Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3343883.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      South_Park
  Relationship:
      Stan_Marsh/Craig_Tucker
  Series:
      Part 1 of the_houses_were_humming_all_through_the_night
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-13 Updated: 2015-05-17 Chapters: 3/4 Words: 27345
****** think of you from time to time ******
by dadvans_(orphan_account)
Summary
     Kissing Stan is like speaking Spanish; he knows the basics, and he’s
     practiced it half-assed with his peers, but he’s never tried speaking
     it with someone who is fluent. And Stan is fluent in kissing, slowly
     licking his way past Craig’s teeth, biting at his upper lip as he
     rocks their mouths together sure and steady.
      
     Stan Marsh is a freshly fallen star back home from rehab when Craig
     runs into him and Kenny at the South Park Mall. (Prequel series to
     "the houses were humming all through the night").
Notes
     This fic is basically a potential series of self-indulgent Stan/Craig
     one-shots from the same 'verse as "the houses were humming all
     through the night," which is a canon-divergent AU based on the
     episode "Smug Alert!" This AU relies heavily on Kyle never moving
     back to South Park, and Stan becoming a failed child star following
     the initial success of "Come On People Now."
See the end of the work for more notes
***** the first time. *****
Token drags Craig to the South Park Mall two weeks before their Junior year
starts to go shopping for new clothes.  Craig wants to tell him to fuck off,
but then Token says he’ll throw down for Jamba Juice, and when that doesn’t
work, he says he’ll pay for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory across the parking
lot, and even risk using his fake I.D. at two PM on a weekday to buy them
beers, to which Craig finally agrees.  Of course, once they’ve been at the mall
for a few hours, Craig realizes in order to get lunch at the Cheesecake
Factory, Token would have to actually leave the fitting room he’s locked
himself in at J.Crew, and it doesn’t look promising.  After staring at the same
denim display for over forty-five minutes, he finally goes and knocks on
Token’s room.
“Hey,” he says into the wooden door slats, “I’m hungry.  Can we go yet?” 
Token opens the door to the fitting room.  He looks sweaty and exasperated,
only wearing a powder blue oxford and Dolce & Gabbana briefs, and he might as
well fucking live at the mall for all Craig knows. “As soon as I figure out
their denim sizing, man, the waists here are really inconsistent.”
Craig rolls his eyes, and waves Token back into the room.  “Whatever.  I’m
gonna wait outside.” 
“Aren’t you going to get anything?” Token asks.  He looks so genuinely
concerned, like Craig would care about, or even be able to afford some pima
cotton t-shirt that costs over thirty bucks.  Craig’s mom takes him to Target
twice a year and still picks his clothes out for him, holds shirts and pants up
to his body while he silently follows her around and sulks. 
He doesn’t know what to say to Token, so he just turns around and walks out.
 The store associate wishes him a nice day and he flips her off, but then he
feels immediately uncomfortable when Token doesn’t follow him out and he’s just
standing outside the store where the associate is giving him nasty looks.
 After five minutes of waiting, he wanders over to the nearest cluster of
leather chairs and whips out his phone to play Angry Birds until Token finally
re-emerges, no doubt with two large paper bags pressing uncomfortably into his
inner elbows.  Craig should know better by now to fall for promises of
Cheesecake Factory.  He would leave the mall altogether if Token hadn’t driven
them here.  He’s so angry about it, and he gets even more frustrated when he
can’t achieve all three stars of the Angry Birds level he’s on.
Exasperated, he stares up towards the skylights in the mall ceiling and lets
out a sigh, wishing he were still in bed, or quietly stuffing his face full of
loaded baked potato tots.  He can taste the grease on his tongue if he thinks
about it hard enough, and his stomach makes an angry noise.  
“Hey,” someone says, blocking his view of the skylights.  For a second he
thinks Token has finally decided to grace him with his presence, but it just
turns out to be Kenny McCormick, who has thankfully pulled his hoodie tight
enough around his face that Craig can’t see the disgusting ponytail he’s grown
out this summer.  
“What,” Craig says.  He’s not sure what Kenny is doing here, at the mall of all
places, but he doesn’t really give a fuck.  Kenny stopped being interesting to
him when he stopped dealing weed last spring to get a real job.  
“What, he says,” Kenny repeats back to him.  “What the fuck are you doing,
dude?  Just decomposing?”
“Might as fucking well be,” Craig says, sitting up so he won’t have to deal
with Kenny hovering over him anymore.  There’s another guy with a hoodie
obnoxiously up and covering a baseball cap behind him, as well as a preteen
girl who looks too poor to be holding such a big bag from Justice.  He nods at
the bag.  “Are they going out of business or something?”
Kenny turns around to see what he’s looking at, and grimaces at him when he
realizes.  “Ha-fucking-ha.  We’re taking my sister back-to-school shopping.”
“Okay,” Craig replies, because he couldn’t possibly care any less than he does
right now.
“Did you want to come with us?” Kenny offers slowly, uncomfortably when Craig
keeps staring at him nonplussed.
“No,” Craig says.  “I’ve already had to deal with enough chick shit today
waiting around on Token, the last thing I want to do is help you and your
bumpkin cousin pick out jelly bracelets for your sister.”
“We’re getting my ears pierced!” his sister says from behind them, like this
makes a difference.
“Maybe, you are maybe getting your ears pierced,” Kenny spins around to tell
her, a cool, parental tone taking over his voice.  Then to the guy next to her,
he says, “you hear that?  Craig thinks you’re my cousin.  You look poor enough
to be a McCormick, dude.” 
The guy breaks out into a lazy, shy grin at that, like he’s forgotten how to
smile, but is trying really hard to remember.  He’s painfully skinny, looks
more emaciated than either Kenny or his sister, but his face is contoured more
handsomely, and if he gained a few pounds he would go from attractive to
devastating.  He notices Craig is staring at him, and looks away, rubbing
awkwardly at the greasy black bangs poking out from underneath his hat.
And that’s when Craig recognizes him.
“Whoa,” Craig says, trying to not let his usual monotone escape him.  “Stan?”
Stan turns back around when Craig says his name, almost looks ashamed.  He’s
not smiling anymore.  “Hey Craig,” he says. 
There have been rumors about Stan Marsh being back in town for the last three
weeks, but no one has seen him, or taken any pictures of him since he got out
of rehab.  There have been paparazzi everywhere in South Park looking for him
though, ten to twenty guys outside most restaurants, the Sooper Foods, even the
Wall-Mart at any given time.  It’s been mostly frustrating to Craig, who feels
claustrophobic in crowds to begin with, and has hated having his picture taken
since he hit puberty, even though his mom claims he’s growing up to be such a
handsome young man.  He’s not as bad as Stan though; Stan’s got dark hollows
under his eyes and cheeks, and his t-shirt and jeans are so ill-fitting they
make him look like a child.  He’s a far cry from the Billboard 100 idol that
South Park had been proudly proclaiming as their own until earlier this year.  
And it’s strange, because when Craig’s eyes meet Stan’s dark, sunken ones, his
stomach churns like a key turning in ignition, revving to life.  
“You look terrible,” Craig says, before he can stop himself.  Kenny’s eyes
widen, and he looks like he’s about to punch Craig before Stan laughs.
“No shit?” he says, that same, shy smile returning back to his face.  “Glad to
know you’re still an asshole.”
“Yeah?” Craig says, leaning over the back of the chair on his elbows.  He nods
his head towards Kenny.  “Some people don’t seem to think so.  I don’t know
why.” 
“Kenny seems to think there’s good in everyone,” Stan says diplomatically,
nudging Kenny with an elbow.  Kenny nudges him back.
“That’s precious,” Craig says, hoping they don’t start bitchslapping or
something.  Stan thankfully seems to have a sense of self-preservation and
stops.
“Yeah,” Stan agrees.  “Hey, wanna keep me company while I take these losers to
Claire’s?”
“Hey,” Kenny and his sister mock-protest in unison, but Craig isn’t sure if
Stan was even kidding.  He’s a lot different than Craig remembers, and he kind
of likes it.  When Stan left South Park at age nine, he had been so sure of
himself, so certain of his beliefs and values, so confident in his own talent.
 He seems somewhat defeated now, weary, too old for his body.  It’s refreshing.
 
Craig looks back towards J.Crew, where Token still hasn’t made an appearance,
and then he looks back to the McCormicks, to Stan.  He chews the inside of his
cheek for a second.  “Okay,” he says finally, “but you have to promise me
afterwards we can go get Cheesecake Factory.”
“Done,” Stan says, deciding for everyone else in the group.  Kenny seems less
than enthused, but mostly because he doesn’t want his sister getting her ears
pierced, period.
“It’s not in the budget we agreed on,” he overhears Kenny say under his breath
when she runs off to grab some water from the water fountain.  “We still need
to get Karen her school supplies.”
“Relax,” Stan says, and his mouth doesn’t even move when he says it.  “I’ve got
this covered.” 
“Dude, no,” Kenny says, looking like he’s about to pitch a fit.  “And
Cheesecake Factory?” 
“Relax,” Stan says again, much slower.  He turns to Craig.  “I hope you like
the loaded baked potato tots.”
“Fuck,” Craig says, because Stan is speaking his language.  Craig isn’t sure if
anyone has ever spoken his language before.  His stomach approves.  
Kenny is quiet the entire time they’re in Claire’s, his mouth an angry, white
line.  Karen looks suddenly nervous when they start talking to the girl at the
counter about getting her ears pierced. Stan notices immediately, and while
Kenny starts filling out legal waivers, Stan starts throwing on ridiculous
accessories, like a purple feather boa and cat ears to distract Karen.  Craig
tries to hide from the obnoxious display in the corner, but there is literally
nowhere for a teenage boy to hide safely in a Claire’s, and Stan ends up roping
him in with a fake string of pearls.  
“You look gorgeous, darling,” Stan says, fingers still wrapped around the
pearls while he puts a plastic tiara on Craig’s head with his other hand.
 Karen laughs behind her hands, and Craig against all will and desire to do so,
blushes.  
“You look fucking retarded,” he replies, but there’s no heat to it.  Stan
shrugs, looking completely unashamed.  And why should he be?  Craig has seen
grainy TMZ videos of Stan punching a guy trying to take his picture, seen the
pictures that the local news would put up of Stan looking high and out of it in
paparazzi shots, the bright lights of the camera reflecting the whites of his
eyes rolled back in his head.  Stan has clearly made his peace with shame.  
 Craig has not, however, and he quietly discards the pearls and tiara as Stan
helps Karen into the little chair in the corner of the store, while Kenny
watches, absolutely fuming.  Even though Stan is still wearing the stupid boa
and cat ears, Karen has resumed looking nervous, and that’s when Stan rolls up
the sleeves of his hoodie to show off a poorly drawn guitar tattoo that takes
up his entire left forearm.
“Whoa!” Karen says, suddenly oblivious to the woman swabbing a cotton ball
against her ear.  “When’d you get that?”
“When I was just a little bit older than you,” Stan tells her, sounding calm
when he does so.  It was a huge news story when he got it for some reason.
 Craig remembers it, because he had been fourteen, and his mother had waved the
TV remote threateningly at him and said, don’t you go out and do something dumb
like that, Craig Tucker.  The thing is even uglier in person.  But there’s
something oddly sweet about how Stan tells her about it in a low, gentle voice,
completely capturing her attention so she doesn’t even flinch when the Claire’s
employee pierces her first earlobe.  Stan says, “see, that wasn’t so bad,
right?” 
“But what does it mean?” Karen asks, grabbing his arm to get a better look,
while the lady awkwardly moves around them to prep her other ear. 
“It means I make bad decisions when I’ve been drinking,” Stan replies
earnestly, and it earns a laugh from Craig, who absolutely did not expect an
honest answer.
“Can I get a tattoo next, Kenny?” Karen yells over Stan’s head, to her brother
who is standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, still looking furious.
“Did you not just hear what he said, Karen?  Don’t be stupid,” Kenny spits
back.  Karen frowns, which is when the employee chooses to pierce her other
earlobe, and she does flinch this time.  Stan is quick to give her multiple
high fives though.
