spotting his initials on the other man’s hip. He clenched his jaw and turned his head away; it obviously meant nothing to Christophe. It hurt, so much, that Christophe had seemingly forgotten Gregory’s feelings.

His wrists were untied and he was given a cup of tea, staring at the brown liquid as he clenched the porcelain his hand, watching the ripples. Christophe spoke and Gregory’s blue eyes snapped up, locking on the other man’s face with all the precision the military had taught him. He moved quickly, slamming the teacup against the wall, where it shattered into a million little pieces and went flying everywhere.

Lurching forward, he grabbed the other man’s arms, looking at him with hatred in his eyes. “I abhor you. You have no right to speak to me after what you have done. I have never detested anyone before in my life, and yet I wish you were dead.”

He shoved the other man away from him, eyes flicking momentarily to the shattered teacup and the brown puddle on the floor. He spoke, his voice taut and tense. ”After this, I am never going to speak to you again. These are the last three words you will ever hear me say.”

Gregory leaned forward, his face flushed, looking more emotional and more beautiful than he ever had in the past. He spoke, his voice as intimate as a lover’s but as harsh and cold as a winter’s night. ”I hate you.”

With that said, he rolled on his side, facing away from his former best friend or lover or whatever it was they were. His chest was heaving, although he wasn’t crying. Gregory hadn’t cried since he was a child. He had seen far too much to cry. He was hurting, though, much more than he had been before. He had just told Christophe that he hated him.

It felt as though his heart had been split in two.

[TheTweek]

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

Ŀιττℓє sσℓdιєяs ιи α xя o wxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ƒ α ℓ ℓ ι n gx ιи αиd σuτ σf ℓσvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

§σмєτнιиg xs w є є τx τσ τняσw αwαyxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Christophe barely moved in acknowledgement to Gregory's little tantrum, barely seeming as though he was paying attention at all, two things he was extremely good at. Not even so much as offering a glance to the shattered porcelain on the floor, he sipped his tea quietly and carefully, making a slight face as he burnt his tongue before falling still once more as he absorbed Gregory's words.

After a time, he rose from his spot, still with his teacup in hand as he rustled about. The little burrow he'd made for himself wasn't completely tidy, mostly scattered with papers, plans, things written in cryptic french and other languages, photographs of people, weaponry, all these things jumbled together in a disorganized mess that was just home to Christophe. His disorganization gave him impeccable organization; rifling through and putting things 'in the right place' only confused him and made him lose things. He was happy with his piles of loose leaf and heavy artillery.

Sifting through one of the aforementioned stacks of paper with his toe after kicking off his boots, he spotted his manila envelope quietly, crouching down to pick it up as Gregory continued to snarl away behind him. His exterior was collected and stone-cold with ignorance as per usual, but each word cut into him like the scars that bit his half-bare body as he heard them despite his air of nonchalance. Sighing through his nose as he recrossed the room to sit back down, he rolled his eyes as the other male continued to bite at him stubbornly.

He seemed finally attentive as Gregory announced never speaking to him again, and with his declaration of hatred, Cristophe stopped mid-sip from his tea and peered down at him from over the rim of the cup, silent. Observing the English man as he flipped over, Christophe averted his eyes a moment, before rolling them slightly. This is why he believed in no God. Far too many misunderstandings for there ever to be a higher being up there to keep things in order.

No. If there was a god, there would not be a nation currently annihilating his country, and he would not be the spectator sent to annihilate their authoritative figures right back.

Setting his teacup down on a randomly placed bookshelf near his bedside, he sighed, curling down beside Greg in the dimly lit room. "I told you, you were stupid." Sliding an arm around his middle and pulling him against him without his consent, and likely to his displeasure, he kissed the man beside him on the shoulder a moment, peering at him with tired eyes as he deposited his envelope back to the floor over his shoulder.

"Eef you want me dead so badly, zen kill me. We can be dead togezzair. I keeled you tonight, you know. Zere are only two left now for me to take down."

He purred quietly against Gregory's ear, gently biting his lobe as he reached with one arm absent-mindedly, clicking on the small television across the room. On the screen was already the news, though the television was on mute. The screen relayed the image of the capital building that they had just reunited in hours earlier, soldiers removing their hats to place them on their hears. Amongst french captions explaining the incident, Gregory's name was also listed on the screen. Cristophe glanced down at the blond briefly to see if he was paying attention, before sitting up abruptly and roughly grabbing him by the shoulder, throwing him to the bed on his back. Placing a palm against his own pillow on either side of Gregory's head, he glared down at him, before running a hand vacantly down the side of his face.

