Warnings: Course language, yadda yadda

Disclaimer: No, I still don't own anything.

A/N: I'm dedicating this chapter to my super best friend Rei, for not bitching that I made her read it. Was it who you guessed, creampuff? Oh, author note again found at the bottom, see ya there.

---

"So I go back to a pew, preacher, and a choir
Singin' bout God, brimstone, and fire
And the smell of Sunday chicken after church
And I go back to the loss of a real good friend
And the sixteen summers I shared with him
Now "Only The Good Die Young" stops me in my tracks
Everytime I hear that song,"

-"I Go Back" Kenny Chesney

Two days after the forth Kenny disappeared, no trace being found of the blonde in the whole tristate area. It was as if he'd vanished completely, walked off the face of the Earth. With no signs of struggle the murder investigation that had begun was closed within the first two weeks of his absence, and he was deemed a missing person and that was it. The two McComick parents didn't seem too upset; Kenny was a legal adult after all, he could pretty much do what he pleased, except buy alcoholic beverages. If anything they were distraught he'd drop his life without telling a soul, or leaving a note.

Pleading with Christophe, Kyle had him search for a possible identity change, the results showing Kenny hadn't started a new life under a different alias. The redhead had threatened if he didn't keep a steady eye on identities being created, Christophe would be out a boyfriend. On the third week Kyle had lost hope of ever seeing Kenny again, and held a private memorial service for the graduated class. Remarkably a day later he was cheerful again, all the sparkle that had been lost in his eyes returned.

However Butters didn't make the brilliant comeback Kyle had. He remained in an unshakable trance, dead to the world, once bright blue eyes grey and clouded. It wasn't surprising, the boy had always been close to Kenny, since they had met in preschool. Even when they (Cartman, Stan, Kyle, Kenny) had poked fun at the fidgety Leopold, the ladder would cast apologetic looks to him, and when the others weren't around act the true friend. It touched him that Kenny would go through the trouble, sometimes declining his other friends' company to hang out with him. Their friendship had become strong during junior high, and for Butters at least, had churned into something more. It had hurt to see the other blonde flounce with so many girls throughout the years, boast about some unforgiving act committed on another male.

So when the McCormick boy had been announced missing, he'd gone into shock, locking himself away in his room. No one had been able to breach the communication barrier for three days; not his parents, Kyle, Clyde, or even Christophe, whom he'd become increasingly captivated by. By the fifth day his parents had finally convinced him to go outside, but when spoken to answered in clipped comments, saying no more than needed. Many knew to avoid questions of Kenny, others just avoided speaking with Butters all together.

Kyle, though, felt it his duty to bring Butters around. In one such attempt the blonde lashed out, nailing the Jew in the eye, leaving a nice imprint of his class ring just below Kyle's brow. To keep him from kicking the fallen redhead Christophe restrained Butters, and called a fretting Dougie over to calm him. It had been a long twenty minutes of raised voices before the young teen had arrived, and the French boy was permitted to leave.

A week later it had calmed down indefinately, and Christophe lay on his bed, reading over papers he'd received from college preview. It'd been a long two days in the dorms and classrooms sorting schedules out so they weren't too bizarre and were manageable. Kyle double majored in English Literature and History: Liberal Arts, while Christophe majored in Sociology: Crime and Punishment with a minor in Psychology. Kyle found it amusing the mercenary would major in something about criminal punishment, until he realized then the French boy would know the backdoors of the legal system, and it became a scary thought.

"Don't tell me you're reading the apartment contract again, we already put down the down payment, it's useless to keep looking over that," came the annoyed voice of Kyle as he entered the room, carrying one of the kittens Christophe had kept, a solid grey girl named Lilityn for the lavender eyes she sported.

He grunted in response, eyes not wondering from the document. Who cared if he'd read the contract nearly seventy-eight times, looking for some hint that they'd sold their souls to the government? He certainly didn't.

With an irritable sigh the redhead snatched the papers away, whacking him over the head with it. He blinked, mind registering that he was looking at black sheets now before narrowing his eyes and glared up at the redhead. Where Butters had hit him he wore a bruise of red, tinged with green and yellow; luckily the swelling had gone down, but it was still remarkably noticeable.

"'ey, I was reading zat," he responded indignantly, sitting up, only to find a kitten dropped in his lap. Unconsciously he pet the cat, waiting.

"Yeah, I know, but it's time to accept the fake it's not a government conspiracy to lull you out of 'hiding'," Kyle said with a smirk. Laying down on the bed on his side, watching Christophe. "Anyway, the land lord seemed really nice, kind of old and fat, a bit skeptical, but nice."

"Yes, ze FBI always uses ze nice ones," Christophe muttered darkly. Of course he had never been caught by law enforcement before, but he'd heard rather gruesome tales of those that had, most from Vulpine that'd had several good people locked up for not covering their trails well enough.

"Stop being so paranoid, you're sounding like Tweek," Kyle said, reaching a hand over to pet Lilityn. She purred under his touch, sneaking out of Christophe's lap to rub against his face.

"I suppose I'm fidgety about ze job tomorrow," he said slowly, a lazy smile contradicting the words; though, who wouldn't find the redhead snuggled with the cat cute?

"Yeah, so am I." Christophe startled at that, why would Kyle be nervous about his job? "Do you have to do it?"

"Yes I'm sure, cher, ze ozer mercenaries would make fun of me if I didn't."

Kyle giggled at the joke as the kitten nestled in his curls and lay down to sleep on his hair. "But why?"

"Why do I 'ave to go?" he asked, prying his kitten from Kyle's hair. She mewed, reaching a tiny paw out to the redhead in an attempt to get away, but smiling, Christophe held her tight so Kyle could sit up and nod. "It is income, love, if you want to keep ze apartment zen I 'ave got to do zis."

"But it's so dangerous! Can' you just do a bunch of small jobs?"

"Non, small jobs don't pay well, and what money et does pay gets spent toward ozer small jobs, so zere isn't much of a profit."

"But you dig holes! This is out of league for you."

"Ze confidence, et's overwhelming!" Christophe said, mock swooning. Lilityn let out a squeal of surprise, before sinking sharp baby teeth into his thumb in annoyance. As he pried her mouth off of him he said, "I already told you, I can do more zen just dig 'oles."

"Gregory's just doing it to get back at you!" Kyle insisted. "You know, for shoving a gun in his face. It hurt his British ego."

He nodded. "While I do agree wiz everyzing you 'ave just said, et is also a trust zing. 'e does 'ave better qualified assistants, per say, but none of zem have nearly twelve years of experience." Dropping the cat into Kyle's hands he grinned smugly. "And I'll get to wave around a gun some more."

Kyle sighed in a defeated manner, eyes downcast. "I just have a really bad feeling something is going to happen tomorrow night, and I've learned to trust my instincts after the psychic experience."