“Good job!” he says.  “Are you ready for lunch?”
“Yeah!” she says.  “Can I get dessert for lunch?”
“Of course,” Stan replies, while Kenny says, “absolutely not.”  
Craig texts Token that he’s headed to Cheesecake Factory, but isn’t surprised
when he doesn’t get a response.  There are two or three paparazzi waiting
outside of the mall when they step outside, but none seem to notice Stan as he
walks by, pretending to text someone on his phone.  When they’ve safely passed
them, Stan lets out a shaky sigh, and Kenny reaches out silently to rub at his
shoulder.  The moment seems invasive, and Craig is briefly uncomfortable
witnessing it, like he doesn’t belong.  It passes as soon as they enter the
restaurant and are shuffled to the side in a large crowd when it’s apparent
they arrived during the lunch rush.  
Despite his hunger and the suffocating heat of the crowd, Craig finds himself
handling the wait just fine.  Stan stands close behind him, his chest against
Craig’s back like a buffer, his body language clearly reflecting his
familiarity with crowds.  It makes him feel safe, and less anxious, like Karen
in the chair at Claire’s all over again, and Craig wonders if this is just what
Stan does.  They get seated after a half hour, and when it’s obvious that Kenny
isn’t going to order more than a water and a side salad despite looking like
he’s starving, Stan orders one of every appetizer and two entrees.  Kenny looks
angry about this too, and he pushes a lot of food towards Craig like he’s too
good for it.  Craig doesn’t give a fuck.  He’s a growing boy and doesn’t do
martyr complexes; he will eat whatever is put in front of him and then some.  
 Karen talks enough for all three of them, about the summer reading that she’s
completed and what she’s most excited for in the eighth grade.  Kenny beams at
her when she does so, clearly proud of his little sister, and he makes sure to
prompt her in conversation to tell both Stan and Craig about the essay contests
she won last year, and the blue ribbon she got at the county science fair.
 Craig could not care less, and proceeds to contribute absolutely nothing to
the conversation and shove as much food in his mouth that he physically can.
 He hopes after this he can convince them to give him a ride home.   
“Are you guys gonna stick around after this, or are you headed back?” he asks
finally, after Stan has unsurprisingly paid the bill for everyone.  
“Well, we do need to get Karen school supplies,” Kenny says, “but if we went
right now, Stan would probably buy her a fucking laptop, so I think we’ll wait
for another day.”
“Cool,” Craig says, wiping his mouth with his napkin and throwing it on the
table.  “Can you drive me back to my place then?”
“Sure,” Stan says, a little coolly, giving Kenny an unimpressed look over the
table.
To Craig’s complete lack of surprise, their walk out through the parking lot
leads to a Stan’s fairly nondescript 2008 Jaguar, if Jaguars can be nondescript
in a town like South Park.  The interior is littered with old Taco Bell
wrappers and dozens of crumpled receipts, and Craig sneers into it before
sitting down, although Kenny and Karen don’t seem to mind.  He sits in the
backseat next to Karen, who keeps leaning over Stan’s shoulder to look at her
newly-pierced ears in the rearview mirror.  
“You sure you didn’t want that laptop today?” Stan says to her, catching her
eyes in reflection.  Craig assumes it’s a joke, but Kenny snaps.  
“Yeah, the more expensive the better, so maybe there’s some leftover cash when
my parents sell it for drug money,” he sneers.  Stan sighs, shakes his head.
“Hey, you agreed to let me help, man, don’t fucking jump on my case,” he says.
 “It’s important for kids to feel confident in themselves at the beginning of
the school year, and Karen deserves to feel good about herself.  We talked
about this.”
“I’m uh, right here guys,” Karen says, a little awkwardly.
“Yeah, is that what your last swagger coach told you?  That looking cool and
wealthy will make you more confident?  Hey, isn’t that what that married guy
who worked on your record told you right before he made you suck his dick?” 
Craig will give Stan credit for not slamming on the breaks right then and
there, but he can hear the squeak of leather as Stan’s grip on the steering
wheel becomes much, much tighter.  He doesn’t say anything.
“What’re we supposed to do when you decide that treating your friends like a
charity case isn’t fulfilling anymore, huh?”  Stan just sighs and shakes his
head.  Kenny tries a little bit louder, “Huh?  What the fuck are we gonna do
then, Stan?  What happens when you suddenly feel like we owe you a debt?”
“Don’t be that way,” Stan says finally.  He gives Craig a sidelong glance.
 “Welcome to the past three weeks of my life back in South Park.”
“Jesus,” Craig says under his breath despite himself.  
“Uncomfortable,” Karen says, like she’s agreeing with him.  The rest of the car
ride is tense, and Stan turns on the radio a little bit too loud, only to shut
it off when one of his own songs comes on, leading to five minutes of
uncomfortable silence before they finally pull up in front of the McCormick
residence.  Kenny lets himself out of the car without so much as a “goodbye,”
managing to slam the seatbelt in the door.  Karen wraps her arms around Stan’s
neck in a small hug from the backseat.  “Thanks again for everything,” she
tells him, and he just nods before she gets out.  
The car idles for a few seconds, until Stan leans back to face Craig. “Well?”
he says, his every angle looking dangerously sharp from where Craig is sitting.
 “Are you going to just sit back there?”
Craig wordlessly gets out of the backseat and into the front, rescuing the
seatbelt from where it’s been caught in the door.  
“Where do you live again?” Stan asks, hand tapping on the gear shift, which is
dangerously close to Craig’s thigh.   
“Uh,” Craig says, thinking too much about Stan’s hands and his own thighs, and
how great of a combination that could be.  He’s been trying not to notice Stan
all day, trying not to be charmed by his antics, or intrigued by all of the
things he hasn’t said but are reflected in his cautious movements, the sad,
faraway look he gets when he thinks no one is watching.  “Same place.  Just up
a few blocks on Boulder--”
“Oh right, I remember,” Stan replies, pulling away from the curb.  He had once
lived just a few houses away. “So hey, uh, sorry it got weird there for a
bit.” 
“It didn’t get weird,” Craig replies.  “It started out weird.  Kenny is weird.
 This whole day has been weird.  For it to get weird, that would require a
normal baseline.”
Stan huffs out a shallow laugh.  “I guess so.  Thanks for surviving.  And well,
Kenny isn’t weird, he just has a lot of pride.”
“No, he’s weird,” Craig says.  “He’s definitely super weird.”
“You probably think that about everyone,” Stan says.  Craig shrugs.
“It wasn’t very nice,” he says, and he doesn’t know why.  Maybe watching Stan
be charitable all day makes him want to attempt the same.  “What he said about
you.  About the married guy.”
“Why?” Stan asks.  “Because he was married?  Or because he was a guy?  Either
way, it was one-hundred percent true.  Out of place, maybe, but it’s a truth
I’m already dealing with.”
 And that kind of guts Craig.  He doesn’t know what to do with that
information.  Eventually he croaks out, “how?”  
 “‘How’ what, Craig?  How did I sleep with a married guy?  How did I not?  I
was fucking coked out of my eyeballs, and he made me feel good about myself,
isn’t that how it happens?” 
“I don’t know,” Craig replies honestly.  He got Clyde drunk enough to make out
with him once, but he’s never had sex, has never felt the urge to have sex with
anyone in South Park without feeling dirty and incestuous about it.  “It’s
never happened to me, so.  I wouldn’t know.”
“Never?  Like, wait, never-ever?  But you’re, you know.” Stan doesn’t take his
eyes off the road as he waves his right hand aimlessly at Craig like it’s an an
accurate way to describe someone.  
“Sure,” Craig says.  “I am definitely whatever things you were trying to
convey.  So what?  It doesn’t mean I deserve anything, and it doesn’t mean I
want to sleep around with anyone from fucking South Park.”
“Really?” Stan asks.  And he flashes a brief smile at Craig, the one that used
to frequent the cover of TIGER BEAT a lot, practiced and handsome despite
everything.  “No one in South Park?”
“Are you hitting on me?” Craig asks honestly. 
“Yeah,” Stan replies.  “Is that weird?”
“Kind of,” Craig replies.  “I mean, considering the subject matter, but, you
know.  Also not.  In other circumstances it wouldn’t be.  I don’t know.  Turn
left here.”
Stan does, pulling onto Craig’s street, the street that they used to share.  He
finds Craig’s house without being told which one it is, and pulls up in front.
 There aren’t any cars in the driveway, and Craig sits there for a few seconds
considering, before he faces Stan.
“We could,” he says, intentionally vague.  “If you actually wanted to, I
guess.”  
“Okay,” Stan says, and he turns off the engine.  Craig leads him into the
house, and calls for his mom, or his dad, or his sister just incase.  When
there’s no response, he puts his phone down and turns to offer Stan a glass of
water or something, but he moves into Stan’s open hands instead and finds
himself being pushed roughly against the foyer’s narrow console table. 
“Huh,” Craig says, and then Stan is kissing him.  
Kissing Stan is like speaking Spanish; he knows the basics, and he’s practiced
it half-assed with his peers, but he’s never tried speaking it with someone who
is fluent.  And Stan is fluent in kissing, slowly licking his way past Craig’s
teeth, biting at his upper lip as he rocks their mouths together sure and
steady.  He still tastes a little like cheesecake, and Craig tries to not be
too enthusiastic chasing the taste of him, but Stan still laughs into his mouth
a little when Craig gets his tongue halfway down Stan’s throat.  
“It’s okay,” Stan says quietly, like a secret, before kissing away from Craig’s
mouth to his jaw, to his neck.  He’s got Craig pinned by the hips, and Craig
feels absolutely helpless with it.  His shoes are still on, and he has no idea
what to do with his hands, and then his brain shuts down completely with the
sensation of Stan sucking bruising, wet patches into his neck, kneading slivers
of skin between his teeth.  All he can do is choke back the desperate groans
that are fighting their way up his throat.   
“As soon as I saw you today,” Stan says hot against Craig’s skin, his fingers
slowly making their way down to play with the hem of Craig’s shirt.  His nails
feel so good as they brush soft against the bare skin of Craig’s stomach and
start to trace along the band of his boxers. “I couldn’t think of anything
else.  I just hoped, hoped you might want to.” 
Craig tries to say, “yeah?” but he’s so beyond keeping it cool, he just nods
quickly, clenching his fists against his sides.
Stan moves back up to kiss him with a predatory ease as he slowly thumbs open
Craig’s jeans.  “This okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, but,” and Stan eases off instantly, hands hovering inches away and Craig
is briefly relieved.  He’s worried he’s going to bust a nut if he sees Stan get
any closer to his dick at this point, but then Stan starts eyeing him with a
sort of concern that is making him feel dumb and childish.  “I don’t want to
lose my virginity with my shoes on.  And we should probably go upstairs.”
The fact that they are in his parent’s foyer, where anyone could walk in on
them is kind of blowing his mind.  Craig hasn’t given much thought to the
minute details of what his first time would be like, nothing past thinking it
would probably be awesome and he would be older than he is now, and it would
take place basically anywhere that was not here.  He’s not even really sure how
it’s going to work, because he’s done the curious teenage boy thing and watched
an unhealthy amount of gay porn, but-- it kind of freaks him out.  He’s not
sure about the butt stuff.  He’s actually kind of terrified of the butt stuff.
 
And worse, Stan seems to know what he’s doing, seems to be aware of how to
touch another person in places Craig has never given thought to, never knew
felt so good; Stan’s mouth on his neck, warm breath on his ear had felt like a
revelation.  Stan isn’t all Hollywood show, and owns up to his bad reputation
with practiced movements, the confident way that he occupies Craig’s space.  
“Okay,” Stan laughs, looking relieved.  If he knows Craig’s nerves have caught
up with him, he doesn’t show it.  He toes off his shoes and kicks them over
near the door.  “Lead the way.”