"You are no dog of ze military, mon cher. You are no prisonair of war, nor are you my capteev." Licking his lips like some sort of starved animal, he leaned down, pursuing his earlier affections from back in Gregory's bedroom, sliding his hands up within the other male's shirt as he planted kisses on his neck and shoulders, occasionally swatting away a protesting hand if there were any.

"I may be a loyalist but I am alzo very selfeesh," he murmured against his flesh, finally wrapping his arms around the other male's waist to pull him up towards him in a tight embrace. "Feefty minutes would nevair satisfy what I need to replenish ze zirteen years zat I have been wizout you."

He loosened his grip slightly, pressing his lips against the side of the other male's throat, before stealing a kiss from his lips. "'Ate me all you like. But I will nevair let you get away from me for zo long again."

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[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Where the ******** did Christophe get off on torturing Gregory like this? The British man was far too smart to fall for this crap; he had fallen for it before and it had ended up with his virginity gone and his best friend missing for thirteen goddamn years with no reason, no nothing to point to why he had ******** done it. He hated the other man. He truly did, but without love, he couldn’t hate. He was in a juxtaposition, knowing for goddamn sure that he detested Chris more than he had ever hated anyone else but also well aware of the fact that he wanted to shove the other down and kiss his brains out. Okay, maybe more than kiss, but he could start slow.

His former best friend, and Mother England help him, he was staying former if Gregory had anything to say about it, began spouting sweet nothings and planting soft kisses along Gregory’s flesh, hardened by the cruelties of the military and the consistent, incessant exercise. Gregory merely lay there, as limp as a rag doll as he allowed the other man to hug him and kiss him, his face once again showing no emotion.

Once Christophe seemed finished with his little speech or whatever, Gregory shoved him away, slamming his fist straight into the Frenchman’s face. He slid off of the bed, staring down at the dark-haired man and gesturing around the cramped living space. ”You sit there and claim that I am not your captive and yet if I were to ask to leave you would deny me that. I hate you, Christophe, with every piece of my soul. You disappeared without so much as an explanation to me and then turn back up acting as though you never left me! I have hated you for these past thirteen years, waiting for a letter, a call, something showing me that you were still alive, at least, even if you didn’t have feelings for me. Even if you never did love me as I loved you.”

He turned away, running a slim hand through his blonde hair, mussing it up as he watched the television, his name running across the bottom of the screen. He was dead. He could read that much French to know that he was dead, or at least he was to the eyes of the public. In allowing Christophe to take him from that place unharmed, he had sealed the fate of his two higher ups. And for what?

For immunity from the military, of course. Death immediately released one of service. And yet… He was not just a military commander. He was the face of the war, the young, vibrant, gentleman-like military propaganda, sent out on television to use his face, his body, and his attitude to sell the war to the masses watching.

Without him, the war would be doomed. He could care less either way; he had merely been doing his job, acting as though he was all for the Neo-Nazi movement. Gregory’s body tensed up, all the tension resting in his jaw and shoulders, his muscles clenched in both areas. He spoke through gritted teeth, looking over his shoulder at Christophe, eyes cold and darkened with anger. ”I want to leave. I do not want anything to do with scum like you. You claim to not want me to get away again, but I never left. You left. You took my virginity, told me I was your world, and left me. You don’t know the feeling of falling asleep in the warm embrace of the only person you’ve ever cared for, only to wake up cold and alone. It is, by far, the worst feeling a human being can experience.”

He turned his head back to the television and spoke, his voice soft. ”I would rather you kill me now then have to spend another moment with you.”

[TheTweek]

「「 c н я ι s т σ ρ н єxxx xxxт н єxxм σ ℓ є 」」 xxx

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ŀ wαиτ sσмєτнιиg gσσd τσ xd ι єx ғσrxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

†σ мαкє ιτ xв є α u τ ι ғ u ℓx τσ ℓιvєxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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"You are so self-absorbed."

Christophe spoke firmly, though there was an angry tone in his voice as he sat on the edge of his bedspread now, massaging his temple with one hand while the other cupped the stricken side of his face, a bit of blood lingering at his left nostril. He couldn't find the energy in him to look at Gregory anymore. This was wrong; all wrong. This whole mess was stupid and wrong. And sure he was at fault, but where were Gregory's branches to contact him? He'd gone back to America a few times since he left. The house where his best friend once lived for some summers was vacant.