The redhead was a psychic? That was news to him. "You're a psychic?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I forgot you weren't around then. To get back at Cartman for claiming he was one I jumped off of a roof, and it really did awaken a gift. It's not like 'Oooooo, I can see into the future, ooo' it's more like a gut wrenching feeling if something bad is gonna happen," he explained, watching Christophe all the while. "So I don't think I can permit you to leave."

Christophe considered. "You say somezing bad will 'appen, but you do not know who et shall 'appen to, yes?" A nod. "Zen I am saved."

"But you're the only one that'll be in danger!" the redhead persisted, starling the kitten. Having had enough, Lilityn hissed at them both and wandered away, shaking her tail at her exit. The boys didn't seem to notice this though.

"Danger is everywhere, cher."

Seeming little satisfied by this Kyle frowned. The brunette watched curiously as the Jew fell into some line of thought, hands fluffing his auburn curls before his eyes lit. Grinning smugly the redhead pulled off the ring Christophe had given him and forced it into his boyfriend's grudging hand.

"There, now you have to come back from the assignment so I can have that back."

At first he'd just stared at the glittering ring, thinking Kyle had finally gone wacky, before realizing the significance. "I promise to come back, cher."

Smirking Kyle leaned upward, kissing his cheek gingerly. "You'd better, I don't know what I'd do without you." Although it was meant as a reassurance—to what Christophe couldn't fathom—he saw the utmost worry etched in Kyle's face, the way he composed himself. His thoughts broke as the redhead's annoyed voice said, "That was your cue to say something along those lines, but cuter."

"I zought we already established zat you are my world?" he inquired quizzically, blinking. Kyle just heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.

"You don't say anything more than once, do you?"

In response he kissed the redhead fiercely, gaining a satisfying muffled moan. When he finally pulled away Kyle seemed disorganized, eyes unfocused before:

"Wo-ow."

"'Wow'? Zat is et? No 'Ohmigosh 'tophe you're such a sex-crazed maniac' or 'Christophe you're such a lovemuffin'?"

Giving the brunette a queer look he asked, "Did you just use the term 'lovemuffin'?"

"Yes, yes I did."

Shaking his head a slow smile swept across Kyle's lips before he licked them. "I'm such a bad influence on you."

Christophe climbed from the bed, extending one hand as he jacked his thumb toward the door. "Mm, yes you are. Now come, let's watch a movie and I'll whip up some Amaretto Stone Sweets, Christophe style.

Kyle let out a groan at the thought, taking the French boy's hand. Christophe's version of the drink included double the amount of Amaretto, a splash of rum, Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper instead of cherry syrup, a very small amount of orange juice, and Sprite. Overall it was a fantastic mix, but the amounts of liquor involved created disastrous (and amusing) results.

"You know I can't hold down my booze," Kyle whined as the brunette cheerfully drug him downstairs into the kitchen. Luckily Noémie had taken the habit of 'going out' when they were over, usually stopping by the Broflovski resistance to chatter about their son's relationship with Sheila.

"Quite aware," the accented voice replied before the owner busied himself with making the drinks. "But zat is ze point."

"I thought you didn't like me when I drink."

Christophe gave him an amused look. "I like you all ze time, I'm just not partial to emotional drunk you. But I've learned what to mention and what not to."

"It's so amoral getting me drunk for your purposes," Kyle said with a scowl, crossing his arms while he watched.

"'ey, I'm not forcing you to drink, you can decline ze beverage if you want."

The Jew didn't bother responding, knowing well he was outmatched with the temptation. Instead he asked, "What movie do you plan on torturing me with?"

"Ze Laybrinth."

"So you can oogle at David Bowie?" the redhead hooted, making catcalls much to the other's irritation.

"If you can oogle Jaw Gordon, I can oogle David Bowie."

Of course Kyle didn't hear this, as he was chanting, "Christophe and David sittin' in a tree, f-u-c-k-i-n-g. First came love, then came shaggin', then came Christophe in a fit—" Being smacked over the head his teasing came to a stop with a glare from the brunette.

"Aww, don't get your panties in a twist, everyone obsesses over someone," Kyle cooed, following Christophe into the living room.

"I 'ate you so much."

Three Amaretto Stone Sweets later each, that comment was found quite false, neither of them paying attention to the movie that quoted so precisely:

"How you turn my world, you precious little thing."

---

The next day Stan and Cartman gladly agreed to keep Kyle busy while Christophe got ready for his mission. He'd been reluctant to leave Christophe's side until he lost the pin to one of the brunette's prized guns. After apologizing several times he finally agreed to leave.

Now he'd forgotten all about the mission, intent on the screen, ignoring Eric's colourful cursing and defeated sighs from Stan. They'd played on the Marsh boy's old Okuma Gamesphere for several hours before officially deciding the graphics "sucked ass" and drug out Super Smash Brothers. Like he always did he played Pikachu, although the yellow furball continued to get it's tail beat like it had years before.

"Dudes, there has to be something better to do than play video games," Stan said, throwing down his orange controller.

"Yeah," Kyle said with a sigh, leaning his head back on Cartman's couch, setting the controller down much more gently.

Eric huffed indignantly. "Well fine! If you guys have a better idea, let's hear it."

"What if we invited Butters over? Then he could have some fun, too," Kyle suggested, glancing between them. Stan just gave him a look before the large one burst into tittering laughter.

"Ha! You really want to get sucker punched again?"

"Well no, but—"

"Dude, just drop it." He glanced at Stan, surprised. "If Butters doesn't want to get happy, don't force him to. It'll only make him more miserable, especially hanging with Kenny's best friends."

"I guess you're right," he said with a painstaking sigh. Giving a nod Stan grabbed him by the arm, pulling him off of the pink carpet.

"Come on, let's take a walk, maybe we can figure something out to do."

After many complaints by Eric they were trudging down the sidewalk to no where in particular, kids passing on skateboards or heard laughing in the distance. They fell into thoughts about their own childhood, running around playing absurd games and feeling the effects of puppy love.

"Damn, adulthood is depressing," the raven-haired boy said after a long stretch of silence.

"Yeah," Kyle agreed, stuffing hands into khaki pants.

"Well let's do something, jackasses," Eric commented with his usual eye-rolling. It was an action he'd picked up through the years, instead of waving his fist in defiance.

Stan considered, biting the end of his tongue and pinched his nose. "Why don't we go see Willy Wonka?"

"La-me! Like we really need to see some pale skinny child molesting freak obsessed with chocolate, we've got Damien."

"Damien doesn't molest kids, fatass!" Kyle hissed, narrowing his eyes at the grinning Cartman. Eric shrugged as if it didn't matter if the anti-Christ did or didn't.

"Oh, yeah, that's right, Damien can't get any."

The redhead sighed, knowing it impossible to win. Instead he made a suggestion, "Why don't we go chuck rocks at cars?"

Stan cringed at the thought, shaking his head rapidly. "No way, dude, most of the people driving in this town we know, and they'll get pissed off if we scratch the paint."

"Goddamnit, adulthood does suck," Eric growled, tugging on his 70's styled, malted brown hair. "Oh I know! Let's go swimming at the pool."