They walk upstairs with a little more distance between them, their body
language similar to the way Clyde or Token or Tweek usually follow him upstairs
to play videogames.  It’s a lot warmer on the second floor, something Craig
hadn’t thought about until it hits him and he starts obsessing about the way
his t-shirt is clinging to the sweaty small of his back.  When he opens the
door of his room, he’s briefly thankful for the breeze emanating from the
window he left open last night, but then is stricken with how childish his room
must seem to Stan.  It still has a lot of the same posters and furniture that
Craig’s mom bought for him when she decided he needed a “big boy” room in
middle school.  The twin looks too small, and his blue tie-dye bedspread
suddenly seems extra dorky, and there are a lot of bad movie posters tacked
into the wall.  He feels like he should apologize for it. 
The door slams shut behind him though, and before he can get a word out, Stan
is against his back again, licking up his neck to his earlobe.  Craig manages a
drawn out, “fu-u-u-ck,” his body seizing up entirely.
“Is this okay?” Stan asks, his fingers crawling back up under Craig’s t-shirt,
where his skin feels too sticky with the heat.
“Yeah,” Craig says, but he sounds miserable.  He squeezes his eyes shut.  “I’m
just.  New. I don’t know what to do.”
Admitting such feels like defeat, but he’s so nervous he’s back down to half
chub.  Stan’s hands come down to his hips, and he hooks his chin over Craig’s
shoulder.  “Hey, it’s cool, man.  I’ve got you, okay?  If you want, we can
stop, or slow down.”
“Can we slow down, maybe a little bit?” Craig asks, feeling so fucking stupid.
 He chances a look at Stan, who smiles back at him and wraps his arms full
around Craig’s waist.  
“Fuck yeah, hey, sorry,” Stan says easily, while walking Craig over to the twin
bed that’s pressed against the wall.  He rolls down onto it and pulls Craig
with him, and then maneuvers both of their bodies so they’re lying on their
sides, facing each other.  “I just got really excited.  I haven’t gotten off
with anyone in weeks and uh, you’re kind of really hot.”
“Thank you,” Craig says, hating himself the second it slips out of his mouth,
but not knowing what else to say.  Stan smiles and kisses him again, slow
enough to make Craig’s insides feel like syrup.  They make out for what feels
like hours but is really more like twenty minutes, long enough for Craig to get
brave about it--long enough to try and find out how and where Stan likes to be
touched.  
“Is this okay?” Stan asks every few minutes when he does something new, like
put his hand back up Craig’s t-shirt to thumb at his nipples, or move his knee
between Craig’s thighs to feel where he’s achingly hard again.  Craig tries to
reciprocate, smoothing his palms down Stan’s sides and cupping his face
hungrily.  Stan hums at the back of his throat whenever Craig grabs him a
little more aggressively, and he chases those needy noises without finesse,
their kisses becoming more teeth, their soft pets turning into pinches; Stan
moans uncontrollably the first time Craig grabs a fistful of his ass and
squeezes.
“Fuck,” Stan says breathily.  A bead of sweat rolls down his temple from where
his bangs are sticking matted and wet.  Craig leans forward to lick it, savors
the salt on his tongue when Stan whines and grabs at his thighs hard enough to
bruise.  “Please let me get you off, man, I am actually dying here.” 
“Okay,” Craig says, feeling a little less out of his comfort zone now, and much
more turned on.  Stan kisses him again, delicate this time, while he works open
Craig’s jeans.  He sighs contentedly with his fist finally around Craig’s dick
for the first time, just the thin layer of Craig’s boxers separating them, and
Craig can’t help the noise that works its way out of his throat when Stan
actually strokes; having someone else touch his junk is more of a religious
experience than sixteen years worth of sundays spent at church.  
“Has anyone ever blown you before?” Stan asks, his fist languidly pumping in
small pulses up and down Craig’s cock.
“No one’s ever anything’d me before,” Craig replies, closing his eyes to try
and keep himself from coming.  
“Right,” Stan says, like he forgot.  “Okay.  Can I blow you?”
“Sure.” Craig almost laughs.  “Be my fucking guest.  Fuck.”
Stan peels Craig’s boxers down to his thighs with the rest of his jeans, which
at this point are drenched with sweat.  He gives Craig’s dick a few more
curious tugs now that it’s naked. Craig feels like he’s suffocating with the
sight of it and has to look away again.  
“You have a really nice dick,” Stan says, and Craig does laugh this time.
“I honestly have no idea how to respond to that,” Craig says.  “That is the
weirdest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Stan beams at him, before gently pressing on his shoulder until he’s on his
back.  Stan scoots down so he’s facing his crotch, and Craig watches him press
his face into Craig’s pubes and kiss at the crease where his thigh and dick
meet.  The heat alone from Stan’s mouth is making Craig writhe around with
want.  
“No teasing,” he groans, gripping tightly at his stupid tie-dye comforter.
 “Just please, suck me off, please.”
“Okay, shh,” Stan says, as if to Craig’s dick instead of Craig himself, before
putting the entire head in his mouth and sucking gently.  Craig feels like he’s
falling apart.  He thinks he makes an embarrassing noise or three, but he can’t
be sure.  He brings one shaky, uncertain hand up to hold his cock at the base,
but Stan swats it away and puts his own there instead.
“You just,” Stan says, his mouth coming off Craig’s dick with a wet pop, “just
let me do the work here, dude.”
And then he licks an obscene stripe up the underside, tongue flicking over his
slit at the tip, and Craig whines.  Stan smiles, looking victorious, and goes
back down to sucking, twisting the hand around the base to meet his mouth as he
bobs up and down.  Craig can’t help but chance a few looks at Stan’s swollen
mouth, bright red and wet with spit, eagerly sucking Craig into him deeper and
deeper.
“I don’t know if I can,” Craig says feebly, his balls aching and tight, unable
to stop himself from thrusting up into the wet heat of Stan’s mouth a few
times.  “I can’t--I’m--”
Stan hums into his dick a little “mmhm?” and looks up at him with big, patient
eyes, and Craig is suddenly, painfully coming down his throat.  Stan continues
to nurse hungrily at the over-sensitive cockhead as each shock rolls through
Craig, making shameless, muffled noises until Craig’s dick stutters to a stop.
“Was that okay?” Stan asks, pulling himself off and casually climbing back up
Craig’s body, like that wasn’t the greatest pleasure that Craig has ever
experienced in his short life.  Craig nods dumbly, and let’s Stan kiss him,
semen breath and all.  Stan’s still got his erection pressing against Craig’s
thighs, eager to get out of Stan’s jeans.
“Are you,” Craig asks between much slower, yet fervent kisses, “Is this the
part where you fuck me?”
Stan stops, his whole body freezing, and he puts a hand on Craig’s chest.  Very
gently, he asks, “would you like me to fuck you?”
“I don’t know,” Craig replies honestly.  “It looks really uncomfortable.”
Stan shrugs and nods a little.  “Well, yeah.  If you--listen, I was just gonna
see if you wanted to blow me and let me come on your face, if that’s alright.”
“I’ve never done that before either,” Craig tells him, but he’s got his fingers
threaded through the belt loops of Stan’s jeans, and eyeing Stan’s tented jeans
curiously.
“You don’t have to,” Stan says.
“I didn’t say I didn't want to,” Craig snaps.  “I just don’t know what I’m
doing.”
“Oh,” Stan says, and his mouth quirks up with excitement. “I could, you know,
help you.”
“Okay,” Craig says, mouth watering a little bit already at the thought of it.
 He moves to crawl down Stan’s legs, like Stan did to him, but Stan stops him
by swinging his legs over Craig’s body and sitting on his chest.
“Uh, if it’s alright with you, I really like it like this,” he says.  “Like, if
you propped yourself up on your elbows--yeah, like that--and uh, let me feed
you my dick.”
Craig nods slowly, and Stan undoes his fly with a pained sigh of relief,
pushing his pants and briefs down so his dick springs up against his stomach.
 Stan grabs it near the head and holds it against himself, cradling the back of
Craig’s head with his other hand.
“Is this okay?” he asks, holding his dick out like an offering.  Craig leans
forward, and with one last glance upward, cautiously takes it into his mouth.
 Stan’s cock is thin, but softer than the rest of him, much less intimidating
even when erect.  
“Oh, fuck,” Stan sighs, content, his hips stuttering forward in little thrusts.
 Craig tries to relax his throat, his mouth getting thicker and thicker with
spit as Stan continues to slide his dick past Craig’s lips.  “Your mouth is
fucking world-class, ugh, just--can you suck a little for me?  Jesus christ.”
Craig tries to suck a little bit and Stan reacts by bringing his other hand up
so he’s cradling Craig’s head with both, tugging at his hair and thrusting with
less precision, completely fucking his face.  Craig almost chokes a few times
as Stan goes deeper; his dick is a pretty average length, but it dizzies Craig
to see the whole thing disappear into his mouth.  Stan praises him for it,
especially when he tries to suck and lick despite feeling so full, and it
thrills him that someone like Stan Marsh is towering over him, shaking and
vulnerable.  
“You’re so good,” Stan tells him, voice getting pitchier and movements getting
more erratic.  “So, so good, Jesus, Craig, such a good fucking cocksucker.”
Craig is half hard again by the time Stan pulls out of his mouth to jerk
himself off vigorously.  He’s getting off to me, Craig thinks dumbly, and he
can only watch, dazed and feeling somewhat pleased with himself as Stan comes
all over his face with a shout.  
Stan rolls back onto his heels and looks toward the ceiling, catching his
breath.  Craig brings a hand up to his cheek to feel where some of Stan’s spunk
landed.  He drags his thumb through it, smearing it across his face into his
mouth for a taste.  It’s salty and bitter like the rest of Stan, and Stan
laughs when he notices Craig’s grimace.  He pulls his t-shirt off and brings it
up to Craig’s face to wipe the semen away in an almost matronly fashion. 
“So hot,” Stan says, leaning down to kiss him when his face is clean.  He
throws his t-shirt to the side of the bed and uses his weight to flatten Craig
back down onto the mattress.  He’s much more muscular under his shirt, like a
tightly strung cord of muscle and bone with no body fat in sight.  Craig brings
up a hand to absently stroke at his well-defined ribs until Stan grabs it and
laces their fingers together.  He brings their joined hands up to his mouth and
kisses each of Craig’s knuckles, eyeing him warily.  “You sure you’ve never
done that before?”
“Pretty fucking sure,” Craig replies, staring up at him.  He looks so different
compared to how he looked in the mall, hiding under ill-fitting clothes, faking
normal for Kenny and his sister.  He looks much more confident and capable with
his clothes off, and Craig isn’t sure what that means.
“I’ve never slept with a virgin before,” Stan confesses.  “I was worried I
would hurt you somehow.  You seemed a little freaked out at the beginning.”
“It was weird,” Craig says, feeling a little embarrassed.  “Am I still a
virgin?”
“That’s up to you, man,” Stan says with a shrug, before grinning slyly.  “Why,
do you feel different?  Are you having a moment?”
Craig scowls up at him and tries to shove him off, but Stan grabs him by the
hands and pins him back down on the bed.  They stare at each other, breathing a
little heavy, before Stan leans in to kiss him again, his still-swollen lips
soft and tender against Craig’s own.  Before long, Craig realizes he’s fully
hard again and mindlessly rubbing his dick in the space between Stan’s balls
and inner thigh.  Stan makes him take off his pants, and then gives him the
hottest, most adept handjob of his life.  He’s gasping, tears at the corners of
his eyes by the time he’s coming again all over Stan’s hand.  
Stan wipes it off on Craig’s shirt, and Craig scowls.  “Guess you have to get
naked with me now,” he says, so Craig begrudgingly does.  
“My parents or my sister will probably be home soon,” he tells Stan, because
he’s never spent any time naked with another person, and he’s starting to feel
overwhelmingly exposed.  
“Oh,” Stan says.  “I guess I should probably get out of here.  My mom really
only let me go out today because she trusts Kenny.”
“You let your mom tell you if you can go out or not?” Craig asks, surprised,
because he thought parents became obsolete once you made your first million.  
“I’m in a very delicate legal situation right now,” Stan says, and it comes out
practiced enough that if Craig were anyone else, he would pry. “If I get caught
with certain people or doing certain things I could be in a lot of trouble.”
