Warnings (for this 'chapter'): Mild Donnie Darko spoilers, mild fluff (at the very end), course language

A/N: VC has decided to get off her ass and write something after a year, wow. First SP fic, though, and I'm starting off with a Christophe/Kyle one. It was going to be a one-shot, but as you can see the prologue became a bit…long and that wasn't working out. So I'm going to have to cut it up into sections. Basically it's based off of the song "I Go Back" by Kenny Chesney, or the actual chapters will be. There may be a few interlude chapters to move it along some and flavour it, depends. I'm going to try and keep the sugar sweetness down as to not give you guys diabetes, but there's only so much a girl can do xP

This part was written just to kick it off and introduce Christophe back. I would've cut some of it out but it actually is all needed in full later on xD; So sorry about that.

Oh! French/English glossary is found at the very bottom, and will be there on each chapter. Also the "th" sound when Christophe speaks is replaced with "z" and the "h" is dropped. That's the best I could do to create an accent in text, it's hard enough getting the nasal sound when speaking French xP Okay, that's everything I need to mention, so enjoy.

---

The sun was unbearably bright against the white snow that had fallen across the mountain town of South Park the night before, making the morning air frigid. Kyle muttered obscenities under his breath as he walked toward the bus stop, rubbing his gloved hands together in a desperate attempt for warmth. It was days like this he wished he had a car, or Stan hadn't had his license revoked after totaling his own.

"Kyle, dude, what's up?" came the familiar voice of his very best friend, Stan. Kyle looked up, smiling, and ran the remaining few yards to the raven-haired boy. He waved at Kenny, whom had his hood securely around his face, fighting off the cold. The boy nodded his acknowledgement, but said nothing, blue eyes sparkling dangerously. Or rather, with warning.

"Not much, freezing my balls off, you know, the usual," Kyle said, gaining a slight chuckle from Kenny.

"Did I hear Kyle say he has balls? Fags and Jews, we've got a liar."

Kyle ground his teeth as the sing-song croon of Cartman erupted from behind him. After all of the years, Cartman never got tired of ragging on Kyle, which irritated the Jewish boy beyond all reason.

"Shut up, fatass!"

Cartman just smirked, eyes flashing. "I ain't fat, you goddamn short, gay, Jew."

Green fist curled in anger. While the others continued growing, Kyle had a spurt around the seventh grade and stopped, making him the shortest of the group. Short, and scrawny was what he had become.

"Hey, knock it off dude," Stan said defensively, putting a hand on Kyle's shoulder and squeezing.

"Kyle's wittle boyfriend coming to his rescue?" Cartman asked. Kenny, knowing his part in the everyday occurrence, punched the larger boy in the arm, causing him to yelp. "Goddamnit Kenny, right where the bruise is! That's a bad Kenny, a bad Kenny!"

They all saw it, Kenny's eyes narrow and flash, indicating he was going to explain just how "bad" he could be, but thankfully the bus pulled up. Sighing Stan and Kyle got on first, glad that they didn't have to hear another of Kenny's sex stories.

They all sat in their regular seats, Cartman with a seat to himself, Kyle and Kenny with each other, Stan taking a seat next to Wendy in the isle so he could talk to Kyle. It was the eighth grade the two had officially hooked up again, at the formal dance held for the graduating class. Ever since they were all over each other, pricking on Kyle's nerves, and his heart. They all knew he had formed a crush on Stan, but being too sheepish and shy Kyle had never acted on those emotions, except admitting it to Stan. Stan was a little distraught, but he just smiled, and everything went back to normal. It was South Park after all.

"So dude, you going to do powder puff this year?" Stan asked, hand idly tracing Wendy's thigh.

'Ah, so that was Kenny's warning,' he thought as he glanced at the blonde, who grinned under the hood and turned back to watch the window. Every year since they were freshmen, Stan had been urging Kyle to do powder puff for their last year. Kyle had declined. Every year. Everyday up until homecoming week when try outs were over, which made two more weeks of long suffering.

"I don't know dude, I just can't see myself out their with pom poms, and I doubt my mom would let me."

Cartman's voice crooned from behind. "You, Jew-boy, have a sandy little vagina so you'd have to be one of the football players, and we all know how much you suck at football," he took a breath, "and you're mom's such a fuckin' bitch."

And the morning arguing commenced once more, a collective sigh rolling over the kids on the bus.

---

Forth period, AP English, Kyle's favourite class. The teacher, Ms. Arzillo, was eccentric and spouted literature whenever she got the chance. Her lessons weren't boring, and she made sure the kids got involved in the work. Being a Friday was even better. She would go around the room (volunteers or victims) and play a quick tune on her piano, while you had to make something interesting up until she stopped, and then another person would pick it up. Most of the kids found it to be entertaining and threw in rather personal things, or alluded to them.

The best thing about the class on Friday's like this, though, was the fact Kenny was there to lighten everything up, and set the story/poem/song in the gutter, which everyone enjoyed. Ms. Arzillo favoured Kenny as her favourite, and being young enough, several rumours had spread that they had "done the deed". When asked Kenny would just smile, but Kyle knew he wouldn't have sex with a teacher, no matter how slutty he could be.

Ms. Arzillo finished up attendance and settled on the edge of her desk, blonde curls and rather large breast bouncing as she did. "Now class, before we start our oh-so-lovely game, I must introduce to you another victim of our foul play!" she said, clapping her hands together in a dramatic manner. "Christophe darling, come in and let yourself shine."

The door opened and a tall boy shuffled into the room, looking at the ground. Messy brown locks fell into chocolate eyes surrounded by dark circles that seemed natural. His black shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing tanned arms and hands covered in black gloves without fingers. He scuffed the toe of his boot on the tile, and placed his hands into the pockets of brown-cameo pants.

"Christophe comes from France, isn't that right?"

"Yes ma'am."

Kyle sat in shock as the boy lifted his head, scanning the crowd, hard stare resting on Kyle. A coy smile played across the oh-so familiar new student's lips.

"Close your mouth, you fag," Cartman whispered from behind, making Kyle blush profusely as he closed his mouth to keep from gaping.

"And you speak quite a bit of French, correct?"

Christophe lowered his head once more and rolled his eyes before replying, "Oui madame, je suis parle français. As-tu perdu l'esprit? J'ai habit en France, porqoui je ne parle pas français? Pétasse…"

The girls let out a collective sigh as the purring French accent filled the room. Kyle swallowed, hard. Christophe had such a nice voice, light and smug, and the accent sounded so much better speaking fluent French than English. It seemed to fit the mercenary perfectly, the dark demenor and cute smile that seemed to be directed at him. Wait…did he just think 'ze Mole Christophe' had a cute smile? He buried his face in his hands, face turning scarlet.

Ms. Arzillo continued assaulting the French boy to speak in his native tongue. Kyle found himself enthralled, along with every other girl in the class. Only being smacked on the head by a paper ball kept himself from sighing contently at Christophe's unintelligible words. He glanced around, catching Kenny's eye and knowing who had sent the note.

You keep watching Christophe like he's Stan in leather and pole-dancing. What's up, do you know him or something?

Kyle nodded once, and Kenny mouthed, "From where?" He scrawled on the piece of paper "From the war, he was the guy that I told you about that died in my arms, Ze Mole" and sent it flying back across the room.

"Why don't you take a seat by Mr. Broflovski? Kyle, raise your hand."

He raised his hand slowly as the blush crept up his face once more. Why did that kid—what's his face—have to move and leave an empty seat? Christophe glided through the other kids easily and settled into his desk, dropping his bag at his feet. He leaned on his elbow, watching the flushing Kyle from the corner of his eye, amused.

Ms. Arzillo took a seat at her piano, hands flying over the keys expertly and a wash of cheery music played. "Let's begin our game…hmm, Wendy, you first."

Wendy smiled shyly, thinking as she found the right beat and sung with the music. "Stan is super nice, he kisses me in the halls."

"Eric, your turn."

"Unfortunately for you, Kyle licks his balls."

Kyle turned, glaring. "I'm warning you, fatass!"