"I don't want to swim in first grader pee," Kyle said with a disgusted look, clapping his hands together and smoothing the air out. "I'm out on that idea."

Stan followed the motion, "Me too, dude."

"Fine, Stark's Pond."

"There's worse shit in the pond then first grader pee," the Jew warned, shaking his head. By now they'd walked passed the residential area to a stretch of road surrounded by trees, dying grass, dirt, and rocks. Incidentally they were heading toward Stark's Pond, anyway.

"Fine! Jesus Christ…why don't we play that old game, 'Americans verse Bosnians' or whatever? You know, where we had the guns and went 'pyew pyew'?"

The quarterback pinched his nose as Kyle stilled, instantly reminded of Christophe. "Damnit Cartman, you had to say that, didn't you?"

"What, what did I say?" Turning Eric faced the two, smirking evilly at Kyle's stilled form. "Stop being such a nagging little waif, Jew-boy, it's not like Christopher gets hurt in every assignment."

"Yes…yes he does, and his name is Christophe," Kyle choked, eyes narrowing to slits.

"Heh, well it's not like your pussy French boytoy is going to get killed."

That did it. Kyle let out a howl of rage before jumping on Cartman, fist colliding with his jaw as they went down. Eric yelped at the contact, head whipping to one side as he was punched. Before Kyle could throw another he was rolling them both into the grass, struggling to get on top. Kyle hissed in pain, biting his lip as Eric's elbow smacked him in the still tender eye Butters had hit, and he'd gotten hit at the Orgy concert. Although he was swinging at Cartman he still couldn't help but think, 'Do I have some sort of target on my eye that everyone can see but me? Fucking Christ…'

"Don't call Christophe a pussy, fatass!"

"I'll call whoever I fucking feel like it a pussy, you piece of Jewish crap!"

"I'll kill you!"

"Not before I kill you, you won't!"

"Like you could kill anyone, maybe with your enormous ass but besides that?"

"AY! I don't have to take this crap from you!"

"Ow!"

Stan stood on the sidelines, mildly entertained as they rolled around, scuffling and throwing insults. It wasn't surprising, really, no matter the subject of fights they could never keep it serious, instead ended up bickering back and forth. He crossed his arms, stepping out of the way as they got too near.

"Yeah, well guess what? I hope Frenchy does die!" Cartman shouted, flaring Kyle's anger once more into something deadly. With new vigour he stuck his foot on Eric's stomach and shoved, pushing him off onto the hard ground. Snarling the redhead kicked Cartman swiftly in the ribs, which didn't happen to be the best move he could have done. Eric grabbed his foot, off balancing Kyle and sent him back to the ground as they starting their fight again, now escalating to something dangerous.

A car squealed to a stop behind them, startling only Stan. Looking back he saw Craig getting out of some small compact silver car and running over to them, black hair flying across his face.

"What the Hell is going on here?"

"They're fighting," Stan said as if it was an everyday occurrence, and usually was.

"They look like they're going to kill each other, should we stop them?"

"Uh…I guess so," the Marsh boy said, finally noticing how serious the normal grappling had gotten. "Pull Kyle off and I'll keep fatass down."

With a nod Craig boldly grabbed a handful of Kyle's auburn curls, yanked, and pressed two fingers between his shoulder blades. Shouting out in pain he shuddered at the touch, instantly cringing away from Cartman and shuddered. Craig was impressed how much it was like grabbing a cat by the scruff of its neck, and grinned as Stan pulled Eric back to a stand, his nose bleeding, lip puffy, jaw blossoming into a colourful bruise. Kyle got to his feet as well as Craig tugged on his hair.

"Stop touching between shoulders," the Jew hissed.

"Don't go after Cartman, then."

"If he promises not to be a dick, sure."

Craig gave Eric a deadly look that only the bully of the school could manage. Cartman buckled, huffing. "Fine." With a nod of approval he let go of Kyle to examine the extent of damage done. His eye was beginning to swell and bruise once again, his lip was bleeding from where he'd bitten it, and nail marks were raw and beginning to drip blood down his arms, but that seemed to be the most of it.

"So why—"

"Why were you out here?" Stan asked, interrupting him from provoking any more fighting.

"Oh, uh, I was about to go pick Tweek up and go to the mall, you guys wanna come?"

"We wouldn't be imposing?" Kyle asked, sucking on his lip.

Craig shook his head before sauntering back to his car. "Wouldn't have asked if I didn't want you guys to come. So are you?"

"We're kind of bleeding," Kyle said, giving up on stopping his lip from bleeding, now spitting any of the metallic liquid out onto the ground.

"Yeah, I noticed," Craig said dryly before getting into the drivers side, waiting for them. "There's a first aid kit in the dash, fill free to not bleed on the leather seats with it."

"Ha ha, very funny, assrammer," Cartman growled, rabbing the kit and got into the backseat with the others.

"Why do you have a first aid fit?" Stan asked as the two injured began to doctor their wounds.

"I'm always driving around Tweek," he replied before pulling off the side of the road and heading toward the Tweak resistance like it explained everything. And sadly, it did.

---

They wandered the mall aimlessly with no shoppe in mind to stop in, each carrying a different flavour Starbucks Frappachino that they'd periodically switch off. At one point they lost Cartman, to be found running out of Victoria's Secret with several angry woman cursing at him. From then on out they decided to stay away from that section of the mall, to the side that had a carousel installed. It proved to be the better of plans, as they found Mark Cotswolds and Red chatting idly by one of the penny pools. Seeing the boys' approach Red waved enthusiastically.

"Hey guys, what's up?" Startled, Mark turned to see them, nodding his head in greeting.

"Just walking around, keeping Cartman from being mauled by kicks," Stan answered as they all took a seat on the edge of the penny pool.

"Ay!"

Red giggled behind her hand. "What'd he do?"

"He won't tell us, but we're guessing it's got something to do with watching chicks change in Vicky's Secret, or feeling up the lingerie, or maybe sniffing them," Kyle said, taking a sip from his iced coffee.

"AY! Shut your mouth, Jew-boy."

"Cartman," Craig said in warning, giving his 'the' look.

"I can't help he's a Jew."

Mark sighed, running a hand through his curls. "You really shouldn't insult a person based solely on religious beliefs, Eric, it's quite improper."

"Shut up, Mark."

They all began their separate conversations and arguments, lasting a near ten minutes before Tweek squealed, "Isn't that your little Canadian brother, Kyle?"

Surprised he turned to face the direction the blonde was pointing a shaking finger, toward the carousel. "Where?"

"With that blonde haired girl—oh Jesus, they're snogging!"

Narrowing his eyes he spotted a couple of kids—one indeed his brother, the other a girl that he recognized by the name of Flora—kissing violently. Snarling he tossed his coffee into the garbage and stalked toward them, barely hearing Stan whisper:

"Ike's in trouble now."

