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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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Christophe dozed against the back of his chair; head tilted back, lips parted. His head didn’t actually rest against anything besides his own neck, and his breathing was slightly strained sounded from the position. Every few minutes, he shook himself awake and looked back at the monitor, finding Kyle still awake. The stereo was on in Kyle’s room and the sounds kept lulling him to sleep. It wo’t b’t be so bad…if the boy listened to something that would keep him awake, marching band music for example.
Kyle had turned on the radio at about nine o’clock, stuck a CD into it, and set it at repeat. Since then he had been painting on a stretched canvas, singing along to himself. His voice wasn’t especially that good, or accurate. He ended either too late or too early, was terribly off pitch, and had a tendency to be a little too nasal. But he wasn’t loud enough to disturb stopstophe’s slumber.
Christophe stirred, eyes blinking sleepily, looking at the monitor. Kyle had ceased painting and was beginning to clean up his painting materials. Christophe sat forward, looking at monitor, trying to comprehend what was going on. The room was unbearably hot for autumn and his wife beater stuck to his flesh, sealed with sweat. Where Kyle had been painting on a bare canvas was now a dark art, what appeared to be a man holding a snake around its neck (if snakes had necks). If the man was to release it, he’d be killed, but there was weariness in the portrait, as if the man had been struggling for a long time.
Kyle was cleaning out paintbrushes, soaking them in jars of water and swirling them around in a larger bucket. The paints had already been picked up and stored away under Kyle’s bed. He sang along to the keening music as he worked. The song was slightly sad and melancholy, but somehow seemed to hold a feeling of hopefulness. Kyle’s voice was strained.

Always falling to the floor, softer than it was before.
Dog boy - media whore, it's who the hell you take me for.
Give up this fight, there are no second chances.
This time I might.
To ask the sea for answers.
These bonds are shackle free, wrapped in lust and lunacy.
Tiny touch of jealousy, these bonds are shackle free.

