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Observation	By : Athena2693 Category: +S through Z > South Park > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4415 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Observation: Chapte Rat Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Minor pairing Gregory/Pip, solo pairings Kyle/Kyle, Christophe/Christophe
Thanks to: Devilish Kurumi for writing pretty much the entire last scene in this chapter and bring the rating up to NC-17 ;) We talked, I send her pictures of pretty boys in bath tubs, she sent me citrus fruit, good times, good times *has some lemonade*

“Hello, Gregory?”
“Christophe? I thought you weren’t calling, it’s awfully late.”
“It’s only,” he paused, cradling the phone on his shoulder to look at his watch, “Eleven fifteen.”
“What took so long?”
“Some of the teacher didn’t leave until nine, they were grading papers and one was directing a play.”
“Did you find anything in his house?”
“You’re right, I found everything needed for bombs, he has them stashed in a hallowed out computer monitor.”
“That’s…not good.”
“It isn’t.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I have a TV set up in my car, so I’ll follow him to school tomorrow and watch the cameras from there, just in case something suspicious occurs.”
“If he were to do anything that might harm my Pip, would you be able to do something about it in time?”
“I’ll know if he has a gun or knife on him, Gregory, so don’t panic. If this happens, I won’t let him into the school.”
“Do you think it will be long before he tries anything?”
“No, I’m afraid. T. This may be a good thing, however, we’ll get it over with quickly. I’m afraid young Kyle is quite unstable.”
“I believe we already knew that.”
“I mean, he seems to be into self mutilation.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Not necessarily, it means he’s emotional. This can be good sometimes, for when one’s trying to sway another’s decision.”
“But doesn’t it mean he may also react drastically?”
“Exactly. It’s essential to be cautious around him. I think, we may be able to save him though.”
“Save him?”
“From himself. He seems like a very sensitive boy, from what I observed on the monitors. I don’t think he really wants to hurt anybody, but he’s having trouble accepting life.”
“He’s not used to being an outcast. Christophe, it’s late, I must be heading to sleep now.”
“Alright. Goodnight, and don’t worry about Pip, I won’t let any harm come to him.”
“Goodnight, Christophe.”
The click of the phone signified the disconnection on the other line. Christophe set the receiver back in the cradle and left the kitchen, switching the light off as he entered the living room. A lamp was on, sitting beside an overstuffed green armchair. He dropped his tired body in this chair, curling legs up and pulled a quilt over him. A book sat on the coffee table beside the chair, a cup of hot tea still steaming beside it. He picked up the book and leaned back, finding his place.
In a little room beside his bedroom, the tables were covered with speakers and wires and cameras and televisions. In his living room, he had a coffee table, a bookcase, and his chair. With a life so filled with technology and danger, the least thing he needed in the evening was more television and modern entertainment filled with violence and toilet humor.
Besides, who doesn’t enjoy a nice sitting of A Tale of Two Cities? He filled his mind with images of his people’s revolution until his mind began to fog, and his eyelids drooped. His mind was clouded with mems ofs of his own Bastille Days as a child.

Christophe surveyed the area in front of the high school, watching as students began to arrive for another day. He had watched Kyle back up his book bag and head out the door, without so much as a bite to eat for breakfast. As soon as the door was closed, Christophe had jumped in his car and headed for the school. Now he stood by a cluster of trees not too far away from the entrance where nobody bothered to notice him.
He watched Pip walking along the sidewalk. The morning was chilly and he was wearing a blue sweatshirt that was too big for hum, hanging almost to his knees. The logo YALE printed boldly across the chest hinted that perhaps it wasn’t his, but his lover’s. Gregory was walking along beside him, carrying his book bag for him over one shoulder. Pip had a uniquely serene smile for a teenage boy and kept moving his hand up to brush fair blond locks from his eyes. They stopped before coming to the school, in the relative safety of a pine tree’s shadow. Gregory kissed him quickly on the lips and handed the bag to Pip, who now seemed to be pouting. Gregory kissed him again, and again, until he smiled. They seemed to say something to each other, then Gregory turned and walked back the way they had come. Pip entered the schoolyard. He was wearing white-heeled boots that clattered as he walked, and everybody looked up as he passed by, eager to get into the classroom. A hand reached out, grabbed the unoccupied strap of the book bag, and pulled, sending the tiny boy off balance. He fell back, landing roughly on the gritty sidewalk. He quickly stood and dusted himself off, checking his elbows for scrapes.
“What’s wrong Frenchie, your boyfriend fuck you too hard last night? Can’t even walk right?” The fat kid was standing beside him, the blond in a hoodie to his left, and the brunette at the right.
“Somebody grabbed my bag!”
“God, what a moron. Do you know how stupid you sound?”
Pip ignored him, wincing as he worked at picking a piece of glass from a wound that was beginning to bleed.
“Hey you little faggot, I asked if you know how stupid you sound!”
“You know, I’d say you were a not very nice person, if I hadn’t seen how you were around your friends sometimes! So long chaps.” Pip nodded his head at them quickly, then hurried into the school.