"Kyle, wait your turn!" Ms. Arzillo chided. "Tweek, you now."

"Oh..god, um…Too bad it isn't true, and, um, the pressure, oh god!"

"Kenny."

"You can't blame the Jew, for trying to woo."

"Christophe."

"A boy like ze Mole, since 'e's 'ot for you."

Kyle stared at Christophe's unconcerned look, mouth agape again. 'Did he just say he's hot for me? Oh my god!

"Butters."

"W-well that would make him gay and uh," the blonde looked around, "Kenny will save the day."

"Bebe."

"By roughing Kyle up, and giving him a pity fuck."

"Kyle."

"Kenny's just my friend, so I'm calling this the goddamn end."

Ms. Arzillo turned in her chair, smiling. "Well then, shall we do another?"

Kyle glared, voice filled with anger. "No! Every time it will end up with me screwing some guy, or loving some guy, or masturbating to some guy's image because of Cartman!" The class turned to face him, amazed at his outburst. Kyle was surprised as well, usually he took the gay jokes without flinching, but today was different…because of Christophe.

"Ay! Don't be such a gaping vagina about it. Ever think that maybe if you had a girlfriend or something we wouldn't call you gay, assmaster?"

"Cartman damnit, I can't take this from you anymore!" Kyle snarled, standing abruptly, chair squealing on the tile. He turned, angry glare directed at Eric. "You wanna continue your game, fatboy? Fine! I don't have to listen to it though." He stormed out, slamming the door shut with one final curse.

The class sat in stunned silence before Cartman muttered, "Goddamn Jew needs to fix that uterus problem of his."

"W-well you can insult but eventually a kid breaks," Butters said.

"Oh shut up Butters, he's taken it since kindergarten, why suddenly lash out?" Eric turned his attention to the new student, sprawled out across the desk. "I think it's 'cause of this British piece of crap…wait, wait! I've said that before, you're that asshole from the war aren't you, the Mole or whatever?"

"I see you've lost zat shocking device, yes?" was the muffled reply.

"If you're the Mole, than does that mean you're hot for Kyle like you said in the game?" Wendy asked, twirling her hair in her fingers.

Christophe glanced up from the desk to Ms. Arzillo, finding that the teacher was pensive and curious as well. He sighed, 'Stupid American beetches.' "It was what I zought of first zat would make et interesting. Et is not like Kenneth 'as given Broflovski a pity fuck, yes?"

"You never know, Kenny's a slut after all," muttered Craig, receiving a bubbly laugh from the accused.

"You still haven't denied it, so are you hot for Jew-boy or not, Frenchy?"

Christophe turned to look at the apprehensive Eric, considering his choices. If he said yes, he would most likely be avoided by the irritating fat boy, along with Kyle if he ever found out (which he would, with teenage rumours). But if he said no, than he would be chased by the girls wanting to here sweet romantic French.

The choice was obvious.

"Well, I wouldn't say I want to jump 'im but—"

"Oh god, what the Hell is today, fag-fest?" Cartman yelled, rolling his eyes as the rest of the class went to whispering and giggling. "What is it about Jew-boy that people even like?"

"He's pretty in a feminine way, and has a nice ass," Kenny said blandly, receiving a simple, "hell yes" from Bebe.

"Goddamnit Kenny…I hate you so much," Cartman said, shaking his head disapprovingly. Ignoring the finger from the blonde, he set his scrutiny on Christophe. "If you like him so much, why don't you go find Jew-boy and lick his goddamn pussy so he gets better?"

Christophe shrugged, dark eyes finding Ms. Arzillo's green ones in calm waiting. "Madam, may I go talk some sense into Broflovski?"

She smiled, flashing perfectly white teeth. "Please do, dear."

Nodding his head in thanks he walked toward the door, chuckling at the comments whispered behind him.

"How romantic," from Wendy.

"How gay you mean," from Cartman, and a slew of others that were blocked out by the door closing.

He found the redhead sitting on the floor opposite of the lockers outside of the door, hands wringing his hat angrily. Auburn curls fell around his face, hiding his eyes. Shrugging it off Christophe slid down the wall to sit beside him. Kyle's breath hitched, feeling the warmth of a body beside him, and the warmth of embarrassment across his face.

"Your friends worry," came the heavily accented voice after a long silence. "Zey cannot figure reason for your outburst."

Kyle clenched his hat, knuckles turning white; if the other noticed he failed to mention it. 'Yeah, I wish I had a firm grasp on why I did as well.' Instead of answering he shrugged, continuing to look at the ground. If the Mole knew he was blushing, Kyle might have died. Only when a discerning 'clink' broke the tension did he look up, to see Christophe with a cigarette in his mouth, playing with an antique lighter.

"Y-you can't smoke in school!" he stammered, looking horrified and thoroughly disgusted.

Christophe glanced at him, flipping the top of the lighter off, than on, off, and on. "I am, are I not?"

"You're not supposed to, and anyway, it'll reduce your life expectancy!" He shied away, nose wrinkling at the smell of tobacco.

"My line of work reduces life expectancy. Anyway," he waved his hand, "I 'aven't 'ad a smoke since zis morning."

"Can't you at least wait until lunch when you can go outside and do it? Class doesn't have that much time to go until it's over."

"No, I don't zink I can wait," Christophe replied blandly, taking a drag on the cigarette and exhaling through his nose. Scowling Kyle snatched it from his mouth, putting it out between the toes of his shoes, saving the tile from any more abuse. Christophe stared, eyes narrowing.

"Zat wasn't very nice, when I came out 'ere all worried about you."

Kyle stopped, cocking his head and pointing at the French boy. "You," he pointed to himself, "were worried about me?"

"Zat is what I said, silly. And I wanted to talk. You seemed very…shocked zat I am in your class."

Kyle turned away, blushing as he shoved his hat on, tucking curls under it. "Maybe a little."

Christophe smiled coolly at the blushing figure, reached a hand up and tucked a stray lock of auburn hair under the hat. The fading colour returned rapidly, making him chuckle. "You blush a lot, Broflovski."

"Do not!"

Christophe, taking advantage of the situation pinched his cheek. "Do too, mon cher."

He stood, glaring down at the other. He seemed little intimidated by Kyle, rather, amused. Kyle growled, not finding it entertaining, instead embarrassing. Who did Christophe think he was, waltzing into his life after dying and calling his faults?

"Where have you been all these years? Why couldn't you just, oh I don't know, stay dead?" Kyle flinched, the words that flew from his mouth harsh even to himself. He knew why Christophe wasn't dead, Kenny had wished them all back, but why now?

Christophe didn't seem to notice the accusation in his words though. "I 'ave been in Florida, a wretchedly 'umid place. Muzza sent me after ze war, enrolling me into a high quality Chazolic school, where I could be replenished and spared your faggot God's wrath. A year ago I came back, zough, and Muzza 'ome schooled me, finding ze Cazolic school here offensive, and Gregory a bad influence. She went to France for an emergency, and not trusting me to do my work put me 'ere."

Recognition flared on Kyle's face. "Wasn't Gregory the British kid during 'La Resistance' that liked Wendy?"

"Yes."

"How the Hell is that kid a bad influence?" he smirked.

"'e is ze one zat started me in covert operations, and as much as my word is worth, Gregory is not a pussy."

"He goes to Chatholic school—"

"And so did I, Broflovski," Christophe said with a brow quirked.

"Yeah but you look like a bad influence, mysterious, you've got attitude, you're, you're," he waved his hands around, searching for an adjective that fit.

"Insane? Annoying? A mercenary? Genius? Good-looking in black? Frightening?" the French boy offered.

Before a reply could be uttered, Kenny's blonde head poked out of the doorway, looking slightly surprised to find them so easily.

"Class is ending, dudes."

Christophe pushed off the wall to stand, taking Kyle's offered hand. Kenny turned away from them, a smile breaking out across his face at the simple act. They walked back inside, immediately being assaulted.

"So, were they making out all faerie-like, Kenny?"

Kyle sighed deeply, grabbing his bag. Lunch was going to be awful.