Kyle trailed off here, standing up and wiping wet palms on already stained pants. Christophe stood up for a moment, cracking his back, and sitting back down. Maybe Kyle would finally head to bed now.
Nope, he was leaving his room. Christophe grabbed the remote and switched cameras. The house was dark. It appeared nobody was awake. Well, it was past midnight. He switched the view of the camera several times. Kyle headed down the hallway, down the stairs, through the living room, into the kitchen. Oh, was he going to eat? Christophe hadn’t seen him eat at all since he’d been following him.
Kyle leaned down in front of the fridge, moving aside containers and plates. Christophe had only placed one camera in the kitchen and it was on the far wall, blocking whatever Kyle was doing with his back. The pale boy stood now, holding what appeared to be leftovers in his hands. Christophe leaned back, ready to sit for a while.
Surprisingly, Kyle walked straight to the trashcan and emptied out the mushy contents. They made a wet, solid plop against whatever garbage was already there. Christophe watched, interested in what he was doing. Kyle covered thiss wss with some paper towels and rags he had brought down, covered with paint. He turned back to the sink and scraped leftover food from the plastic container, then dropped it in the sink. Before leaving, he filled a cup with water to bring upstairs with him. Christophe quickly changed to the other cameras.
Back through the living room, up the stairs, down the hallway. He didn’t go immediately back to his room. The redhead took a turn, entering his brother’s room.
From the camera hidden over the little boy’s dresser, Christophe watched Kyle approached. He was a dim figure coming in the night, covered in shadows. The moonlight washed over him from the window opposite the door. This light also illuminated the young Canadian in the bed. Eyes were closed tightly, breathing steady and slow, rising and falling with the blanket. Christophe waited to see what he was going to do. Surely Kyle wouldn’t…harm the boy? Would he?
Kyle leaned down over the boy who turned his head, probably sensing the presence of his brother. But Kyle merely placed a kiss upon Ike’s forehead and tucked the blankets around him. Ike smiled, snuggling deeper into his quilts. Kyle turned to go, then paused before leaving the room. He looked as if he wished to say something to Ike’s sleeping body, as he turned around sta stared at the boy. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out. The door clicked shut, and Kyle was once again locked in his room. He shut off the music, switched off the brilliant lights overhead. Quickly Kyle had stripped down to a pair of forest green boxers and jumped beneath the covers. Christophe felt his own body relaxing as he watched Kyle collapse into overly soft sheets. They cradled his body, the purest shade of white, Kyle’s skin almost matching them in pigment. The transition only emphasized how impure this boy truly was.
Christophe stood to leave, ready to fall into his own little cloud. The shrill ringing of the phone cut through his skull. He groped for the phone in the darkness, identifying it as the illuminated blue object by the VCR.
“Hello, Christophe speaking.”
“Christop I w I was just wondering how it’s going.”
“Gregory? It’s been one day. Why are you calling me at twelve thirty?”
“Well, I had to wait until Pip was asleep, didn’t I? I couldn’t very well climb off of him and pick up the phone, he’d start whining.”
“Too much information! Where is he now?”
“In my bed. Oh, you should see him Christophe! He looks like a kitten, curled up in my blankets, with his little hat on. He always keeps his hat on when we make love, I think it’s a fetish or something.”
“What don’t you understand about too much information? Does he know about this yet?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m afraid I haven’t got much new information. I think he’s anorexic though.”
“He doesn’t look it.”
“When’s the last time you saw him without a shirt on?”
“Well…”
“He doesn’t wear tight clothes. But I haven’t seen him eat once, and when he was in the shower… He looked like a bird that had been sitting on the side of the road for a week.”
“You watch him in the shower?”
“I watch him everywhere.”
“But in the shower? How much trouble will he get into there? Gonna carve a knife outta soap and store it in his ass?”
“It’s important to know all an enemy’s habits.”
“He showers, there, you know he has good hygiene.”
“Gregory,” Christophe voice was close to a growl. He didn’t like being judged for his actions. “Who is the mercenary here?”
“Well, you, of course, but-”
“And who’s the one who’s fully trained with weapons, surveillance, combat, organization, negotiating-”
“Alright, alright. It just seems that you don’t really need to watch him all the time.”
“I’ll watch after Kyle, you go cuddle with your twink or something.”
“Don’t call Pip that.”
“He’s blond, he lets you fuck him, and I’m sure he has a creamy inside, he’s a twink.”
“Now I remember why we never got along, God, you’re fucking crude!”
“Baby, God has nothing to do with it. I’m running on five hours of sleep, my back feels like I just got down doing a ballet with a hippo, and my eyes feel like they’ve been peering through smoke. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight Gregory.”
“Goodnight Christophe.”
He hung up the phone, placing it safely in its little cradle. His bed smelled of smoke and his own cologne as he fell into it. The blankets were soft and a little too cool, but his pillow could challenge heaven.

The sky was red. It wasn’t streaked red, like that of the evening. It wasn’t merged with pink and orange and soft violets. No, it was red, solid red, red as newly spilled blood. And it was directly above.
This wasn’t South Park. It was a city. A large city. A city that was once full of skyscrapers, but these had fallen. They lay in ruins across paved streets, crumbling rock. Little sprouts of dead, dark grass sprouted out between cracks in the sidewalk. There was no movement, no sounds. No birds flapped above. No little animals scurried down trees, for there were no trees. No human feet hit the pavement. The city was destroyed, deserted, ravaged.
Kyle didn’t know how he had ended up in this lonesome city. But here he was, walking slowly down the road. The only sound was that of a howling wind, whipping through the city now that there was little to stop it. Hollowed out shells of buildings lay on both sides of him. But there were no signs of bodies. There were no signs of invasion. It was as if everyone had just disappeared and the city had fallen beneath its own weight.
Kyle walked on. His own shoes fell again and again, echoing through the city. His hair whipped around his face, stinging his eyes so that tears fell.
“Hello,” he called quietly at first, cautiously, “Hello, is anyone here?”
Nothing.
“Please, somebody, is anybody here? What happened?”
Though this was a louder call, no answer.
“Please,” this time it was screech for help, “Somebody, help me!”
The wind howled through the windows and alleyways mockingly. Kyle heard something behind him. Somehow, he knew it wasn’t human. Whatever it was, it had destroyed this city. He tried to run, he fell, got up, fell again, his legs felt like stones were attached. He lay in a heap and shivered. Tears ran down pale cheeks and his own sobs replaced that of the wind.
He felt the presence of the being coming closer, and closer. He hid his head, crying, wishing for it to go away. His voice hitched, his breathing halted. He raised his head and looked into green eyes. All he saw was a silver platter roll by, and his own face reflected in it.
He raised his head and cried out in despair. He was alone, fully and truly alone.

