I reformatted this chapter and submitted an (unfinished) chapter two.
It will be Gregory/Mole, warning to Kyle/Christophe shippers. I have a plot planned out, I swear...
Hope you like it :)

Fierté Dedans

It was lunch period, and the Mole was outside the school building smoking a cigarette. His murky dark green eyes took in the scene with distasteful misery. The sky was icy turquoise and the sun was shining off the dazzling white mountain peaks, but the Mole hated it all. Was he the only one who saw through the illusion? His bushy brown eyebrows contracted in fierce contemplation as he took a pensive drag on the cigarette, exhaled, and then watched the smoke dissipate into nothingness, just as he knew he would someday. Become one with everything. He hated that happy-go-lucky zen shit, but part of him thought it sounded nice.

He glanced around the brick façade of South Park High, glad that today he was alone. Gladness, for the Mole, meant an absence of searing choler. He hated social smoking with a vengeance.

Suddenly the bell rang, and he sighed bitterly, tossing the smoke onto the ground and grinding it out with his shoe. "Sheeet!" he muttered angrily. He grabbed a fistful of blackish-green shirt and sniffed; it was smoke-infused. He smiled. Smelling like smoke was usually a guarantee that people wouldn't get too close. He quickly hoisted higher on his left shoulder the leather baldric, which had been slipping. The comforting weight of the smallish shovel the baldric held in place would always continue to be there, so the Mole thought. Resignedly, he entered the school and started towards his locker.

"Hey, Frenchie boy, why do you carry that shovel around so much?" The boy's stupid singsong pierced obnoxiously through the Mole's temporary peace. Fool! thought the Mole. One of the ones who has not yet learned that the best course is to respect me. He rather tersely flipped him off and continued on his way. He didn't look back, and found he didn't have to; he was not pursued. Stupid shits. God, I need a cigarette. Automatically, he reached into the depths of his pocket, where he knew they were waiting; he withdrew his hand again, realizing there was no point whatsoever. The end-of-passing bell rang at that moment, causing the Mole to curse. He didn't give a damn about school, really, but he hated being late. He didn't like the embarassment, the way you were treated like a delinquent on your arrival, but it was more than that–he imposed a lot of rigid standards on himself, and punctuality was one of them.

The halls were quiet and devoid of the students who gave the Mole hell (before their heads became intimately acquainted with dirt-encrusted steel); they had all scurried off to class. He ran down the hallway, the weight of his shovel occasionally causing him to overbalance and nearly fall. He arrived, panting, at his locker, and hastily did the combination. He dragged out his Biology books and slammed the locker shut, before spinning it to re-lock. He turned and ran all the way to class, his leather ankle boots echoing down the dark hallways suffused with dim fluorescence.

He opened the door quietly and stepped inside. Good. A sub. Perhaps he would not be marked late. He snuck past the desk and found an island seat surrounded by empty desks. Sighing, he folded himself into it and rested his arms on his textbook. He focused his eyes on his laced fingers, then peeled the black fingerless gloves off and on again. They were excellent for gripping a shovel; his dexterity was not compromised, and his palms were protected from blisters.

The substitute, panic showing itself in his young, inexperienced face, finally began taking attendance.

"Craig Adams?"

A black-haired boy leaning catlike in his chair, Craig raised his hand lazily.

"Kyle Brof-Broflovski?"

Not looking up from his book, Kyle wound tightly curled auburn around his fingers and answered absentmindedly. "Here..."

"Chr-Christophe Delorne?"

The Mole flicked his eyes upward. "Here."

I really, really need a cigarette.

Fucking chain-smoker! You weak bastard!

The internal verbal battering had begun.

I'm not weak, damn it! I'm strong!

Yeah, only when you've got your cigarettes on hand, right, Christophe?

I'm not Christophe! Shit! I'm the Mole! I hate that fucking religious name!

"Clyde Donovan?"

A pudgy brunette responded with an assertion that he was present.

Shit, how long's this gonna take?

He tugged impatiently on a piece of dark chestnut hair. It was messy and slightly spiky, gravity-defying almost, and the Mole regarded it less as a part of him and more as a stress ball to take his discomforts out on.

Just then the door clicked open and a willowy boy strode into the room with his books under his arm. He stopped short at the desk and announced, "Sorry. I was using the facilities; I'm not too late, am I?" The voice was full-bodied and theatrical, with a hint of a British accent.