“That sucks,” Craig says.
“Yeah,” Stan agrees, toeing at his shirt on the floor.  “Hey, could I borrow a
t-shirt though?  Mine is really gross.”
“Won’t your mom be curious?” Craig asks.
“I’ll tell her I got it when I was out shopping or something,” Stan replies.
 He gets off Craig’s bed and strides over to the dresser to dig around through
Craig’s carefully-folded laundry for a clean shirt like he lives there.  He
pulls one out and tugs it on, but brings the collar up to his nose to smell it.
 “It smells like you.”
“Because it is mine,” Craig says.  “I expect to get that back at some point.”
“You will,” Stan says, grabbing his boxers from where he’d kicked them to the
floor earlier, and stepping back into them.  “I should be around for awhile.
 I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”
We better, Craig wants to say, thinking of how reverent Stan looked with his
dick in Craig’s mouth, how good it felt to be adored.  He can’t imagine anyone
else in this stupid town he’d want to do the same for; he knows everyone else
here too well that he knows they’re too stupid to trust with his dick or his
heart.   
“How much longer are you staying for?” he does ask, pulling a pillow over his
naked chest.  
“Indefinitely,” Stan admits, and he looks so sad about it that Craig feels like
an asshole for asking.  “Not that you’re interested but uh, I fired my manager-
-I mean, my dad--and my publicist, and my label dropped me, and so did my
secret forty-two year old boyfriend, who I’ve been told by half a dozen people
deserves to go to jail, and I’m starting to agree with them.  So.  I mean.  I
don’t really have anywhere else to go.”
“Oh,” Craig says.  “That sucks.”
Stan laughs a little to himself while he puts his pants back on.  “Yeah.  It
really does.”
“Well uh.  If you get bored of Kenny, you know, I’m here.  You could call me.
 We could like, hang out or something,” Craig offers awkwardly. 
“Or something,” Stan says, giving Craig a lecherous smile, before pulling his
phone out of his back pocket.  “Give me your number, I’ll text you mine.”
Craig does, and Stan types away at his phone for a second, before smiling.
 “Okay, got you.” 
“Cool,” Craig says.  
Stan pats at himself for his keys, which he holds up triumphantly as he finds
them.  “Well, I’ll see you around, I guess.  It was uh.  It was good running
into you.” 
“Yeah,” Craig agrees, and he’s not sure what the proper etiquette is for saying
goodbye to the guy who taught you how to give a blowjob, so he just holds his
pillow tighter against his chest.  Stan rolls his eyes, and leans down over
him, holds his head in both of his hands, and kisses him one more time.  
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says when he pulls away.  He ruffles Craig’s hair
before he leaves, and the silence in the room is achingly thick after Craig
listens to the front door downstairs open and close, the sound of a car engine
starting outside and pulling away.  
He lies back down and puts a hand to his mouth and tries to remember what Stan
felt like sliding slick and heavy in and out of him.  He does feel different,
loathe as he is to admit it; he feels emotionally compromised having seen Stan
Marsh with heavy-lidded eyes and wet open mouth looking at him like he’s the
best thing on earth.
Eventually he puts clothes back on and goes downstairs, where it’s cool and
where he put his phone down before getting ravished by Stan.  When he checks it
there’s a text from an unknown number with a message that simply says STAN :)!,
and three others from Token, each more concerned than the last.
Token
yo dude im out are you still at cheesecake factory
Token
youre not at cheesecake factory where are you did someone give you a ride home
Token
are you dead what happened where are you????!!!! im sorry i made you go to the
mall with me!!
He groans, because no way in hell is he ever thanking Token for abducting him
to the mall, but today it seems appropriate. He hits the little phone icon next
to Token’s name.
“Hey! You’re alive! Where are you?” Token’s tinny, stressed-out voice comes
through almost immediately.  
“Far away from the goddamned mall, that’s for sure,” Craig says, catching his
reflection in the decorative mirror.  He doesn’t look any different than he did
this morning, and yet.  He clears his throat, because Token is going to get
every last, disgusting detail whether he likes it or not.  “Hey, you know how
Stan Marsh is back in town?”
 
***** cabin fever. *****
All hell breaks loose in South Park after the paparazzi get a picture of Stan
outside La Ristorante. Token says the number of them in his neighborhood has
increased triple-fold, a lot of them camping out in front of the Marsh’s gated
driveway.
“I actually saw Shelley Marsh take out a few of them with her purse,” Token
tells him over Call of Duty one night. “It was hilarious, but now they’re
running this whole broken family piece about it, especially after what happened
with his dad. You just feel bad for the guy.”
Craig doesn't see Stan, but he gets frequent texts from him. Craig just thinks
he’s lonely, because Stan will text him stupid things, like a funny quote from
a TV show Craig doesn’t watch, or how much he hates his mom’s tuna casserole;
it’s regular house arrest commentary. Craig doesn’t know how to respond most
times, so he usually doesn’t.
He just feels guilty most days, guilty with want. Getting off by himself isn’t
suddenly a chore, but it’s harder now that he understands the luxury of someone
else doing the work for him. To the best of his ability he doesn’t examine the
feelings that swell in his chest when he plays the memory of Stan coming on his
face over and over like a well-worn tape. He pretends not to notice that every
time he’s getting off, it’s that memory that tips him over the edge into an
orgasm. He doesn’t want to want Stan. He wants to reclaim the weakness of
someone knowing him at his most vulnerable and willing, he wants to stop
touching himself in the shower, wants to stop letting soaped up fingers slide
awkwardly between his ass cheeks and fumble against his hole.
He’s starting to toy with the idea of letting Stan fuck him, and it scares him.
He doesn’t bring it up to Stan, just occasionally replies to his texts with a
litany of stupid, stupid, that sucks, that’s stupid, I’m sorry, that fucking
blows dude, and then masturbates furiously to the thought of Stan taking all of
his pent up energy out on Craig’s asshole. He keeps imagining Stan’s praise, so
good, such a good boy, take my dick, things he’s heard a million times before
in porn coming out of Stan’s mouth and showering over him. The fantasy feels
like an addiction, like something precious he has to shamefully hide, and he
grows irritable with it.
Token calls him out on it the first week into school, pulling him aside after
he makes Dougie cry during their first ASB meeting. “Craig,” he says, sounding
a little weary and frayed after consoling a freshman for a half hour, “you have
had the biggest fucking chip on your shoulder since you got your dick sucked.
What is going on, man?”
Craig presses his mouth into a straight line and doesn’t say anything, neatly
tucking his plans for their homecoming video into his binder. Besides Dougie,
the other ASB officers were able to contribute a lot of ideas for Park County’s
Spirit Week, and Craig already has plans for a video that will look solid in
his college application portfolio.
Token lingers until everyone else has left the room for their next period.
They’re both going to be late. “Come on, man, you haven’t let me in at all
since that first day. Did something weird happen?” He lowers his voice. “He
didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“Jesus, Token,” Craig hisses, slamming his binder shut. “Of course he didn’t. I
haven’t even seen him since then. It’s not like we’re dating.”
“Oh,” Token says, relaxing a little. “So what, now that you’re not getting laid
on a regular basis you think you can be an extra dick to people?”
“Says the guy who has been fucking Wendy Testaburger on a regular basis since
like, middle school,” Craig spits out. Token rolls his eyes.
“Dude, no,” he says, putting a hand up. “Just, no.”
“What do you want me to tell you?” Craig pulls his phone out of his pocket and
pulls up Stan’s message window. “Look, all he texts me about is like, fucking
Big Bang Theory and how lonely he is, and his mom won’t let him leave the house
unless it’s with his sister or like, Walter White’s fucking kid.”
Token looks disbelievingly between Craig and the text messages a few times.
Eventually he says, “holy shit.”
“What?” Craig tucks the phone back in his pocket with a little too much force.
“You like him,” Token says with the same kind of awe reserved for watching
natural disasters on the news. “I never thought you would like anybody! I don’t
even think you like me! And you like him! You like someone who watches Big Bang
Theory.”
“I don’t even fucking know him,” Craig replies, even though it’s really part of
the appeal. “He’s just some--some famous douchebag that we went to elementary
school with.”
“Okay,” Token says condescendingly, humoring him. “Sure.”
“I’m being serious,” Craig says, but his voice betrays him.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Token pats him on the shoulder, and Craig
immediately shrugs it off. “Hey, you should text him and see what he’s doing
next weekend.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m having that party at my parent’s cabin, man!” Token says
excitedly. “He should come! There’d be no one there trying to sell pictures of
him, you guys could talk, or hang out, or there’s an actual bedroom--”
“I’m not having sex in your parent’s bedroom,” Craig spits out. He probably
would, actually. He’s feeling pretty desperate. That day in August when his
parents weren’t home was a fluke, and his mom would probably have a stroke if
he suggested Stan Marsh even come over for dinner and board game night. She
definitely wouldn’t let them leave the bedroom door closed, too afraid of her
baby shooting up or some other outrageous thing.
“Just saying,” Token says, “He is welcome to come if he can sneak out,
especially if he can get you to to stop being such a fucking dickhead.”
Which is how Craig finds himself skipping his next period to text Stan about
Token’s party, and a weekend later, waiting in the backseat of Token’s car at
sundown behind the Marsh estate. After five minutes of sitting with the engine
turned off and lights dimmed, Craig is about to kill everyone. Clyde is sitting
next to him in the backseat, his legs nervously vibrating while he holds a 24
rack of PBR in his lap. Wendy is in the passenger seat next to Token, and their
hands are folded together over the console as they talk about something boring
that happened in their politics and government class. Stan emerges from the
thick brush that surrounds the property about five seconds before Craig
threatens to saw Clyde’s stupid legs off.
He slowly approaches the car after Token waves to him, and opens the curb-side
door, forcing Craig to scoot into the middle to make room for him. He looks
half-crazed and is carrying an old Jansport backpack.
“Hey!” he says. He looks a lot nicer than he did when Craig ran into him at the
mall. He’s wearing expensive black jeans, clean sneakers, a soft-looking cowl
neck sweater that’s clearly been tailored to hug his bony frame and stretch
taut at the shoulders. “Thanks for waiting for me. My mom has been extra
militant about me sneaking out lately, which, I guess makes sense.”
He looks to Craig, smiling as if they’re sharing a joke, and as Craig stomach
swoops, he realizes that Stan is barely familiar with anyone else in the car.
“You guys remember Stan,” he says lamely, like Token hasn’t been gloating about
Stan Marsh coming to his party all fucking day.
“Welcome back, man,” Token says, turning around in his seat to give Stan a
handshake. Stan accepts, awkwardly, like he’s trying to look excited about
being back in South Park. Craig’s not sure what Hollywood parties look like,
but Stan is probably going to be bored by their Bumfuck, Nowhere shenanigans
five minutes in.
“What is that, Marsh, an overnight bag?” Clyde sneers. Clyde isn’t awful all
the time, but he seems to have taken notes about being a teenager from every
American Pie movie in an attempt to hide the fact that he’s deep in the closet,
and he gets douchier the more nervous he gets. On an obnoxious scale of one to
ten tonight, Craig is anticipating Clyde to go full Stifler.
“Can’t come to the party empty handed, man,” Stan says, unzipping the top part
of his Jansport to reveal the red wax top to a handle of Maker’s Mark, as well
as six cans of red bull, which effectively shuts Clyde up. His fingers wrap
around the edges of his PBR case a little more possessively.
Wendy laughs, watching the entire exchange over her shoulder, and Stan looks up
to meet her gaze, realizing who she is after a few seconds.
“Whoa,” he says. “Wendy?”
“Hi Stan,” Wendy says, waving softly with the hand that isn’t holding Token’s.
Stan goes gooey in a second, and something bristles in Craig remembering their
shared puppy love in the third and fourth grade. It’s a stupid, petty feeling,
and Craig doesn’t want to examine it, but he knows it also has to do with the
fact that Wendy is holding someone’s hand right now and perfectly content with
her life as is, but she could still have Stan too if she wanted.