Kyle sat up in bed, his chest heaving. The sun was shining through his window, covering him. Between the dream, the smoldering autumn sun, and the heavy blankets, he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The alarm clock was sounding beside his bed, annoyingly to the point. He jumped out of his bed, tripped over some objects that lay across the floor, landing with a thud against his wall. He supported himself against it with shaking arms.
“A dream,” he swallowed his breath, still breathing in deep, frightened gulps. “It was just a dream.” He closed his eyes, not realizing that a pair of dark chocolate ones followed his every movement. “Today is the day. I can’t wait any longer.”
He emptied yesterday’s homework from his back and pulled off the screen from his monitor. He loaded the bombs in here, careful not to disturb them too much. Grabbing a full-length black trench coat from his closet, he stored the guns and knives in the pockets. While reaching through these pockets, he came across a thin sheet of paper.
A picture, a photograph to be precise. A photograph of two young boys, with mischievous, happy grins. Sparkling eyes, hair hidden from view. The picture was an old picture, from a time long ago. From a time where they cared for each other.
From a time where one wouldn’t dare think of killing the other.

Christophe watched from his surveillance room as Kyle readied for what must be a day of bloodshed. He waited until Kyle left the house, fully arms. And jumped into his car, hurrying to start up the engine. In his excitement, he forgot that it was a piece of shit and ended up flooding the ending, only delaying him. He lit a cigarette impatiently, breathing in too deeply and coughing. He had never been one to force-smoke.
Finally the car’s engine jumped to life, and Christophe was on his way.
Kyle had been walking slowly. With the weight of his bag, and the heavy trench coat, he was already sweating despite the fact he had already jumped into the shower after awaking. Christophe found him on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, head down, face pink from the effort. Heve ave ahead about a block, parked the car in a random driveway, and got out, waiting for Kyle to pass by where he could not see him. Eventually, the boy passed by, breathing heavily. Christophe fell into step behind him, reaching into his own coat to feel his gun pressing against his stomach. The cold hardness of it gave him a sense of comfort.
Kyle was starting to slow down. Christophe had to slow his pace, realizing when he could see the individual droplet of sweat running down the nape of his neck that he was too close. The school was in sight now, ahead, just enough to see the outline of brick and hear the laughter of teenagers. Christophe reached for his gun, he didn’t have much time. He was hoping he’d have more time to figure out what to do, but Kyle was striking so quickly.
But he was tired; he could tell by looking at him, maybe he could take him down before making a ruckus. Maybe he could just tackle him from behind before he could get a gun. He’d shoot him in his pretty little stomach if he had to.
Kyle stopped before him, wavering. He stumbled, took a step, and stopped again. Then without a hitch, he just fell. He just fell straight down to his right, landing in a grassy lawn. He was out cold.
Christophe was stunned. He ran to the boy’s side, feeling his forehead. He was overheated. Between the heat, the lack of food and blood, and the effort of carrying his supplies, he must’ve over exerted himself. He worked to remove the heavy jacket, throwing it aside for the moment. Some other kids walked by him, smirking as they saw the strange redheaded kid being taken advantage of by a dark stranger. Christophe felt his throat, counting out his pulse. He’d have to get him out of here before the boy started a scene. He threw his book bag over one shoulder, laid his coat over the crease in his arm, and scooped Kyle up against his chest. He was as warm as a puppy, and probably as light. He couldn’t have weight over a hundred pounds.
When he got back to his car, he set him in the backseat, immediately turning on the air condition before anything else. Kyle was breathing evenly now, though sweat still covered his brow. Christophe watched him for a moment; thinking how sweet he looked, pink as he was. Only redheads could turn that adorable shade of pink.
He made sure to lock the doors before he climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors so he could glance back every few seconds. Some might consider him paranoid, but that kid was currently armed to the teeth. Who knows what he’d do if he awoke in a stranger’s car. He sure the hell didn’t feel like being alerted of Kyle’s consciousness with a knife to his throat.
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Observation