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“I’d like to raise a toast!” The clinking sound of a silver teaspoon against the raised champagne glass caught everyone’s attention.
The announcement found Gregory in the midst of a strung out conversation with professor Teabag. Or, more like, a monologue of professor Teabag. What started with kind words congratulating the young man on his recent success turned into a more casual presentation of his own projects and interesting finds, and despite the polite interest on Thorne’s face, Gregory was kind of relieved hearing his father’s voice save him from the continuation.
Ever since the accident—a fire, or an explosion, something along these lines—left Teabag scarred for life with an off putting misshape to the right side to the entirety of his face, he was struggling with pronouncing certain syllables. While the written texts of his research were proof enough of how quick and valuable his mind was despite the appearance, keeping up with his spoken word was difficult. Not that Gregory allowed himself to show the exhaustion this conversation was bringing him.
At the announcement, professor Teabag offered him a hearty squeeze to the blond’s shoulder, already turning towards the middle of the room where the host was standing.
He was proud.
All of them were proud, so proud.
Charles Thorne reached out towards his son with the hand occupied with the drink, raising it just the tiniest bit. F
inally
,
finally he was good enough, wasn’t he?
“The reason for our celebration is not a secret,” the brunette continued his speech. As unfunny as this line was, it still earned him a few happy nods and an occasional, very fake chuckle here and there from amongst the gathered guests.
Gregory kept his spine straight, his chin raised up at a calculated angle—not too high so people see the gesture as arrogant, not too low, so they don’t assume he’s faking modesty. He responded to his father’s gesture by raising his own glass, still untouched.
Charles looked around the gathered people in a welcoming gesture.
“
The University of Yardale
! Can you imagine?” he chuckled, all casual and so, so very
proud
. Never before did he use this tone when speaking of Gregory.
This was the tone Charles Thorne held for his passion project and for his wife, when they were discussing something related to The Business. His voice was laced with nothing short of elation and vigor, it shifted his entire demeanor, cutting off good ten years off his age.
Gregory felt his heart quicken, his chest constrict in a warm, tight hold. A deeper breath could be seen right now as a sign of stress, so he held the need for it back, as difficult as it was. It was so warm here…
He held tighter to his glass, like the thin stem could hold him together. He was mindful not to apply too much pressure; breaking it would be embarrassing.
“Gregory graduated this year with the highest honor this valued establishment could award to a student, the Dale V. Redfield’s Medal,” Charles announced, tall and
proud, so proud
. It was not the end of the list, either. “He returned home with a double degree: in political science and international relations,
and
! Graduated as the youngest student in the university’s history!”
The only thing that stopped the guests from raising their ovations into a deafening salve was the high class of the gathering. While sincerely enthusiastic, the gentle clapping and a few notes of various single-worded compliments remained low in tone out of respect for the speaker. While not overly loud, for a moment their applause was all and everything, a sea of white noise around Gregory and his father.
The party gathered roughly forty people in the beautiful room on the ground floor of their summer residence.
The choice of this location gave Gregory mixed feelings once it was settled on. Doubt, mostly, because to celebrate in South Park and not in their main residency felt like another way to keep the youth from returning home.
In recent years he started seeing his stay in Colorado not as an appreciation of his independence, but as what exactly it was to begin with; a banishment.
Here, away from home, away from his parents, he had his one last chance to reforge himself into something worthy of keeping around. Through his studies, through his hard work, through sacrifice of countless nights and relationships, he hoped that he’d finally made it—just to hear that he’s not yet allowed to go back.
Charles choosing the South Park residence as the place of celebration felt like an inspection before the final verdict. Like he wanted to see his project of a son for himself before he allows, or delays his return indefinitely.
The guests were to witness this trial, this judgement, this final sentence. There was not going to be another chance for him…
Or maybe Gregory was reading too deep into it. Maybe his father just wanted to see his childhood home once again, just for nostalgia's sake, in search of inspiration. Maybe he wanted to share this piece of common ground with his son who finally was good enough to accept him as his own.
“Son,” Charles Thorne caught his gaze again. The pause lasted just a second, but to the blond it was a small eternity. Gregory held his breath in, awaiting his ruling. “Good job.”
He did it.
He finally did it.
Just…
How come it didn’t taste as satisfying as it should?
How come these two words did not do the same thing with his heart as when Christophe said them before?
Someone was patting him on the back in a friendly gesture, another person was already grabbing his hand to offer the boy their sincere congratulations. The toast was raised properly now, as soon as the staff distributed glasses of champagne to all drinking guests during the host’s speech.