“Hi,” he repeats back to her, sounding drunk with it. “Wow. How have you been?”
Craig suffers through the next hour and ten minutes listening to Wendy and Stan
catch up, with Token occasionally contributing to the conversation. It’s all
stupid shit like Park County going to State last year for Varsity Volleyball,
Token’s unexpected Junior Year ASB presidency, the summer camp they’ve been
counselors at the past three years--Craig expects Stan not to care, because he
had the impression a few weeks ago that Stan would be above stupid, small town
teenager BS, but Stan listens rapt the entire time, laughs when he should,
makes jokes like he never left South Park at all.
There’s a black plastic bag of fruit punch Four Loko at Craig’s feet, and he
wearily grabs one. Token eyes him in the rearview mirror.
“Dude, you know the rules about drinking in the car.”
Craig thumbs it open, letting the krccchhh of the release punctuate how he
absolutely does not fucking care. He takes a big sip, still eyeing Token, who
glares and turns his attention back to the road.
“Isn’t that warm?” Clyde asks. It is, and it tastes like sticky, red Jolly
Ranchers that have been left out in paint thinner and sewage, but he won’t
admit it. Stan stops talking to Wendy about her plans for this year’s debate
team and grabs the can out of Craig’s hand. He takes a cautious sip.
“Oh Jesus,” he says with a grimace, handing it back. “Yeah, it is. Wow. I’ve
seen people drink this like, ironically.”
“Have you never had a Four Loko?” Clyde boggles, like he’s talking to a
peasant.
“No,” Stan replies, smacking his lips a few times. He hands the can back to
Craig. “I never saw the point.”
“The point is getting drunk as fast as possible,” Craig says, a little
defensively. He takes another swig, as if to prove a point.
“Oh cool,” Stan says. It takes Craig off-guard a little bit. “Can I have one?”
“Sure,” Craig says, hesitantly, but Stan is already digging at his feet to grab
a can.
“Should you be drinking?” Clyde finally asks out loud, which realistically
Craig is sure everyone was thinking.
“Fuck you, Clyde,” Stan says cheerfully.
The realization burns down his throat with the Four Loko when it happens,
watching Stan crack open his own can and take another sip, grimacing again when
he does and putting a hand to his nose, but laughing: Stan is really fucking
cool. He should have realized this when Stan had effortlessly talked his way
into a blowjob a few weeks ago, but Stan knows what he’s doing, and he
understands people, and he tailors his actions to fit their expectations. It
makes Craig want to vomit. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the car
ride.
By the time they reach Token’s cabin, there are two empty Four Loko cans in the
black plastic bag. Craig is already feeling like he has bees behind his eyes,
and maybe that’s why they call it buzzed, he thinks, climbing out of the car
behind Stan. The Black family cabin is still nicer than most South Park homes,
two storeys, cobblestone foundation and rustic, reclaimed wood they like to
brag about framing big windows. Only the Park County High elite are invited
here for parties, and Craig realizes he wouldn’t have tried inviting Stan to
anything less than this. He hates himself for how much he’s trying to impress
another person, but Stan’s “holy shit, this is a cabin?” eases something in his
chest a little.
If Stan is also buzzed, Craig can’t tell. Stan volunteers to help carry the
heavy cooler in from Token’s trunk, and Craig feels a little useless helping
Wendy carry in the lighter bags of chips and pizza bagels. Clyde only brings in
his own box of PBR, because he’s kind of a piece of shit.
The set-up is a well-worn routine: Token makes sure the plumbing and
electricity works. There’s a designated table for alcohol, rows of fifths and
handles and boxes of cheap beer; Token usually will commandeer a thing or two
from his parent’s liquor cabinet, and has taken to hiding the rest after an
incident freshman year where someone drank all of his dad’s Macallan 25. Actual
glassware is locked up, and solo cups get shoved into as many obvious places as
possible. Food is made readily available for when a bunch of drunk teenagers
inevitably get overwhelmed by the urge to eat their own body weight in grease
and carbs.
Token has a small cooler of just Miller Lite for beer pong, which they’re
setting up in the garage when they hear sound of more cars coming up the gravel
drive. Dread instantly pools in Craig’s gut. He isn’t even sure why he comes to
these parties most of the time. He likes people watching. He likes seeing how
others interact, although he doesn’t necessarily enjoy participating. One time
Bebe had sidled up to him while he had been observing a game of flip cup. “The
perks of being a wallflower, huh?” she had said in regards to him, like it was
some joke. They had been reading it in their shared English class at that time.
“Fuck off,” Craig had replied, pushing himself off the wall and walking away.
She left him alone after that.
He opens up another Four Loko when he sees one of the cars that’s pulled up
outside is Eric Cartman’s Explorer, terrible grunge music spilling out of the
open windows with the aggressive sounds of what is no doubt the entire Park
County Football Team defensive line squeezed in the back two seats. Eric
historically makes or breaks parties--the last time he came to one at the Black
family cabin, Token threatened to call the cops himself if Cartman didn’t calm
the fuck down.
“Oh shit,” Stan says, coming into the garage with a red solo cup full of what
smells like straight whiskey. “Is that who I think it is?”
“I thought he was banned from coming,” Craig replies honestly. “Last time he
broke Token’s billiard table. Don’t ask me how.”
Stan laughs under his breath and takes a small sip from his cup. He doesn’t
wince, just evenly watches Cartman the entire time over the rim. “There’s just
still no stopping him, I guess.”
“Notoriously,” Craig says, rolling his eyes up to Stan. Stan’s still staring at
Cartman, who has indeed brought half of the football team, and apparently a keg
of something. “A lot of people think he’s hot shit these days, because he’s
starting linebacker for the football team. Underclassmen refer to him as ‘The
Wall.’ Mostly I can’t wait until he dies of a heart attack at thirty.”
Stan actually snorts into his drink, whiskey spilling out the sides. “Oh fuck!”
he says, curling over and pinching his nose. “My node! Whidkey went up my
node!”
Craig watches helplessly as Stan’s cries attract Cartman’s attention, who is
halfway to the garage with some freshman meathead carrying a large keg. “Ey!”
he calls, dropping the keg, which comically pulls the other guy to the ground
with it. “Where the fuck did this guy come from over here!”
No one anticipates the moment where Cartman charges over to them and lifts
Stan, who is still curled around his face, into a giant hug.
“Uh,” Craig says, while Stan makes a grrkk noise, hanging like a rag doll from
Cartman’s meaty arms. When Cartman puts him back down, he gives Stan a couple
too-hard pats on the back, enough that some of Stan’s drink spills.
“Thought you’d be too cool to come to one of these,” Cartman says, casually,
gesturing to the large, still empty garage, the ping pong table where cups are
set up in neat rows for a game.
“You mean parties?” Stan asks, idly wiping at the spot where whiskey is soaking
his sweater. “I don’t know, Craig told me about it. It sounded like the place
to be this weekend.”
“Pffft, that’s so Craig,” Cartman says, even though Craig is standing right
there, and Cartman hasn’t so much as spoken five words to him since middle
school. “Since when do you two even talk?”
“Uh, since I got back?” Stan looks about as confused and alarmed as Craig
feels. Cartman is smiling too much, is standing too close. He keeps looking
between Stan’s face and the cup he’s holding, like he’s trying to memorize
every last detail.
“I see,” Cartman says, his gaze drifting down to Craig. He’s taller than both
of them, six-by-six a lot of people say, and makes Craig always feel like he’s
five seconds away from getting the shit kicked out of him. “It’s strange,
because see, I remember in elementary school Craig always thought he was too
good for us.”
“Yeah dude,” Stan says, “that was elementary school. We just ran into each
other. How uh, how have you been?”
Cartman looks visibly thrilled to tell Stan about his great accomplishments,
how he single-handedly is responsible for Park County’s resurgence as a
formidable football presence (half-true), how he saved some old lady from a
burning building this summer (lie), found himself after a three-day experience
in a sweat lodge (bullshit), and how he knows about like, five other parties
happening tonight that are way better than this one (maybe).
“We’re over an hour out of town,” Stan cuts him off finally after about twenty
minutes. More and more people have started to show up. Craig has spent the
entire one-sided conversation finishing his drink and staring into the bottom
of the can, finding it immensely more interesting than Eric Cartman talking
about himself.
“Yeah, but I’ve got wheels, brah!” Cartman says, nudging Stan too-rough with
his elbow.
“Didn’t you drive other people here?” Stan asks. “Like, a lot of other people?”
Cartman shrugs. “They can find a ride tomorrow, whatever. Hey, I need to get a
drink, can I get you a drink?”
Stan holds up his own cup. “I’m good.”
“Well, it was so good to see you, brah, really good,” Cartman says, shaking
Stan a little bit by the shoulder. “Just, whenever you want to leave tonight,
you let me know, a-ight?”
“Sure,” Stan says. Cartman pushes past the both of them into the house, and
they can hear another faint ‘ey-y-y-y!’ as the garage door shuts behind him.
Stan turns to face Craig. “What. The fuck. Was that?”
“I have no idea,” Craig replies, honestly. “I am not nearly drunk enough to
deal with that guy.”
Stan smiles and lifts his cup to Craig’s mouth, tilting slightly when he parts
his lips. It’s definitely just a cup full of whiskey, Craig realizes when he
takes his first sip, and it burns like a motherfucker in his mouth. He coughs
some out after a second.
“You okay?” Stan laughs, pulling the cup away as Craig wipes at his mouth with
the back of his hand.
“Fine,” Craig says, grabbing the cup from him, ready this time, and taking a
big gulp. He manages not to wheeze or spit it out, not wanting to look like a
total pussy in front of Stan, who stares in awe.
“Whoa,” Stan says. “That was a lot of whiskey, dude.”
Craig tries to shrug it off, shoving the now half-empty cup clumsily back into
Stan’s hands. He hopes it’ll catch up with him soon, especially with Cartman
here. He’s starting to consider the fact that there'll be an expiration date
where Stan will no longer think he’s interesting, or attractive enough to fool
around with, and that he could still have his pick from the crowd--and soon
enough, there will be a big, diverse crowd, and Craig doesn’t want to lose his
chance after spending the last three weeks angrily jerking off thinking about
Stan inside him. He has to step his game up.
He ends up losing Stan anyway when he goes inside to mix himself a drink, equal
pours of fruit punch and vodka. When he goes back out to the garage, Stan is
nowhere to be seen in the sudden crowd of high schoolers that have overwhelmed
the area, watching the first round of beer pong like some spectator sport. He
goes back inside to find Stan, only to be pulled to the side by Red, who is
aggressively organizing a game of King’s Cup in the dining room.
“Where’s Stan?” he asks, as she gently shoves him into a chair at the circular
walnut table that easily seats twelve.
“What’s he talking about?” Red asks Wendy, who is sipping on a wine cooler next
to him.
“Oh!” she says excitedly. “Didn’t you see? Stan Marsh is here!”
“What! We should get him to play with us!” Red says excitedly, looking around.
Her movements are fast and hard for Craig to track, and he realizes suddenly
that he is starting to get pretty drunk.
“Like he wants to play this stupid game,” Craig says, and yeah, he’s slurring.
He takes another slow drink of his beverage and tries to act cool.
“Yeah, he’d lose at Five Finger I’ve Never so fast,” Clyde says from the other
side of the table, looking pleased with himself. Clyde fucking lives for Five
Finger I’ve Never, which is stupid, because he never puts down a finger when
someone says, I’ve never made out with another guy, but as soon as someone says
something like, I’ve never eaten out a girl, he makes a big show about losing,
even though Craig’s sure he’s lying about that too.
“I’d lose at what so fast?” Stan asks, and when Craig turns around he sees Stan
leaning in the doorway, a curious look on his face like he’d been there the
whole time and lost track of the conversation. Red squeals. If Stan notices, he
doesn’t show it as he steps into the room and walks around to Craig’s side,
fingernails gently tracing the back of his shoulders as he passes. “Hey. Are we
playing a game?”
“Uh,” Craig says, feeling childish and not remotely interesting at all.
Stan eyes the cup on the table, the cards circled tightly around it. “King’s
Cup? I love this game. Can I play?”
