While Christophe and Kenny were at work that evening, I spent my time in Kyle's room with him. Stan was passed out on the spare bed, and didn't even stir as I told Kyle what had happened between myself and Christophe.
"Oh, I figured as much," he said, after I told him about our activities on the dining table, "I'm not deaf, after all."
"But when we were finished, he just walked away as if nothing happened. I don't understand him at all!" I said.
"You know, Christophe talks to me about you," Kyle said.
"You've said that before, but never elaborated."
"Well. He likes you, stupid. A lot," he said, rolling his eyes.
I scoffed at this.
"I don't understand though. If he likes me why is he so... weird? He was rude to me the whole first month I was here, and then the last two days he can't seem to decide if he wants to punch me or fuck me."
Kyle gave me a pitying look.
"He's trying to distance himself, obviously. He doesn't want to like you. It's a distraction from his work, and you could get killed at any moment, so he just prefers to stay uninvolved," he said.
"But how do you know?" I asked insistently.
"Like I said, he talks about you a lot. You know, you're pretty funny... you're so observant when it comes to everything except other peoples' feelings. So, I mean, he's never explicitly said he likes you, but in the six months or so that I've been here, I've never heard him talk about anyone so much. It's pretty obvious, to me, at least."
I sighed and said nothing, watching the slow rise and fall of Stan's chest for a moment, before speaking again.
"So what do you think I should do?" I asked, surprising myself. I wasn't one to kiss and tell, and definitely not the type of man who asked for relationship advice from anyone, much less men I'd only known for a month, but I was desperate at this point. I had to live with Christophe, after all, and I didn't want things to be uncomfortable between us.
"Well, I don't know. Christophe is easy to understand once you've known him long enough, but it's hard to judge how he'll react to anything," he said, "You can either throw yourself at him and hope he goes for it, or you can move on."
I groaned at his unhelpful answer, still not sure how I should handle the situation.
It was Kenny, ultimately, that pushed me in one direction. Physically and mentally exhausted, I decided to go to bed before he and Christophe were finished at the bar for the evening. I was sound asleep when Kenny shook me awake, saying, "Alright, out, baby, out, out!"
I looked at him in confusion, then over at Christophe, who was sitting on his bed in just his pants, looking irritable as ever.
"Come on," Kenny said, shaking me.
"What? Why?" I asked, blinking sleepily at him.
"You can't fuck Christophe, and then share a bed with me," he explained.
"Why the hell not?!" I asked, suddenly feeling very awake, "You've been with Bebe for at least a week or two, and you've still been sleeping here!"
"Yeah, but Bebe isn't sharing a room with us, is she?" he said, "So, it's different. I mean, how do you think it makes Christophe feel to look over here and see you cozying up to me in your sleep?"
"I daresay he doesn't feel much at all about it," I said, shooting a glare at Christophe who was watching the whole spectacle with a carefully neutral face, "And judging from his previous behaviour, I highly doubt he wants me to touch any part of him except for his dick, when it suits him, so I doubt me 'cozying up' to you in my sleep bothers him in the slightest."
I watched, satisfied, as poorly controlled anger flitted across Christophe's face. He opened his mouth to retort, but Kenny cut in before he could say anything.
"I don't give a shit," he said, tugging me out of the bed, "I'm not going to be your substitute for him when he's not being affectionate enough. Up. Go."
"Ugh, fine," I snapped at him, rolling my eyes.
Kenny smiled and winked at me as I stood up, and I finally realized what his game was. He was trying to push the two of us together, but I didn't appreciate it in the slightest, as it put me in a very awkward position. I stood uncomfortably between the two beds, watching Kenny as he made himself comfortable. Christophe laid back on his mattress, eyeing me warily.
"Move over," I said to him, as bossily as I could manage.
He didn't move, just glared at me, adjusting the blankets over his shoulder.
"Fine," I said, and climbed over him to the other side of the bed, ignoring his angry protests. I made myself as comfortable as possible, and rolled on my side to face the wall. I didn't dare look at him, and I hoped the false confidence I'd projected had been convincing.