---

And it was. Cartman happily ragged on him for having a boyfriend, in which Kyle had responded confusedly, "I do not, Fatboy!" After punching Eric, Kenny had explained Christophe's classroom confession, which had gotten Stan riled up. When the ladder figured out who Christophe was, he just stared, shocked at his lunch before giggling constantly. It was when they went to the bathroom to wash their hands Stan had finally stated "how appropriate Christophe was a match". Disgruntled Kyle had tried to hunt out his newfound 'boyfriend', but it seemed he had disappeared off the face of Colorado.

Fifth period, AP biology, Christophe was there, much to Kyle's embarrassment and anger. Every time he went to pass a note to the French boy, either Cartman or Mr. Brady would intercept. When Mr. B did, he would spout something along the lines of, "Kyle Broflovski! I know you have the best grades this class has ever seen, but must you interrupt another student's learning with your notes?" The forth time this happened, he sighed and read the note. "Christophe, I heard about what you said in English, was any of it true? I mean, I know Cartman is capable of pulling shit out of his ass, but Kenny wouldn't. Do you have a crush on me or something?" Mr. Brady had looked at the note and between the two students, Kyle scarlet, Christophe slightly pink but managing to look unconcerned. He then folded it back up and slipped it into his rainbow apron, and went on about class. The notes had stopped.

Sixth was AP art portfolio, in which Christophe was there as well. Usually Ms. Fulton let the students run wild, not caring if you did art or not, as long as the assignment was done by the time grades were due. Today however, like Ms. Arzillo, she assaulted the Mole with questions of France, what he liked about art, what particular style, etc etc. It was only until the afternoon, Kyle got his chance to question Christophe.

---

The kids that rode the bus let out a collective groan, finding it missing from its usual place. Locked out of the school they all gathered on the front steps of the school, huddling in small groups to conserve warmth. Kyle felt an arm around his shoulders, a hot breath of chocolate-mint and underside of tobacco on his neck and cheek, another arm encircling to clasp brown-gloved hands. He reached a hand up to ruffle Kenny's blonde hair instinctually.

"Heya, dude."

Kenny sat behind him, legs encircling him as well. A slight tremor went through the blonde boy's body, alerting Kyle that something wasn't quite right with his friend. Before he could ask, Stan plopped down on the cold stairs with Wendy.

"Hey Kyle, heard you got into some trouble in Gay B's class, what for?" Stan asked, putting an arm around Wendy and pulling her closer. Gay B was what everyone from Mr. Garrison's old forth grade class called Mr. Brady, for a number of reasons. He was a Speed-o model in his younger years, wore a rainbow apron, and was overall very homosexual.

"Passing notes, my fine friends!" Cartman sung from behind them all, sitting down on the opposite side of Kyle from Stan. "So, Jew-boy, what's it like being gay? I'm very curious."

"Eric, that's not nice!" Wendy hissed.

"Yeah, shut up, dude," Stan muttered.

"No, no, no! Why don't you guys let him answer for once? I mean, goddamn, he's got a mouth, he can speak."

Kyle's mouth opened to answer, but closed as Kenny's voice interrupted, unnaturally harsh for the calm-and-collected boy.

"Will you all, please, stop! You argue about this every time you meet, it's rather dull, and to be frank, annoying. Kyle had a crush on Stan, so what? He had one of that Rebecca Cotswold too, right? So, he might be interested in guys, but it doesn't matter, okay?"

They all gaped, but the arguing stopped immediately. Kenny wasn't in the least frightening, but when he did become angry you know something bad could happen. He did know Satan, and the archangels personally after all.

"Kenny, what's wrong?" Kyle finally asked. Extra warmth—a sigh.

"I think I'm coming down with a cold or something, it's really freaking, well, cold."

"Ah, dude, and you're laying all over me," Kyle said lightly, placing his hands over Kenny's to make sure the blonde knew it was a joke. In forth grade he had been dying of kidney disease, and Stan had been especially emotional over it, making Kenny angry that they cared about Kyle's death but not his. Since then the Jewish boy had become sympathetic toward Kenny, and much friendlier.

"Well, now I won't be the only one feeling pretty crappy," Kenny muttered, burying his face into Kyle's coat.

"Isn't that Christophe?" Craig asked to one in particular, more to get the attention of Kyle than anything. It worked wonders. Kyle's eyes snapped up, following the deep blue finger to where it was pointed. And there, walking in the student parking lot was the French-in-question.

Feeling Kyle tense, Kenny retracted away and nudged his friend. "Go on, you've been looking for him all day."

Kyle stood, grabbed his bag and looked down at the blonde. He was looking a bit more pale than usual, the bright sparkle from his eyes gone. His dilemma was make sure Kenny got home alright, or go talk to Christophe.

Seeing his frustration, Kenny snorted and grinned. "I said go on, Broflovski, or I'll go over there and drag the Frenchy by his hair over here to talk to you."

Kyle smiled as well at the wink he was given. "Thanks Kenny, later guys." Pretending to drop one of the notes he had written, he leaned to pick it up, whispering, "Make sure he gets home," to Stan, gave him a serious look, and trotted off.

Cartman placed a large hand on Kenny's shoulder, to receive a look. "You're totally in love with Jew-boy."

Kenny laughed, leaning against the bigger boy. "No, but I am in love with his coat; damn, it's so warm, and I'm not." In an attempt to make Kenny happy, yet remain his bastard-self, Eric yanked Kenny's hood up and over his face, placing a pudgy arm across him. They all seemed mildly surprised, but didn't question it; Kenny seemed more content, and they weren't going to risk his anger.

Kyle didn't notice any of it, though, he had his attention on one person. "Christophe!" he yelled at the boy getting into a '74 duo-toned Impala. He didn't seem to hear. "Christophe, damnit, Christophe!" Again, no response, except the Mole slamming the driver's side door closed and starting the ignition. Bravely Kyle stood in the way of the parking lot's only exit, hands on his hips. The Impala pulled two car lengths to him and stopped.

"Get out of ze way, Broflovski, if you don't I'll just 'ave to 'it you, and you really don't look like ze suicidal type," Christophe said, poking his head out of the window.

"I'm not moving until we talk."

A shrug and, "Suit yourself," was the only reply before the car started at him. Kyle shut his eyes tightly, knowing that Christophe wasn't joking, but he couldn't go back on his word. He felt the bumper gently hit his calves, but no bone-smashing, no being flung across the hood of a car. He opened his eyes to see the passenger side door open, and a smug Mole watching him with a cigarette between his lips.

"Get in."

Kyle slowly walked to the open door, glaring, threw his bag in the backseat and climbed in, buckling his seatbelt tight. He felt his face burn with embarrassment of knowing the other kids had seen the show. Christophe shifted back into drive-1 and pulled onto the main street, accepting silence.

Finally Kyle spoke, anger laced in his words. "You said you were going to hit me."

"And I did, silly, just not enough to 'urt, unless ego counts."

"You bastard…"

"Well yes, my muzza often calls me that as well when she's drunk." He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling away from Kyle. "Where do you live?"

"Excuse me?"

Christophe turned to look at him queerly, and Kyle felt his heart leap to his throat. The driver wasn't watching the road, and was all for acceleration. "Where do you live, Broflovski? I'm taking you 'ome."

"Watch the road and I'll give you directions," Kyle said, feeling slightly relieved as Christophe's eyes went back to watching what he was doing.

It didn't take long to arrive at the two-story grey-green house that looked like almost every other house in South Park in design, with exception to Token's and Kenny's. Christophe pulled into the driveway, shifting to park but leaving the ignition on. Kyle unbuckled his seatbelt, fished in the back for his bag and smiled at Christophe.

"Thanks for the ride, it was a lot better than the bus."

Christophe nodded once, tossing his cigarette out of the window. "Now, why is et you don't drive?"

"After Stan totaled his car by sliding on the icy roads into another car—of course he was going fifteen above the speed limit—Mom decided it best if I didn't have a car. But she promised before I go to college to get one for me," he said getting out.