He made his stripe slow and deliberate, so when Flora looked up she saw him. Her eyes widened a tad as she poked Ike in the shoulder and pointed behind toward him. Ike seemed to not notice, but stilled at her description. Finally he stopped a foot behind them, glaring menacingly at the back of Ike's head.

"Ike, what the fuck are you doing?"

The Canadian turned to face Kyle and feigned surprise, then confusion. "Excuse me, do I know you?" he said sweetly, with a thread of fear laced in his words.

"Yeah, I'd hope so being your brother and shit," the redhead replied, hands going to his hips in a very Sheila-ish fashion.

"Can't this wait, Kiley? I'm sure you can see I'm with someone."

"Yeah, I was with my friends as well," he gestured behind him at the group of high school graduates, "before I saw you tonguing this girl." Flora seemed genuinely embarrassed, cheeks turning a stunning shade of red.

"We can talk about it at home," Ike persisted.

"No, we're talking about it now where Mom doesn't have to find out, what would she say?"

Ike cracked a small smile. "Probably blame it on you for being so open with your relationship."

"Exactly! And I don't know about you, but I don't want Mom to start hating Christophe," his stomach turned at the name, "because 'I'm a bad influence'."

Ike pouted. "I don't see what's so wrong with it, you kiss Christophe all the time!"

Before he could answer Flora's timid voice asked, "C—Christophe?"

"Yeah," the two boys replied in unison, giving her a dumb look. "Why?"

"Isn't that a—a boys name?"

Again, the reply was in two voices. "Yeah."

She looked down at the floor, baby blues hidden under honey coloured hair. "So that means you're g—gay?" Kyle gave a slight nod, a brow raised. He couldn't blame Ike for not telling his little girlfriend, but she seemed so shocked. "O—oh, I didn't know, I'm s—sorry for asking."

"Don't be," he said waving the question off. "Now to the problem, nine-year-olds should not be going to first base in public, or better yet anywhere. Don't you kids know what cooties are?"

"My brother gave me a cootie shot," Flora said abruptly, reminding Kyle of the old rhyme: Circle circle dot dot, now you've got a cootie shot. How on Earth did that protect anyone from the likes of the love parasite?

"It doesn't matter, you've got to wait until you're at least in the ninth grade to do such a thing, or people will think you're whores."

Ike tsked. "Just because you were prude and waited doesn't mean I am, Kiley."

"Just because society's ideals on sex are lowering each generation, doesn't mean you can go around playing tonsil wars," Kyle said strictly, using the edge their mother had. "Promise me you're not going to degrade yourself."

"I promise," Ike sighed, looking up from under his bangs to give a puppy-dog look. Kyle nodded appreciatively, tousling his hair before trotting off to his friends. Stan just grinned at him as he approached.

"Didn't seem like you yelled at him to me."

"Ike doesn't need to be yelled at, he learns his lessons pretty easily," Kyle said. "Now what?"

"Let's ride the carousel!" Red said with a giggle, waving them toward it. As the three-minute ride commenced, Kyle felt like time was slowing, switching directions, and sighed heavily.

It wouldn't be the only time that day he felt the sickening slow of time.

---

The sky melded into a ruddy brown, blending with extraordinary hues of blue and purple as night quickly closed in. Stars glittered, almost a tittering reminder of escapades the French boy had been involved it at sundown, no moon to be seen in the cloudless sky. It'd taken weeks of planning ahead of time to get the perfect day for the assignment, when the new moon was fresh and evaded the vision. But they'd done it, and under the cover of the inky blackness they'd perform the task.

Christophe sat in the tidiness that was Gregory's room, slightly uncomfortable, feeling that if he touched anything it would somehow be out of place. It was like this every time he had bothered to seek out the blonde Brit, disgustingly clean despite the bashful attempts Gregory had said the place was a mess. The only thing he saw that could be considered "a mess" were the stacks of papers littering the hardwood desk, but they were still organized.

Seeing his agitation, but taking it as something different Gregory threw him a small smile. "Relax, Christophe, you're assignment will go perfectly well."

"Zat is not my problem, et's zis ridiculously clean zing you call a room," he growled, waving a gloved hand at his surroundings. "Rooms are supposed to be personalized, not like zis."

"I happen to like books and being orderly, thank you!" Gregory replied proudly from his computer chair. "Because I don't dawdle my life away watching obscene movies and littering my perfectly nice walls with pornographic posters doesn't mean my room isn't 'personalized'."

"Who 'ave you been around lately zat 'as pornographic posters?" Christophe asked, raising a brow. Gregory seemed utterly shocked he'd ask such a thing, or rather flustered, and waved the question away as if it wasn't important.

"Now you're aware of what you have to do, correct?"

"Non, I don't zink I 'ave understood what you 'ave been saying for ze last 'our and twenty minutes, please do repeat yourself a few more times."

"This isn't the time for jokes, Christophe!"

The brunette rolled his eyes; of course it wasn't, did Gregory think he was dumb? Jokes, they were a tool to release nervousness and anxiety. That's why he was being cocky. "Quite aware."

"Then do you under—"

"Yes, I am to penetrate ze 'ouse you're targeting, break ze safe located in ze master bazroom 'idden be'ind ze mirror, get whatever is in ze safe and get ze fuck out, preferably wizout killing anyone."

Gregory nodded. "To be cliché, it's a jewel heist."

"Not surprising," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "So where is my backup?"

"Backup?" Gregory asked, as if the word was foreign.

"Yes, yes, backup. You cannot expect me to go into such a large 'ouse alone unless you really are trying to get me killed?"

"No, no, I want you out alive and well."

"Then where is my backup?"

"Well, I didn't think—"

"Sheet!" he shouted in his customary fashion, suddenly on his feet as he paced. "We 'ave less zen zirty minutes before we've got to leave! 'ow are we supposed to get anyone up 'ere now?"

"I suppose we won't, you'll have to do it alone."

"I am not going in zere alone, you piece of sheet!" Christophe snarled, grabbing Gregory by the front of the shirt and shook him. "I don't care if I've got to take you in zere wiz me, someone is going!"

"You know I cannot assist you," the blonde said calmly, prying the French one's hands away from his collar. "I am keeping watch elsewhere, being in the centre of the action will do nothing but get us both killed."

Muttering obscenities under his breath he began to pace rapidly, stride eating the distance between the door and an opposite bookshelf in twos. Finally he took his cell phone from his pants pocket and scrolled through the phone book, much to Gregory's dismay, and hit the name 'Hellspawn Home'. When he'd first heard Damien had a homeline in Hell he'd laughed in amusement, until the anti-Christ assured him it was true. It was that day he'd learned Hell had phone lines, but didn't pick up satellite reception.

It rang twice before a gruff voice answered, one he knew to be Saetan's. "Hello?"

"Can I speak wiz your son?"

"Who is this?"

"Ze Mole."

"Ooh! Christophe, sorry, I should have recognized your voice! So how is life treating you? Haven't seen you in quite some time, what was it, about fifteen minutes?"