“You want to play King’s Cup?” Craig repeats back to him dumbly. He’s trying to
feign disinterest, but it’s become more difficult as his drinks have begun to
sneak up on him. Most of his energy is being spent on pretending to look sober
right now. Stan gives him a weird look when he pulls up an empty chair.
“Do you think I’m forty?” he asks.
“I can’t do rhetorical questions right now,” Craig admits lamely. He takes a
sip of his spiked punch. “I really can’t.”
“Are we playing?” Clyde whines from the other side of the table, acting as
drunk as Craig feels.
“Yes! God, Clyde,” Red says, sitting down and drawing a card. She holds up a
six, and the other girls sitting around the table cheers their plastic cups
together before taking big sips.
The game, loathe as Craig is to admit it, is extremely fun. Stan loses every
round of Five Finger I’ve Never as predicted, but it’s partially because
everyone gangs up on him. I’ve never had an album go platinum, Kevin Stoley
says before Wendy says, I’ve never been on Forbes’ 30 under 30 list, winking,
yet. Stan graciously loses a finger every time, laughing and gulping down more
whiskey; he doesn’t seem drunk like everyone else, not like how Craig feels,
and that means despite I've Never, Stan is closer to winning the game than
everybody. He’s also clearly played before, coming up with mean rules when he
lays down a Jack: everyone must speak with a silly accent, no saying names.
Craig, in a moment of weakness, finds himself laughing at Stan’s horrible
French impression.
By the time the game finishes, his vision is spinning and he feels the
overwhelming need to throw up, so he excuses himself from the table. His mouth
is watering by the time he makes it to the bathroom, which is locked, and Craig
panics knowing that projectile vomit is imminent. He tries to leave the house
through the back discretely, maneuvering as best he can past the living room
full of dancing, drunk teens and through the sliding door onto the patio. There
are more people outside smoking cigarettes and hookah, and he tries not to
acknowledge them as he stumbles his way off the patio and around the side of
the cabin like a cat escaping into the wilderness to die.
“Hey,” someone says behind him right as he’s about to unload his insides onto
some innocent bush. It’s Stan, which, fuck. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Craig says, before puking violently and everywhere.
“Whoa,” Stan says, and Craig can’t see his face in the dark, so he’s not sure
if Stan is grossed out or impressed. “I told you that was a lot of whiskey,
dude.”
“Shut up,” Craig says, voice cut up with bile. He’s bent over his arms,
breathing heavily.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Stan asks, hand too comforting on his back again.
“Yeah, just let me,” Craig says, and then he leans forward and pukes some more.
His whole face is leaking, eyes watering, snot coming out of his nose, cherry-
colored vomit caking the corners of his mouth. It’s embarrassing, and made even
worse when Stan just squats down with him and rubs soothing circles between his
shoulders. “Gonna be fine.”
Stan laughs. “Well, now probably. Do you want some water?”
Craig nods. He’s not sure he can salvage this.
“Okay, man, I’ll be back in a second.” He hears Stan’s feet crunch against the
gravel back around to the patio, the slide of a glass door faintly under the
sounds of their peers talking. Craig rocks onto his ass and lets the back of
his head lean against the cool stone foundation of the cabin and tries to focus
on it, tries not to think how stupid he probably looks throwing up like an
amateur only a few hours into a party.
Stan is back faster than expected with a fresh cup full of water. He sits down
next to Craig so their shoulders touch and hands him the cup. “Cheers, buddy.”
“Fuck,” Craig says, gulping it down.
“Whoa, slow, slow,” Stan says, grabbing him by the wrist so he doesn’t chug the
whole thing at once.
“How are you so,” Craig asks breathily into the cup. Stan doesn’t let go of his
wrist. Solid? Likeable?
“Sober?” Stan suggests.
“Jesus, that too,” Craig groans, resting his head on Stan’s shoulder. Stan
pulls Craig’s wrist into his lap and thumbs gently at his pulse point, and it
makes Craig feel like all of his nerves are exposed, the way Stan seems to know
where to touch him even now.
Stan shrugs. “You know.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Craig complains into the soft knit of his sweater. He
can feel Stan’s collarbone through the material still. Stan laughs, and it’s
completely unlike his laughter earlier, which was practiced and polite and
self-aware. “You have a nice laugh when you’re not, you know, trying so hard.”
“What?” Stan asks.
“Like, all night,” Craig elaborates, closing his eyes. His vision has stopped
spinning, but now there’s a dull ache at his temples. “You’ve been so perfect
with everybody. You know what to say, and how to talk like them. It freaks me
out.”
“Huh,” Stan says. “Is that what you think?”
“Yeah,” Craig says, afraid Stan’s going to move away if he keeps talking. He
doesn’t, just sighs.
“I just want people to like me,” Stan says. “Your friends.”
“They’re not my friends,” Craig says, with a cruel snicker. “Token’s not bad.”
“If they’re not your friends then why are you here?” Stan lifts Craig’s wrist
back up so Craig can have another sip of water and then places their hands back
in his lap.
“What else am I going to do?” Craig asks. He’s not going to admit he was trying
to impress Stan, that this is the only way he could conceive of to get them
alone together again, and it’s not working out nearly as well as he
anticipated.
“What else am I going to do,” Stan echoes, distantly. It sounds like it hurts
him to say. “I’ve said that a lot. Not much good has come from the stupid
things I do when I’m bored.”
“Welcome to being a fucking teenager,” Craig says, and sighs. “I was
legitimately freaked out by how cool you were, though. Are, I guess. You kept
acting all interested in what everyone had to say. It was weird.”
“I’ve had to fake being interested in people for a really long time,” Stan
says.
“I wasn’t sure until just now,” Craig says, “when you laughed. I didn’t know if
you were being genuine or not. But that laugh was real.”
“You’re so drunk,” Stan says, but he sounds amused.
“I’m sobering up,” Craig says, sitting up and facing Stan in the dark. He can
only make out the barest of details on Stan’s face; that he’s smiling wryly;
his amused, almond-shaped eyes. “See?”
“Yeah, okay,” Stan says very seriously.
“So, you know, you can go back to the party. I’m fine,” Craig tells him. “I
just need a few more minutes.”
“I didn’t come here for the party,” Stan replies, squeezing his wrist. “I came
here to hang out with you.”
“Oh,” Craig says.
“Yeah, oh.” Craig can see Stan roll his eyes dimly in the dark, and then Stan
is leaning forward to kiss him.
“Wait, wait,” Craig says, bringing the arm that Stan’s holding between them. “I
have vomit mouth.”
“You drank water,” Stan says. “Nothing I haven’t tasted before.”
“Sick,” Craig says, but then Stan is kissing him again anyway. He opens Craig’s
mouth so easily with his tongue, brings the hand that isn’t occupied up to wipe
at the sticky tear tracks on Craig’s face. He tastes hot and sweet like the
whiskey he’s been drinking all night, and Craig moans into his mouth weakly.
Stan takes that as permission to roll over until he’s straddling Craig instead
of sitting next to him.
Craig’s chest feels like a sinkhole, all of the want built up over the past few
weeks collapsing into sweet relief through his ribs. It hurts in the best kind
of way, a sudden, gratifying emptiness, and he drops the cup of water to grab
needily at Stan’s ass, wanting them to be as close as possible. Stan grins into
his mouth when Craig pulls him closer and squeezes his thighs around Craig’s
own, ruts against him in little thrusts so Craig can feel how they’re both
starting to get hard.
“Tell me,” Stan says, giving him one last kiss before he nudges Craig’s face to
the side with his nose to nip at his earlobe. His breath is excruciatingly warm
against Craig’s ear, and it’s enough to make him go full chub even though he’s
still drunk. “Tell me how badly you’ve wanted this.”
“So badly,” Craig groans, thrusting up into the rough denim that separates him
and Stan.
“You want me to blow you again? Miss my mouth on your dick?” Stan asks, letting
his hands wander down to play with the band of Craig’s jeans, the elastic of
his underwear. Craig nods.
“Want you to fuck me,” he says, all plans of a smooth seduction flying out the
window. Stan stops moving on top of him, and he squeezes desperately at Stan’s
thighs. “Please.”
“Uh,” Stan says, grabbing at Craig’s hands and holding them in between their
chests. He rolls back onto his heels, and a chill sweeps through Craig from the
loss of contact. “I mean, are you sure? You seemed kind of freaked out by that.
Last time.”
Craig stares at him stonily, trying to look brave, even if he’s not sure how
well Stan can see his face. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you left
that day. I can’t--I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“About me fucking you?” Stan asks.
“What the fuck else?” Craig says, and he tries to pull Stan back toward him,
but Stan resists.
“I don’t know, man, you don’t even answer my text messages,” Stan tells him,
sounding hurt.
“You text me about fucking terrible TV shows I don’t watch, I don’t know what
to say!” Craig replies, pulling his arms out of Stan’s hold so he can make
angry, erratic gestures. “‘Dear Stan, that’s nice, that sounds really funny. I
thought of you earlier today when I had my fingers shoved up my ass in the
shower. Love, Craig. PS: Please fuck me.’”
“You put your fingers up your ass in the shower?” Stan asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Craig replies. “And I think about you when I do it, and I think about
how it isn’t enough, and how I really, really want you to fuck me.”
“Oh,” Stan says. And then he leans down to press a soft kiss to Craig’s lips
and press their foreheads together.
“So can we?” Craig asks. “I want to.”
Stan’s quiet for a few seconds. “It’ll hurt,” he says eventually. Craig can
feel his eyelashes flutter against his brow. “It’s different than fingers.”
“I’m not stupid,” Craig says. “I trust you.”
“Well, then you’re definitely stupid,” Stan says, kissing him once again. It
turns into a series of kisses, light and close-mouthed ones that they come away
from every few seconds breathing heavily, before grinding their mouths back
together again. Craig lets Stan put his hands under his shirt and trace the
hair that crawls up his stomach, pinch his nipples with the stubs of his
fingernails, pet his ribs with his knuckles; it is agonizing.
“Please?” Craig asks eventually, the touches too delicate and too much all at
once.
“Yeah,” Stan says, “Okay. Here?”
“Here? What, no,” Craig says, pushing Stan off of him. “We’re in public.”
“It’s dark,” Stan says. “No one has come back here yet.”
“It’s cold, and there is gravel, and also a puddle of vomit two feet away,”
Craig complains, slowly maneuvering his way up the wall to stand.
“To be fair, the vomit is your fault,” Stan tells him, also standing up. He
tries to adjust his boner under the waistband of his briefs in his already
tight pants. It looks painful.
“Token said we could fuck in his parent’s bedroom,” Craig says, ignoring Stan
completely.
“Token knows?” Stan asks, a little warily.
“Token’s chill,” Craig says. “Come on, before someone beats us there.”
“You go,” Stan says. “I have to grab something, but I’ll be right there.
Wherever it is.”
“Upstairs,” Craig says, but his voice sounds distant to him now that the
reality of the situation and sobriety are slowly settling back into place. He
can taste his pulse in his throat when he speaks. “There are only two rooms.
The room with bunk beds is the wrong one.”
Stan huffs amused through his nose, and presses one more long kiss to his
temple. “Okay. Get your ass up there and wait for me. Don’t let anyone else
in.”
“Okay,” Craig says dopily, and Stan turns to run toward the front of the house.
As soon as he’s turned the corner, Craig starts making his way back to the
patio. His blood feels hot and everywhere like thousands of needles pricking
his skin, and when he passes the kids who are smoking on the porch, he feels
like they’re staring at him and that they know.
He stops in the bathroom on his way up when he sees it open, and splashes some
water on his face. His mouth is swollen, bright red and stained at the edges
and it’s kind of embarrassing to see himself in the mirror, and he hopes Stan
won’t look at him in the light and turn away in disgust. He scrubs at his face,
runs his hands through his hair a few times, feeling frustrated with the way he
looks, feeling more exposed when he imagines himself naked.