"And you are?" asked the substitute, trembling a bit with the uncertainty of it all.

"Gregory," replied the boy, straightening his shoulders and sweeping his voluminous golden hair behind his ears. "Gregory Palton." He leaned forward intently and placed his fingers on the edge of the desk. The substitute looked up in trepidation into a pair of pale green eyes. The eyes blinked, and above them a pair of flaxen eyebrows raised slightly. Prodded into action, the substitute glanced quickly down at the attendance sheet. "No, you're good to go, we're still in the D's..."

"Splendid," said Gregory pompously, and found a seat directly next to the Mole. Unloading his books in an expert manner upon his desk, he gave the Mole a friendly look. "Hullo, Mole."

The Mole slowly moved his eyes onto Gregory's face. "Yeah, 'ello." He scowled and looked down at his gloved hands.

Gregory's eyebrows formed themselves into an attitude of displeasure. "You needn't keep up that world-weary demeanor with me; we've worked together, you know."

"Yes, yes." The Mole waved his hand angrily. "Eet is not you, eet is evairyzing else; I need to smoke vairy badly right now."

Gregory relaxed, then frowned again. "You know you oughtn't do that! The moment you stub it out, in goes another one! If it weren't for no-smoking rules in school..."

They kept their conversation to a low volume, just below the perception of the louder students, and the softer ones too; Kyle could hear everything. And he did, this time. He often eavesdropped on the Mole. He was fascinated by the young expert in covert operations, the French mercenary for hire who could do amazing things with a shovel. Kyle had grieved, perhaps more than the others, at the Mole's temporary death; he often felt strange when he thought about Christophe. He flushed and buried his freckled nose in his book.

Wendy Testaburger was last to be called. Stan, mercifully, was not in the class; that made one less occasion for mutual pining. There was no energy between Wendy and Gregory, save the occasional frigid chemical reaction between their glances. A remark like No dude, fuck Gregory! Fuck him right in the ear! was enough to cause a grudge that would last for years.

"All right, open up your books to page 267..." the substitute said.

The Mole watched, half-amused, as Gregory made it there in one page-thumbing; it was bookmarked. All of the chapter beginnings in Gregory's book were marked with little numbered paper flags. The Mole shook his head and leafed through his own book much less efficiently until he reached the page marked Asexual Reproduction in Plants. Glossy, full-color photographs of daisies greeted his eyes. Excessive cheerfulness, eye candy. He hated the textbook industry for doing this to him. He liked subterranean dirt at night. He liked hard work and justice. He hated this. He gritted his teeth and read along.

"Mole?"
It was Gregory.
The Mole made a questioning sound.
"Are you very busy?"
The Mole looked up. "No, not so vairy..."
"I think I have a mission for you."
"I'll do eet pro bono," said the Mole.

Kyle looked over, looked back at his book, and listened.

The Mole emerged from the tunnel and found himself in a small dirt-covered area behind the building. He was just about to begin a new one that would lead inside when he was blasted in the face with a flashlight beam. Startled, he cried out and the cigarette fell from his mouth. He let out a panicked "Sheet!" and dove back into his tunnel, grabbing up his shovel. But it was too late; three men seized him by the baldric and arms. He took a swing at them with his shovel, only to have it wrested from him. "My shovel! You bitches!" he yelled at them, before his conscious state abruptly came to a temporary end.

He woke to find himself in a spare, dimly lighted room with three concrete walls and one brick. His head hurt like hell, and his arms were tied with his own rope. "Oh, fuck..." He'd never been caught before. Well, yes, he'd been mauled to death by guard dogs in his own tunnel (only Kenny's wish had saved him), but never captured. Trapped. He possessed sharp wits, and so tried to convince himself that he'd be able to get out of this one if he used them. He was lying slumped against the brick wall, and thought it would probably be a good idea to get up before they came. The trouble with doing illegal work was that you were dealt with illegally. The Mole was moralistic, however--he couldn't be caught doing something truly wrong. He was a rescuer. He wasn't afraid of death, but he didn't want to die like this. A failed mission, just like before.