"Et really is urgent, Saetan."

"Oh, right, I'm sorry. Hold on a second, I'll go get him." The receiver filled with sounds of tortured screams and the song Fuck Her Gently. He'd only called Hell once before, but the choice of hold songs still managed to entertain him.

"Christophe, what do you want?" the irritated, high-pitched voice of Damien asked.

"You've been bored, yes?"

"Mm, yeah, why?"

"Ever been on a jewel 'eist?"

---

The house loomed ahead, outlined in the darkness faintly, trees and shrubbery surrounding it, along with a rot iron fence. That had been no problem, his specialty was holes after all, it would have taken merely seconds had the fence not have been extended downward in an electric current. The smug anti-Christ took the time he did to twiddle with the wiring to phase behind the fencing and shatter the powerbox. When asked why he hadn't just hit the button to swing the gate open Lucifer's son had said, "It was more fun seeing you struggle."

Now they crouched by a side door, as Damien jammed a nail into the lock, it instantly springing undone. Before they had left the son of Saetan had set his grounds; if he could make the job go easier, he would, no matter how miffed Christophe got, and he wouldn't take any payment for his services. The French boy had agreed, amazingly; he could be doing better things, after all.

Damien leaned down, cinnamon breath on his neck startling. "We're in, where's the master bedroom?"

"Upstairs, second floor, but remember once I get zere you're to keep guard," Christophe whispered back, slipping his infamous Taurus PT 100 into his grip, just in case. Damien gave a curt nod before swinging the door open, as if there might not be a gunman on the other side; guess once you're immortal, you don't worry about getting shot, right?

Christophe slid in, clunky boots silent on the marble flooring. His senses prickled, becoming alert as deep brown eyes darted around, taking in everything. With his back to a wall at all time he cautiously rounded corners, gun trained to the ceiling. Some people found it easier training to the ground, but he thought the spit second longer it took to bring the gun up was a difference. And it was just more comfortable on his elbows.

Crouched, he went up the stairs, watching the second floor landing as if something would jump out ad shout, "Caught you! Hah, you're dead!" Damien shoved passed him, grinding pointy teeth in annoyance and stood on the landing, looking down at Christophe. The brunette mouthed, "Know you no caution?" and received a shrug and smile.

'No one is here, come up already," the anti-Christ's voice whispered in his mind. Christophe glared, but followed Damien's words and hurried up the stairs before returning to his crouch and swiftly strode toward where the master bedroom was located.

Of course, Damien made it there first, and checked around for anyone or devices before the Mole had even passed into the threshold. Waving the Hell-spawn out of the way with the gun he slipped passed him into the bathroom.

It would have been impressive, had there not have been a dead dog laying in front of the hot tub, blood oozing in a dark pool from a hole in its skull. He instinctually froze, wary of how the dog had been killed before Damien's voice rang through his head.

'When I came in it was asleep, I thought it might not bode well if it was alive so I killed it with the gun you gave me. Silencers are really useful, you know.'

He gave a nod as if Damien could see it and glanced between the three mirrors. One stretched along one wall above the counterspace, one opened into a medicine cabinet, leaving the small oval mirror the doorway into the safe. It seemed like a perfectly normal mirror, but he knew better; there had to be a way to get it to reveal what he wanted. Christophe studied it curiously before noticing a small slit at the top, and grinned to himself—aha! Tucking his gun into the holster in the hollow of his back he took out a small, blank plastic and crammed it into the slit. The mirror made a distinct clicking noise before falling forward on hidden hinges, nearly hitting the wall, had he not have grabbed it. Sighing he placed the card back in his pocket and glared sideways at the safe; a combination lock, like it would be anything else.

As one hand twirled the dial, the other was placed very near the locking mechanism to feel for the clicks. In his mind he sung, smiling at the absolute uncharacteristic behavior, and irony. 'Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes (turn and face ze strain) ch-ch-changes. Don't want to be a richer man. Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes (turn and face ze strain) ch-ch-changes. Just gonna 'ave to be a different man. Time may change me, but I can't trace time.'

As the lock clicked and the safe opened, Damien appeared in the room.

"Shit, dude, dogs are coming, and there is someone in the house!"

Christophe whipped around, glaring accusingly. "What are you doing 'ere zen? Go kill ze dogs!"

"I—I can't!"

"You killed zis one!" Christophe hissed harshly, waving his hand at the dead dog.

"No—no I didn't, it was already dead," Damien whispered back. "Get up on the counter, the dogs will come in and smell that one. I'll hold them off, but it will only be for a splitsecond so you've got to haul ass."

"Zen I will kill zem!"

"No! You have to get out, you can't take bullets and live, I can. I'll get the jewels and meet you outside, just go!"

Christophe's mind raced with the news. Damien hadn't killed the first dog, then who had? Was the anti-Christ just setting him up, leading the other dogs in? Where was the person in the house? Was he going to get the chance to give Kyle his ring back?

'Yes!' he thought to himself, climbing soundlessly onto the counter. He knew better to run from dogs, it just brought out their predatory sense, but in no way was he going to get attacked because a certain demon was too weak in the stomach to kill a dog. If it was a cute dog, maybe he could sympathize, but if it turned out to be a German Shepherd like the one bleeding all over the floor, he was going to be pissed.

Snuffing issued from the doorway, and growls as two big mixed breeds walked in, immediately going for their dead companion. He held his breath, waiting for them to pass completely before vaulting off the counter and scrambling from the bathroom. The dogs let out a howl and turned on their heels to follow the chase, until a wall of flames erupted between them and Christophe. Silently thanking Damien for 'not being a completely pussy' he raced down the corridor dedicated to guest chambers, heart racing.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was most likely going to die, but a voice told him otherwise and urged him out. It was about that time the dogs caught up, snarling on his heels as he rounded the corner to where the main stairs rolled in a cascade of marble on the other side of the ballroom, where a figure was stepping out of a corridor, raising a hand, with what appeared to he a handgun clasped in it. Time slowed, appearing to be viewed out of crystal as that arm was being raised and he was given one choice if he didn't want to die a really painful death.

He jumped.

Vaulting over the banister he did what he'd seen done in action movies of all sorts, grab firmly to the chandelier, knowing well that it wouldn't hold his weight. As soon as gravity took effect it broke the drywall of the ceiling, falling in a downward arch to where the cord was hanging. As it fell a gunshot sounded, skimming his shoulder, but the pain wasn't noticed; his attention was for the glass window he was about to go through. He had a split second to think, 'Maybe I should 'ave zought zis zrough,' before letting the chandelier go and hit the glass, having it shatter around him. It was pure instinct to tuck into a roll before hitting the hard, glass littered ground.

A moment of disorientation, then alertness telling him he was still being shot at. Only adrenaline got him on his feet, and Damien appearing out of no where kept him standing. Searing pain was Christophe's last conscious thought, accompanied by the comment:

"That was one hellavu exit."

---

White, blinding white.

'Am I dead?'

No, no you're not dead or you wouldn't be able to talk to yourself, idiot.