Gregory made sure his smile was as elegant, as courtly as it only could be. He made sure his posture stayed proper, his laugh as polished as it could, because when he would forget to keep the tone even and classy, he sometimes found himself missing a note here or let an odd squeak between the gasps for air. He shouldn't be worried about that. The only person who was able to
really
make him laugh wasn’t present at the party.
He wasn’t present in his life ever since the first semester of university.
While Gregory managed to fill every single moment of these years with lectures, research, assignments and essays, working himself into an early grave in the desperate attempt at keeping his distance, salvaging his pride, coming back to this house after graduation opened him to the Silence’s torment once more.
There was no work to be done, no text to catch up on, no assignments to finish. Idly, he considered applying to a different course now. Maybe diving into something even more intense, why not law? He could do law. It would keep him occupied, hopefully long enough so he could get used to the ghost of a person who was supposed to be here. Who
promised
to be at his side.
The person he himself pushed away in the worst decision of his life.
He really had no one to blame but himself.
Back at this house, he felt Christophe’s presence everywhere. He was (not) with him at the kitchen table during breakfast today, and he was (not) in his room when Gregory was trying to kill the wait for his parents’ arrival with some reading. He was (not) in the crowd now, complaining about the suit he was forced to wear for the occasion
and he looked so good in a properly tailored suit
, and he was (not) nodding at the blond to follow him outside for a smoke.
Gregory was going insane.
He managed to make his way out of the crowd, successfully following complicated steps to this dance of unnecessary pleasantries, from one guest to another, slowly pushing between words and laughs towards the opened glass door inviting him into the night-covered garden.
The cold air hit his face, a soft breeze informed him kindly of a loose hair strand that escaped its rightful place and was now hanging freely over his temple.
Christophe was (not) leaning against the wall by his side, lighting a cigarette. There was no smoke, and Gregory couldn’t even recall anymore what the smoke smelled like. This all felt wrong.
Why was he so dramatic today? Was it the return to this place? Was it this panic sprouting in his heart, because reaching the end line of his hard work was not half as satisfying as what he could have chosen instead?
“Ah, there you are!” None other than Charles Thorne joined him outside, on the backstage of this expensive, sophisticated show.
“Father,” Gregory quickly stood up straight again, nervously fixing his hair.
The brunette rested his hand on his shoulder in what was supposed to be a supportive gesture. For some reason, it did not feel right. It was supposed to feel right. What was wrong?
“I’m actually glad you stepped outside, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Charles went straight to the point. His hand slid from Gregory’s shoulder to the blond’s upper back, guiding him further away from the gold light spilling outside from the party.
This was the first time in as long as Gregory could recall, when his father spoke to him in this way. This open, casually inviting manner, ignoring all the years of silence between them. Acting like nothing has happened. Like he did not keep his son at an arm’s length for close to twenty years, if not more than that.
“Since you’re done with your studies now, I’m sure you were looking forward to going back home?” he started the topic, but kept going before Gregory could reply: “So, I was thinking, see—Me
and your mother
were thinking, actually!” He let out a joyful laugh, giving his spouse the due credit. “We’ve been thinking of expanding the business. Screw the UK! Let’s go international! — That’s the idea here,” he hummed, excited about the prospect, about another step in The Business, the love of his life. “First, Colorado! You’re a graduate in the States, you’ve grown up here, why won’t we play on this a bit in the marketing plan? You know how Americans are, always falling for the posh British guys!—And don’t think I was the one who thought of it, no, no, it was of course Norrah. She’s just brilliant when it comes to these things—We need to use
you
as the face of the introductory campaign. We’ll have you pick up the accent again a bit more, that’s in order, but other than that, you’re a very handsome young man, and that’s absolutely something worth playing with. We still have to take into consideration the more traditional values our company stands for, of course, so it would do well for you to marry sooner rather than later, if you know what I mean… We’re definitely going to need a wife and a kid!” Another laugh. Carefree, breezy, as Gregory’s life was crumbling around him.
In this one monologue, Charles Thorne restructured his son’s future, broke down any vague ideas and blank canvas of possibilities. He filled it with his own plan, with more pretending, more appearances and forced smiles.
Stay here? For how long? A wife? A child?
What?
Christophe was (not) tapping off ash from his cigarette to the perfectly trimmed grass. He was (not) saying “
Je te l'avais dit .”
“...Actually…” Gregory finally took his chance to get a word in, just to prove the ghost of his friend he could stand up for himself. “I was actually considering pursuing another degree.”
