#haha what if i dropped the first gregstophe public void suddenly and without warning or hype and then immediately went to sleep :3c

[alister312]

Summary:

He’d taken to chewing on his lip and the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to do with his mouth now that there wasn’t a cigarette permanently hanging out of it. If that was Gregory’s last commandment to him, he’d follow it. Even if it drove him insane.

God bless this perfect shitstorm, I hope that it takes me with it

Read on ao3 or below the cut!

It all came down to one hard truth– in every possible way, he’d fucked up. Christophe knew he shouldn’t have gotten so comfortable. Gregory had warned him enough times that it was dangerous in their line of work, where death wasn’t even the worst case scenario. And yet…

He wondered when they had shifted like this. Growing up, the cocky one had always been Gregory, so brimming with self confidence that it manifested in Christophe swearing to follow him forever. Not that he hadn’t had any reason to doubt himself. He had everything going for him and met any obstacle with practiced ease. Christophe’s adamant rejection of God left him open to worship anything else and he soon decided on Gregory. He always thought he chose well. Being a devotee to this church meant shelter from his mother, it meant love and encouragement as he carried out Gregory’s gospel on the wicked, fighting for La Resistance.

Gregory had always been the sharp one– Christophe had barely scraped by through high school. Once, he’d taken a semester of college and studied politics (at Gregory’s behest, to better understand the intricacies of their subterfuge). The history and consequential intricacies ultimately meant nothing to Christophe though. All he needed to know was that the system was flawed and failing and Gregory, through Christophe, would topple it. In the end, he’d essentially failed the classes but withdrew before he could be handed an actual final grade. Still, it was where he’d first learned of ratfucking.

It was such a stupid and throwaway bit of information that of course it was the only thing Christophe had bothered to remember. He loved telling Gregory that he was “off to fuck rats” whenever he headed on a mission. Gregory initially hated that he latched on to the term but it slowly grew on him as an inside joke. Christophe had never understood the initial push back. If that’s what they were doing (and they were), why should he take it seriously? It was about then that he’d changed his attitude towards Gregory’s advice from careful and worshipful to obvious and dismissive. Christophe was the one who got his hands dirty, HE fucked the rats– who was Gregory to tell him to not get sloppy?

***

The apartment was littered with the filth of the past few weeks, takeout wrappers and empty cans and bottles. These days, it seemed as though all Christophe could do was cry, get drunk, and hope the TV didn’t tell him what it was always telling him. Gregory’s trial was set to begin any day now and the press was almost as in love with him as Christophe was. How could they not be? Golden boy of the senate, beloved by his party, a promising and bright future as the voice of the next generation caught covering up scandal after scandal while simultaneously orchestrating uprisings across the country to further his own agenda, going so far as to plan assassinations? It was everything tabloids could dream of and more.

And here Christophe sat, the guilty prophet who caused the downfall of his own god, yet was so beloved that Gregory had used the last of his power to keep Christophe’s name out of the whole thing. He remembered the day, wouldn’t let himself forget it– when it had all but officially unraveled and Gregory lay in their bed. He wouldn’t look Christophe in the eyes when he had spoken.

“We both know I’m done for, but you don’t have to be. This is my fight– it always has been. I suppose we won’t see one another again but… just promise me you’ll keep yourself out of trouble. And for God’s sake, darling, no more smoking. I don’t want to hear you died of lung cancer before I’m done rotting in prison.”

Christophe hated Gregory for that– taking the world on his shoulders and wearing it proudly, leaving Christophe alone with the impossible task of living. He should be dead. Only one person loved him so he wouldn’t capture the media’s attention, he would simply be quietly killed and never given more than a footnote in a politics paper. It was how he’d always pictured going out, always expected that he would be the one stuck rotting while Gregory thrived.

Or, in his wildest fantasies, they’d run away together. America would always be a smoldering wreck and someday Gregory would give up on it, as God always gave up on his world. Christophe had spoken longingly enough about the south of France, rolling countrysides full of fresh strawberry gardens or quaint beach towns with cafes that served the best coffee in the whole world. He’d even be willing to settle down in Britain, if that’s what Gregory wanted, as long as they weren’t burdened by the United States ever again. As long as they were together. Christophe wanted that more than anything in the world, but he would settle for more alcohol. He’d run out this morning.

***

The city was almost as grimy as the apartment, but it was brighter so Christophe hated it for that. How dare God mock him with a sunny day. Thankfully the liquor store was only a few blocks away. He’d taken to chewing on his lip and the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to do with his mouth now that there wasn’t a cigarette permanently hanging out of it. If that was Gregory’s last commandment to him, he’d follow it. Even if it drove him insane. Christophe did get a delirious sort of high from the smell every time he passed someone who was smoking. He had to pause in front of the liquor store where a man stood, leaning on the wall and lighting up. The man took a drag and made eye contact with Christophe. “What?” he asked. “Euh … nothing.” Christophe shook his head and walked into the store. He’d become a regular here so the cashier immediately clocked him, but didn’t comment anymore than a nod in his direction. At least he had that going for him.

Drinking as much as he had recently, Christophe was sick of most everything. He’d taken to just grabbing the first bottle of whatever he didn’t recognize in addition to wine (he could never tire of wine). Today he settled on becherovka which earned him a raised eyebrow from the cashier. Christophe glared, the cashier sighed and rolled their eyes, and the two continued to have a non-relationship.

Outside, the man was still smoking and Christophe couldn’t stop himself from stopping and staring again, breathing in the secondhand smoke that drifted towards him. “Dude, seriously, what?” The man looked at Christophe, not quite annoyed but somewhere close to it. Christophe flicked his eyes downward and shrugged. “Do you wanna join me or something? Plenty of space.” “ Non. I don’t smoke,” Christophe muttered. “Not anymore.” “Oh, shit, you’re– I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” A genuine apology. “You just kept– probably because it’s a temptation or something. Fuck, that makese more sense than– shit. I’m rambling and you probably don’t care.” The man tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his foot. “Temptation’s all gone.” He nodded at the smushed paper and ash so resolutely, as if this little act was heroic and something to be proud of, before turning back to Christophe. “Good on you for quitting. I probably should too but it’s… well, I’m sure you know.” “Mm.” “Whatcha got in there by the way?” The man walked over to Christophe, who was so taken off guard by this that he didn’t even stop the man from taking the brown paper bags out of his hands. The man laughed. “Huh! Looks like components for contenders in the world’s weirdest cocktail.” Christophe stared the man incredulously and he just grinned back. He had a bit of a gap in his front teeth and freckles splattered across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. The sunlight hit him in the most striking way, deepening the orange of his jacket and making his blond hair glow like it had once done for Gregory.

***

What compelled Christophe to ask him back to his apartment and what compelled the man to say yes, he couldn’t say. But he wasn’t scared off by the state of the place. He helped put everything into trash bags before they drank and he let Christophe kiss him. Early in their relationship, Gregory had once compared the taste of kissing Christophe to licking an ashtray and Christophe decided now that had been a compliment. He was enjoying the taste, at least. It was, as the man had said, a weird cocktail– the taste of becherovka, wine, and the smoke of the cigarette they passed back and forth after fucking. “Sorry for making you relapse,” the man said. Christophe simply shrugged. He wondered how long the man planned on staying, and if he’d stay as long as Christophe needed him to. The start of Gregory’s trial should be airing in the next few hours and he knew he’d watch. It would wreck him but it would be sacrilege to look away. His life still belonged to Gregory, after all. Once it was over, that was a mystery to him. Maybe someday Christophe would live half of his fantasy and leave America– and everything it had given and taken from him– behind.