A smug smile. "Well, go make sure you can get inside." Kyle shut the door, barely making out the "muzza's boy" on the end of the sentence. Growling he discreetly gave the brunette the finger as he went to the door, and fished for his keys in his pants pocket. He found nothing but the notes, wallet, and cell phone, making Kyle groan.

"Aw, shit."

He slumped back to Christophe's car, leaning against the hood near the window. The French boy cocked an eyebrow, leaning on his arm out the window. "What's up?"

"Left my keys inside."

"Oooh, you are quite brilliant, Broflovski. 'ow do you expect to get inside?"

"Well, I'd say through my bedroom window but Mom probably locked it after I left," he said with a heavy sigh and began ticking off unavailable resources on his fingers. "Ike is at a friends house, my parents won't get home until late, and the only other person with a key is Stan but I doubt he'll be home anytime soon. So I guess I'm stuck out in the snow."

"I can break in for you, I am ze Mole after all." Kyle stared disapprovingly.

"I don't need a hole in my floor, thanks."

Christophe snorted. "I can do more zan just tunnels, mon cher, breaking locks is not zat 'ard."

"I think I'd rather freeze."

"Stop being stubborn. Eizer I break into your 'ouse, or you shall come 'ome with me."

"My Mom wouldn't—"

"Muzza's boy!"

Kyle huffed, springing to his feet and glaring daggers. "I am not!"

"Are too, Broflovski. Remember ze war? You were too afraid of your muzza to stand up to her. Remember? 'No Mole, 'ang on, we'll get you 'ome. I can't face my muzza, not alone'? And now you let your muzza push you around. You're seventeen, no? I zink you can make a decision for yourself for once."

"That doesn't make me a mother's boy…"

"Yes, yes it does. Now if you don't write a note and leave et for 'er and come with me, you are a muzza's boy forever."

"Stop calling me a mother's boy!"

"Muzza's boy, muzza's boy," he nagged with a coy smile.

Kyle crossed his arms, but smiled as well, leaving Christophe's grin to falter. "Since you can't say it right, I guess you're off the hook."

"You're making fun of my accent now? Well fuck you, you American pig."

"No thanks, not a kind prospect," he said, tossing his bag onto the hood and dragging out a piece of notebook paper and pen. He scrawled a note, trotted to his front door and jammed it between the crack before throwing his things into the backseat again and climbing in. "You win, Frenchy, let's go to your house."

"Okay, but I'm warning you, my room is quite a mess."

---

Instead of driving straight to his house, Christophe took them to Mel's Diner on the northern edge of town. Christophe promised Kyle that he wouldn't like his cooking; Kyle, too hungry to argue, had said nothing. Upon ordering a bacon cheeseburger, the Jewish boy was called, "a disgusting American shitwit." Seeing Christophe's Caesar salad he was surprised, but not enough to not call him, "a fucking French Vegan."

By the time they actually got to Christophe's, they sky had melted into purples and blues, stars scattered across the heavens. Kyle was taken through a tour of the house, minus Christophe's bedroom (save the best for later), and was pleasantly shocked to see a tabby cat sitting on the top of the stairs. When asked the brunette had shrugged stating, "I fucking hate guard dogs, but cats I simply adore."

As the cat (cleverly named Kit-chat-chat) rubbed against Kyle's leg, Christophe pointed to the spotless bathroom. "If you would like, you may shower, take a bath, whatever you Jewish people do."

He glanced into the violet painted bathroom, floor and shower walls tiled in white floral designs. "Uh, towels?"

Christophe reached down, picking up Kit-chat-chat in his arms, and pointed to the closet outside of the door. "Towels galore, use anyzing you want." He walked down the hall and holed up in his room, leaving Kyle standing.

Shrugging it off he grabbed a towel from the closet and went into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it out of habit. At home Ike would always interrupt his shower time if the door was left unlocked with stupid questions, comments, or practical jokes to make up for "kick the baby". He turned the dial of the water and undressed, hanging his coat on the doorknob, and folding everything else up neatly and laying it on the toilet seat. He tested the temperature of the water with his finger, flipped the showerhead switch and jumped in with a content sigh.

Why was he so happy being around Christophe? The French bastard had died in his arms, returned one day with insults out of his ass, confessed some sick sort of lust for him, and was now being considerate and nice. And yet Kyle couldn't help but smile knowingly and blush like a fool. He ran his hands through his sopping wet hair, now foaming and smelling of eucalyptus, as he pondered these distant feelings.

Was he in love with the Mole? No, he thought inwardly, shaking his head, curls flying. I am not in love with the Mole! Some emotional connection, sure, but everyone with a dying person in their arms has a connection to them, right? He washed the soap out and lathered his auburn ringlets with conditioner. What exactly were his feelings? He felt oddly safe with Christophe, giddy, and yet there was anger there as well that he couldn't place. He most certainly found himself more embarrassed and sheepish around Christophe, but what did that mean?

And what did he think of Christophe's confession? Some part of him was cheering "Score!" while another completely denied the accusations. But Kenny had been the one to say it, and Kenny wouldn't lie to Kyle. Plus the other kids in Ms. Arzillo's class had been talking about it as well, so it had to be true.

Washing out the conditioner he began washing himself, lost in thoughts of the boy two rooms down. Warmth and steam swirled around the bathroom, so when icy water hit Kyle he yelped, screaming, "Christophe! You whoring sonuvabitch, stop it!" Quickly he shut the water off, standing shivering as he heard the door open and a sickeningly sweet voice ask:

"What is et, mon cher? What 'ave I done?"

"You were playing with the taps!" Kyle yelled, a quaver in his voice from the cold.

"Well, yes, but you were taking too long," the accented voice scowled. "Like a girl does."

Angrily Kyle snatched the towel off of the rack and started drying himself, muttering obscenities. Glancing out from behind the shower curtain he glanced around, realizing one crucial factor. Now he was left begging to the 'enemy'.

"Christophe?"

"Hmm?"

"What am I going to wear?"

"Should have zought of zat before yelling," he heard the door close slowly and panicked.

"Christophe! Christophe, I'm sorry, really I am. Please don't be cruel and leave me here shivering in your shower without clothing, please?"

"Say, 'Sil vous plait? Je suis désolé, mon amour.'"

"Wha—?"

"Say et or you do not get to be dressed, which frankly, doesn't bother me but you might find et a bit uncomfortable."

Kyle tried his best to roll his tongue and cease breathing to achieve the nasal sound of a French accent, and failed miserable. "Sil vous plait? Je suis désolé, mon amour."

He heard the chuckle, purely amused by the attempt. "I'll be right back, cher."

He sighed, waiting impatiently, taking the time to ruffle his hair abusively with the towel to get the moisture out. He heard swift, shuffling footsteps on the tile, and clothing being dropped, before the shuffling disappeared and the door closed. Peeking out from the curtain he found piled on his clothing lots of black. Stepping out of the shower he got dressed, looking at himself in the mirror. His hair was rather untidy, but running a hand through it would fix the problem easily. The black long-sleeved shirt he knew immediately was Christophe's by how large it was on him; it cut halfway down his thighs and the sleeves covered his hands completely. The pants were black as well, silk, but had roses on them, and actually fit in the waist unlike all of his other pants. He knew those weren't Christophe's, but imagining them to be made him laugh.

Gathering his things he opened the door, looking around and finding Christophe's open, welcoming almost. He walked to it slowly, as if some sort of trap had been set, but surprisingly found the French boy reclining on his bed of black sheets, coddling his cat. Kyle glanced around; a desk sat against one wall covered in papers and elaborate doodles, harbouring a computer and printer, the only window was covered in heavy drapes, one wall fashioned a poster of a hooded boy and large grey rabbit, the floor was relatively clean despite a few articles of clothing near the closet, some papers, a shovel, coils of rope, cigarette packs and lighters, and a pocket knife. There as absolutely no dust; how did Christophe find this messy?

Glancing up Christophe waved his hand around the room and said, "Put your stuff where ever you find room, can't make ze place any more messy."

He plopped his stuff next to the bed stand that sported the only light source in the room minus a few candles. Reaching up to put on his hat, his hands were slapped hard enough to sting, and Kyle was tsked.

