Chapter Track: Drip Drip Drip – Chumbawamba

Christophe is out of touch with humanity. He's more aware of that than anybody, and paranoid about that fact more than anybody will ever know. Except, perhaps, Gregory. The smarmy bastard knows everything about Christophe, sometimes even before he himself realizes it.

Gregory was the one that initiated their stint with being a little more than friends. At the time, Christophe hadn't given much thought to sex or relationships – he prefers being alone, always has, to begin with. Then there's the fact that he doesn't feel like he has the time to be attracted to anybody. Sex takes actual work sometimes, and he doesn't really give a damn about doing that work. Frankly, he'd rather be sitting online, reading up on whatever sneaky shit the government is up to this time – websites and chatrooms that Gregory refers to as his "conspiracy websites." But that's not what they are. They tell the truth, if only the sheep of humanity would listen.

But just after high school, when he and Gregory boarded together in a relatively large, practical apartment (paid for by Gregory's parents, of course), and Gregory had kissed him one night, he hadn't minded too much. The guy was actually rather pretty, if a man can be such a thing. He was beautiful and soft in every place that Christophe was not, except perhaps in his biting wit.

Christophe had never actually had sex until that night. Like he said, it was because he was just too busy to make it happen. But he liked it, and he felt better about the world after it happened, which is a rare occurrence.

The problem now is that Christophe fears that the stupid English bastard has wormed his way into his cold, dead heart, which now does not feel so cold and dead. He can't even concentrate on his computer or his training when it starts nearing the time when Gregory will be home. He starts getting antsy and itchy and kind of horny, so he'll pace for about an hour beforehand. This annoys Gregory to no end ("You'll put holes in the carpet, Christophe.").

This feeling of needing somebody other than himself is awful. He doesn't like it, but day after day it gets worse and worse. What if Gregory is to grow tired of him? It's not at all out of the question, as there are so many things that Christophe does that annoy the living shit out of the man ("I don't like you on those websites, Christophe," or "You should really quit smoking, Christophe."). If Christophe is finally kicked to the curb by Gregory's well-polished designer boots, he won't know what to do with himself. He has no education beyond high school (he doesn't trust funneling every penny of his money into the fucked up education system, thank you very much), he doesn't have any job experience, and he isn't employed now. God, the rat bastard, would probably allow Christophe to rot on the streets because he refuses to crawl back to his mother.

This is how he has ended up doing very odd things during the day, when Gregory is out working. He thinks that Gregory may suspect that something is off – that he's spending daylight hours (God help him) outside, of all the places, and searching for work. He doesn't want to do anything that would require him to be out here like this, in the dreadful Colorado sunshine. He doesn't want to have to work with people, because people are fucking morons and trusting government sheep. He doesn't want to work on the phone, because they could be listening. This, he has discovered over the past two weeks, leaves him very few options.

But today.

Today, he finally found what he needed. Now, he is pacing back and forth through the living room of their apartment an hour before Gregory will arrive home, wondering if he should tell his lover that he has procured a job. He could pay some of the rent, maybe. Maybe if Gregory needed him, he wouldn't kick Christophe out.

It's not a fancy job, but it pays fairly well because most people wouldn't want to do it. Most people don't want to dig ditches and do night construction, when the rest of the world is peacefully asleep. But that suits Christophe just fine, because he is not most people. And he's good with his hands, not that he's been putting that to much use these days. It'll be good for him, he thinks, to have tools in his hands again.

He's so worked up about all this that when he hears the sound of a key turning in the door, Gregory doesn't make it two feet into the apartment before he loudly announces, "I got a job!"

Gregory doesn't say anything right away. Instead, he calmly removes his oh-so-fashionable trench coat, and hangs it on the row of hooks beside the door along with his work bag. He pulls off his shoes and lays them neatly beside each other, before eyeing Christophe, one blond brow cocked. He says, "Did you?" This is said not in an accusing tone, or even a curious one. Just…a question.

"Oui," confirms Christophe, falling briefly into French for the sake of his own comfort, "Er – yes. I begin tomorrow night."