“Dude, that was weak.”
“You can’t upset him Cartman,” the brunette spoke scornfully, “When are you going to learn that? You pick on him every day and he still tells us to have a nice day.”
“He’ll break, eventually.”
The third boy mumbled something, and all three heads turned. Christophe followed their gaze. Kyle was entering the schoolyard now. He looked down, gaze averted from any prying eyes.
“And here’s fag number two,” Cartman spoke up loudly, in an obnoxious voice. Kyle looked up, and Christophe saw his eyes were filled with anger; they might as well have had little flames burning in them. But he didn’t say anything. When he began to pass them, all three wandered casually in front of him, blocking his path. He tried to turn, but no matter where he went, a boy was in his way.
“Guys, please, not today.”
“Did you hear that Stan, not today!”
“Oh poor dear Kyle, tsk tsk tsk. It must’ve been hard, trying to stay friends with us that long without letting us know your secret, just to embarrass us when you came out.”
Kenny mumbled something and the other two laughed.
“At least it’s your own choice to be a cocksucker,” Stan taunted, “But we never had the option of being your faghags.”
Kyle sighed, hanging his head submissively. Stan grabbed hold of his wrists, pinning them together with one hand, and rammed Kyle up against the brick wall. Christophe heard the release of air as his body smacked against stone. Kenny and Cartman just stood behind him, shielding eyes of onlookers, as Stan just made sure to rough him up a little, scraping soft skin against rocks and opening old wounds, but not really hurting him that badly. Just a who’s who sort of rough trade.
Stan gave him a noogie before letting him go, messing up perfectly combed hair that Kyle had spent a half hour straightening in the morning with an iron. When your hair would puff up into a fro within an hour, straightener just wasn’t enough. A suppressed sob escaped Kyle’s throat and he broke through the line of hatred, pushing aside Kenny, as he was the smallest of the three boys. Of course, if Kenny really felt like pushing back, he could’ve overpowered the half-starved boy with hardly any effort.
Kyle turned and ran into the school entrance, his backpack still flung over his shoulder. Walking quickly, with his head town so he wouldn’t be noticed, Christophe climbed into the back of his car, turning on the television.
Itk hik him a few moments to switch to a camera that had a shot of him. Kyle had retreated to the bathroom. Now he stood in front of the sink, wiping tears from his eyes with rough brown paper. Pip was sitting on the counter beside him, cleaning his elbow with some cotton swabs and disinfectant.
“It just encourages them when you cry in front of them,” Pip suggested cheerfully.
“Fuck off.”
“I was just saying-”
“Because obviously ignoring them for the last ten years did you a lot of good.”
Pip quieted at this and returned to tending his wounds. Happy with himself for depressing the little Brit, Kyle busied himself with combing his hair out then running his fingers through the locks, making sure they framed his face evenly on both sides. When it was straight, it hung down to his chin, shiny and dark as ruby. Happy with his appearance, he turned and headed for the classroom.

Christophe sighed, leaning back in the chair and watching the monitors disinterestedly. He lit up a cigarette, and took a few puffs. Kyle’s mother was puttering around the living room, leaving the view of the one camera, then reappearing moments later.
“Does that woman ever stop?” he growled finally, glaring at the screen. Kyle was not home from school yet. Christophe was bored with waiting. Not that he wasn’t used to waiting - he waited all the time for everything, but fortunately, those times didn’t involve having to endure a overweight woman with blindingly red hair singing off-tune oldies and dusting everything around her.
Between leaving school and walking home, it was a full half hour walk, and that was if he walked fast. He probably didn’t ride the bus for fear of being criticized. Christophe doubted he should follow Kyle home, as the boy would be sure to notice a car driving three miles per hour after him for a half hour, so he’d driven home and had been watching the camera since, waiting for Kyle to arrive home.
The door opened, then slammed shut, but Kyle’s mother was in the way of the camera. “Damn it, woman, move!” the French boy shouted at the screen.
“Hello, Kyle, how was.... your.... day?” She trailed off, sadly, when Kyle passed by her - just in the camera’s sight for a second, then headed up the stairs, completely ignoring his mother. Quickly, Christophe changed the camera view to one he had planted in the boy’s room, nodding in satisfaction when he saw Kyle enter.
“Hello, Kyle, how was your day?” he said, mocking the other boy’s mother snidely, leaning forward to examine everything Kyle did. Simple enough. He tossed his backpack down, stretched slightly, then examined his room half-heartedly, as if to see if his mother had come in. He had done this the day before as well. Must be something of a routine, then, the mercenary thought, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Obviously seeing nothing amiss, the boy left the room, and Christophe switched the camera to the one in the hall. The boy was walking down the hall - was turning - had entered the bathroom. Christophe shrugged, and flipped to another in the bathroom.
The boy was turning on the shower. The French boy’s lips went dry, and he licked them quickly. He contemplated turning off the monitor, to give the boy some privacy, but then decided that he wouldn’t be able to tell when Kyle had finished his shower. No, I’ll just switch to the camera in the shower. I’m only doing this because I need to keep an en hin him. Not for anything else. It definitely wasn’t because Kyle was a piece of work, and it wasn’t because the mercenary thought the boy was hot or anything.