It was difficult, but he managed to get to his feet. He noticed that his shovel was propped against the wall. He was still wearing his baldric, too. If he could just get untied--if he could get free--he could dig through wooden floorboards, he'd be able to get away--

The thick wooden door clicked open, and the Mole jumped. It was a tall, wiry man who had a head of greasy blond hair and a sinister smile. He shut the door completely without bothering to lock it.

"Hello, young friend."

The Mole narrowed his eyes and said nothing.

"You'll see we kept your shovel for you. Not that you'll get to use it, of course."

The Mole stayed quiet.

"Oh, don't be like that. Cigarette?" He removed a pack of them from his jacket.

The Mole flicked his green eyes askance. "Sure." Shit, I could really use one.

"You can talk with a cig in your mouth, can't you? We'll need you to talk."

"Of course I can." The Mole scowled. That doesn't mean I will. He moved his wrists, which
were tied behind him, experimentally. The rest of the rope, which was wrapped around him and trapped his arms, was cutting off his circulation a bit. He wished he'd rolled down his sleeves. His wrists didn't hurt very much, thanks to his gloves. There was a little bit of give, but not much. That was to be expected, though. He liked to use strong rope for his missions. This is fucking ironic.

"Gooood," the man replied cheerfully, watching his movements. The Mole had tried to be subtle, but apparently he wasn't subtle enough because the man said, "Oh, don't bother trying to escape."

The Mole froze and glared at him, his thick eyebrows framing his eyes, angry and intense.

"Just answer my questions, and nobody gets hurt," the man continued.

"Ze fuck I won't get 'urt!" the Mole retorted hotly. Does he think I'm an idiot?

The man sneered and thrust one of the cigarettes toward him. The Mole recoiled, then stood still as the cigarette was stuck in his mouth and lit. He took a drag and felt calmer. Exhaling nasally, he realized that he might be able to escape using the cigarette. He could drop it, sit down, pick it up, and try to burn through the rope. But he couldn't do it with this guy around.

"Okeedokee," the man said. "Now, how many more of you are there?"

"Zere aren't any more. I am ze only one."

The man cocked an eyebrow. "Yesss...now, you'll have to open up a bit more with me, or else I won't be so nice."

The Mole glared angrily at him. "I'm telling you, eet's just me!"

"Wellll, then who sent you?"

I can't talk. I don't sell people out. "I sent myself."

"You're going to have to stop lying," the man said threateningly, taking a quick step towards the Mole, who edged back reflexively. "Who is there besides you?"

The Mole took a deep breath, calmed himself, and, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, said, "No one. I'm telling ze truth."

The man socked him in the face. The Mole cried out, then squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pain to recede, trying to be stoic, not wanting to give him the satisfaction...he felt his nose start to bleed, with nothing to stem the flow. He opened his eyes and a rosy flush rushed to two spots in his cheeks, and he gritted his teeth with rage. The man laughed as the Mole struggled furiously, wanting badly to hit him back.

As blood dripped onto the Mole's collar, the man said, "Let's try that again. Who's with you? I know there are others, you little French rat!"

"Fuck you!" the Mole yelled, and spat the cigarette at him.

The man's face contorted and he swung his fist back again-

All of a sudden the door burst open and someone rushed in, a blur of orange and green, and knocked the man to the floor. He fell hard with a surprised cry and before he could get up, the assailant straddled him and punched him in the face. It was Kyle.

"Kyle!" The Mole gasped, registering who it was and utterly shocked at what he was seeing. "How--what are you doing here?" Kyle didn't respond, probably because he was too busy trying to incapacitate the man, who was definitely much too strong for him.

"Ze shovel! Get ze shovel!" the Mole yelled, panicking at the thought of harm coming to Kyle for his sake. Kyle leapt up and got the shovel. He was grabbing it much too close to the blade, the Mole thought; he would have told him to hold it farther up for maximum leverage, but there was no time. He winced as the blade connected with the man's skull. The Mole hoped he wasn't too badly hurt; murder was bad. Still, he didn't have much sympathy for the man who now lay on the floor, out cold. Kyle brushed red hair out of his eyes, hat askew and clear brown eyes bright. He set the shovel down and ran to the Mole.

"You're...hurt!" Kyle panted, upset. "Who...did this...to you?" His eyes took in the blood on his face, his green shirt, his boots. "Oh my God!"