Gregory undoes his tie with deft fingers and sighs in a kind of relief. It's a sigh that's so close to the kind of sounds he makes when they fuck that Christophe finds himself getting hard. He stands behind the couch to hide it, since he can't trust Gregory yet with the news of his new occupation, and if he can't trust Gregory, he can't trust Gregory to see that he's got a stiff one in his pants.

Again, Gregory doesn't immediately respond to him. He seems anxious and worked up, something that on an average day, he can hide from Christophe with unusual success. Nobody can hide from Christophe, and yet, this man is able to do it. Christophe can't tell if the stress is from Gregory having a rough day at work (he gathers that whatever Gregory does isn't entirely legal, but pays astonishingly well), or from Christophe's confession of finding a job. He fears that it is the latter, but hopes that it is the former.

The real signs that Gregory is worked up are as follows: he undoes the top two buttons on his work shirt, rolls up his crisply ironed sleeves, and sets to work on doing the dishes. He does that when he stressed out – scrubbing their dirty dishes by hand instead of utilizing the perfectly functional dish washer installed right beside the kitchen sink.

"Why in the world are you standing all the way over there?" Gregory asks as he soaks a sponge and dives into circular polishing motions on a large plate, cleaning off the grease from the previous night's meal of lemon chicken and mashed potatoes. Gregory cooked, of course. Christophe can't cook anything fancy, only simply meals that are more like food for a battlefield than a dining room table.

Christophe doesn't answer. He can't come up with anything to say beyond the truth, which is 'I'm hard for you,' and he doesn't feel like confessing that quite yet.

Abruptly, Gregory sets the plate back into the sink. It clatters against the other dishes, and Gregory asks, "May I fuck you?"

"Come again?" Christophe finds himself asking, because the words he actually expected to come from Gregory's mouth were more along the lines of 'why would you need a job?' or 'am I not good enough for you?' These, naturally, being nothing at all like something that Gregory would say. Christophe is merely afraid that he will.

"Fuck you," Gregory repeats, "May I?"

"Non," Christophe says, crossing his arms.

"Why in heaven's name not?" demands Gregory, more snappish than usual.

"Because you did not acknowledge me. I have a job. Are you angry? Have I upset you? I do not know," Christophe rambles. He feels like lighting up a cigarette, but he knows that Gregory hates when he smokes inside the apartment. Instead, he fiddles with the hem of his shirt and scowls off to the side.

"You're being absolutely ridiculous. Of course I'm glad for you – you need to get outside once in awhile," Gregory says tiredly, and he crooks a finger, "Come here."

"Non," Christophe says again.

"Why not?"

"Because I am hard and it is embarrassing," clarifies Christophe.

That makes Gregory cock a brow. He responds slyly, "I can take care of that for you, you know."

Christophe says nothing.

"Come here," urges Gregory.

Christophe doesn't move.

"Please?" tries Gregory.

He gives up after that, because although he doesn't like being touched by many people, he loves being touched by Gregory, probably because he's alarmingly pretty for a man. Or maybe because he's kind when Christophe needs somebody kind, and rough when Christophe needs somebody rough. Gregory just knows him. They have a bond, maybe as the foreign kids living in South Park, or maybe because they were moved around a lot as children, or maybe because they both know what it means to be alone. He isn't sure, but the bond is there, and it's not easily broken.

Gregory does smirk, however, when Christophe leaves the dark part of the living room where he was hiding, and into the light of the kitchen, where the distinct bulge in his pants is unmistakable. In return, he scowls at Gregory, who rolls his eyes.

Christophe lingers under the archway that leads to their open kitchen, but it takes a single 'come hither' expression from Gregory to get him to relent and slog the rest of the way over. He doesn't hug Gregory – no, that would be too much – but he does lean his head on Gregory's shoulder so that he can inhale the scent on his neck.

"What is you new job, then?" Gregory asks, running his slender fingers through Christophe's hair. He does that a lot, tries to organize Christophe, who is perpetually disorganized.

"Construction. At night," Christophe mumbles into the expensive fabric of Gregory's shirt. He smells like pricey cologne, masculine, but definitely pretty.