As I laid there stiffly, careful not to get close enough to touch him, I hoped he didn't think this whole charade was my idea. He didn't seem to be uncomfortable at all, though, and his breathing grew deep and relaxed within minutes. I was awake for a long time after that, nervous that I might roll over against him in my sleep and offend him somehow.
I was very surprised, the next morning, when I awoke to find him spooned up behind me, an arm across my chest, and his face pressed to the back of my neck. I made no complaint.
-Yaahoooo-
Apparently Christophe had been true to his word when he'd said he'd speak to Wendy, because by noon the next day, she'd sent a doctor to the flat to look at Stan. His name was Black, and oddly enough, he was exactly that.
"I'm surprised the Bosche allow you to practice medicine," I said, shaking his hand.
"Oh, they don't," he replied, "But that hasn't stopped me. I suppose you could call me a black-market surgeon. I've been working mostly with the Resistance in the western area of Normandie, but luckily I was visiting someone in Le Havre last night when I heard from Wendy."
"And how do you know Wendy?" I asked, as I led him through the closet and into the hidden room.
"Oh, we... well, we go way back," was all he said, but he had a strange smile upon his face.
Kyle was sitting on the bed next to Stan as we went into the room, and they were speaking quietly to each other in English, as Stan didn't speak a word of French or Polish. Stan was looking much better than he had the day before, remarkably, and he was cheerful and alert as we came into the room.
I introduced them to the doctor, and then left them to it, figuring the room was cramped and crowded enough without a fourth, superfluous person in the way.
Kyle joined me in the main room a little while later, looking anxious.
"I need to find something for Stan to bite down on," he said.
"Um. What?" I asked, not knowing what he meant, but concerned by the look on his face.
"He – we have to set his broken leg," he said, glancing around the room, "and he needs something to bear down upon."
"Oh, hell," I said, getting up and going into the kitchen. I found a wooden spoon in one of the drawers and handed it to Kyle. "Will this do?"
"Yes," he breathed out, "So long as he doesn't crack it in half."
"Do you need my help?" I asked, as he headed back into the closet, a terrified look upon his face.
"I don't think so," he said, disappearing into his room, "But stick around in case we do."
I sat on the sofa, waiting to be needed. From inside the room I could hear Kyle speaking softly to Stan, and then a painful scream as the doctor set his broken leg.
Kyle emerged some time later, looking slightly green.
"Well, that was unpleasant," he said, sitting down beside me.
"Will he be alright?" I asked.
"Yeah, the sulfa seems to be doing a good job. His infection is going down. Dr. Black is bandaging his leg right now, and he said it's not as bad as it seems. He doesn't need surgery after all, which is good. If we can keep the infection down, he should recover just fine."
"You're really worried about him, it seems."
Kyle blushed, and looked shifty.
"He's, um. He's really nice," he said, "We've been talking a lot, you know, when he's awake. I'd be really upset if he didn't recover."
I smiled at him, realizing I wasn't the only one smitten at the moment.
That night I was back to working at the bar. Whatever Christophe's apprehension was about me being there, he seemed to have gotten over it, brusquely ordering me to take care of the tables. I did the best I could, though my injuries made me feel more exhausted than I let on.
It was a slow evening, and I was bored until a nervous-looking young man with blonde hair, who I didn't recognise, approached me, handing me a note and fleeing without a word.
"Meet me out back," the note said, written in Wendy's delicate handwriting.
I knew something odd must be happening, since she'd usually just come into the bar if she had anything important to say, so I told Christophe to meet us upstairs, and I went to collect Wendy from the alley, leading her up to the flat.
"What is it?" Christophe said, immediately after we entered the room.
"Jesus, Christophe, give the woman a second to breathe," I admonished.
"No, he's right," she said, clutching at my arm, "I don't have long."
Christophe crossed his arms, glaring at where she held my arm in her hand. He gave her an impatient nod as he pulled himself up to sit on the table.