Feeling the knot in his chest as it grew, he turned himself away completely, standing up and kicking the broken porcelain of the teacup into a pile after throwing down a random shirt to soak up the moisture. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he shook his head as his friend continued with his dramatic griping, trying to ignore the bite in the other man's voice that was really convincing Christophe that Gregory felt nothing for him anymore. Staring at him now with his expression still hardened, he chewed the inside of his lip slightly, sighing through his nose with irritation.

"And you stand zere and speet away, making assumptions zat are not true. You want to leave? By all means, zen, leave. If you zink I went zrough all of ze trouble to get you out of zat place for seelly warfare zen you are foking stupid."

The bite in his voice was harsh as he walked over, raising an arm across Gregory's collarbone angrily and slamming him back into the wall standing face to face with him once again, eyes narrowed in a mix of obvious irritation and partial hurt.

"I 'ave been sent to keel you thousands of thousands of times, and I deny zem all, no hesitation. I was sent to keel you tonight. And aftair you, your comrades of war. But no, I weel not keel you. I can not. Would not. Could nevair even dream of it. And you know zat I would nevair hesitate if you had been anyone else, ten guards or a hundred guards or a zouzand guards at your door. I would 'ave sleet your zroat and laughed at zair shocked faces before taking zem all down, too."

He fell silent after a moment, still holding the blond firmly in place against the wall as he leaned against him, straighting up to bring their bodies closer. He withheld as much emotion as possible, but knew that his frustration shone through in his eyes, and felt weak. This was what power Gregory had over him; a decade of silence between them and his barriers were still broken by the petty blond Englishman. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed the tightness in his throat before turning away finally and grabbing a random vase from a shelf, whipping it across the room for it to shatter against the wall. Taking a shuddering breath he shook himself out, shaking his head and then turning back to point at Gregory again.

"You are still ze world to me. If I did nah keel you tonight, someone else would 'ave, and zat would be ze end. Your country weel not take France. And my country will not take ze one person 'oo means more zen my life to me," he hissed on. "Jus' because I 'ave not been zere means nuzzing. It eez clear, from you. You proove to me now wiz your angair zat you still love me."

He couldn't help but crack a cheeky smirk at this sentence, though it eased off into a frown a moment later. Flipping the locks on the door, he thrusted it open into a vacant hallway, entirely dead of any other life for what seemed for ages.

"By all means. You want to leave, zen, if I am so meaningless to you now? Zen get ze fok out. If you go, I weel not be in Paris tomorrow. I weel nah destroy ze English army wiz two seemple assassinations while you flee, because I 'ave nuzzing left to safe but a stupid country, and zat is not enough for me."

He slammed his fist against the door again very seriously, staring down the blue eyes that captivated him since he saw them for the first time as a kid. Keeping his chin high, he swallowed again, staring at him narrowly.

"If you 'ate me so mush, zen go. I weel nah stop you, even if you find your way back to keel me. I 'ave no meaning wizzout you."

He turned away then, leaving the door open for Gregory as he kicked the TV off of the chair it had been idling upon only for it to smash to the floor as he strolled to the kitchen to cool off at the table in silence, getting a cold cloth for his still-bleeding nose.

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[x X Zombiecest X x]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ʈɦɛ ɓlʘʘɗ ʘf ɑɳɡʀʏ ɱɛɳ!
ɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɗɑʀk ʘf ɑɡɛʂ pɑʂʈ!
xxxxxxxxxxxʀɛɗ - ɑ ωʘʀlɗ ɑɓʘʊʈ ʈʘ ɗɑωɳ!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxɓlɑck - ʈɦɛ ɳɨɡɦʈ ʈɦɑʈ ɛɳɗʂ ɑʈ lɑʂʈ!

ɡʀɛɡʘʀʏ ɑlɑʂɗɑɨʀ thʘʀnɛ

Gregory swallowed hard, listening to everything the other man said, allowing Christophe to slam him against the wall and merely staring. He fought back the tears that were threatening to fall, blue eyes ghosting over the man before him, drinking in every aspect of his appearance and smelling the faint smell of iron from his nosebleed mixed with the scent that Gregory had spent so long memorizing during their time together as children. It was all he could do to keep from crying.