When he makes it up to the bedroom, Stan isn’t there, but thankfully no one
else is either. He locks the door behind him, breathing deeply. The room is all
finished wood-panelling with a symmetric vaulted ceiling, only occupied by a
comfy-looking King, as well as two bedside tables and a small closet that Craig
won’t go near in fear of finding something incriminating about Mr. or Mrs.
Black’s sex life. All in all, it’s better than the dark side of a house, but
there’s something too cozy and intimate about the room.
He jumps when there’s a knock at the door. He’s not sure if he should answer
for a second, or how to. What if it’s not Stan?”
“Password?” he asks lamely, pressing his ear against the door.
“Fuck you, Craig, let me in,” Stan says from the other side of the door. Craig
does, and he can see that Stan has his Jansport looped over one shoulder. He
looks at Craig up and down. “Why aren’t you naked yet?”
“Uh,” Craig says, and then Stan is pushing his way into the bedroom and
pressing Craig firmly into the door to close it.
“I’m kidding,” Stan says, pressing a kiss to Craig’s jaw and letting his
backpack slide from his shoulder to the floor. “You can leave your clothes on
if you want to. We can do this however you’d like.”
“Just show me,” Craig says anxiously, gasping when Stan gives his neck a firm
bite.
“Does the door lock, or do we need to shove something against it?”
“Locks,” Craig manages, fumbling for the door handle. Stan smoothly twists the
lock and resumes sucking at Craig’s neck, tracing meaningless patterns into the
skin with his tongue. “Fuck, Stan.”
“Get on the bed,” Stan says, pushing himself off of Craig and swatting at his
ass as he stumbles past. He leans down to his backpack and starts digging
through the front flap, smiling victoriously when he pulls a small bottle of
lube and a condom. “I know Clyde was joking about me bringing an overnight bag,
but if Mountain Scouts taught me anything, it’s always be prepared.”
Craig rolls his eyes from where he’s propped himself up on the bed on his
elbows, but a breath stutters up his throat when Stan peels off his sweater.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, seeing the familiar tee that Stan stole
from him a few weeks ago. Stan grins, pleased that Craig noticed, and crawls up
his body to kiss him again.
Craig’s not sure if he can ever get tired of kissing Stan, the wet, soft slide
of their mouths together curbing a hunger he could never define. Stan wastes no
time undoing Craig’s pants and pulling them down with his boxers to free his
dick, which swings up to drool against his stomach.
“Missed your pretty dick,” Stan says, admiring it while he takes it in hand and
gives it a few sluggish strokes. He’s undoing his own pants with the other, and
kicks them off haphazardly so he’s only in his briefs. Craig covers his eyes
with his hand, because watching Stan move down his body again is almost too
much, Stan’s dark eyes almost taunting him to try and come already. The only
thing keeping him from tipping over the edge is the fact that he’s still kind
of drunk.
“Just fucking fuck me already,” he groans, feeling Stan kiss his inner thigh,
nip at the skin in a way that makes his toes curl.
“Getting there, princess,” Stan says, the heat of his mouth bearing down on
Craig’s dick. He can hear shuffling, and the snick of the lube cap being
flipped open. “Now, if what I’m doing hurts, tell me, okay? If you’re
uncomfortable, tell me. This is going to be cold.”
Craig lifts his wrist a little to see Stan coating his fingers with lube
clinically, his hand above his head as he lies on his back between Craig’s
spread thighs. His face looks so wondrous and sweet and serious, and Craig
wants to pull him back up to kiss him, but it would just be too much. Stan
catches him peeking and grins sideways, a little less innocent.
“You ready?” he asks, and Craig has been ready, so he puts his wrist over his
eyes again and nods fervently. He can’t control the little ah that escapes him
when Stan first presses the pad of one finger against his hole. He doesn’t
penetrate Craig quite yet, just circles and massages the sensitive skin,
teasing him until he squirms. “Feel good?”
Craig hums his approval right when Stan presses the finger in a little,
eliciting another gasp from him. His first instinct is to fuck down on it and
Stan sighs pleasantly as his finger breaches Craig somewhat easily. It feels
fucking amazing, and bizarre, the lube waxy and gritty as it starts to warm up,
and Craig can feel the hair on his stomach get matted with precome, even though
Stan’s not touching his dick.
“How’s that?” Stan asks, pressing another faint kiss into his thigh.
“Yeah,” Craig manages, ass clenching as Stan works the one finger in and out
slowly, methodically.
“It feels yeah?” Stan repeats, and Craig pulls his arm away from his face to
glare at him. Stan’s mouth is still quirked to the side in a content, confident
smile, and Craig’s gut twists with it. “You ready for another one?”
Craig nods shakily as Stan presses the second slick finger inside him, gasps as
Stan pumps and twists his fingers in the tight, hot space.
“God, I can’t wait for you to clench like this around my dick,” Stan says, and
Craig groans.
“You can’t fuh-fucking say that,” he says between pants, his mouth hanging open
at the feeling of someone else inside him, willing the sensation to last.
“I just did,” Stan says, and doesn’t ask before he slides in a third finger,
but he looks back up to Craig for a reaction. Craig nods encouragingly, even
though this one does hurt, makes him feel like a sharp knife is starting to
hollow him out. Stan seems to notice how tense he gets with the pressure
anyway, and slows down his movements, eventually pulling out completely.
“C’mere,” Stan says, and Craig wants to whine with the emptiness he suddenly
feels, having been so close to getting off. Stan climbs back up his body to
kiss him, and uses his dry hand to tug Craig up into a sitting position. “There
we go.”
Craig lets himself be kissed and pushed until he’s seated against the
headboard. Stan gently peels the pants that have been caught around Craig’s
ankles all the way off, and then lifts Craig’s legs one by one over his
shoulders. “God, I’m so goddamn lucky,” he says, staring Craig down like
Craig’s some fucking miracle, slipping his fingers back in. “Just look at you,
Jesus, you were fucking made for this.”
Craig doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods, rocking his hips up to meet
Stan’s knuckles, feeling high as Stan curls his fingers inside him. “Please,”
he hears himself say, distantly hating how needy it comes out.
“‘Please’ what?” Stan asks, the friction of his fingers fucking Craig’s ass
making his hole unbearably hot.
“Get your dick in me already,” Craig spits out somehow. Stan laughs abruptly,
like it’s been punched out of him.
“Alright, whoa,” he says, and he leans forward to kiss Craig as he pulls his
fingers out for a second time. He’s only half hard, so he pulls his briefs down
to jerk at himself while reaching for a condom, Craig’s legs still awkwardly
hanging off his bony shoulders. Craig’s not sure why they have to use a condom
since they’ve already had their dicks in each other’s mouths, but he doesn’t
want to ask and look like a retard, so he doesn’t, even though part of his
fantasy the past few weeks has been Stan coming in his ass; sometimes he’ll
take the showerhead and stick it between his legs and try to encourage the hot
water to roll in and out of him, even though he’s pretty sure the real thing
will be different. Still, it’s mildly disappointing.
Stan gets fully hard easily, and rolls the condom on in a few practiced moves.
“You ready for me?” he asks Craig, slicking himself up with more lube before
lining up the tip of his dick with Craig’s puffy hole.  Craig nods shakily.
The stretch is unbelievable, and Craig whines as Stan slowly fits his whole
cockhead inside. Stan makes his own surprised noises as he slides in, a shaky
oh, oh, oh that sounds more wrecked the deeper he gets. He’s not even halfway
when he closes his eyes and just stops, breathing heavily. It lets Craig relax
around his dick before he starts again, figure out how to sink into the blunt
pain.
“Wow,” Stan says, sounding almost shy, and when he leans forward to kiss Craig
he manages to plunge in even deeper. “Wow, you feel incredible. So tight. God.”
Craig, who has been lying limp trying to relax, brings an unsteady hand up to
Stan’s face, holds him by the chin to encourage Stan to continue kissing him,
which he does. Stan puts his hands on either side of Craig’s head to grip the
headboard and slowly starts thrusting shallowly inside of him, letting
occasional wow's slip past his lips and into Craig’s while they kiss and fuck.
With each thrust he gets a little deeper, until he’s finally balls deep in
Craig and the headboard is banging against the wall as Stan speeds up and
starts taking him harder.
Craig’s dick hurts at this point, dark and ready to come, which he does when
Stan brings a hand down to tug at him. He lets out an unintelligible shout,
ropes of jizz shooting aimlessly over both of their shirts as Stan continues to
rock their bodies together, murmuring encouragements into his mouth like, “you
did so good baby, so good, so fucking good.” He shudders with the comedown for
what feels like a whole minute, body fully relaxing into Stan’s, their kisses
growing sloppy. He feels like he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t, just heaves
heavy breaths until he feels Stan swell inside him and come. The noises that
Stan makes are the most beautiful thing Craig’s ever heard in his life, little,
devastated ah’s that roll out of him while he shakes.
Stan hisses when he pulls out and rolls off the condom, tying it at the end and
throwing it on the floor. “Remind me to pick that up later,” he slurs; it’s the
drunkest he’s sounded all night.
“Okay,” Craig says, feeling raw and sore and hollowed out. Stan crawls onto him
and wraps his arms around Craig’s waist, resting his head on one of Craig’s
sharp hipbones.
“That was the first time,” Stan says after a silent moment, only occupied by
heavy breathing and the dim sounds of the party still happening downstairs.
“Huh?” Craig asks, his hand coming up on it’s own accord to play with Stan’s
sweaty hair. He’s staring at the wall and thinking about how sweaty they both
are, how Stan gets an endearing flush from his chest to his ears after sex.
“That was the first time I’ve ever uh,” Stan pauses, “been on top. I’ve never
done that before.”
“Oh,” Craig says, “fuck.”
“You felt amazing,” Stan tells him, and his voice cracks when he does. “I think
that was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Wow. I’m sorry?” Craig still feels absolutely wrecked by the endorphins
rushing through him.
“Don’t be,” Stan says sleepily. “You were so good. You were so, so good.”
They end up falling asleep with the lights on, Craig still propped up and Stan
curled around him. When Craig wakes up, the sounds of the party have died, and
the bedside clock reads 5:02. He has to piss like crazy, but Stan is snoring
and drooling into his thigh. He tries to maneuver Stan off of him, but it takes
longer to be delicate when he realizes that one false move makes searing hot
pain shoot all over his body.
He tugs his boxers back on, aching too much to bother with pants at an hour
that most everyone in the house is guaranteed to be asleep. Just leaning down
to pick the condom off the floor hurts. He waddles to the door, and it’s only
when he’s halfway downstairs that his half-asleep brain realizes something is
wrong.
The door was unlocked. He didn’t have to unlock the door when he left, which is
strange, because had Stan left at all during the night to use the bathroom, he
would have surely grabbed the condom, or put his pants back on, or locked the
door when he came back to bed, or all of the above. He definitely remembers
Stan locking the door when he had been pinned against it, so how?
A sinking sensation fills him as he steps over sleeping bodies scattered
through the living room to the bathroom. He tries not to hyperventilate when
actually inside, tries to rationalize what could have happened, but he can’t
come up with any solutions. After he takes the longest piss of his life and
flushes the condom, he leans against the marble sink and thinks and thinks and
tries not to freak the fuck out.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Occupied!” he says loud, but not too loud.
The knock comes again. He turns around and whips the door open angrily. Cartman
is standing there, looking way too awake for someone at this hour.
“What, fatass, come to destroy the bathroom?” he snaps, feeling sleep-deprived
and hungover and sexed out and absolutely crazy. Cartman just smiles.
“No, no, just wanted to see what was up with my best buddy, Craig! Did you have
a good time at the party?” Cartman’s voice is saccharine sweet, and he
stretches his arms to fill up the doorway so Craig can’t move around him.
“You haven’t said a word to me in years,” Craig says. “What do you want?”
“Well, oh boy, you see, since freshman year, football has completely taken up
my life. No time for outside friends, no time for a part-time job--hell, Craig,
I barely have time for school!” Cartman wraps an arm around Craig’s shoulders
and jostles him a little too hard. “It’s not easy being such a revered figure
in our community, and I never have the time or money to do any of the things
I’m truly passionate about anymore!”