"One rule, no wearing that offending zing in my 'ouse. You're 'air is much too pretty, and wet, to 'ave zat on."

Kyle's face turned an unhealthy shade of red as he tossed it in his pile of stuff and climbed onto Christophe's bed. He blinked, looking at his host's chest, noticing the rabbit on it in white saying "I can show you the way" matched the one from the poster.

"What's on your shirt and poster?" he asked, pointed slightly to him and backwards in the general direction of the poster.

"Et is for a worldly movie called Donnie Darko about time travel; quite an interesting see, not stupid at all, very breathtaking as et were. We can watch it if you'd like."

"After we talk."

Christophe smiled, knowing what was coming. He took a cigarette from the nightstand and lit it, nodding. "Alright, we will watch et after we talk, but I'm 'olding you to your word, cher."

Kyle glanced down as Kit-chat-chat crawled onto his lap, kneading and purring relentlessly. Looking back up he asked, "What does that mean? 'Mon cher'?"

Christophe leaned back against the headboard, watching as his cat lay contently with Kyle, and smiled around his cig. "Literally et means 'my expensive', but et's commonly used in a slang form, meaning 'my dear'."

"What did you make me say in the bathroom? It wasn't anything vulgar and disgusting was it?"

Christophe snorted smoke. "Of course not, silly, what I called our English teacher a number of times was vulgar and disgusting. But I am not telling, you can ask someone else or consult a dictionary." He closed his eyes, taking a drag from his cancer stick and exhaling.

"Second, do you have feelings for me?"

He shrugged, opening an eye. "Zat is what 'alf of the school is saying, yes? Zat usually does make et true." Of course it was true, not just the better of the choices. Those feelings-in-question weren't quite as strong as he had alluded, and most certainly not love, but they were some form of attraction.

"Not necessarily…"

Christophe sighed, aspirated as he squished the cigarette out in an ashtray. Free of it he threw his hands up in mock defeat. "What do you want me to do, get on my knees and propose? Do I love you? I seriously doubt et. Is zere something zere? Well, yes, I am attracted to you, for what reason I do not know. Physical appearance, well yes, you are a very pretty boy, but et's more zan zat. Are you 'appy now?"

Flushing the redhead stared down at the cat, making sure he hid his pink cheeks well. "Ecstatic."

"Now why are you blushing? Is zere something you should be telling me?"

Kyle took a breath and began, not stopping, "Wellsinceyoudiedinmyarmsthereissomething—"

"Whoa, whoa, breath Broflovski, space out your words, I can't understand you."

"That was the point," he said, exhaling heavily, a hand idly stroking the little black cat.

"So, basically ze feeling is mutual, yes?"

"Basically," he admitted, smiling.

"Anyzing else?"

Kyle rolled around in his thoughts for a plausible question to ask, and found one that had been nagging him. "How did you get into the bathroom? I locked the door."

Christophe looked at him dumbly. "Well besides et being my 'ouse, my locks, and me being, well, me? Ze lock is broken on zat door."

"Oh," he said sheepishly, feeling like a fool. "Before we go watch the movie, can you do something for me?"

"Anyzing."

"Get your cat off of me, I can't feel my legs."

---

Before Christophe popped in the movie, and the guest had gotten comfortable on his side of the "L" shaped sofa, a few things in the movie were pointed out for argument's sake. Kyle, however, had found something to argue about anyway.

"I don't want you ruining the movie for me!"

"You won't like et, because you won't understand it if I don't point a few zings out, Broflovski! Stop being difficult, and don't give me zat pouty look. I 'ave known you for a total of two days and can tell you are one that has to 'ave all the logical evidence or you do not believe. In a sense et's a materialistic way of zinking, good for debates, but it also ensures you'll 'ate zis movie."

Grudgingly Kyle shut his mouth, and sunk back into the pile of pillows that separated to the forks of the "L" shaped couch, and kept him one section from the French boy.

"Listen and you will hear one of ze guys in the beginning say 'ow on the airplane engine a number was disintegrated; ze number that Donnie writes on 'is arm is the airplane number. Pay close attention to the dates, what Frank says, just pay attention."

At the beginning of the movie, Kyle had just thought Christophe had bad taste in films. As the plot was unveiled and the time travel methods were looked into, the redhead became increasingly interested. He closed his eyes, still listening, as a feminine voice floated from the distant television.

"This famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all of history, that Cellar Door is the most beautiful. "

Kyle smiled, yawning, feeling sleep take hold. His eyelids felt to heavy to open, but that was alright, and he muttered, voice seeming far away, "It's beautiful."

"What is, mon cher?" Christophe asked kindly, looking over to Kyle, and not surprisingly finding him almost asleep.

"Cellar Door, the world in which a troubled young boy sees it, the ideals, the dedication…" the Jewish boy nestled into the pillows, rolling to face the back of the couch where he curled up. "…The love."

"He even sleeps like a girl," Christophe scowled, turning the volume of the movie down, but continued to watch it through till the end. Slipping the DVD back into the case he turned off the DVD player and TV, leaving a light dimmed near the stairs so Kyle wasn't left in complete darkness. Strolling into the kitchen Christophe hunted for proper snacks, moving mounds of tea boxes out of the way and grabbing a tin of Piroulines. Marching up to his room, light on his feet as to not awake his guest, he clicked the monitor of his computer on and plopped down into the rolly chair. Popping the cookie-covered chocolate stick into his mouth he clicked open his email, finding several porn advertisements.

It was an ongoing occurrence, the penis growth links, Viagra subscriptions, homosexual porn links, along with other X-rated things. One of his only friends and allies, Gregory, had started the war when Christophe first got his email account set up. Every one he marked for junk, three new ones would appear in its place, and after a while he had learned to let them come. Of course, he had gotten revenge after he learned coding inscriptions to viruses, and how to hack.

Groaning around the cookie stick, he clicked on an address in the masses of the junk mail and quickly read over Gregory's message. Christophe, I've heard you're back in South Park; how was Florida? Oh, no matter! I have a mission for you; come by October 19th and visit me, is that so much to ask? Reply asap, Gregory.

Christophe sat back, finishing his snack and moving onto another. After a mission they had been apart of in Florida, they had went out to celebrate with a drink showing just how lax the Sunshine state was with their law—as long as you had the money, it didn't matter what age you were. Gregory had become efficiently drunk after two screw drivers, and the normally prude British boy had made several passes at Christophe. Taking the boy back to the condo his mother had rented, he had cleaned Gregory up a bit, to be repaid by being shoved onto his bed, and finding Gregory's lips against his own. He had just been passive, letting the blonde kiss, stroke, caress, and nibble at him. It was just a product of the alcohol, nothing else, he remembered telling himself. Only until Gregory was kneeling over him, lips against his cheek did he notice the subtle change if the Brit; he wasn't acting out of lust or desire like when he had pinned Christophe to the bed, but rather affection and emotion. He'd pushed Gregory away then, gruffly saying, "You're drunk, sleep."

"I…I love you, Christophe."

"No, ze tingly feeling is from ze alcohol, along with ze lightheadedness."

Gregory had sat up with tears in his eyes. "Are you rejecting me? I love you, I have for a very long time, I only realized it after you're mother sent you away."

"I zink you need to sleep it off."

"My emotions? You want me to forget the love I've had for you for, God, six years now? I'm sorry, Christophe, I can't do that."

"Zan go to sleep so I can zink in peace without arguing with your intoxicated ass." Gregory had complied, thankfully. Christophe had made his way to the bathroom, and stayed there, sick for most of the night. The next morning Gregory had forgotten everything from the previous night, too hung over and achy to even worry why the French boy took great lengths to avoid him.

Christophe clicked the reply button, glancing briefly at the AOL instant messenger icon, another thing Gregory had set up for him. He typed a swift message—Maybe, we'll see.

He sat back, munching on another Pirouline stick, waiting. Gregory was on the computer at every waking hour, and it as only time before—You've Got Mail!

He opened it, smiling. Come online, Christophe, it'll be much easier.

He fingers flew over the keyboard. I have a guest, it would be rude to keep him…waiting. He clicked 'send', and within minutes he was answered.