"Cartman found Clyde's body," she said, letting go of me, "in the factory. Someone – one of your men, I assume – had removed his identification papers, but Cartman recognised him as soon as he saw him."
"I took the papers," I told her.
"You should have removed the body," Christophe snapped at me, "or at least disfigured it."
"I was injured, and I was trying to get out before the soldiers arrived," I snapped back at him, "I did the best I could."
"The best you could, really?" Christophe said, his voice rising.
"I don't have time for this!" Wendy yelled at us, "I came to tell you that Cartman is suspicious of all of you, now! He knows you were friends with Clyde, and you know how he is. He thinks anyone who knows a member of the Resistance is automatically guilty. I don't know if he's aware of my involvement or not, but I took a big risk coming here to warn you. He's keeping an eye on you all, so watch your backs!"
"Do you think you'll be alright?" I asked her, placing my hand on her shoulder.
"I can take care of myself," she said, pulling away from me and heading toward the door, "Worry about yourselves."
She paused, with her hand on the doorknob, "I... I might have an idea," she said, glancing at me, "but it's a last resort, so don't count on me just yet."
And with that, she was gone.
I turned to Christophe, was was staring at me angrily.
"Look, maybe I should have been more careful, but I didn't have a lot of time," I said.
"That's... that's not why I'm mad," he said, deflating a little.
"Then why are you mad? These random bursts of anger are getting rather old, Christophe."
"...Nevermind," he said, "What do you think we ought to do about this?"
"I don't know. I suppose closing the bar would only look more suspicious," I said.
"Yes," he said, "I guess we just have to warn everyone to lay low until we get the situation taken care of. I don't like it, but it's better than all of us ending up against a wall."
I nodded, and watched as he absent-mindedly touched the scratch marks on the edge of the table.
"What are these from?" he asked, scowling one more, "My mother gave me this table, and if one of you assholes ruined it-"
"It's from your belt, dear," I answered smugly.
"Oh," he said, with a strange look upon his face.
"Shouldn't we be getting back to work?" I asked.
He shot me a glare, but followed me as I headed back downstairs.
By the end of the day we'd gotten word out to nearly all of Christophe's contacts that they should make themselves scarce for a while. It was frustrating, but we could still glean little bits of information from the German soldiers who frequented the bar.
The next few days were slow and dull. We'd decided not to have any missions until Wendy told us we were in the clear, and the mood in the apartment was grim. Additionally, though I was sharing a bed with him, Christophe had not touched me since we had sex on the table, unless he accidentally rolled against me in his sleep, or vice versa. The combination of boredom and sexual frustration had put me in a terrible mood, and I snapped at nearly anyone who spoke to me, even Kenny. Christophe seemed to take it all in stride, and if he was aware that he was the source of my frustration, he gave no sign of it.
I felt it ironic that it should take something as big as an invasion for things to change between us.
The evening of June 5th started out routinely enough. The bar was unusually quiet, and Kenny left early to walk Bebe home, leaving only Christophe and myself to keep things going. It was around 10pm when the Allies started bombing the city indiscriminately, and Christophe had all the patrons evacuate. Most establishments might allow their patrons to take shelter in the building, but Christophe had always made it clear that no one was welcome in La Pelle during a bombing. It might seem cruel to turn people out when the streets were so dangerous, but it was the only way those in his care could get to safety without being found out.
"Go tell Kyle and Stan we're going down to the cellar," he whispered in my ear as he tried to round up the last few drunks loitering at the bar, "I will get the rest of these assholes out."
I nodded and ran up the stairs, but I was only halfway to the flat when an immense explosion rocked the building. I stumbled on the stairs and fell against the wall, but I was uninjured, despite the small bits of debris falling from the walls and ceiling around me.
I sat on the stairs for a moment until Christophe came bolting toward me, stopping in front of me when he saw the dazed look upon my face.
"Wh- what the hell happened?" I asked, feeling a little dizzy.
