[FANFIC]
Title: park @ midnite
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Craig/Stan
Rating: PG-13 (Though the language can be NC-17-ish?)
Summary: #66 Midnight The Table
Warnings: Language is all, really.
Notes: Written for officenerdgirl
'park @ midnite'
Normally, a text such as this would have excited Stan, would have been able to make him anticipate what his girlfriend possibly could have in store for him. And, in Stan's perverted, teenage-boy mind, the only thing he usually was able to think of was kissing, making out, sneaking in a grope here or there. He had grown out of his 'girls-make-me-gag' phase and, to no real surprise, had become quite the charmer. Wendy had certainly been willing to abandon some of her more liberal ways in order to appease him, even though he had insisted time after time again that she didn't have to, that he loved her either way.
Stan had never really cared for politics anyways, so when she started ranting about an unfair fascist government, he generally tuned out. He would nod in all the appropriate places of course, pursing his lips whenever a certain topic that she obviously felt important would come and then commenting enough on them to assure her that he was really listening - when, if fact, he was only listening for the most important parts that he could take into context elsewhere if the subject was ever brought up again. He had developed the talent of selective hearing to near perfection and his girlfriend had yet to catch him at it.
Wendy had not messaged or called him in a day or so, which was mildly concerning, probably due to the fact that they had had a fight (a small one, though, he had told himself repeatedly - one that neither of them really knew about what they were fighting). But he wasn't about to call her back, oh no, if she wanted to be that way then he would show her that he didn't need her but she sure as hell needed him. Forget the fact that he had kept his cell sitting on his lap, forget the fact that when it buzzed pleasantly to alert him of a new message he nearly jumped out of his skin trying to flip it open in time, forget the fact that when he saw the simplistic text his heart faltered and dropped - Wendy couldn't have sent him this. She had a curfew that she religiously obeyed, of course, and was hardly one for chat speak. Besides, Wendy wouldn't be childish enough to make sure that the number appeared as 'UNKNOWN' in big lettering above the message.
Disappointed, Stan's finger tapped at the phone, it hovering over 'DELETE' when a strange sense of hesitation hit. He found his eyes drawn back up to the subject text, instead, where the request -- strong, firm, definite, more of a command than anything else -- drew him back to it like a siren's song. Further intrigued and though he knew he would not find the contact's name in the sent information, he still glanced up to it, staring with strange curiosity and awe at that single word 'UNKNOWN'. Deciding that this event was too out of the ordinary to pass up, he removed his finger from the delete selection and instead saved it.
Though amused and interested in who was sending him phantom messages, Stan slid his phone back into his pocket and retreated to his room. He had no clue as to who 'UNKNOWN' was, but he wasn't about to let this masked figure order him around.
---
The 'perfect couple' broke up for the fourth time that month the day after Stan had received the strange message from the unknown sender.
It was during second period, Stan had made some passing comment to Kyle about how a certain person should learn how to grow some balls and confront a situation directly instead of acting like a hurt pussy about it. Apparently, since first period, Wendy had been mulling over if she wanted to still be together with Stan or not and when she heard his comment it had simply sent her over the edge she had been teetering upon. It ended in explosions before their teacher even got in the room, meaning the 'perfect couple' had to remain in one another's awkward vicinity for an entire forty minutes.
By the time the class was over, Stan was already regretting what he had said and was giving his ex of forty minutes quick, nervous glances. She was plaintively ignoring him though, doing everything she could not to look at Stan. She wanted to play it that way? Fine. He wasn't going to show any sort of mercy.
Still, who was it that ended up in the bathroom during almost all of third period? Not Wendy Testaburger, of course, because she was perfect and had about ten guys already begging to lick her goddamn boots clean for her. Stan couldn't deny the jealousy that had risen when he saw even Craig moving to fall neatly in line behind her. Craig? Craig, of all people?
Stan glared miserably into his reflection, wondering how someone who was considered like him could, so suddenly, lose his girlfriend in a matter of moments, over just a few words. How, he wondered, had it even happened, other than the comment that had sparked off the new fight earlier? What had happened, what had he done to start the entire situation? Because, of course, it was always his fault. Never Wendy's. Wendy was perfect, Stan was average. They had to at least make it look that way for the sake of keeping up an image among one another's friends and family. Lies. Nothing but a bunch of lies.
Well, he's done with that. Through and through. Who cares about Wendy Testaburger, anyways?
Miserably, methodically, Stan turns on the tap and washes his hand.
---
The inspiration to visit the park that night was a random one. Hell, it wasn't like he was going to be waiting for anyone this time around, why not? Besides, the goth kids were usually in that area, right? Maybe if he snuck around long enough he'd be able to find them and they would have words of advice or cigarettes or coffee or something better to calm his nerves. Around midnight, Stan was creeping around at the neighborhood park, hardly taken care of, hardly cleaned, hardly fun anymore. The goth kids, to his displeasure, were no where to be found and it would appear as if he wouldn't be getting anything good out of the night.
