#the heavens have bestowed upon you a heavy duty and you are doing amazing. please. at any point you may rest your head upon me

[lanternlightss]

anyways. finished the fontaine archon quests. and unfortunately the brainrot has hit bc my thoughts throughout it was that should the winds be kinder nameless bard would absolutely adore miss furina (well in chronological order, it would be venti, as bard is already long gone by that point but. au’s are little figures to play with <3)

though venti would love her even more here ,,,

[technicolorpestilence]

When Tomorrow Comes (Gregstophe)

Christophe wasn’t used to the silence. Gregory was never this quiet, the blond was always harping on animatedly about his causes and opinions on said causes, whether it be politics or other things Christophe couldn’t care less about. There were times when he wished for him to shut up, but now he was regretting such thoughts.

 All he wanted was to hear him nag and pester him now. He would give just about anything to hear the Englishman say in that arrogant pompous undertone of his “you know, Christophe, you really should pay more attention to this stuff. It’s important.” Then launch into a long-winded lecture about how as mercenaries it was their job to be up to speed on current events going on in the world should the job require it.

Always prepared, always resourceful.

A lot of good that did him, Christophe thought bitterly.

He released a heavy sigh, rubbing at his weary eyes. The overhead lights were too damn bright, he couldn’t fathom how Gregory was able to sleep with them glaring down upon him. He sat back in his chair, wincing from the ache in his back. Why must hospitals make their chairs so damn unpleasant? Weren’t they supposed to make sure the patients' visitors were comfortable? This was the opposite of comfortable.

His fingers curled around his knees, digging into his cargo pants. He itched to hold a cigarette, to feel the burn of tobacco in his lungs, the smoke clouding his brain and numbing his senses. No, a simple cancer stick wouldn’t suffice, not with the current stress he was under. Make that a pack or two. Maybe a bottle on the side to curb his nerves.

He was quick to berate himself for having such a thought and being so weak. He had made an unspoken vow not to smoke. Gregory had always hated the smell and would complain about how it sticks to everything. Prissy bitch. His lips curled into a nostalgic smile at the memories where the Englishman would belittle him for the habit, citing all of the negative effects and how it would surely kill him. Christophe had just scoffed derisively and blew a cloud into his face, serving only to infuriate him further as he then proceeded to rant about the dangers of secondhand smoke.

Christophe decided then that if Gregory pulled through he would give up smoking for good; switch to those stupid e-cigarettes that tasted like cherries that all the teenagers seemed to be into like every other passing trend. Yes, he would willingly go against his own morals if it meant his blond returned to him. Anything for Gregory.

Instead, to sate the urge to smoke, he busied himself by petting the other man’s hair. Calloused fingers gently gliding over the soft golden curls, untangling them when they knotted around his fingers. It was just as much of a comfort to him as it was to the Brit. Gregory was still and made no move to intercede, in fact, he didn’t stir at all. Christophe gazed at his face as he slept; he looked peaceful despite the ugly abrasions and contusions marring his perfect skin. He pressed a kiss to his forehead, whispering in the shell of his ear.

“Je t’aime, mon ange. Please wake up.”

He sighed, running a hand through his own hair, dishevelled and wild in contrast to Gregory’s neat and meticulously tamed curls. He’d taken the liberty of styling his beloved’s hair for him, brushing it daily since he could not. Heaven knows Gregory couldn’t stand looking like a mess, it was uncouth of a gentleman such as himself. He would gawk in mortified horror if he could see himself now; swathed in bandages with tubes and wires running through him to the various machines in the room. Not really a pleasant sight for the esteemed leader of La Resistance.

Christophe's hand found Gregory’s again, intertwining their fingers. He was careful not to disturb the bandages as he rubbed his thumb in a calming circular pattern over the skin. It felt so strange to hold his hand and not be met with the leathery material his signature gloves were made out of. He raised it to his lips and kissed the bruised knuckles. The skin was soft and smooth to the touch, perfect just like the rest of his fiancé.

Fiancé

His mind slipped back to the night Gregory proposed. It wasn’t the most ideal time to propose, thinking about it made his heartache rather than rejoice. He could remember everything so vividly with amazing clarity despite the shock he was in at the time. Dark blood soaking his shirt, Gregory trembling as he held him. The conviction in his cerulean eyes clouded with pain, barely clinging to consciousness as well as the lapels of Christophe’s jacket. Christophe was panicking and swearing up a storm, but Gregory was strangely calm considering his predicament.

“Tophe...” he wheezed, his breaths shallow and laboured. “If we...make it out of here...I want you to marry me...”

His robust voice wavered, taking on an almost desperate plea as he looked up into Christophe’s face, his eyes growing heavier. Christophe could only see a glimpse of blue beneath the thick lashes.

“Will you...marry me...?”

He used the remainder of his declining energy on that question. Dramatic bastard. It was a rather bold and daring move, fitting for someone as spontaneous as the blond. Christophe was sure the blood loss had just made him delirious, albeit he couldn’t find it in himself to turn him down, not when he looked so fragile and pale. He could only kiss his forehead and mutter his response, “Oui.” Gregory smiled faintly, satisfied with his answer before he succumbed to the pain and exhaustion, going limp in his arms.

