The chain digging into his neck was becoming agitating as he pulled away. His face was flushed and he looked positively enraged. This was not the face of the rational young man that craved control. This was the animal that Gregory had locked behind that pretty face of his. A side that not many people saw. Christophe was really the only one who did see it. His father had seen that side of him as well, part of the reason he was locked up.
Gregory knew that Christophe was enjoying the fact that he had broken him. That thought alone was enough to send Gregory into another fit of curses. He brought his now free hands up to shove the male away from him. The hand that was still wrapped around his chain caused it to break. An angry red line was seen around his neck from the sheer force of the shove.
He scrambled up suddenly, his body coiled and ready for action as he glared at Christophe. No one really knew just how dangerous Gregory was. No one knew that he had an impressive collection of weapons that he could wield flawlessly. That pretty face hid a pit viper with plenty of venom. At that moment, he was ready to strike.
He was angry, frustrated, and desperate. Three emotions that Gregory could directly associate with how he felt about Christophe 99.9% of the time. The .1% were the rare moments when they were both at peace with one another. The times that Gregory wish there were more of…but…Christophe…he had to be so…so…insufferable!
Gregory launched forward, his leg swinging around to kick at the male in the side. What Gregory lacked in upper body strength he made up for in lower body. Christophe was built simply because he dug those damned holes.
He also swung forward, lashing his arm out to throw a punch at the brunette’s face. In his anger, he actually cursed at Christophe in his native tongue, “Tu m’as laissé! Vous n’avez pas dit un mot, vous venez de quitter!”
Though he claimed to detest the language, it came in handy when he didn’t want another person to know what they were saying. Deep down, he didn’t really hate it, but in that moment he wasn’t so sure. He was using it to express his emotion towards Christophe, which were tangled together. He wasn’t sure how he should feel.
He threw another punch at the male, all while spewing rapid lines of French, “Ils m’ont traîné ici et que vous étiez nulle part pour être vu! Nous sommes censés être des partenaires et vous m’avez manqué! J’étais … alors … seul …” his punches died down, leaning forward to press his forehead into Christophe’s chest as he shook.
If someone walked by it could have been mistaken that he was crying when he really wasn’t. He was trying to gather control over himself. His fists clenched in Christophe’s shirt, using him as a sort of anchor as he breathed deeply.
Christophe wished he was the kind of person who could steel himself and swing the conversation back to more attractive things, like kissing the snot out of Gregory, but he had an ego and he had problems with the control he had over his anger and there was a fight going on and. He wanted to be a part of it. Damn it all.
He couldn’t help but feel victorious at the snapping of the cross chain. The fucking thing was gone. Gone. Of course, Gregory had spares a plenty, but this one was dead. Killed. Gone. If Christophe prayed, he’d thank the lord out of spiteful irony.
So concentrated on that victory, Christophe barely braced himself for the attack on his side. He could almost feel the blues forming below his ribs. Damn those prissy fucking runner’s legs.
The throw, he was more prepared for. Caught and swept aside. The French? He was not. Which made him a bit slow on the other punches. A good few of them landed in his scramble to make sense of the situation.
Gregory never spoke French to him. It wasn’t a surprise that he knew how- Gregory’d known him since they were small and he always knew which snippets to scold. It was just so jolting to hear it spoken. Gregory constantly complained of how foul the language was, and even if Christophe knew he didn’t actually hate it, it didn’t —hadn’t— mattered, because he’d always refused to speak it. Always. That was a thing. A thing that wasn’t done. And here Gregory was messing up the order of it.
He was pretty good at it, Christophe noted objectively. Fast speaking. Even if he couldn’t completely get rid of the tint of English accent. It was different than hearing people in America who knew French. He wasn’t sure yet if he liked the English spin or if he hated it more than anything.
When the punches died down alongside Gregory’s drive, Christophe rewound the conversation and tried to think of what the other had actually said.
Christophe’s hands, rough as his expression, molded themselves along Gregory’s sides- his fingers splayed out to the upper back. “Non, je n’ai pas fait cela.”
He waited until he heard a deep breath, and thinking maybe Gregory was going to branch out in anger again and this would be his chance, he spoke quickly. “Il n’y avait pas moyen de vous! J’ai essayé, il n’y avait rien. Rien. Et votre père n’a pas exactement permettez-moi dans la maison plus longtemps. C’était tout ce que je pouvais faire pour obtenir d’aussi loin que je pouvais avant qu’il convaincu ma mère de me faire signer à cet endroit ainsi. Mais elle a signé! Elle a signé, et je n’avais pas où aller. Donc, ils m’ont trouvé essayer de vous sauver.”
“Je n’ai pas fait cela. Je n’ai pas vous laisser seul. La seule raison pour laquelle je n’ai pas été vu, c’est parce qu’ils me voir aussi.”
He was almost growling out words now. He squeezed tight. He glared with small, heavy eyes.
“Mais j’ai échoué. Donc, je suis là.”
“…Nous avons finalement avons été enfermés. Trop fou pour la prison, hein? Je me demande ce que votre père a pensé a fait la distinction.”