Of course not.
Just simple surveillance.
He gulped quietly when the boy stripped off his shirt, and bent over to pull his jeans off. “Just surveillance,” he reminded himself quietly. He switched to the other camera, behind the showerhead, before Kyle took off his boxers.
Not that that mattered, because as soon as he had switched, the boy was already climbing into the shower, pulling the white curtain closed behind him. Christophe was given a very nice view of the other’s back, but the camera was positioned awkwardly, so only Kyle’s hips and up were visible. Unless, of course, Kyle just took a step forward...
The boy leaned back slightly, cracking his back, then to the sides, and rolled his shoulders, the bone sticking out slightly. Kyle was thin. His arms were thin, no muscle apparent beneath the thin covering of paper flesh. His ribs showed, so painfully clear you could count them. The cuts on his arms glowed against the pale flesh, some still a deep red, raw. Christophe gulped again, shifting slightly. Surveillance, his mind whispered, but he was too intent on watching Kyle.
The boy turned, and closed his emerald eyes against the onslaught of hot water - and it had to be hot, because there was a lot of steam in that little shower, causing Kyle’s hair to grow darker, slightly, and then he stepped back, running a hand through his hair.
Christophe breathed in deep, and almost glanced away, but couldn’t. Instead, he bit his lip. Kyle was leaning against the wall opposite the showerhead, and he opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. The French boy tried to think of something to get his mind off the boy who was letting water run down his arms, his neck, down - but his mind drew a blank. Blank, of course, with the exception of several thoughts that revolved around that steamy shower and that redheaded boy - but those weren’t the thoughts he wanted, oh lord no.
Kyle whispered something, and closed his eyes again, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, then curving around and running along his chest. Stop watching, Christophe’s mind screamed, Stop watching now. But he didn’t listen. He felt a shock run down along his spine, settling somewhere in his stomach. He breathed in again, deeply. Kyle breathed with him. His hand slid down, and clasped his member gently. He continued to breath deeply with the other boy, who was on the other side of a camera he had no idea was there.
“Mm...” Christophe felt himself start to get hard, and he shook his head, almost turning the camera off. No, his mind said, taking a turn from what it had been saying. Stay, watch. God, don’t you dare turn that camera off!
He leaned back in his chair, sliding his hand along the hem of his pan pants, watching Kyle intently. The boy was stroking himself, leaning against the wall, back arched slightly. Christophe unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Kyle moaned quietly, breathily. Christophe slid his hand through the slit of his boxers. “Oh man,” he whispered hoarsely, licking his lips again - it was hot in the room, didn’t he open a window? No, he hadn’t. He really should open a window, but he couldn’t pry his eyes away from the redhead, who had just rolled his hips slightly, moaning again, and he pulled himself through the slit of his boxers, and wrapped a sweaty palm around his hard-on, pumping himself slowly. Kyle arched his back, bucked his hips, bit his lip, and Christophe groaned slightly, his hand picking up pace. This wasn’t just surveillance, and he was sure that Kyle would hate to know what he was doing, but Christophe ho ino intention of telling the boy, so it was okay, and he moaned.
Kyle groaned, and sighed, his hand sliding up and down his own hard-on faster then before, and Christophe watched the boy with half-lidded eyes, his own erection aching in his hand. The redhead’s free hand clutched at the tiled wall, and he sunk to the ground, legs bent at the knees but spread apart, and the French boy stared, thinking for a moment that those beautiful, emerald green eyes were full of tears. But that was impossible, because Kyle was too pretty; too beautiful to be crying right now, and it was probably just the water.
“Oh...” Christophe murmured, so close, but he was going to wait for Kyle, because Kyle had been the bastard to start this, and he was going to be the first to finish. The emeralds were soon hidden by eyelids that slid down and shielded them from the water that was not tears, couldn’t be tears, and Kyle moaned, loudly, but not loud enough to be heard outside of the shower, and Christophe matched the volume exactly.
And then Kyle came, and he cried out softly, eyes opening wide, and Christophe growled ferally, because that was too soon. Just too soon. And he wished that he was in that shower, wished he could lick the redhead’s hand clean instead of watching him rinse his hand off in the hot shower, and he sighed, imagining it, and then he imagined those big, pouty lips against his, then around him, and then he groaned, coming as well, and stared at the screen of the monitor dully, eyes wide, watching Kyle sigh, wash his hand off, then lean back against the wall for a minute.
That.... was not simple surveillance, Christophe, the mercenary’s mind berated him, but only half-heartedly.
Kyle stood, and washed his hair, and washed himself, then turned off the shower and climbed out, wrapping a towel around him and grabbing his clothes. He left the bathroom.
It took Christophe a full minute to understand what had happened, and another thirty seconds to change the camera to one in the other’s bedroom. Seeing the boy settle down to read a book from school, he got up and used the moment of silence to go wash himself up.
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