Gregory says gently, "That seems as though it's perfect job for you. I'm proud of you."

"You are not proud of me," complains Christophe, "You think I am a waste of space, even though I warn you about the government, you do not listen, you say –"

Gregory ducks his head down and kisses the rest of the sentence of Christophe's mouth. He tastes amazing, as he always does. Like breath mints. He never tastes gross, not like Christophe, who undoubtedly tastes of stale cigarettes and his lunch. Gregory kisses him in a smooth, well-practiced way, something that he's always done. He wonders how many kisses it took for him to perfect his technique, and finds himself selfishly hoping that it wasn't that many kisses – because Gregory belongs to him.

Gregory unbuttons Christophe's pants without even looking at his fingers, keeping their mouths fused together the entire time. He quickly eschews Christophe's pants, letting them fall someplace just outside of their small kitchen. He lift Christophe up and deposits him on the kitchen counter, the tile cool to the touch, and begins to run his hand along the length of Christophe's cock, fingers playing with the elastic waistband of his underwear, but never going inside. Teasing bastard. Christophe growls out his frustration and leans forward to apply a line of sloppy bites to Gregory's neck for revenge.

"You play dirty," murmurs Gregory, but he hushes Christophe as he pulls his briefs away from him. Christophe doesn't like the neighbors to hear when they have sex. He says it's because they're "gentlemen," though the term gentleman only applies to Gregory in reality, because Christophe is an antisocial homebody whose loves in life are breakfast cereal, giraffes, and finding out what the government is hiding from them (It's quite a lot, you would probably be surprised).

Christophe unbuttons Gregory's shirt and runs his hands along his smooth chest, while Gregory works his hand up and down in that perfect way of his. He applies just the right amount of pressure, like he knows some mathematical equation for giving maximum pleasure during a hand job. That's how Gregory is – calculating. But it makes him good at what he does, in Christophe's opinion, and he balances out Christophe's chaos.

Their lips meet in a turbulent kiss. Gregory is less calm now. He's eager. Christophe likes being able to make the cheeky bastard lose his shit once in awhile, and it's quite flattering that what makes Gregory go out of his mind happens to be Christophe in the nude. He does consider himself pretty attractive, in a messy, scarred-up sort of a way. And he's even a little bit tan from actually facing the outdoors this week.

Gregory pulls Christophe up against him, so that their chests touch, reaching underneath with his clever fingers.

Christophe slaps his hand away from his ass and says, "Rinse your hands, you stupid bastard. Soap stings." He knows due to the fact that this is not the first time that Gregory was doing dishes resulting in sex in the kitchen. Dish soap is even worse than regular hand soap, and allow Christophe to tell you – Gregory is the king of both.

With a sigh, Gregory releases him. Christophe inhales sharply – the kitchen counter on his bare ass is cold.

Fortunately for their preference for spontaneous sex, Gregory insists upon keeping a bottle of hand lotion beside every sink ("The skin on my hands gets dry, Christophe, stop laughing."), which now he coats his fingers in generously, giving Christophe a devilish look before commanding, "Lean back."

Christophe is too charmed to argue, or complain, or even tease Gregory for how domineering he seems to be this evening. He simply leans away and spreads his legs a little further, allowing Gregory access.

Gregory coils his arm around Christophe's back and draws him in for a kiss, distracting him as he skips ahead to slipping two fingers inside him. Their breathing begins to come out in drawn-out pants, and Christophe mmms into Gregory's mouth, because it feels fucking fantastic to have that hand inside of him, long fingers massaging gently. He finds Christophe's prostate almost immediately – it's a game they have, really. Gregory uses all his might to melt Christophe into a puddle of amazing sex, and Christophe does his damnedest to remain stony-faced.

He sucks on Gregory's shoulder, where his sleeve has fallen down a little, and pretends that he's not feeling pleasure zip through his veins, lighting his entire body on fire with need.

"Give up," murmurs Gregory, kissing damply along Christophe's neck.