You have a friend? Oh my God, when did this happen?…Wait a second, that wasn't a sexual reference, was it? Please say you haven't turned to the 'rainbow side' on us. You know, don't answer that, just think about my offer and…OoooOoooh, bad, dirty mental images. Well, don't keep him waiting on my behalf, go "do" you're things.

He typed one last thing, egging on the Brit's imagination. What makes you think we're not "doing" such things I sit here typing? We could be acting out Clinton's little scene from the Oval office. Clicking the 'send' button once more he shut the monitor off, climbed from the chair and stretched his hands over his head, shoulders cracking.

Walking out of his bedroom Christophe glanced briefly at the clock in the hall—ten thirty three. It was still too early or him to sleep, and usually he'd either be out on the town, or downstairs watching TV. If his mother was home, he'd be pretending to sleep, but actually surfing the net.

Sighing he trotted down stairs into the living room and over to Kyle. The redhead was curled up in a fetal position, arms tucked under his knees, hands covering his mouth, gnawing on the edge of Christophe's shirt. He looked cute, childish, lost in some fantasy world of flowers and unicorns. Christophe found himself smiling, and slightly guilty he'd have to wake up the boy.

"Kyle, wake up," he said softly. The reply he got was a groan, and more chewing on the shirt. Christophe placed a hand on the sleeping boy's shoulder, shaking gently. "Kyle."

"Yes I like cake," Kyle mumbled, "But I like pie more."

Christophe bit his cheek to keep from bursting into laughter, a smile curving his lips. What was Kyle dreaming about? Shaking him again Christophe said, "Come on, Kyle, wake up, I'm not letting you sleep out on my sofa."

Kyle rolled farther into the couch. "Yeah, I love cherry pie, but not…but not as much as you, Jay Gordon."

Christophe withdrew his hand, a brow quirked at the name. Jay Gordon, who was he? When he placed the name, he chuckled. Jay was the lead vocalist for a rock-electronica band called Orgy, with tempting and nearly seductive lyrics.

Leaning down, lips brushing Kyle's cheek he whispered, "Kyle, get up for me or I'm picking you up."

"You can't pick me up, 'tophe, we aren't in a bar," Kyle responded a bit more solidly, but not much.

Rolling his eyes Christophe got an arm around the smaller boy's shoulders and under his knees and lifted easily. Startled, Kyle squealed, eyes flying open and thrashed, knocking Christophe hard in the stomach. He grunted, flinching slightly but didn't let go as he walked to the stairs and carried Kyle securely up them.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asked with a hint of sleep traced in his voice. "I can walk."

"Yes, you might be physically capable of doing so but you currently aren't."

Christophe smiled as the redhead huffed angrily. He entered his bedroom, receiving another squeal as he dropped Kyle unceremoniously into the black sheets on his bed. He turned to leave, but found his right arm being held at the wrist behind him.

"And where do you think your going?"

"Dunno, to watch a movie, shower, sleep?"

"How are you going to sleep if I'm in your bed?"

"I will sleep on the sofa or in my muzza's bed, okay?"

"No! Not okay."

He turned to peer over his shoulder at the half-asleep, angry Jew. "What, do you want me to sleep with you?"

"No!"

Yanking his wrist away he pushed Kyle back into the mass of blackness, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He complied, too tired to struggle against Christophe's firm hold. "Zen sleep." Christophe leaned down, brushing crimson bangs away from Kyle's forehead as he kissed it, and walked from the room.

"Thank you, 'tophe," Kyle's sleep-filled voice muttered before the door was closed, brightening the other's life.

---

Kyle groaned as his mind sung the words to wordless music playing somewhere off to his right. 'Your hair it's everywhere, screaming infidelities, and taking its wear. Your hair it's everywhere—shut up, brain!' The music didn't stop, instead becoming a blaring annoyance. Shaking off the tangles of sleep Kyle realized just why "Screaming Infidelities" was playing and launched out of bed, digging in his pants from the pile on the floor for his cell phone. He knew his best friend, he'd let the phone ring exactly five times before hanging up, which was when the third line of the ringtone finished. Clicking the accept button he screamed, "Stan, Stan I'm here, don't hang up!"

Chuckling issued on the other end of the receiver. "'kay Kyle, I'm not hanging up."

He sighed in relief, resting his head back against the bed he had dived out of. "What's up?"

"Dude, where are you?" Concern, he heard concern, and a trace of anger.

He glanced around, trying to figure that out for himself. Then he remembered. "Christophe's."

Stan snorted, but he knew all worry was gone, for what reason he couldn't fathom. "Ah, so you are in love with De Lorne."

Kyle felt his face burn. "What? No! That's sick, you're sick!"

"You're blushing," Stan replied in a sing song croon.

"What! No, I'm not! No, wait, how'd you know?"

Another chuckle. "I'm your best friend, dude, I just know. Plus when you're about to deny something even remotely related to relationships you blush."

"Hmph."

"And you've got a thing for Frenchy."

"Do not!" Kyle shouted, pulling it away from his ear to glare at it menacingly.

"Dude, we all saw you yesterday, jumping out in front of his car and then blushing like a maniac while he stared you down. There was love there."

"Was not."

"If you don't believe me, wanna hear it from Kenny? You know he's got a sixth sense with these things."

"And how do you expect me to hear it from Kenny?" Kyle asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes though he knew Stan couldn't see it.

"He slept over so he could get some nice rest, Wendy didn't mind canceling our date. Speaking of sleeping over, you told your mom you were staying at my house."

Dread flowed through his veins, making Kyle shudder. "You didn't call her, did you?"

"Nah, I had Kenny do it. So why are you over at De Lorne's anyway?"

Kyle explained locking himself out of the house and being given no choice. Stan had just laughed, singing, "Lover boy, lover boy," in which Kenny even joined from the background. Kyle sighed angrily.

"I'm hanging up now."

"Lover—No, Kyle, don't get all huffy!"

"No, dude, I'm hungry and smell food."

"Oh, okay, have fun with Frenchy. Bye—wait, Kenny says 'don't deny it, Broflovski.'"

He hit end, throwing the phone back into his clothing with a muttered, "fuck you". Fluffing his hair he made his way to downstairs. Who did they think they were, calling his shots like that? Making him admit something as rich as his so-called love for Christophe? Wait, there wasn't anything to admit, right? Right.

His nose, and stomach, led Kyle into the kitchen were he stopped short. Christophe stood near the stove, changed into black jeans and a long sleeved turtleneck, hair moist and tousled messily. His breath hitched as Stan and Kenny's accusations hit him hard.

"So you cannot bozer to get up while I am tripping over sheet trying to get to my armoire, but for food you are very willing, yes?" Christophe asked, flipping whatever he was cooking.

Kyle took a seat at the table, laying down on it and yawned. "Actually Stan called and it woke me up, but the food does smell appetizing."

"Zank you, but I am not sure you will like ze French cuisine I'm going to offer you. If not, zere should be some cereal or somezing around here you will like." He shut the stove off, setting two plates on the table. Kyle looked at it, raising a brow; it contained thin pancake looking things and rather normal looking scrambled eggs.

"Doesn't look very 'French' to me," the redhead said uncertain as he poked the thin pancakes with his fork. Christophe laughed, handing him a glass of chocolate milk; no one could not love chocolate milk.

"They're crêpes, like your American pancakes but we usually don't make a habit of putting syrup on zem, zough I suppose you can put anyzing with zem and zey would still taste delicious."

"And what do you put on them so they don't look so bland?"

From behind his back Christophe produced strawberry preserves, chocolate, and powdered sugar. As he explained all of the uses of crêpes Kyle ate, not really paying attention, too interested in the scrumptious treat he'd been introduced with. Once his plate as clean of every spec of powered sugar, Kyle finally listened.

"Now, 'ow is it we are going to get you 'ome without your muzza knowing?"

And it was then he wished he hadn't.

---

The plan was relatively simple; Christophe would drop Kyle off a few houses down from his own in the direction of Stan's, and he'd walk home. Kyle would be picked up an hour or so later by the French boy and they'd have the whole day to themselves. And it seemed utterly flawless, but their as one thing they hadn't thought to add in; Ike.