Resigned to his fate, the dark-haired boy plopped down on one of the swings, swishing his feet in the wood chips below, watching the frozen scraps go flying in every which direction. The metal of the swing's chains squealed and squeaked in protest, as if his small body would be enough to break the links. Hell, they'd probably start squealing if Stan put a Bible on the swing seat, let alone a near fully grown teenager. From beside him, there came the joined sound of metal protesting its movement and Stan glanced up, finding it hard to blink away the surprise that struck him.
Held out towards him was a single cigarette (which he gladly accepted and popped between his lips) and the hand holding it belonged to none other than Craig. Craig goddamn Tucker. That cool, mysterious kid (who really wasn't that mysterious, just dull, in Stan's opinion) that every girl fantasized about, imagining that they would one day be the ones to crack open his strange, hard exterior and reveal it pleasantly to the world. How funny it would be to see their faces when they realized there was nothing inside of Craig. Dull, boring, Craig.
"Dude...?" Stan asked as his eyes wandered up and down the other, as if sizing him up.
"Sorry."
That couldn't have been more unexpected. "Excuse me...?"
"I said, 'Sorry'." Craig added volume to it, just in case there was a problem with Stan's hearing.
This time, Stan shook away the surprise. "For?"
"Earlier."
"What...?"
"Not being direct."
Stan blinked and then shrugged. "So, you want to bang my gir-- Wendy." He tried to sound indifferent. "Dude, I don't really care. You gotta light?"
Craig glanced over to Stan, his brow flicking downward before he looked forward again, frowning as he gazed straight ahead. "I don't want to... bang Wendy."
"Listen, Craig, I don't fucking care. I mean, it's pretty obvious that you and every other assfuck wants to screw her, I don't care anymore." He gestured to the cigarette loosely held between his lips.
"No, I don't." The other merely responded, turning his gaze (so slow, so deliberate) onto Stan again. "I don't like Wendy."
"That's great." Stan honestly couldn't make heads nor tails of Craig, everything he said was so fucked up and twisted around that Stan was going to begin developing the wrong ideas. "Now, you got a fucking light or what?"
Without another word, Craig was leaning in towards Stan, enjoying too much the gasp that drew in great mouthfuls of air. Grey-blue eyes had gone as flat and as emotional as slate as they came together, noses nearly touching, ends of their cigarettes connecting until Stan's lit up. And then they were pulling back, so damn slowly, from one another. Stan, too enthralled by the depth of those emotionless (seemingly) blue slate eyes, didn't want to back away. And Craig, trapped by previous feelings and strange emotions, hadn't wanted to part, either. Still, they did, and Stan took in a long, deep drag, as if it were helping him think.
"You?" He asked, glancing to Craig.
"Me."
Stan swallowed. "Me...?"
"You." The other confirmed.
Stan looked away, one hand tightly curled around the swing's chains, the other lifting his cigarette away from his mouth. It must have been pretty fast-acting because Stan felt calmer than ever. As if those grey-blue eyes had slipped over all of his inner calamity and had dragged it away, out of sight. He breathed easily now.
"Why now?"
Craig shrugged and then squinted his eyes, glancing up and away, determined not to look at Stan. "You always have problems with Wendy. You're not normal. You two aren't right for each other." The bluntness of the other's statements made them seem to obviously true, as if Stan had never completely realized them until Craig said it like that. "And I like you."
The last caught him only slightly off guard, mostly because it was the way Craig said things. So obviously, so quickly, so easily. No emotion attached, not anything that was obvious at least. Maybe the girls at school were right, Stan couldn't help but think as Craig leaned over, grabbed a fistful of Stan's jacket, his blue slate eyes staring past every defense the cobalt eyes had to offer. And their lips were being smushed together, along with their chests and torsos, cigarettes falling to be abandoned forever in the snow. Craig kissed as passionately as a lover trying to show everything that was truly behind him, a lover who, in vain, tried to convey every aspect of their being into that one kiss that seemed to last a lifetime.
Maybe they were right.
The other separated himself from Stan, staring down at Stan who stared right back up at him in a daze. Craig's brow furrowed and he turned, shrugging his coat higher up onto his shoulders, before he began to walk away, leaving Stan sitting on the cold strip of rubber that served as a seat. Stan stared after Craig as he walked, his face contorted in a blank-confused way as he stood, finally releasing his grip on the metal chains.
Maybe there was something very mysterious about Craig, after all.
And maybe, just maybe... Stan licked his lips, tasting the lingering smoke, smelling the fresh linen scent his clothing had brought... Stan wanted to learn more about him, too.