"I think a bomb hit the building next to ours. Are you ok?" he asked, crouching in front of me and taking my face in his shaking hands.
"I'm fine," I said, using his shoulders as leverage to hoist myself to my feet, "I think the roof might be damaged though."
"I'm sure," he said, looking up at the large crack that had formed along the wall at the top of the stairs, "Come on, we have to get Kyle and Stan."
He took my hand in his, and pulled me up to the flat. I was shaking like a leaf, and I'd like to say it was the thrill of his touch, but mostly I was just afraid of being blown to bits. A bomb had never gone off so close to the building, and I desperately hoped the next wouldn't actually hit us.
Getting Stan down the stairs without hurting him was difficult, but we managed without causing him any unnecessary pain. Kyle had insisted upon helping him alone, and they made their way slowly, with Stan leaning on Kyle for support. Soon we were all huddled in the cellar, atop the blankets we'd dragged off our beds, and tucked between large barrels of beer, hoping the building wouldn't fall down on top of us.
"Who wants to get drunk?" Christophe asked, perusing his wine rack.
"I do," I said.
"Count me in," said Kyle.
Stan just sat there, looking confused, until Christophe held a bottle up in the air.
"You want some wine?" he asked in English.
"Oh, yeah, totally," Stan replied.
There were no wine glasses in the cellar, so Christophe simply opened two bottles with the bottle opener hanging from the wine rack, and handed one to Kyle. He handed me the other, and sat down next to me, leaning against me comfortably. For some reason it made me think of the plane ride from England, when Kenny had leaned on me for reassurance. I didn't think Christophe was the type to need comfort in that way, though.
"I do hope Kenny is ok, wherever he is," I said.
"I'm sure he's fine," Christophe said, snatching the bottle from my hand and taking large gulps from it. I watched his Adam's apple bob in fascination. He caught me staring, as he always seemed to, and grinned at me as he passed the bottle back. "That man has the damnedest luck," he continued, "I could have sworn one night he got shot by a guard when we were on a mission together, but the next morning he was in bed, not a scratch on him. Maybe it was just a dream, I don't know, but he still seems to have a strange way of cheating death."
I nodded, remember the night I'd thought something had happened to him in the factory. The memories were vague, but I distinctly remembered the feelings of panic and sorrow, and yet he'd been fine in the morning. Very strange.
I took a sip from the bottle, marvelling at the taste of the wine inside. My surprise must have shown on my face, because Christophe leaned in close to me and whispered, "I've been saving that wine for years."
"Saving it for what?"
"Something good," he said, still leaning close to me.
I laughed sardonically.
"And what, the worst bombing we've had since I've been here qualifies?" I asked. He smiled at me.
"I can't say for certain, but I think this is the start of the invasion. I have nothing to support my theory, of course," he said to Kyle, who was looking at him with a stunned look on his face, "but... just call it a hunch."
"The timing is right," I said, thoughtfully. I'd been told there would be an invasion some time after my arrival in France, and that all the information I gathered would go toward the intelligence for the operation.
"Rouen is an important town to the Bosche," Christophe continued, "I am certain the Allies would want to destroy it before they land."
"If you're right," Kyle said thickly, "this could be the end of... all this... everything we've suffered through."
He looked dazed and a little upset, and I was surprised when Stan put an arm around him and pulled him close.
"And if you're wrong?" I asked Christophe.
"If I'm wrong... at least we get to enjoy my best wine before we all get blown up," he answered, chuckling.
No one else laughed.
Within a few hours we had polished off about a bottle apiece. Stan and Kyle had long since fallen asleep, wrapped around each other. I was well on my way to being completely smashed. Every time I decided I'd had too much, Christophe would hold the bottle to my lips, and I would drink from it obediently, in a drunken attempt to seduce him. In retrospect I'm sure it was far from sexy, but Christophe seemed to be enjoying himself, and me, regardless. He told me we'd just keep drinking until the bombs stopped, or we just passed out drunk- whichever came first.