But the other’s words struck a chord, and once Christophe had gone to fix the nosebleed, Gregory stood there for a long, long time, thinking. He may have been dead in the eyes of the military. But Chris had just relayed the most important information he had said all night. If Gregory left him now, there would be no assassinations of the two men above him the next day. Paris would be taken, and, by extension, France. Greg had been given a free ticket to beginning a new life with Christophe, but he could punch that ticket and leave, guaranteeing the safety of the two men who could expand Mother England’s territory once again.

He closed his eyes, Christophe’s scent lingering in his nostrils for the longest time as he reminisced. He had been friends with the other since they had been eight and they had met in America. That had continued for the next ten years, with both of them bouncing between their mother countries and meeting back in America for the school year. It had fallen apart at seventeen, after that stupid, stupid night where they had ******** for the first and only time. Gregory, whose parents had allowed him to live alone after sixteen so they could continue to reside in England, had run back to London after that, broken-hearted and more than upset.

That had been the last time he had seen Christophe.

How could he choose the love of his life, who, although apparently still loved him, had been out of his life for thirteen years, over his mother country, who he had a duty to? Gregory cursed softly and hit the wall he was leaning against lightly in frustration, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair.

He looked around the room, sighing and finding the closet. He opened it and stripped, taking a pair of Christophe’s pants and one of his shirts, pausing only slightly to take in the scent before redressing in the clothes of the dark-haired man, which made his blonde hair all the more obvious. Christophe sighed and leaned down, finding a gun and sliding it in his belt before turning. He discovered a pair of boots and slid them on; he had worn Christophe’s clothing in the past and was no stranger to it. After all, they were relatively the same size; Gregory’s hips were, regrettably, a tad more feminine, so Christophe’s pants were somewhat tight on him, but that was not a problem.

He glanced in the mirror momentarily, dead blue eyes looking back at him from a pale, deathly looking reflection. Gregory, though still handsome, looked as though he had given up on life. And he had, in a way. He was making the ultimate sacrifice for Mother England.

The thirty year old made his way from the bedroom to the kitchen, watching Christophe for the longest time before walking over, tilting his best friend’s chin up and kissing him softly on the lips. He looked at him, blue eyes darkened with some unreadable emotion locking with Christophe’s dark ones. Pulling back only the slightest, the blonde spoke, his voice heartfelt. ”You’re right, Christophe. I am still very, very much in love with you.”

He straightened up all the way then, taking a step or two back and smiling at the dark-haired man, although it was a detached, distant smile, one that showed the turmoil currently happening in Gregory’s mind. The blonde looked Christophe over and shrugged, that one small, stoic motion indicating his emotions at the moment. ”But I would be foolish if I thought I could maintain a relationship with you. And I realize now, that my duty to my country is more important than my duty to a man who, had he stayed, would have been my lover. If I leave you now, then my country will continue its march forward with no issues. It is my God-given purpose to do this, Christophe.”

Gregory turned away, the gun he had taken from the other man visible on his belt now. He walked towards the entrance to the kitchen, pausing only to put his hand on the door frame and look over his shoulder at Christophe. That same tight-lipped smile was on his face, showing his frustration. ”But I also know that a life without you is not worth living. Two birds with one stone, this is.” He chuckled, shaking his head, although weariness was visible in his eyes. ”I’m going to kill myself, Christophe. Save my country’s endeavors and keep myself from unhappiness all the same. You already killed me when you left. I’m just taking care of the physical remains.

There was a long pause, the blonde standing in the doorway for a few moments before he gave a brisk, one-syllable laugh, close to breaking down. ”I love you, Christophe. Never forget that.”

With that, he was making his way down the hall, his chin high in some sobering, cruel parody of the arrogance he normally displayed, an arrogance that would follow him to his grave. He left Christophe’s house and continued walking, eyes flicking around at his surroundings. Versailles. He was in goddamn Versailles, about to kill himself.

The blonde sighed and continued walking, only stopping when he came upon a church. He blinked and looked up at it, swallowing hard before entering, his hand going to the gun at his side. The moonlight was falling through the high windows of the church, casting a dim light over everything. He made his way to the front of the church, genuflected before entering the pew, and walked over to the far edge, looking up at the crucifix behind the altar.

He got down on both knees, clasped his hands, and touched his forehead to his knuckles, beginning to pray. ”Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

He finished the prayer, moved back into his seat, and placed the barrel of the gun in his mouth, his blue eyes flickering to the crucifix once again before, around the cold steel, he began to say The Lord’s Prayer, blue eyes squeezing shut as he fought back tears.