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Craig/Stan
Rating: PG-13 (Though the language can be NC-17-ish?)
Summary: #66 Midnight The Table
Warnings: Language is all, really.
Notes: Written for officenerdgirl
'park @ midnite'
Normally, a text such as this would have excited Stan, would have been able to make him anticipate what his girlfriend possibly could have in store for him. And, in Stan's perverted, teenage-boy mind, the only thing he usually was able to think of was kissing, making out, sneaking in a grope here or there. He had grown out of his 'girls-make-me-gag' phase and, to no real surprise, had become quite the charmer. Wendy had certainly been willing to abandon some of her more liberal ways in order to appease him, even though he had insisted time after time again that she didn't have to, that he loved her either way.
Stan had never really cared for politics anyways, so when she started ranting about an unfair fascist government, he generally tuned out. He would nod in all the appropriate places of course, pursing his lips whenever a certain topic that she obviously felt important would come and then commenting enough on them to assure her that he was really listening - when, if fact, he was only listening for the most important parts that he could take into context elsewhere if the subject was ever brought up again. He had developed the talent of selective hearing to near perfection and his girlfriend had yet to catch him at it.
Wendy had not messaged or called him in a day or so, which was mildly concerning, probably due to the fact that they had had a fight (a small one, though, he had told himself repeatedly - one that neither of them really knew about what they were fighting). But he wasn't about to call her back, oh no, if she wanted to be that way then he would show her that he didn't need her but she sure as hell needed him. Forget the fact that he had kept his cell sitting on his lap, forget the fact that when it buzzed pleasantly to alert him of a new message he nearly jumped out of his skin trying to flip it open in time, forget the fact that when he saw the simplistic text his heart faltered and dropped - Wendy couldn't have sent him this. She had a curfew that she religiously obeyed, of course, and was hardly one for chat speak. Besides, Wendy wouldn't be childish enough to make sure that the number appeared as 'UNKNOWN' in big lettering above the message.
Disappointed, Stan's finger tapped at the phone, it hovering over 'DELETE' when a strange sense of hesitation hit. He found his eyes drawn back up to the subject text, instead, where the request -- strong, firm, definite, more of a command than anything else -- drew him back to it like a siren's song. Further intrigued and though he knew he would not find the contact's name in the sent information, he still glanced up to it, staring with strange curiosity and awe at that single word 'UNKNOWN'. Deciding that this event was too out of the ordinary to pass up, he removed his finger from the delete selection and instead saved it.
Though amused and interested in who was sending him phantom messages, Stan slid his phone back into his pocket and retreated to his room. He had no clue as to who 'UNKNOWN' was, but he wasn't about to let this masked figure order him around.
---
The 'perfect couple' broke up for the fourth time that month the day after Stan had received the strange message from the unknown sender.
It was during second period, Stan had made some passing comment to Kyle about how a certain person should learn how to grow some balls and confront a situation directly instead of acting like a hurt pussy about it. Apparently, since first period, Wendy had been mulling over if she wanted to still be together with Stan or not and when she heard his comment it had simply sent her over the edge she had been teetering upon. It ended in explosions before their teacher even got in the room, meaning the 'perfect couple' had to remain in one another's awkward vicinity for an entire forty minutes.
By the time the class was over, Stan was already regretting what he had said and was giving his ex of forty minutes quick, nervous glances. She was plaintively ignoring him though, doing everything she could not to look at Stan. She wanted to play it that way? Fine. He wasn't going to show any sort of mercy.
Still, who was it that ended up in the bathroom during almost all of third period? Not Wendy Testaburger, of course, because she was perfect and had about ten guys already begging to lick her goddamn boots clean for her. Stan couldn't deny the jealousy that had risen when he saw even Craig moving to fall neatly in line behind her. Craig? Craig, of all people?
Stan glared miserably into his reflection, wondering how someone who was considered like him could, so suddenly, lose his girlfriend in a matter of moments, over just a few words. How, he wondered, had it even happened, other than the comment that had sparked off the new fight earlier? What had happened, what had he done to start the entire situation? Because, of course, it was always his fault. Never Wendy's. Wendy was perfect, Stan was average. They had to at least make it look that way for the sake of keeping up an image among one another's friends and family. Lies. Nothing but a bunch of lies.
Well, he's done with that. Through and through. Who cares about Wendy Testaburger, anyways?
Miserably, methodically, Stan turns on the tap and washes his hand.
---
The inspiration to visit the park that night was a random one. Hell, it wasn't like he was going to be waiting for anyone this time around, why not? Besides, the goth kids were usually in that area, right? Maybe if he snuck around long enough he'd be able to find them and they would have words of advice or cigarettes or coffee or something better to calm his nerves. Around midnight, Stan was creeping around at the neighborhood park, hardly taken care of, hardly cleaned, hardly fun anymore. The goth kids, to his displeasure, were no where to be found and it would appear as if he wouldn't be getting anything good out of the night.