There was a moment of pause between them, an empty abyss.
“What for?” Charles asked with an uncertain smile. “You already have a degree.”
The realization filled his mind slowly, like a slope of dark molasses, poisoning whatever it touched.
Charles Thorne did not care for his accomplishment. He wasn’t looking for a son, he was looking for a trophy, for an exhibit to show off, he was looking for another business partner.
In this moment, Gregory realized that he gave up all he had, all he had ever cared for, for love of a parent he was never going to get.
“Look, that’s not important right now,” Charles spoke. “You can go back to university, sure, but let’s focus on the main matter now—Have you heard of Havishams? They are quite a big player on the market right now, and miss Havisham has a daughter—”
He was going to be sick.
The cold air was doing nothing to cool him down right now, the panic that sprouted in his chest before was blooming, tall and overwhelming, threatening to climb up his throat, to slice it on its way up, to make him bleed.
He yearned for a deep breath. He yearned for words to come to him, so he could scream his frustration, his anger, his
fury
.
And even then, he remained perfectly collected.
His back was straight, his gaze attentive, shaking hands nested elegantly behind his back.
“I-”
“Charles, love?” Norah Thorne, all smiles and effortless beauty her son inherited, waved at them gracefully from the entrance. “Dear, don’t hassle Gregory with business talk on his birthday!”
It was his birthday?
Nobody mentioned his birthday earlier.
“I’m sorry, sugarpuff!” Charles laughed boyishly back at her. “We’ll be back in a minute. I just want to finish here before we have to go.”
“You’re leaving already?” Gregory heard himself ask in disbelief.
“Hm? Oh, yes,” his father confirmed without a shadow of apology in his manners. “We have an early meeting with our future
business partner
~” He mused, gently nudging his son’s elbow with his own, like it was some inside joke, and not a marriage arrangement in the making. “Don’t worry too much, Norah will organize everything. Meanwhile, I need to make sure you understand me—you know how I can be when I get excited about work!” he laughed, and Gregory wanted to say no, he did not know how his father was, because he did not know his father at all. “I’m not asking you to become just a face of an advertising campaign. I’m asking you to take over this brand new Thorne-Morren branch as the Senior CEO overseeing our entrance into the United States!”
Gregory took a step back, away from his father.
Then, he took another step back.
“...Gregory?”
Outside of this man’s reach, he did not bump into Christophe, faithfully standing behind his back, but at the very least he could breathe again.
“I-”
“Son?”
“Don’t call me that,” Gregory whispered, against himself.
What the fuck was he doing?
He took another step back, allowing the space between them to grow even more. His father frowned, somewhere between confusion and offence.
“Gregory, what are you talking about?”
“I-”
He finally took his long awaited, deep breath.
“
I can’t do this.
”
—
Gregory did not know where he was going.
It was just a matter of time before someone catches up to him in a car—or maybe they won’t. Maybe, for once in his life, they will take his words seriously.
For now, the street was completely empty, void of anything but night.
Here, even the sparse streetlamps weren’t turned on, allowing the young man to walk along the road in complete darkness.
He didn’t bother to keep to the side of the street, instead treading along the dashed line separating the narrow lanes. Each of his steps was loud enough to keep him company.
Gregory was smart enough to grab his coat on his way out. It didn’t matter for the weather itself, no, but now he had his wallet and phone by his side, and that was a better start than with nothing at all.
A new start…
God
. Did he really just run away from home at twenty-fucking-two? Did he really throw away all these years, all the means to reaching this goal? Leaving the safety and stability of his family’s fortune behind meant that nothing he sacrificed to get here meant shit anymore.
And he gave up so much, barely even realizing when it was happening.
What the fuck happened to the boy who was supposed to change the world, what the fuck happened to the leader of La Resistance, to the spark of the revolution? When did he lose himself?
He kept walking, his short pilgrimage of shame, of repentance. The tall trees on both sides of the road watched him in silence, ancient, judgmental. It was a trail of humiliation as he made peace with himself, finally shedding his pride with each step.
He has lost the sense of his purpose, he confessed to the trees. He has abandoned his credo. He chose what was expected of him instead of standing against the system, against the world at his beloved friend’s side how he was supposed to in this life. He gave up four years of his life to follow a fake god’s preaching, chasing a golden idol, a reward that was never promised to him. He kept choosing the comfortable and secure above the Cause.
And the worst of all, he has backed out from the Survivor’s Oath.