Entering the house was easy, and he was greeted by the usual questions about how Stanley's was, which the usual answers were replied somberly. He said 'hello' to his father, and grudgingly brought up the issue at hand.

"Oh, Mom, I'm going out in about an hour with a friend."

Sheila turned from her breakfast making, hands on her hips, a spatula protruding from one. "But you just got home, Booby. And I thought you were going out with Stanley today?"

Kyle blinked, remembering the plans his best friend had set with Kenny, Eric, and Wendy. He'd have to call Stan back about that. "I was, but I had to make some unexpected changes."

"Well what friend?"

"He's knew, name is Christophe."

Sheila eyed him as if hunting for the lie, but just turned back to the stove. "Alright Booby, but go get cleaned up. And wake your brother, please."

Kyle took his leave, running upstairs and poking his head into his brother's untamed room. Not finding him within the deep blue blankets the redhead shrugged, strolling into his own room and plopping his backpack down before going to the dresser to grab a change of clothes to shower. He heard his door close and jumped, turning and seeing Ike standing in his pajamas, hair ruffled from sleep, smug.

"You weren't at Stan's house."

"What are you talking about, of course I was," Kyle replied nervously, giving his brother a fake smile. 'Oh, God, he knows. I don't know how but he knows.'

"No, you weren't. I answered the phone when Kenny called, and Stan could be heard quite clearly in the background. So where exactly were you?"

Cursing Stan mentally he shrugged. "I was at a new kid's place."

"I'm telling Mom, and since your friend will be coming over, it'd be wise to kiss my ass right now."

Kyle gaped at the Canadian. "You're blackmailing me?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what do you want? Even if I'm not fond of Christophe, I don't want Mom to go off on him," he said with uncertainty. Last time she had, the French boy had died, which had got him into this mess anyway.

Ike thought, fluffing his hair out of habit. A wicked smile bloomed across his face as he stared at his brother with cold mahogany eyes. "I want you to take your friend to the homecoming dance."

Kyle stared before he realized what exactly Ike was asking. "What? No way, he's a dude!"

Shrugging Ike turned to the doorway. "Fine, I'm telling Mom."

"Ike, no! How long do I have?"

"Until Stan's birthday."

Kyle growled, that gave him a week. "Fine, now get out, I still have to get ready before he gets here." Brushing passed Ike he whacked him, hard, over the head. "Mom made breakfast, go eat you heathen."

Ike shoved Kyle, hardly moving the seventeen year old. Eyes narrowing he kicked Kyle it he back of the knee, receiving a howl of pain that warned him he'd better get downstairs fast. Laughing in glee he ran down the stairs, vaulting off of the banister three-fourths down. Gerald, hearing the thunk of Ike's landing looked up from his paper.

"Morning Ike. Your Mom made breakfast already."

Ike smiled. "Yeah I know, Kiley told me." Walking passed the door it erupted in knocking, startling the nine year old. He eyed at suspiciously.

"Ike, can you get the door? It's probably Kile's friend," Sheila yelled from the kitchen. Mumbling something obscene under his breath the boy opened the door to be met with the sight of Christophe, hands behind his back as if concealing something. Ike just stared up at him without intention of moving or offering any words.

"Zis is ze Broflovski residence, yes?" the distinctive accent asked. Still Ike didn't say a thing.

"Ike, don't be rude, let the boy in!" Sheila scowled, pulling her youngest son from the doorway and offering Christophe a smile. "You must be Christophe, it's a pleasure to meet you. Come in, come in!"

He slipped in passed the brooding, raven-haired child, and the large Broflovski woman. She looked like she had those many years ago, except instead of calling guard dogs to attack, she was smiling and welcoming him in.

"Would you like some breakfast while you wait for Kyle?" she asked, without an answer ushering him into the kitchen and forcing him down into a chair. "Boys these days, you never eat enough, look how skinny you are!"

Christophe hid his grin, looking down at himself. He might be skinny, but he was toned from the work he had to do, but not nearly as small as her sons. "Zank you Ms. Broflovski, zat would be wonderful."

She smiled, crossing her arms with a small nod of acknowledgement. Then something flashed across her mind, the image of a small French boy at the USO show nearly ten years ago. "Hun, you seem familiar, do I know you?"

Christophe glanced up, fork sticking out of his mouth. 'Sheet, she remembers.'

"I was ze one zat tried to rescue Terrence and Phillip from execution during ze war. Ze one zat got attacked by guard dogs."

Sheila's eyes widened; she had been the one to make the dogs attack the boy. "Oh, hun, you weren't hurt were you? I mean, I didn't want—it took almost ending the world to understand what I did was wrong. You're alright now, though?" Christophe opened his mouth to answer but was hushed by Kyle's exhausted voice from the kitchen's entrance.

"Mom, it took me for you to end the war," the redhead said as he looked passed his mother. "Heya dude."

"Allo."

"Kyle, why don't you—" Sheila started but was interrupted by Kyle shaking his head vigorously.

"No thanks, Mom, I ate at…Stan's." Ike looked up at that, giving his brother a warning look before digging back into his food.

"Well isn't that nice," she said, eyeing his wet hair. "Go dry that before you go out, I don't want you getting sick."

Kyle sighed, slinking back upstairs to dry his hair. Christophe broke into a silly grin as he finished his second breakfast that morning, unsure what to do with the dirty plate. Seeing his concern Sheila took it from him without question or argument.

"Why don't you go up and get Kyle? It shouldn't take him nearly seven minutes to dry his hair."

With a nod the French boy climbed up the stairs, greeting Gerald on his way, and leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom. Kyle was picking his hair delicately to keep it from frizzing, and seeing Christophe watching made his face flame a bright red. He tousled Kyle's hair, hand being bat away as the vile green ski cap was applied. Kyle shoved him out of the way, thinking it over and grabbed his wrist, leading him back downstairs.

"Bye, Mom!"

"Be back before dinner, hun."

Without even arguing he shut the door, going out to Christophe's car. Before he knew it, he was in the passenger's seat, driving away from his house in comfortable silence.

"Your bruzza is Canadian. Wasn't you muzza the one that created the club MAC?"

"Yeah, rather ironic isn't it? She forgot about her own adopted son being Canadian while fighting against his people."

"Your family is weird," he replied idly, receiving a glare from Kyle.

"Tell me how so!"

"Well besides your muzza, your bruzza kept giving me dirty looks, and your fazza was happily unaware of anyzing going on."

"Ike knows I as at your house last night, and Dad is always like that," he said leaning against the window. "So where are we going anyway?"

"Zat, mon cher, I do not know. Do you 'ave any place in mind?" Christophe asked, driving with one hand as he pulled a cigarette from a box, and lit it up at a red light, taking a deep drag form it.

"Well my friends are at the arcade—oh, shit, I need to call Stan about that." Quickly dialing up his friend he was answered on the second ring. He explained the situation, in which Stan had happily said he understood and hung up. "Okay, so the mall is out of the question unless you want to be hassled by Cartman. That leaves us with the movies, but nothing good is playing at the moment, and hiking out in the middle of no where."

"How about Zis?" Christophe asked, and Kyle saw himself looking out onto a slushy Stark Pond. It wasn't cold enough to freeze it over in thick ice, but chilly enough to leave a very thin layer of slush. Getting out into the cold he gave a slight nod.

"What do you have planned, 'tophe?"

Throwing his cigarette to the ground he quirked a brow. "'tophe?"

"Yeah, if you get to call me 'mon cher' I get to call you 'tophe."

"I guess zat is fair," he replied, walking around the pond and off toward the edge of a tree patch. Kyle quickened his pace to keep up. "You know, you talk in your sleep."

"What?"

Christophe smiled, slowing down so the boy could keep up. "You talk in your sleep. Last night, somezing about pie and Jay Gordon." Kyle's face immediately turned bright red, and he looked down at the ground. Draping an arm across his shoulders Christophe chuckled. "It is nothing to be ashamed by, Borflovski, everyone has zeir own quirky little 'abits."