By 1 in the morning he was getting pretty drunk himself. He was holding the bottle to my mouth again, and as some of the wine escaped my lips and ran down my chin, he leaned over to lick it off. I moaned appreciatively and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, allowing him to pull me up and over, to straddle his lap.
Just as I leaned in to kiss him, there was an enormous explosion outside, and the lights flickered, and then went out. I froze in place, my entire body tensing up. As a small child I had been terrified of the dark, and that fear always seemed to come back under stressful circumstances. I gripped Christophe's shoulders tightly, and his hands clamped onto my hips like vices.
Next to us, Kyle had apparently awoken, and was moaning to himself in Polish.
"Does anyone have a light?" Stan asked, in English.
Christophe lifted me off his lap, and I listened to him shifting in the darkness until I heard the reassuring click of his lighter. The light that appeared was not enough to illuminate more than just his face, but I felt reassured just the same. He wandered through the room until he came to a box on the opposite wall, lifting it open and pulling out a few candles.
"These should get us through the night," he said, lighting them and setting them on top of the box.
He worked his way back over to me, stumbling slightly in his inebriated state. He flopped down next to me and pulled me against him. I glanced over at Stan and Kyle, who had rolled against each other and looked as though they were fast on their way back to sleep. I couldn't relax so quickly, though, and fidgeted against Christophe, trying to get comfortable.
"It's ok," he said, running his fingers through my hair as I rested my head against his shoulder, "If we get blown up it will probably be very quick."
"That's hardly a comfort," I said, feeling panicked even as his arms wrapped around me.
He was wrong, anyway. A quick death was a possibility, but I had seen many victims in the Blitz who had been injured just enough to die slow, painful deaths, and many survived their horrific injuries. I, for one, did not want to go through life being disfigured in some way.
Christophe merely shrugged, and went back to stroking my hair. I somehow managed to fall asleep against him, pulled under by the alcohol, still vaguely aware of the sounds of explosions coming from outside.
He was stroking my back when I woke up the next morning, and seemed to have been awake for a while when I sat up and regarded him, dimly illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the small window above him. A great deal of the window was blocked by rubble, and I stared at it for a moment, disturbed by what it might indicate about the state of the street above.
"We're alive," Christophe said, his hand on my thigh.
"So it would seem. Shall we go inspect the building?" I asked, anxious to see the damage, despite the dull hangover I was experiencing, which made me want to lay down and sleep forever.
"I suppose," he said, pulling away from me and standing up.
Stan and Kyle were missing, but as we climbed the stairs into the bar we could hear their voices from the floor above us. I assumed Kyle had managed to get Stan back upstairs on his own, which was no small feat.
The view through the bar windows was horrifying; the buildings across the street had been completely razed, and the street was impassable, covered in large piles of rubble. I looked at Christophe, who was staring at the street, his face tense.
"I guess the upstairs is still intact, if Stan and Kyle are up there," I said, trying to break whatever morbid thoughts were clearly running through his head.
"Yeah, come on," he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me upstairs with him.
The bar had been mostly undamaged, but the condition of stairwell to the flat above proved that the entire building hadn't fared quite as well. The wall had apparently caught fire, and we could see daylight through the holes that had burned through it. The flat itself hadn't gone unscathed, either. The ceiling was caving in a little in the kitchen, and most of the windows had been blown out. Still, it seemed we had been extremely lucky, as the view of the city from the second story windows was one of complete devastation.
I heard Stan and Kyle's voices in their room, and peeked in to see if they were alright. Stan was resting on the bed, watching as Kyle sifted through the mess on the floor, muttering to himself. The fire that had consumed part of the stairwell wall had damaged theirs as well, and the room was littered with debris.
"Guess we'll be sleeping in the living room," Stan said to me.
I laughed, though there was nothing really funny about the situation.