Resigned to his fate, the dark-haired boy plopped down on one of the swings, swishing his feet in the wood chips below, watching the frozen scraps go flying in every which direction. The metal of the swing's chains squealed and squeaked in protest, as if his small body would be enough to break the links. Hell, they'd probably start squealing if Stan put a Bible on the swing seat, let alone a near fully grown teenager. From beside him, there came the joined sound of metal protesting its movement and Stan glanced up, finding it hard to blink away the surprise that struck him.
Held out towards him was a single cigarette (which he gladly accepted and popped between his lips) and the hand holding it belonged to none other than Craig. Craig goddamn Tucker. That cool, mysterious kid (who really wasn't that mysterious, just dull, in Stan's opinion) that every girl fantasized about, imagining that they would one day be the ones to crack open his strange, hard exterior and reveal it pleasantly to the world. How funny it would be to see their faces when they realized there was nothing inside of Craig. Dull, boring, Craig.
"Dude...?" Stan asked as his eyes wandered up and down the other, as if sizing him up.
"Sorry."
That couldn't have been more unexpected. "Excuse me...?"
"I said, 'Sorry'." Craig added volume to it, just in case there was a problem with Stan's hearing.
This time, Stan shook away the surprise. "For?"
"Earlier."
"What...?"
"Not being direct."
Stan blinked and then shrugged. "So, you want to bang my gir-- Wendy." He tried to sound indifferent. "Dude, I don't really care. You gotta light?"
Craig glanced over to Stan, his brow flicking downward before he looked forward again, frowning as he gazed straight ahead. "I don't want to... bang Wendy."
"Listen, Craig, I don't fucking care. I mean, it's pretty obvious that you and every other assfuck wants to screw her, I don't care anymore." He gestured to the cigarette loosely held between his lips.
"No, I don't." The other merely responded, turning his gaze (so slow, so deliberate) onto Stan again. "I don't like Wendy."
"That's great." Stan honestly couldn't make heads nor tails of Craig, everything he said was so fucked up and twisted around that Stan was going to begin developing the wrong ideas. "Now, you got a fucking light or what?"
Without another word, Craig was leaning in towards Stan, enjoying too much the gasp that drew in great mouthfuls of air. Grey-blue eyes had gone as flat and as emotional as slate as they came together, noses nearly touching, ends of their cigarettes connecting until Stan's lit up. And then they were pulling back, so damn slowly, from one another. Stan, too enthralled by the depth of those emotionless (seemingly) blue slate eyes, didn't want to back away. And Craig, trapped by previous feelings and strange emotions, hadn't wanted to part, either. Still, they did, and Stan took in a long, deep drag, as if it were helping him think.
"You?" He asked, glancing to Craig.
"Me."
Stan swallowed. "Me...?"
"You." The other confirmed.
Stan looked away, one hand tightly curled around the swing's chains, the other lifting his cigarette away from his mouth. It must have been pretty fast-acting because Stan felt calmer than ever. As if those grey-blue eyes had slipped over all of his inner calamity and had dragged it away, out of sight. He breathed easily now.
"Why now?"
Craig shrugged and then squinted his eyes, glancing up and away, determined not to look at Stan. "You always have problems with Wendy. You're not normal. You two aren't right for each other." The bluntness of the other's statements made them seem to obviously true, as if Stan had never completely realized them until Craig said it like that. "And I like you."
The last caught him only slightly off guard, mostly because it was the way Craig said things. So obviously, so quickly, so easily. No emotion attached, not anything that was obvious at least. Maybe the girls at school were right, Stan couldn't help but think as Craig leaned over, grabbed a fistful of Stan's jacket, his blue slate eyes staring past every defense the cobalt eyes had to offer. And their lips were being smushed together, along with their chests and torsos, cigarettes falling to be abandoned forever in the snow. Craig kissed as passionately as a lover trying to show everything that was truly behind him, a lover who, in vain, tried to convey every aspect of their being into that one kiss that seemed to last a lifetime.
Maybe they were right.
The other separated himself from Stan, staring down at Stan who stared right back up at him in a daze. Craig's brow furrowed and he turned, shrugging his coat higher up onto his shoulders, before he began to walk away, leaving Stan sitting on the cold strip of rubber that served as a seat. Stan stared after Craig as he walked, his face contorted in a blank-confused way as he stood, finally releasing his grip on the metal chains.
Maybe there was something very mysterious about Craig, after all.
And maybe, just maybe... Stan licked his lips, tasting the lingering smoke, smelling the fresh linen scent his clothing had brought... Stan wanted to learn more about him, too.