"Including you," Kyle said, looking up a Christophe.

"I suppose so."

They walked like that, bodies touching through the trees, silence keeping them secure. Occasionally one or the other would shiver, and they'd end up closer, drawing warmth from each other. If one sneezed, the other would shove the sniffling boy away and run off laughing, being chased and usually tackled. When this did occur they would roll around and tussle on the frozen ground, each trying to be the one pinning the other down, in which Christophe was the winner in every match.

During their walk to where ever Christophe was leading, they came across quite a few creatures; a doe and its child, a cougar, plenty of songbirds, a fox and its kits, and a number of little snow hares. At one point Kyle had stopped dead, pulling the French boy to a halt as a rabbit crossed their path. At first Christophe had thought that perhaps the redhead was afraid of rabbits, until he saw the sparkling green eyes in pure joy and amazement. He'd felt Kyle's fingers curl around his own as the rabbit had sniffed the air and hopped about, a little bit closer. Kyle had gone to point, and finding their fingers laced looked at him queerly before laughing and skipping off.

But Kyle hadn't complained about any part of their hike. He seemed too enraptured by the actual beauty South Park could offer to even dare protest. And when they reached their destination, his excitement grew tenfold.

They stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the small mountain town, glass windows glistening in the thin air like glitter. The treetops, coated in a layer of snow seemed pristine, even the murky Stark Pond sparkled in the afternoon sun. The mountains surrounding the town seemed somehow larger viewed from a high elevation, and looked painted in the crystal blue sky.

Kyle's eyes widened as he stepped to the edge of the cliff, facial expression turning to one of sheer wonder. "Oh, wow! It's gorgeous, I never knew South Park could be so astonishing."

Christophe smiled at the reaction before sitting on the edge, feet dangling. "Yes, I never knew it eizer until I came 'ere."

"How did you ever find this place?"

"I explore a lot to get away from my muzza, and just climbed until I got 'ere. Et's relaxing, in a weird sense."

Kyle snorted, sitting beside his newfound friend, leaning back on his palms. "I always pictured you more in a condo with high powered guns around you, not hiking to a cliff."

"I am ze Mole, I am comfortable within ze earth, why would I not be in nature?"

"Guess you have a point." He glanced at Christophe, mouth agape at seeing him with a cigarette between his lips. "How can you even think about defiling such a place with your smoking?"

"Oh, et really isn't zat 'ard, I just zink about 'ow long et 'as been since we were down zere," he says, pointing to Stark Pond where his car sits parked next to the sign.

"How nasty," Kyle replied, scooting a few inches away from Christophe.

"Don't knock et until you try et," he replied coolly, and upon noticing the redhead adds, "Gregory at least tried it before deeming et disgusting."

"Well I'm not Gregory!" Kyle hissed.

"Yes, I did 'appen to detect zat when I saw your auburn curls, and 'eard you speak. Plus, you follow ze rules without even zinking about stepping off of the line."

"Nuh uh!"

"Yes huh, but do not take offense, it is just another quirk of yours zat makes you cute."

Scowling Kyle snatched the cigarette from Christophe. "If I end up dying, you'd better not leave my body for the birds."

"You will not die with one drag, I promise you zat."

He put the blunt to his lips nervously and inhaled. As soon as the smoke touched his throat Kyle started to choke, coughing. Christophe grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, lips meeting his own. Kyle was too surprised to understand what was going on until the French boy pulled away, exhaling smoke toward the town. He felt his face flush dangerously as he swallowed hard, finding himself free from the coughing fit.

"You—you kissed me!"

"I most certainly did not, I zink I just saved you from hacking all over ze place."

"No, no, no! Your lips met mine, that is a kiss."

Christophe scowled. "If zat was a kiss, et was not pleasant in ze least, because you were coughing into my mouth ze whole time. Et wasn't even a pleasurable shotgun experience."

Kyle had heard of shotgunning, but didn't know of anyone that actually had done it before with exception to Kenny, but most things of the sort were with exception to Kenny.

"It was still a kiss!"

"Don't get 'ormonal on me, Broflovski, if I 'ad known you would I wouldn't 'ave done et," Christophe said with a sigh, glancing at him from under chocolate bangs.

"I'm not hormonal, I guess I'm just confused," Kyle admitted, looking back to the glittering town.

"About what?"

"Everything. You just appear one day and I go through more mood swings than a PMSing chick. First utter shock and embarrassment, then irritation and frustration, moving onto anger and hate, switching over to denial and a pinch of being frightened, then I'm content and happy, then overjoyed and astonished, and now reeling in it all. Of course you can't forget all of the questions my mind is bombarding me with like 'why do I feel this way', 'why am I letting it get to me', 'why am I attracted to you', 'why am I admitting all of this', and 'why do I feel like such a giant pussy right now'. And that kiss—yes it was a kiss—didn't help matters."

Christophe rolled his eyes, hand going to Kyle cheek as their lips met once more, cutting the redhead off from speaking. This time, the only thing Kyle was being saved from was his definition of a kiss. It was chaste, a brush of lips and nothing more. As Christophe pulled away he noted the other had ceased breathing all together, making him smile. Standing he offered a hand to his blushing companion.

"Zink on zat as we go back."

"Will it take as long going down as it did coming up?"

"Only if you want."

"Yeah, I want to take the long way around."

The way down was much like the way up. They continued their game of tackle-tag, except Christophe made this round as uncomfortable for both parties as possible. Tired of Christophe's carefulness Kyle got the upper hand and pinned the other boy in a rather risqué position, receiving a daring look and a laugh. From then on the game turned into all out fun and roughhousing, both sustaining rather minor injuries such as bruises and cuts. The only "serious" one issued was Christophe being elbowed in the eye by mistake as Kyle struggled to stand. Within a few minutes the chocolate eye was surrounded in a mass of purple and blue tinged with the reds of a surfacing bruise.

By the time they had reached the car it was already five, giving the French boy an hour to get Kyle home. The ladder settled into the passenger seat, head resting against the window as he contemplated Christophe's kiss. What did it mean? Was it one of those 'shut the fuck up' kisses he had been exposed to in girly teenage romance movies with Wendy and Stan? Or was there an underlying explanation? Christophe had already plainly said he didn't love him, but he'd never said he wasn't emotionally attracted, right? He'd admitted physical attraction, but not emotional. And what was it that as in the kiss? Smoke, weariness, maybe even a hint of happiness.

'Why am I so hooked on it? He said not to be hormonal.'

'He also told you to think on it,' his mind argued.

'Only because I wouldn't shut up about my problems.'

'No, he wanted you to think about something other than your problems.'

'It just added to them!'

'Perhaps, but you aren't thinking about them directly, you're too worried about this other thing.'

The car pulled into his drive before he knew it, and Kyle felt a tinge of sadness. He turned to look at Christophe, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched the other boy.

"Thanks for taking me out."

"Et was not a problem," Christophe replied casually, but he could tell the tension was there.

"I thought on, you know, the kiss," Kyle muttered, receiving a look. "And I've decided something."

"What is zat, hm?"

"I have no fucking clue what you meant by it, and I don't want to tip-toe around the subject because knowing the people at school, they'll know something is up if there's tension, so I'm just going to accept it as it is."

Christophe chuckled, sighing, cocking his head to the side. "Well, zat is good I suppose."

"But I've also decided something more about myself than you."

"And zat is?"

Kyle leaned forward, imitating the kiss he had received from Christophe, the barest hint of lips brushing.

From his room Ike watched his brother kiss the French boy, and smiled to himself, knowing that his setup was working.

And this was only the beginning.

---

Glossary

Oui madame, je suis parle français. As-tu perdu l'esprit? J'ai habit en France, porqoui je ne parle pas français? Pétasse… - Yes m'am, I speak French. Have you lost your mind? I lived in France, why wouldn't I speak French? Bitch.

Mon cher – As Christophe explained, it literally translates to "my expensive" but is used in a slang form of "my dear"

Sil vous plait? Je suis désolé, mon amour - Please? I'm sorry, my love