We were digging in the rubble of the building across the street, looking for survivors, when Ike stopped by. Christophe had been in a very serious mood since we'd started, and hadn't said much at all to me all morning. He'd asked me to assist him at times, by handing him his shovel, or helping him lift a large bit of rubble, but otherwise he had been conspicuously quiet, absorbed in what he was doing. Ike's arrival interrupted his concentration, however.
"Kyle will want to see you," Christophe said to him, quietly.
"In a minute," he said, leaning in close to Christophe and speaking quietly, "But, hey, have you heard the news?"
Christophe didn't stop what he was doing, but shook his head.
"The Allies have landed on the beaches of Normandie," he whispered, grinning, "That bombing last night was part of the invasion."
"Hah, I fucking knew it," Christophe said, smiling at me.
I smiled back, taking the large block of plaster he handed me and setting it on the ground with a thud.
"Do they think it's been a success so far?" I asked Ike.
"Sounds like it," he said, "It's too early to know for sure, but they made it past the Atlantic Wall, which the Bosche didn't seem to think was possible. But I heard from a friend this morning that we should all be hearing more... Oh, shit. I have a letter for you, Gregory."
He dug around in his pocket, until he found what he was looking for, and handed me a neatly folded letter.
"Don't open it here," he said.
I nodded, and slipped it into my pocket, wondering what might be written in it.
"Ah, anyway, I guess I shouldn't talk about this stuff here, either," he said, frowning.
"No," Christophe said gruffly, "But ah, tell everyone we're keeping the bar closed for a few days. I don't know what the situation with the Bosche will be, but I'd rather concentrate on helping get the street cleared, and repairing my building before I start worrying about that shit."
"Ok, no problem. I'm going to go say hi to Kyle now. Do you mind if I steal some wine before I go home, though, Christophe? I'm staying with, uh, the other guys, you know, and told them I'd bring them some."
"Go ahead," he sighed, "The Bosche will probably break in and steal it themselves if more troops pass through here, which seems likely. I would rather my friends have it."
"Aw, we're friends?" Ike simpered, but received no reply. Christophe was still rooting around in the rubble, trying to pull a large block of plaster off the ground. I smiled tightly at Ike, hoping he'd realize that Christophe was in a bad mood, and would stop bothering him.
"Well anyway, I'll see you guys later on," Ike said, much to my relief, and with that he made his way across the street to La Pelle, pulling himself carefully over the debris strewn across the street.
We spent the next hour or two moving debris until we reached the cellar, only to find the bodies of the families who had lived in that building, huddled together in groups where they had taken refuge. None of them were alive, and indeed, most weren't even recognisable. They had all been crushed when the building caved in on them, and though I had seen many horrible things as a soldier, and as a citizen of London during the Blitz, the sight still made me feel ill. It was one thing to see fellow soldiers maimed or killed in action, but seeing innocent people, including children like the ones we found in the cellar, blown to pieces always made me nauseous. I supposed it was a normal part of war, but I thought of how terrifying their last moment must have been, and thought that no one, especially not innocents such as they, deserved to die in such a manner; huddled together in a dank, dark basement, not knowing if they'd ever see the sun again.
As other survivors came to help remove the bodies, I excused myself, stumbling across the street to Christophe's building, where I intended to lay down for a while.
However, as I reached the door of La Pelle, I noticed Bebe approaching from the corner. This was the first time I'd seen her looking anything but neat and fashionable, and I almost didn't recognise her in men's clothing, her hair a mess and her face filthy.
"Have you seen Kenny?" she asked me without preamble.
"Should I have? I thought he was with you," I said.
"Yeah, he was," she said impatiently, "but my building was bombed... I haven't been able to find him."
"Are you alright?" I asked, more concerned with her dishevelled appearance than the news that Kenny was missing. Somehow I felt he would be alright.
"I'm fine, I just... oh God, if something happened to him..." she trailed off, tears forming in her eyes, "We were all in the cellar, but one of the kids in my building ran upstairs to get something when the bombs got closer. Kenny ran after him, trying to keep him safe, but then a bomb hit and the top floor fell in... and that was the last I saw of him. They couldn't find him in the rubble, though, even though the kid pulled himself out this morning."