'Where am I?'

Where do you go when you've crashed through a window?

'Ze 'ospital?'

No, Jesus Christ, are you stupid? You fall into your subconscious, that part of you you usually ignore because you're a prat.

'My subconscious doen't 'ave an accent? Zat is weird.'

Well what do you expect? You're French-American, after all.

'Am I really zat cocky?'

Yeah, simply amazing, huh?

'So where is my body?'

At your house, safely tucked under the covers. I'm pretty sure you're bleeding all over your sheets, but it's black so it really doesn't matter.

''ow long 'ave I been out of et?'

All night. You really should wake up soon, the extent of the damage wasn't that bad, I mean Damien and Gregory didn't take you to the hospital. Of course, it would have looked a bit suspicious having one of the most prestigious houses broken in to, and someone walking in with glass embedded into his body. You really should have worn that long sleeved sweater.

'Oh ho ho, very funny.'

I thought so too.

'Give me a damage report.'

Six stitches in your shoulder from where the bullet hit you, multiple cuts across your body, most of which Damien healed so Mom wouldn't worry, three stitches in a gash across your back from hitting glass in the roll, nine stitches across your left cheek for being a dumbass and going through a window, plenty of blood loss. Over all not that bad.

'A total of eighteen stitches isn't zat bad?'

It could have been worse, you could have died, you could have been attacked by guard dogs, but you weren't so stop bitching.

'You aren't me.'

Heh…no I'm not.

'Zen you are not my subconscious, so where ze fuck am I?'

It's your subconscious on several levels, not you talking to yourself, but me talking to you. It's a different part of the brain, not the frontal lobe. You only fall this deep into yourself when you're a) completely drugged up b) are a scizomaniac or c) have almost encountered death. For your case, it's a little bit of them all.

'I'm not crazy, zough.'

No, no you aren't. You just have an interesting perspective on things…I can't explain your own brain functions to you, that's kind of out of my league.

'And who are you?'

Heh, can't tell you, not now anyway.

'Zen get ze fuck out of my head!'

Okay, but I'm warning you, you're going to be in more pain then imaginable, and I'm sorry for that.

---

He came to awareness, moaning at the soreness his body was. His shoulder ached, cheek burned, and he felt the skin drown taut where the other stitches must be, but it wasn't "more pain than imaginable". He sat up, grinding his teeth at the resisting muscles and blinked, eyes beginning to focus. He was indeed in his room, the curtains drawn shut to keep out the light that signaled it was late morning or afternoon.

The first thing Christophe noticed was his clothing had been changed to pajamas, the second a packet of papers sitting on his side table. Reaching a stubborn hand to the packet he grabbed them, brows furrowing at what they were. He'd given Kyle the papers to the apartment to keep, why were they here? Shrugging it off he ripped open an elaborate envelope addressed to him in Kyle's distinctive curling handwriting; it probably explained it here. However, he got something completely different, several words smeared with droplets, the writing womanly.

'tophe,

How can I put my love into words? You were the most wonderful person I was ever graced the knowledge of knowing. Since I met you in the War I knew we had something, when you died I was horrorstucken. I couldn't show it then, I had to keep the world from ending, but I went home and cried. But when I saw you in school that day, I was lifted and knew we were meant to be. The cliff, the kiss…that made me realize all too well how much I'd fallen for you. The night of Stan's party you helped me get over old demons, and I thank you. Because of that you allowed me to love and be loved once more.

Am I sounding cliché? I'm sorry, but I don't know how else to express myself but with the memories. We fought over something stupid Gregory said, but we couldn't fight forever, and then we went to France and strengthened our emotions by the complex act of sex. Hah, that took the poetry right out of it. Anyway…we've been through just about everything a married couple has been, minus the kids and house payments; jealousy, arguments, undying love, hot sex, annoying family members, family disagreements...you name it, we've done it.

And I loved you through it all. Always know that. Not once did I ever think of dumping you, rejecting you; we set a nice pace and followed through. Indefinately. This must sound like a breakup, hm? No, I'm sorry, I never wanted to cause you pain! Just know that. I didn't mean to get distracted. I didn't mean to let the car spin out of control. I didn't mean to die in the hospital. I really didn't. You know how you always said you were a distraction? I guess this just proves it.

I guess I won't be getting my ring back; keep it safe, close to your heart, where I do hope I'll always be. But please, if anyone loves you, try to love them back; don't hold on too close to what is gone. That is the lesson we learned on the forth of July, isn't it? I'd rather see you happy where ever I'm going then miserable and clinging because of me.

Oh Christophe, what to do now? I love you so much, I wanted to go to college with you. Ah, now you can run your business instead of being a slave to the government conspiracy, lol. Though I do hope you continue your studies despite. Take care of the kitties for me, okay? And tell your Mom that I said she had a wonderful son and I'll miss her dearly. Give Ike a hug and tell him why nine-year-olds shouldn't be snogging, okay? But most importantly, tell yourself it'll be okay, that we'll see each other one day, that it's okay to cry. Don't be so strong, you'll worry people, and nervous breakdowns aren't fun.

With all of my heart,

Your cher, Kyle

He read it once, breathing shallow, shocked, and read it twice before the words sunk in. As they did he felt the scratches on his cheeks burn, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed, clutching the note in desperation.

Kyle was dead.

---

The funeral was the following Tuesday, giving the body enough time to be prepared. Christophe was sickened by the affair, people dressed in black wandering the Synagogue, many of them having never known Kyle. He was in black as well, his usual colour choice, not out of tradition, but comfort. Tears, everyone was crying, but that was one of the basic principles of Jewish funerals, open emotional venting.

Noémie kept a gentle grasp on his shoulder, careful of the bruises and scratches he still sported. As he slid through the rows of pews people stopped to stare, be it from the stitches in his face or his worn condition, he didn't particularly care. Yeah, he felt like shit; who wouldn't after going through a window? But that wasn't what created the rolling churn in his stomach, the hollow feeling. His Kyle was dead, this whole ordeal proved it.

Denial, the brunette hadn't felt it. It was something he'd never learned, never paid much attention to; he either accepted things, or blew them off because they were stupid, there was no middle ground. And the news of the redhead's passing hadn't been any different. He'd known it had to be true, or Kyle would've been waiting in his room for when he awoke. He knew it was rue the way his mother cautiously walked in and held him for hours, whispering comforting words in the soft purr of the French language. Even the calls he kept receiving made him alert to the truth, so much so he'd been forced to take the battery pack out of his phone so the annoying ringtone would stop chiming.

Noémie had been the one to explain what had happened. Kyle had been driving home from Tweek's, so lost in thought he'd forgot to steer. By the time he realized this deadly mistake he'd lost control, the car spinning into oncoming traffic, to be plowed in the driver's side. He hadn't died instantly, he'd been taking to the hospital where he'd been admitted to severe condition, paralyzed, and had his mother write the note for him. The person he'd hit had gone through the windshield, not wearing her seatbelt; it'd been Alice.