Gregory stopped in the middle of the road, thinking idly that there should be a downpour happening now, just for the sake of dramatics.
Not for the first time throughout these years, he wondered where Christophe was right now? Was he still fighting the wrongs of this world, one bullet at the time? Was he now a famous mercenary, did he have a new partner at his side? This idea, for all the selfish reasons, was the most painful out of them all. It wasn’t far from the realm of possibilities, either, with how resolute, charming and forgiving Christophe was. Well, to him at least, he used to be. Was it possible that he did not need Gregory anymore? Was four years too long of a wait?
Did he ever need him, or was it Gregory who needed the Frenchman?
Thorne wouldn’t blame him. He would blame himself.
Then, another thought appeared in his mind, a cool touch of fear that he considered before, and brushed away equally quick.
Was Christophe still even alive?
If he was not, Gregory was the cause for it. He was the one to force the Frenchman to leave. He was the one who spat all the frustration and hate in his face, like they were meant for the Mole, and not for Gregory himself.
And even then, Christophe’s last words to him were still a masochistic, selfless act of martyrdom that echoed in Gregory’s head from time to time throughout these years.
“When you’re ready to apologize,” he said, “and get your ass back to work, just text me.”
Was his phone number still even the same?
—
Christophe was awaiting him about ten meters away from the gas station’s platform.
Here, the mostly empty single-line parking lot ended with a short wooden railing to separate it from the woods.
The loose gravel covering the ground in this area crunched under Gregory’s shoes.
Christophe was smoking his first cigarette already. He was standing, his backside against the railing, watching the blond’s approach with his usual unreadable expression.
He has changed, just a bit,
and Gregory wondered if he has changed as well.
The Mole grew into his body a bit more, filling it with laid-back confidence only a man who knew how to handle his own safety could radiate. Gone was the air of adolescence, anything that remained of a boy just learning where the borders, limits and restrictions are drawn in this world. He knew the ground he was standing on, and he knew how to force others to obey his command.
He’s earned a new scar running over his right brow and into the dark, tied-back hair. He kept his hands covered with fingerless gloves. Gregory knew the history of abuse they were hiding from strangers, and he felt like he scored a point just for that.
Oh, how Christophe has proven, with the change in his demeanor, with the unspoken story behind the shadows under his eyes, behind the sharpness of his gaze, that he did not need a partner to live the life
they both
were supposed to live.
…But he still had the same jacket on. And he kept the same phone number, just in case Gregory comes back to his senses.
The Brit took a deep breath in hopes of clearing his mind, but the smell of sharp smoke made it impossible. It filled his heart with this annoying longing he was trying to hold back.
Christophe, still, held too much power over him.
Thank God he didn’t realize it.
“I apologize,” Gregory said, and the man in front of him answered with silence. So, he continued: “I’m sorry. You were right.”
Christophe tapped ash off his cigarette, exhaling another cloud of suffocating smoke.
Just when the blond started to wonder if he’s maybe lost his voice, he finally spoke up, ripping open a hole that Gregory somehow managed to nurse closed after he pushed the Mole away. His accent was as thick as ever, voice low in the most pleasant way years of smoking could leave it in.
“I can’t have you change your mind again.”
“I won’t.”
Another moment of silence, and these sharp, hazel eyes slicing through him like Christophe wanted to uncover the truth behind his words, if there was any to find.
Then, their exchange felt like a liturgy. A sermon, with one voice leading the believer into simple replies, guiding the prayer.
“I can’t have you choosing any bitch over me.”
“I won’t.”
“I can’t have you quit on me out of nowhere.”
“I won’t.”
“I can’t have you believing this is all another childhood game to play.”
“I won’t.”
“I can’t have you risking my, or your life like it’s nothing.”
“I won’t.”
“I can’t have you thinking you’re in charge here.”
“I won’t”
“If we partner up, we’re equals now,” the brunette informed him.
“We’re equals,” Gregory echoed submissively.
Then, the litany turned into a different rite, as Christophe’s tone shifted into a less certain one:
“Neither of us will have to die alone.”
Gregory recognized the Oath, and he slowly let out the breath he was holding in for a long moment now. Relief slowly took place of that sap poisoning his heart. He has been forgiven.
“...Breach, bargain or kill, we’ll reach the other, so he doesn’t have to beg to be held in his agony.”
That, finally, seemed to please the mercenary.
He threw the cigarette butt on the ground and carelessly stepped it into the gravel.
“Get in the car, Kingfisher. We have a job to take care of.”