"Never," Christophe breathes, but Gregory has probably already won. This stupid man knows him inside and out, no matter how many attempts Christophe has made to shove him away. He thinks that he gave up sometime around when they hit puberty – not because Gregory suddenly came pretty. He was always pretty. More like, he realized exactly how pretty, and what an effect that had on his dick. And Gregory stuck by him no matter what. Christophe likes to think that Gregory needed him, but that is a fanciful idea. Gregory doesn't need anybody. He's good at being alone, and as much as Christophe enjoys the same thing, he sometimes fears it.

"Ah," Christophe cries hoarsely, when Gregory pushes a new, third finger inside of him.

Gregory smirks, "I win."

"You always win, you cheating bastard," Christophe mutters. But he doesn't mind that Gregory has won. He wants him to win, every time. But letting Gregory in on that knowledge would take the fun out of it all, and so Christophe decides to keep that information to himself.

Gregory's smirk grows wider, but he leans down to press a more tender, but equally heated kiss to Christophe's lips.

He steps back, then, pulling his hand out of Christophe to undo the buckle of his leather belt. In his hurry, Gregory doesn't even bother to rid himself of his trousers completely, he simply reaches for the hand lotion and massages it over himself, letting his pants and underthings pool around his feet.

Christophe chuckles at Gregory's erection and says, "You pretend to be suave, when clearly you are just as eager as I."

"Shut up," murmurs Gregory, bunching one hand in Christophe's hair and kissing him hard, pushing his tongue into his mouth with a vengeance. Christophe feels the heat of Gregory's cock nearing his entrance, and that warmth alone makes him spread his body out further across the kitchen counter.

"Merde," he manages weakly, as Gregory thrusts up into him. He groans, giving up on being any sort of 'gentlemanly,' and wraps his legs around Gregory's waist, holding him inside for a few glorious moments.

Christophe loosens the grip of his legs, just a little, so that Gregory can pull out of him, and surge back in. Gregory pulls him up to kiss by his hair. The pain mingles with intense pleasure, as Gregory thrusts in and out of him. He is not mechanical, but he is calculating. Each movement of his body is carefully and determinedly made, adjusting his angle each time until he finds the perfect way to slam into Christophe's prostate.

Christophe swears, and Gregory hushes him, warning him of the neighbors as they move together. Christophe squeezes his legs against Gregory's back, urging him to go faster, to be rougher with him. He likes his body to feel used, to see bruises in the shape of fingertips on his arms when he wakes the next morning.

Gregory obliges, breathing harder with each move, wrapping his long-fingered hands around Christophe's forearms and pulling him around as though he is a ragdoll.

With each movement, Christophe's cock rubs up against Gregory's smooth abdomen, sending sensation throughout his body, pushing him closer to the edge. He tears one of Gregory's hands from his arm and urges it downward. Gregory takes the hint and begins pumping up and down with at a fervent pace, whispering things under his breath that Christophe can't hear. Gregory gets like this near the end – mumbling incoherent words of affection and falling back into a heavier accent, even though he hasn't lived in England since he was a child.

Christophe comes first – he always does. Gregory is harder to please, as he is in many things. They stay latched together for a few more sticky thrusts before pulling out and releasing onto the cabinets.

They breathe heavily for a few wordless seconds, before Gregory says, "Damn."

"What is it?"

"I was aiming for the tile. Come is harder to clean off wood," he throws in a dramatic sigh.

Gregory cleans Christophe up first, however, like he always does. He gingerly towels the come off of Christophe's stomach and runs his hands through the hair that he pulled straight up during the fucking, trying to smooth it back flat over Christophe's scalp.

Christophe hesitates, but as he pulls his pants back up and buttons the fly, he asks, "…Did something go wrong at work?" Despite the no-smoking rule for the apartment, he fishes his cigarettes out of the pocket of his pants and lights one, feeling much better about the state of their relationship. He always does after a round of thorough sex. Gregory grounds him in some odd, but good, way.

"I'm better now," Gregory offers an honest smile, but doesn't answer the question directly, of course. He never does, not when Christophe asks about his work.

"And Christophe?"

"Mm?"

"I'm not going to leave you," he says, "so stop being so bloody paranoid."