He refused to leave his side since, cussing out the paramedics as they pried him out of his arms, fighting tooth and nail for a seat beside him in the ambulance. He simply sat and waited diligently, clinging to Gregory’s hand and reassuring the blond that he wasn’t going anywhere. The uncomfortable backbreaking chairs became his bed, he didn’t shower (not that he had much prior to the incident) if anyone tried to get him to leave they would be met with a perpetually pissed off Frenchman and possibly a shovel to the face. By now the staff knew to leave him be, apprehensively going about their duties as cold eyes challenged them, following their every move when they came in to check Gregory’s vitals or change his bandages.

Simply put, he was a wreck both emotionally and physically. How dare Gregory do this to him, didn’t that idiot know how much he meant to him? He was his rock, his anchor, the only person who could keep him grounded when he was spiralling out of control. The only person he dared let close enough to see through the walls he had built around himself and with one well-placed kick sent them crashing down like a house of cards. He couldn’t imagine living without him, it was impossible. If Gregory died then he would die along with him.

Damn that cocksucking bastard for trying to take the only good thing in his life from him. He’d already taken everything else, wasn’t that enough? Why Gregory too? Was this a harsh reminder that he was taking him for granted? Fuck if he knew. He didn’t understand anything about the man upstairs, nor did he understand Gregory’s faith in him.

Stupid blond, damn him for going off and getting himself hurt. Christophe knew his recklessness would be the death of them both someday. As he sat and pleaded for the Brit to come back to him he couldn’t silence the nagging thought that it should’ve been himself instead. Gregory was an idealist, an activist, he was going to make history one day. What was he? A cynical nihilist who only believed in the spitfire sun he orbited that was his fiancé. He hadn’t contributed anything to the world, he was expendable. Let Satan take him instead because surely God wouldn’t, not that he would want to live in his so-called paradise. Fuck him.

“Goddamnit, bête. Wake up. I get you need your beauty sleep, but this is ridiculous. Besides, you’re pretty enough, you don’t need the extra hours,” he mumbled as an afterthought.

Silence

He didn’t expect an answer. He’d grown accustomed to holding one-sided conversations in this room. The monotonous blip of the heart monitor reminded him that he wasn’t just shouting at empty space. He still had an audience. Gregory was still there. That was all the motivation he needed to keep going. He would wait like the loyal partner he was. He would wait until the end of the earth for him.

Christophe gently stroked the Englishman’s cheek, fingers tracing jagged edges of small gashes bestowed upon pale skin. He started to hum; it was a familiar melody; one he had heard Gregory sing on many occasions when he rallied the troops.

“You see the distant flames that bellow in the night. You fight in all our names for what you know is right, and when you all get shot and cannot carry on, though you die, La Resistance lives on...”

He affectionately smoothed back the blond’s hair so it was no longer in his face, continuing the anthem with the hope that the other man could hear it. His voice was surprisingly soft and gentle, a stark contrast to his usual aggressive and standoffish demeanour. Only a rare few had gotten the privilege of hearing him sing, Gregory being one of them. The Brit adored his voice and would often ask him to sing for him. Sometimes they would sing together in perfect harmony. It was a breathtaking sight. Their own little infinity where nothing else mattered but each other.

Christophe cycled through a few more of Gregory’s favourite songs from musicals he knew he liked. His voice faltered slightly, yet he pushed back the tears and carried on. Gregory needed him to be strong for him, he would not bow to his own emotions. He wouldn’t break down knowing his beloved was fighting just as hard as he was. He would not grieve him because he was still there. Gregory had been through worse before, he always came out on top. Christophe didn’t doubt that he would again—not for a second.

He willed him to open his eyes and grace him with their beauty, to give him that cocky confident smile that both infuriated him and made his heart skip a beat. He ended up dozing off with his head on his fiancé's chest, drowning out the shrill beeping of machines with the steady drum of the heartbeat in his ears as well as Gregory’s breathing.

~~~~~~~~

He was reading a passage from War and Peace; one of Gregory’s favourite novels when the blond finally began to stir. His hand twitched in the Frenchman’s, giving it a small squeeze. Christophe immediately froze, abandoning the chapter in favour of watching Gregory’s face. His finely trimmed brows furrowed as he emitted a groan, cerulean eyes slowly but surely fluttering open to meet his own.

“Tophe…?”

Christophe’s face lit up at the sight of the half-lidded eyes eyeing him drowsily. His heart nearly leaped from his chest upon hearing his name spoken by the beautiful rich accent he never thought he would have the pleasure of hearing again. Granted, it was cracked and horribly strained, but it was him. He was alive.

Christophe’s lip trembled as he choked back a sob. He could feel the cool dampness on his cheeks from the tears he knew were falling unabashedly. He didn’t care however, making no move to wipe them away as he smiled at the groggy revolutionary. His first real genuine smile in days, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead and chuckling softly.

“Salut, Sleeping Beauty.”