I chewed my lip, not knowing what to do as tears poured down her face. If Wendy had come crying to me I would have comforted her without hesitation, but Bebe had never seemed to like me, and I never really knew how to act around her.
Luckily I was saved from having to do anything when Christophe made his way over to us.
"What's wrong?" he asked, as he noticed Bebe was crying.
"Kenny's missing!" she wailed, throwing herself against Christophe's chest and wrapping her arms around him.
I wanted to pull her off him immediately, but thought it might be rather rude to do to someone who was so upset. I was relieved when Christophe pulled away from her, looking extremely uncomfortable.
"Do you want to come inside?" he asked, "Have some wine or something?"
"No," she moaned, "I'm going to go back home and see if he's showed up. I'll stop by later on if he doesn't, but if you see him, please tell him I'm looking for him."
We watched as she walked away, and then Christophe turned to me.
"Do you think Kenny is ok?" he asked.
I sighed and headed into the bar.
"I have no idea," I said turning to him as he shut the door behind him, "I certainly hope so, but..."
He surprised me by reaching out to touch my face, running his fingers down my cheek and across my lips.
"Are you ok?" he asked, "You got upset when we found those children."
"I wasn't upset," I said, though we both knew it was a lie.
I pulled away from him, and headed for the stairs. I needed to change my clothes, and maybe take a bath, or a nap, or maybe get drunk in the tub and do both.
"I'm going to work on the roof for a while," he called after me.
I nodded, half disappointed and half relieved. I didn't know what I needed in that moment to make me feel better, and simultaneously wanted to be alone, and wanted him by my side.
Still, the fire that had burnt the walls of the flat had also taken its toll on the roof, and I knew I would appreciate him repairing it if it were to rain any time soon.
I went upstairs and collapsed into our bed, where I was quickly overcome by sleep.
I awoke some time later when Christophe pulled himself into bed beside me. I was amazed that I hadn't even heard whatever it was he'd done on the roof, as I was typically a very light sleeper. I turned over and looked at him blearily.
"Roof's patched," he said, scooting toward me, "I'll work on the walls tomorrow."
I nodded, and licked my lips, distracted by having his face so close to mine.
He rolled me onto my back and leaned over me, kissing me for the first time in a week. I sighed happily against his mouth, feeling warm and safe, and wanting to put the day's misery behind me.
The night was almost alarmingly quiet, but I paid that no mind as Christophe ran his hands under my shirt.
"Wait, wait, wait," I said, pushing him away, "Are you going to start acting weird again if we do this?"
"Weird?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at me. I sighed at him.
"Yes, Christophe, or are you forgetting the part where you avoided me for a few days after we had sex?"
"Oh. That," he said, breaking eye contact with me and fiddling with the edges of the pillowcase. If I didn't know better I'd have said he looked guilty.
"Yes, that. You treated me as if I'd done something wrong," I said, "I don't want to do this again if you're going to be awkward about it afterwards."
He stared at me for a moment, and began to kiss my neck.
"It will not happen again," he said.
"But what was the reason, Christophe?" I asked, as his hands began to knead my hips. I arched up against him involuntarily, but he stopped his movements after a moment, and looked at me seriously.
"You're a distraction, Gregory. I don't like distractions. I didn't want to get involved with you in the first place, but... well."
"Well?"
He watched me for a moment, and leaned down to kiss me in lieu of a real answer. I smirked against his lips, thinking that what Kyle had told me had been correct. He was mad at himself, and at me, because of how much he liked me.
"Mm, so, if I'm such a distraction, why are we doing this, hm?" I breathed out as his hands found their way down the back of my trousers.
"Because you're distracting to me whether or not we're fucking, so I figure I might as well get what I want out of it."
"And I'm what you want?"
"Obviously," he said, grinding his erection against mine, through the layers of clothing, "Now, enough talking, ok?"
I nodded, and let him have his way with me.