"I'll kill you Kyle Broflovski!" The words she'd so carelessly hollered at the homecoming dance rang with truth; she had killed him, though took herself along for the ride.

"Hey, isn't that the deceased's boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"I heard they'd broken up and Kyle was so upset he took a suicide drive."

"No way!"

"Yeah, it was like, murder!"

Rumours, there'd been plenty of them through his senior year, many revolving around his relationship with Kyle, so it wasn't a difficult challenge to block out all of the accusatory voices. Christophe trudged toward the Broflovski family, standing in a small, secluded circle near the front, but just out of site of the displayed body. Sheila balled, clutching a sopping tissue to her red eyes, Gerald's eyes were tinged as well, but his face was set in stone as he wrapped an arm around his wife, and Ike seemed confused. The lawyer inclined his head, eyes flashing sympathy. He'd never been too close with the man, Gerald had always been at his lawfirm when he'd been over, but when they did talk they got along well.

"I am sorry for your loss," he said as he approached, the words themselves sounding hollow. Sheila let go of her husband, throwing her thick arms around his neck.

"Oh Christophe! How can you even say that? You two were so close—you were like family! You would've been if, if—" she burst into tears, tightening her hold around him. Christophe hissed in pain as er pain passed the stitches in his upper back.

"Ms. Broflovski, I appreciate ze sentiment, really I do, but ze stitches," he started, stilling as if I'd keep them from popping loose. She immediately pulled away, horror in her eyes as she realized what she'd done.

"I'm so sorry!" she choked, shying from him as if he'd break. Christophe smiled faintly at the gesture and hugged her, gently.

"Idle apologies being zrown around, zat is what I 'ate about such affairs," the brunette said, exhausted. Pulling away he looked down at the raven-haired boy, that didn't acknowledge his presence, and decided he'd tackle the child of the family later.

It was the better of the decisions, as Stan and Cartman walked up then, both with matching lines down heir faces from where tears had dried in a tacky substance. He had the urge to reach up and rub it off, but resisted.

"Dude, ah, I'm just sorry. I shouldn't have let him drive at night, but he always seemed so good and just," Stan sighed, tumbling over his words.

"Et wasn't your fault, do not apologize," Christophe said a little harshly, shaking his head. "'e was your best friend for sixteen years, I should be sympathizing wiz you."

"Yeah but I didn't love him, I men I did but not like that."

He nodded, waiting for Eric to say anything, but the boy never did. He remained silent through the rest of the procedures, finally learning how important his friends were; they'd had no one else through the years, it was a matter of sticking together.

As they paid their respects tot he family the French boy knelt in front of Ike, fluffing his hair affectionately. He'd been closest to the child, after Kyle, preferring the Canadian's company over the adult's.

"'ow are you doing?" he asked gently as Ike lifted watery blue eyes to him.

"He's really gone, isn't he?" Christohe gave a nod, not trusting himself to speak. "It's so weird, I mean I talked to him the day before in the mall, more like got lectured but I still talked to him. Then I was in the hospital, after Mom had talked to him, and he seemed so sad, not because he'd die but he'd leave so many people behind. It's…unfair."

"Life is 'ardly ever fair," he choked.

"I…I want to see him on last time, before he's gone forever," Ike said with a sigh. Christophe nodded, taking the boy's hand and lead him up to the casket. Kyle seemed so pale, moreso dressed in the white gowns and shawls, that he was informed was Jewish custom. He smiled to himself; no wonder Kyle had always avoided white if he could, his hair seemed so much more firey and orange, and he could only guess the startling contrast of his ivy green eyes.

"He seems peaceful."

"'e seems dead."

"That too, and even asleep he smiles."

"'e snores and talks to 'imself," he said with a grin, realizing why he loved Ike's company so much; his childish charm always lightened things, and being young, he didn't fully understand death. Or perhaps, he understood a lot more then everyone else.

"Yeah," Ike turned to him as he began to edge toward the exit. "Where are you going?"

"Places of worship make me uncomfortable."

"Oh, well, I still get to see you even though Kyle's gone, right?"

Christophe strode back to the boy, hugging him. "Of course, I'll visit when I can."

"He really loved you, you know."

A smile and a nod. "I do know, yes, very much."

---

A week following the funeral Christophe found himself in the apartment he now owned, completely empty of any furniture. He decided he would follow through with college, because Kyle had wanted it, and for the chance to possibly better himself. Of course classes didn't start for another two weeks, giving him plenty of time to move in.

But now he wandered the bare rooms, remembering how Kyle had explained every room was to look. He smiled to himself despite the dreary atmosphere; even the sky had opened to a bout of rain, lightning crashing across the sky, reminding him more of his redheaded Jew, now deceased.

"You're suck a cock licking bastard, God, always taking what I cherish," Christophe muttered to himself, resting his head against the sliding glass door to watch the rain fall. "Do you get off on et? I'm beginning to zink et's a zrill."

"He knows no limits," a voice answered behind him. Whipping around he balked, seeing a familiar blonde standing in the naked living room, shimmering hawk-like wings folded neatly behind him. "Hi Christophe."

"Kenneth?"

Kenny flashed a grin, as bright as the halo whizzing above his head. "You remember me."

"You're supposed to be dead."

The blonde shook his head, blonde hair flying. "No, I never died. Remember the forth, the oath we made? I was sent to make sure none of you would tamper with time, especially you."

"Moi?"

"Yeah, you've always shown interest in time travel, what with watching that Donnie Darko movie and whatnot."

Christophe shook his head, bemused. "So you're an angel, whoop de doo? Why would I tamper wiz tiem?"

Kenny stalked toward him, stopping a foot away. "You've got the knowledge, you've got the means, I saw it in your head that night."

"So you were in my subconscious?"

"Mm, yeah. But you know, I kind of failed as a angel."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, in stupid terms I was sent to make everything was good in Christopheverse, but unfortunately you were supposed to kick the bucket," he smirked, seemed little angry by that. "Damnit, Frenchy, you weren't supposed to have back up. You were supposed to go in, and Alice's sister was supposed to kill you, no crashing through windows, no escaping. But by alluding death, you sentenced your other half, Kyle, to death, and in the long run you knocked Alice off her game as well."

He raised a hand to keep the blonde from speaking. "You mean, I robbed Alice?"

"Yep, that was her house, dude."

Sighing the brunette slid to the floor. "Zis is so confusing, 'ave ze authorities got any sign I was zere? Zey must 'ave, I bled all over ze place."

"Yes, you did, unfortunately, but I cleaned it up so the authorities are baffled."

"Zank you?"

"Yeah, well, Gabriel would be pissed off if you ended up in jail for life, so it was kind of the default thing to do. He'd turn me mortal, ug, I don't want to be human."

"You're immortal?"

"Well, yeah, I'm an angel after all."

They stayed in silence for several minutes, the thunder rolling in the distance as a reminder. Finally Christophe spoke up, "Kenneth, why are you really 'ere?"