"God?" The Mole returned darkly. " 'e doesn't care about-"

"Here." Kyle tugged at the knots until the ropes loosened, and the Mole hurriedly pulled free of them. He rubbed his arms, which had deep red marks on them, before cleaning his face with his shirt. His nose was still bleeding, but there was nothing he could do about that.

"Thanks-"

"We have to get out of here!"

"Yes, I'm sure I didn't know zat!" said the Mole said drily.

"And we can't go out that door!" Kyle cried. "They'll know-"

The Mole tugged on Kyle's jacket. "Yes, yes! Follow me, quickly!" He replaced the still-burning cigarette in his mouth, then picked up his shovel and within seconds had tunneled several feet into the floor. Kyle followed him inside and soon they were underground.

"This is just like old times..." came Kyle's voice from behind. The Mole stopped digging for a moment and peered at him, then resumed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, between shovelfuls of dirt.

"The USO show...you know...tunnels...I...you wouldn't have known, but I cursed at your death...I won't forgive Cartman for that, ever..."

The Mole heard a sniffle. He looked over his shoulder at Kyle. Even in the less-than half-light he could see the shape of the boy, sad, wiping away tears. What a weird kid. The Mole felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah, I fucking hate guard dogs! That wasn't ze way I would 'ave chosen to die..." he laughed darkly, "but it wasn't your fault. Cartman was supposed to shut off ze alarm." I can't believe I'm having a conversation, he thought. We should be conserving oxygen, both of us. He heard another sniff and sighed as he dug his way forward. He was able to judge distance acutely, and when a short while later he stopped to surface and see where he was, he found he was directly outside-- not far from his first hole. "Come on," he said, clambering out and and entering his old tunnel. After reattaching his shovel to his baldric, he scrambled through, Kyle at his heels. When he and Kyle resurfaced, they were on the safe side of the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the premises. They paused to catch their breath.

"'ow did you know I was 'ere?" The Mole asked, and took a satisfied drag on his cigarette.

"Gregory," Kyle replied, without hesitation. "I...I overheard you guys--" he flinched-- "And then I got out of Gregory the exact location. I...I don't know why I came...I..." A flush appeared on his pale, high-cheekboned face. "When I got out of the tunnel, I saw footsteps leading away from it...in the snow...yours, and then other people's...and yours disappeared, and then seemed to be dragged...it was suspicious...I could tell they were yours because I recognized the treads..." he faltered again, blushing deeper. "So I found the entrance to the building, and then I heard your voice, and I, I just went in." His dark eyes rested on the Mole's bloodied face. He pulled off one of his lime-green gloves and handed it to the Mole. "Staunch the blood with this." His red eyebrows contracted angrily. "Who the fuck did that?" he said fiercely.

Nonplussed, the Mole took the glove and pinched his nose with it. "You knocked 'im out," he said, in a not un-congratulatory manner.

"Why? Why did he do that!" Kyle demanded.

The Mole smiled wanly at Kyle's indignation. "Interrogation," he replied, and took another drag on his cigarette.

"You mean torture!"

The Mole waved his free hand dismissively.

"Oh, don't be all tough and grandiose, like you've seen in it all before!" Kyle cried passionately. "They were going to kill you, weren't they! They would!"

"Ah, you don't even know who 'zey' are," the Mole said brusquely, and regretted it. "I'm sorry! Really! Thank you, I would 'ave been done for wizout you, I-" he stopped, alarmed at Kyle's expression. Kyle's red eyelashes blinked and tears trickled down his cheeks, large droplets clinging to his pale skin, luminous in the moonlight. Even in the dark the Mole was acutely observant of every detail, and he saw the tears, and how they magnified his freckles. He removed the glove from his nose, and discovered that the bleeding had stopped. He placed the green glove gently in his pocket, not caring if he bloodied his worn brown pants. Kyle continued to watch him silently, and the tears continued to fall.

The Mole placed his hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Don't cry, Kyle–why–"

Kyle roughly wiped his eyes with his hands, one green and one bare.

"I don't want you to die!" he said fervently, his voice shaking with glottal stops the way the human voice does during a bout of crying or laughter. "I love you."

The Mole opened his mouth, and the cigarette fell out. Not noticing, he closed it again. "So zat's why you came," was all he could think to say. For a moment he wondered what it was like to be in Kyle's embrace--was it warm? Passionate? And then he remembered that he had been in Kyle's arms before--when he had died. He had requested it.