Kenny smiled smugly, eyes twinkling. "Damn, you're good. Again, in stupid terms, I'm your guardian angel."

"Didn't do such a 'ot job."

"Don't remind me," he moaned. "But Kyle is fine, he really is in a better place. I can't really describe it, everyone sort of makes their own Heaven or hell from their birth, so it's not like what the religions deem it. Ah—you understand though, right?"

"Not at all, but I'll believe you."

Kenny nodded, grinning. "Well he wants you to listen to the song Empty Apartment because this totally reminds him of it."

Christophe waved it off absently. "So what are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to go back to South Park, walk around like nothing happened, and visit Butters. I'll resume my life where it left off, but I'll keep an eye on you until you don't need me anymore."

"And when will zat be?"

A smile and, "You'll know."

---

Two years passed, filled with many thoughts of how it would be if he took Kenny's offer of changing back time to before Kyle and him had met in high school. His death finally calmed, the town returned to normal, and no one was too surprised by Kenny's return. He stayed with butters for several months before realizing it just wasn't working, and quickly became engaged with Red. They were happily expecting their first child in a few months.

Stan and Wendy remained high school sweethearts, still wearing their promise rings. The girl though Kenny had taken his relationship with Red a little fast, and was pleased by her pace with Stan; the Marsh boy felt a little differently, but didn't push it.

Even Eric had a girl clinging to him, some ditzy strawberry blonde he'd met in his English class. He'd learned after Kyle's death that anything could happen, and he was still left with the short stick in life. So he'd softened some, but managed to remain a dick.

Tweek and Craig reminded the only homosexual couple from South Park, who were still inseparable, and seemed more like best friends than an item. Craig made sure that Tweek lived, by doing the driving, cooking, anything that involved dangerous activity. Several nights Christophe would have them over to minimize the stress Craig had built up with cooking.

Christophe smiled to himself as he looked down at the Hebrew inscribed grave, still in the dark as to what it said. He made a habit of avoiding the place, coming around twice a year; on Kyle's birthday and their anniversary, like today. Snow glistened in a fine layer on the ground, like it did every October.

"I miss you, cher," he whispered to himself, tossing down the bouquet of white roses, fingering the ring he hadn't had the chance to return to Kyle, swinging on a chain around his neck.

"Everyone one if doing fine, and I'm passing all of my classes, as expected," he grinned to himself, feeling silly to be talking to a grave stone. "And of course, I'm still not wiz anyone. Every one from Souz Park seems to zink I killed yo, and zey avoid me. Ze ozers just zink I'm fucking scary."

"That isn't true, Christophe", a distinct British voice sounded behind him. He turned slowly, taking in the sight of the twenty-one year old Gregory, still as sophisticated looking as ever. He'd made no attempt to keep in contact with the blonde, preferring to ignore him then talk, although he made sure to get his check of service.

"Do you stalk me or zomezing?" Christophe managed to ask a little heatedly.

"You've been avoiding me for two years, why?"

"I'm not in ze business anymore, Gregory, leave me alone."

"I didn't expect you do be!" the blonde replied as if offended. "Is it so much to ask to keep in contact with friends, though?"

"What do you want, Greogry?" he asked with a sigh, running a hand through his untamed hair. 'Don't say what I know you're going to say…'

"I, I love you Christophe—"

'Damnit.'

"—but that doesn't matter. It's been two years! You cannot possibly expect to cling onto Kyle's memory for the rest of your life. Have fun, remember the good times you had, and go on with your life."

He had to admit, Gregory was very good at being blunt and avoiding his own problems. But he did dwell on memories, reminded by a few choice songs; Only One, Screaming Infidelities, Mad World, Je Cours, Some Say, Steller, As The World Falls Down, Changes, and Empty Apartment. Each brought back some happy thought, some joyous moment locked in time.

"Per'aps et is time to move on, yes," he replied slowly, watching the blonde for any reaction. "Kyle would be pissed off if 'e knew I was making myself miserable."

"Yes, it is," Gregory replied carefully. Christophe sighed; he'd never had any sort of sexual frustration toward the Brit before, but for a fact he knew Gregory had dawdled quite a bit, and wasn't the forceful leader he had been.

If anyone loves you, try to love them back; don't hold on too close to what is gone. It was what Kyle wanted, wasn't it? He knew it'd happen and made sure to acknowledge it.

'But is et being unfaithful, to memory?'

The response was answered in the sweet voice of Kyle. No, 'tophe, love, it's not. Be happy.

'But…'

Don't argue with yourself, dude, you'll seem crazy.

He smiled to himself, amused that his own mind would think so. As he took Gregory's hand he felt something snap, the hold he'd made on Kyle gone, and knew this was what Kenny was talking about; he no longer needed his angel, because he'd finally started a new chapter of his life.

"Show me zen, show me zat zere is more to consider, Gregory, show me zis sing you call love."

They walked off together toward the French boy's car, completely oblivious to the faint figure of the redhead perched upon his gave, smiling boldly, his voice a whisper on the mountain breeze.

"And baby, look where we are."

"I go back...
To the feel of a fifty yard line
A blanket, a girl, some raspberry wine
I go back...
To watchin' summer fade to fall
Growin' up too fast and I do recall...
I go back...
To the loss of a real good friend
And the sixteen summers I shared with him...
I go back... I go back... I go back."

-"I Go Back" Kenny Chesney

---

Um…don't kill me? xD The lyrics may seem a bit confusing as to who is saying them this time around, since it's usually in either Christophe or Kyle's perspective; well, it's both in Kenny and Stan's retrospective. See Rei, I told you if you turn the lyrics you could knock off anyone.

Honestly, did anyone see I was going to kill Kyle? I tried to make it not obvious but…eh.

So I'll admit, this wasn't the choice ending I had planned, but I think the other would piss people off a bit more. It doesn't seem like the end, though, does it? It's supposed to be like that, since the whole thing is dedicated for the future, it was supposed to have that air that there was more to come. But, no, there is no sequel, this is it. Hah! I'm such a tease.

So here's to my reviewers, Skampi, Spice of Life, Anime Qtie, rdavymac, KyleBroflovskiFan, Mistress Massacre, billy, gothic princess, Goddess Shimi, Sofa King Danny, Selphie Bunny, Pipgoboom, and Sandman Zane. Special thanks to me-ladie, for being such a faithful widdle wife, Bobby, for all the fanart and just for being awesome, Mewtow, for slapping me into submission to finish this chapter (and advertising, hah!), and Rei…just because. Oh, yes, thanks to the people that never reviewed, just for reading…I know there were some people out there x3 Sadly there are no flamers that were faithful; guess they don't like people being cocky, hm?

I will be back eventually with more fics. I had planned to do a Greg/Stan one, but a Tweek/Craig one is threatening to kill me if it doesn't get done. Then I've got a oneshot I want to do…I don't know, just know you'll see me around some more in the future.

So until I get my ass in gear and write something else, bye-e!