He patted Kyle's shoulder, and Kyle flung his arms around him. The Mole stumbled in surprise and nearly fell, then stood petrified as Kyle's body heat melted into him and his curly hair grazed his cheek.

"I...didn't know you felt like zat," he said, and patted Kyle's back mechanically. His shoulder felt wet.

Kyle took an agonized deep breath and wept, "I do! I don't k-know how y-you f-feel, b-but I do, I love you!"

The Mole was not used to this, but he didn't feel the desire to push Kyle away. He didn't resent Kyle the way he did most of the others; he was so far past the wish for friendship that he had never even stopped to realize that Kyle had never given him reason for disenchantment.

I've never needed anybody. I don't need anybody. I never will...
But what if he needs you?

He continued to palm the spot between Kyle's shoulderblades. He could feel the warmth and solidity of his body right through the winter jacket so soft to the touch. Kyle's frame felt so tensed, to the Mole's hands. The spasms of sobbing that made Kyle's shoulders shake began to recede, and he slowly became placidly limp. Lifting his hands from their position crossed upon his arms, wrapped around the Mole's neck, Kyle took a breath and restored his waterlogged vision with the aid of his fingers.

"Oh God–I'm sorry–I have no idea what you must think of me–this right now." He drew back and gazed woefully into the Mole's face with dolor-rinsed eyes. "A boy going for you, you know. But it's so much better and more than that–I love Christophe, not just his body–although you're sublime..." He smiled tremulously. "I guess I've loved you for years now, I told myself it was just a crush, but it was tonight–realizing I could lose you again–I had to, I had to let you know, that you are so much more precious to me...than I...than I could ever find the words to express." A look of anguish crossed his fine-featured face. "And I know it may be impossible for you to love me." Cringing with sorrow, he turned away. The Mole saw his hands go up to his face and his shoulders begin to shake again.

Reaching forward quickly, he gently grasped the moon-paled hand, and Kyle opened his eyes to see his wrist clutched in strong black-clad fingers.

"You love...?" Kyle said breathlessly, hardly daring to infuse his words with hope.

The Mole squeezed the naked hand and brought up his other to cup it. "Eet...eet 'as been so long since I cared about...anyone...I don't zink I 'ave ever loved anyone before. Not even my muzzer; I am pretty sure zat she 'ates me, actually. Oh, she pretends in front of uzzer people, but...but I don't give a fuck, I don't care, I don't need 'er fucking love! I'm not liked zose other bitches, I don't care zat you are a boy...eet's just zat I've nevair liked anyone! I don't even know what I want!...sheet..." he degenerated into muttered French, something he seldom did.

"I know your life is miserable, Mole, I want to make it better," Kyle said ardently. He clasped one of the Mole's wrists in his free hand. Their eyes met, warm brown and cold green, with only chill darkness in between them.

"But 'ow can you do zat?" asked the Mole uncertainly.

"Because..." Kyle said, and rested his cheek on the Mole's shoulder.

The Mole felt shivers down his spine. Taking a deep breath, he leaned into Kyle and felt a happy sigh envelop the boy's thin frame.

I must smell terrible...this shirt has the scent of a thousand cigarettes...why doesn't he care?

"Will you give me a chance?" asked Kyle at last, lifting his head from the Mole's shoulder.

The Mole felt his face grow hot and he quickly stood up straight. He looked down at the ground, where the cigarette was burning itself into ash, and depressed it with the sole of his boot. Suddenly, he became acutely conscious of the death grip Kyle's fingers had on his wrist. Gently unfurling the clinging hand from around his chafed arm, he placed his hands stolidly, yet lightly, upon Kyle's shoulders.

Looking deeply into Kyle's face,
He's beautiful,
he saw, past the pallor, the freckles, the unruly auburn locks,
but
that the dark amber eyes contained pain in their pellucid depths,
can I love him? Do
and Kyle's heart was deeply troubled.
I even want to love him?
I'm not ready for this.
Maybe...
Maybe it could be like friendship, just deeper.
Do I even want to love him?
Yes.
Yes, I do.

"Very well."
The words sounded so cold and formal to the Mole's ears once he'd said them, but he found nothing but innocent jubilation in Kyle's face.
"I love you, Mole."

I can learn, Kyle.
I can learn.