“It’s way too early to hear about one of your schemes, man,” Craig says. “I’m
not interested.”
“Oh, but Craig! Craig, Craig, Craig, hear me out,” Cartman says, and his hand
curls painfully around Craig’s shoulder while he fishes his iPhone out of his
pocket with the other. “You see, I have an opportunity for the both of us. And
by ‘opportunity,’ I mean, an opportunity for me to make some serious cash, and
an opportunity for you to keep Stan Marsh’s integrity intact--well, I mean, as
much as it can still be, right?”
Craig realizes what’s going on as soon as Cartman starts typing in the code to
unlock his phone. “Oh shit,” he says, seeing a grainy video pop up on Cartman’s
phone. It’s Stan from behind, filmed through a slightly open door, his bare ass
clenching as he fucks into Craig. “You were in the closet. You were in the
fucking closet.”
“I’ve already emailed this video to myself, of course,” Cartman continues. “It
would be very difficult to get rid of something this valuable at this
juncture.”
“What the fuck do you want? How did you even--how did you even know?” Craig is
trying to keep his voice down, but it’s next to impossible. He’s shaking, he
realizes, more vulnerable than he had been when it was just him and Stan--
Cartman is going to show the world a video of him getting fucked for the first
time. He feels helpless.
“You nerds couldn’t have been louder boning against the side of the house
earlier if you’d tried,” Cartman says. “I beat you up there while you were
trying to hide your sad excuse for a boner. My bank account has been looking a
little meager lately, and it seems the quickest way to make money around here
is to sell pictures of your trainwreck boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Craig says. “He’s not, we don’t--”
“Have you seen the way he looks at you?” Cartman says, almost surprised. “The
way he sounds when he talks to you? That was the best sex I’ve had in my entire
life.”
“Stop it,” Craig bites out. “Stop it.”
“You’re going to be my eyes and ears,” Cartman tells him. “If you don’t want me
to send this video to the highest paying bidder, you will do whatever I ask.
 You will tell me where he’s going to be, and when he’s going to be there. I
want to know every step that Stan Marsh takes outside. And if I feel like
you’re not doing your best to supply me with that information? This video will
be playing on every gossip outlet within hours, Craig, within minutes.”
Craig doesn’t know if he can breathe.
“Has your number changed since middle school?” Cartman switches from the video
that's still playing to the contacts in his phone. Craig shakes his head.
“It’s the same,” he says, or at least he thinks he says. He can barely hear his
own voice from the blood pounding in his ears.
“Alright, cool! Wow, this is going to be such an awesome friendship, thanks so
much, Craig!” Cartman says excitedly, putting his phone back into his pocket.
He gives Craig’s shoulder one more painful squeeze before letting go. “Well, I
know it’s the weekend and all, but I’ve got an awful lot of schoolwork to catch
up on, so I’m probably gonna clear out of here. But don’t worry, you’ll be
hearing from me soon! And you, well, you should probably get back to bed.
Something tells me you-know-who probably gets really moody if he wakes up
alone.”
When he leaves, Craig has to brace himself against the wall to keep from
falling down. He’s still shaking when he does make his way back upstairs. Stan
is still asleep, oblivious, his flaccid dick hanging out and resting on the
fringe of Craig’s come-stained shirt. He makes sure to lock the door before
eases himself back onto the bed, hissing at the contact. Stan somehow finds him
as soon as he’s near, reaching out with sleepy arms and reeling him in tight.
He shudders into the embrace. He doesn’t fall back to sleep.
***** six portraits of stan marsh, feat. two interludes (part I) *****
i. fifteen
 
Stan is toying with the picture frame on Grant’s bedside table while he
showers.  The picture shows Grant with his wife and two kids on their vacation
last year in Barcelona; Grant’s wife is very pretty, with long, sun-kissed
curls that frame a heart-shaped face.  Their kids look just like them, one
nine, and one six, both girls.  
Do people really have pictures of their families on their nightstands? He
wonders, feeling removed from what he’s holding. Both of Stan’s homes, his
place in Los Angeles, and his place in South Park, came pre-furnished.  He
doesn’t have any family portraits, any real pictures of anyone that he can
think of at all.
He hears the shower stop, Grant stepping out and toweling himself off.  When he
comes back into the bedroom he’s completely naked.  Stan doesn’t put down the
picture frame, just wiggles it at Grant a little.
“Do you feel like she’s watching you when we fuck?” he asks, because Grant once
told him he liked how blunt Stan could be, how adult that made him seem.  Stan
knows he’s an adult.  He wasn’t a virgin before Grant took him, and he’s still
proud about that.
Grant is quiet for a moment, before he drops himself to the bed and rolls over
to Stan, gently taking the picture out of his hands and putting it face-down
back on the nightstand.  “When I’m with you,” he admits, pressing a kiss into
Stan’s shoulder, “I can’t think about anyone else.  Even if she were in the
room, I wouldn’t see her.”
“What about when you’re fucking her?” Stan asks, raising his eyebrows.
“What about it?”
“Do you think about me?”  Stan asks, and he kicks the sheets away that have
been tangled with his legs so he can pose brazenly like an old Hollywood
starlet even though his thighs and dick are still crusty, spent.  “Where’s my
picture?”
“You don’t wanna be a picture on someone’s nightstand,” Grant tells him.  He’s
looking at Stan’s chest, and brings up a thumb to rub against Stan’s nipple,
which is enough to make Stan arch his back a little, gasp, pull Grant in for a
kiss.  He likes how big Grant is, muscular arms, thick neck, barrel chest with
wispy, blond hairs.  They’re such physical opposites, such a completion of one
another, not some Stepford fucking photograph.
“I want you to remember me,” Stan says breathlessly into his mouth, “I want you
to think about me all the time.”
Grant laughs.  “Baby,” he says, kissing Stan’s eyelids shut.  “You always get
so jealous and mean on the comedown.”
“Maybe you should buy more than three grams next time, genius,” Stan replies,
shoving him away.  “Now come on, we have a meeting in an hour.  I want you to
get a picture of this.  I don’t want you to forget how good it was.”
“I’ll never forget you,” Grant promises, but he grabs his phone off the other
nightstand.  It’s a new iPhone, and Stan can see on the large screen before
Grant slides his thumb across to open the camera app: seven missed calls, nine
new messages.  
Grant towers over him on his knees to take the photo, his dick hanging thick
and heavy between his legs.  He turns the screen to face Stan when it’s
finished.  Stan looks fucked out, legs spread and arms folded behind his head,
finger-sized bruises forming on his inner thighs.  The trail of dark hair up
his stomach is matted.  His mouth is swollen and pink.  He looks confident
against the thousand-count sheets he’s on, spread out on someone’s side of the
bed that isn’t his.  He likes it.  It makes him feel perfect, untouchable.


ii. sixteen
 
Craig hates that the world is going to see him, that the world is going to see
pictures of him doing absolutely trivial things and pick him apart until
there’s nothing left.  He hates it, but he’s willing to do it for Stan, and he
wonders what that says about him.
There are about thirty people with cameras gathered around the entrance to the
Harbucks, and they’ve been trying to get pictures of Stan for the past ten
minutes, ever since Craig texted Cartman their location.  Craig wants to vomit.
 Stan doesn’t offer him a gentle hand on his shoulder, doesn’t kiss him on the
temple, or any of the other comforting things that he does in private now, when
they’re alone in Stan’s room or in the dark backseat of Stan’s car at the
lookout over Hell’s Pass.  He does look concerned at the black eye that Craig’s
sporting, courtesy of Kenny finding out about Cartman’s stupid blackmail
scheme, and takes the sunglasses off the top of his head to give them to Craig.
“Wear these,” he says.  “Or the internet will think you’re a bad person.”
Craig fumbles with them.  Stan continues, “They’re going to shout a lot of
stupid questions at you, don’t answer any of them--”
“You’ve already said,” Craig replies, begrudgingly putting the glasses on and
taking another nervous sip of his coffee.  His hands are shaking, and he
thinks, Jesus, I probably look like Tweek.
“They’re not gonna be nice,” Stan says.
“I don’t care, can we just,” Craig stutters, taps his fingers against his
coffee cup.  He wants to hold Stan’s hand, which is a scarier revelation than
realizing he wanted Stan to fuck him.  He wants to be Stan’s boyfriend.  “Can
we just go.”
“Okay, fine, just wanted to make sure you were--ready,” Stan says, slipping
over the last word.  Craig grins a little at that, elbows him in the stomach,
and it feels comfortable, it feels good.
Walking into a throng of paparazzi for the first time is like jumping in
Stark’s Pond at the beginning of summer when the snowmelt from the mountains
makes the water icy cold and needle sharp; the first few seconds he’s submerged
in it he feels ready to drown.  It’s noisy and bright even behind Stan’s
shades, an overwhelming ocean of people.  He instinctively reaches out for
Stan, but Stan is charging through them confident and unafraid, his posture
casual and practiced like his laughter in polite company.  Craig is in awe all
over again, at how untouchable Stan suddenly seems, and he challenges himself
to keep up and look as equally assured.  
It’s hard not to be shaken by the shouting.  How was rehab, Stan?  Are you
sober, Stan?  Did you hear what you ex-girlfriend tweeted about you, Stan?  Who
is your friend, Stan?  How did you meet, Stan?  Do you miss cocaine, Stan?
 Where are you going, Stan?   Are you going to go back to work, Stan?  A lot of
people are boycotting your music, Stan, how does this make you feel, Stan, how
do you deal with your critics, Stan, especially now that you’re sober, Stan?
 Why won’t you talk to us, Stan?
Craig feels like the barrier between them, the shock of their words rattling
his bones every time one of them asks a new stupid question.  It’s hard not to
think about the hundred or so pictures that will be online tomorrow, him
following Stan across a parking lot, hands in his pockets and absolutely
glowering.  Stan’s Jag is only fifty feet away, but it feels like a thousand
miles.  The crowd starts to follow them as they pick up the pace, and then one
of the paps yells something like, “Did you hear what Grant Walker said about
you in People Magazine, Stan?” and Stan stops walking so fast that Craig runs
into him.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Craig says as Stan starts turning around.  He’s
pushing on Stan’s chest to keep him walking backwards towards the car.  “No,
what are you doing, no, no.”
“Fuck Grant Walker!” Stan screams over his shoulder.  “I don’t care what he
says, he can go fuck himself!”
“Hey, no, we’re getting out of here,” Craig says, shoving him harder.  The last
ten feet to the car is a fight the entire way.  Craig coerces Stan over to the
passenger side of the car and holds out his hand.  “Give me your keys.”
“Do you even have your license?” Stan asks meanly, looking ready to push past
Craig and brawl with the paparazzi.
“No, but no one here knows that, so give me the fucking car keys,” Craig says,
impatiently shaking his hand.  “Listen, I hate crowds, I hate having my picture
taken, I hate everything about this, but I care about you, and I want you to
get out of here without getting in more trouble, so.  Give me your keys.”
Stan’s back hits the passenger door, and he looks at Craig a little lost,
before staring over at the crowd that’s closing in on them.  They’re still
shouting, more pointed questions about Grant Walker now, whoever the fuck that
is.  Still facing the crowd, he asks, “You care about me?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Craig says.  “Can we just get out of here?”
Stan nods and hands over the keys finally, and Craig stomps over to the
driver’s side and slides in.  He’s been wanting to drive this car for awhile,
because it moves like a goddamn force of nature and has an angry-sounding
engine that he loves.  When he turns the car over, the hoard of paparazzi jump
back by about five feet.  
“Grant Walker,” Craig says slowly.  “Was that the guy?  The producer?”
Stan looks uncomfortable as he buckles himself in.  “Yeah.”
“What an asshole,” Craig says.  “All of these people, too.  Jesus.  You think
if you open your door, and I open mine, we could take them all out in one go?”
Stan actually laughs.  It sounds like it hurts him.  “Hey,” he says.
“What?” Craig asks as he puts his foot on the gas.  The car lurches forward a
little too fast, and the crowd parts like the red sea, with the exception of
one or two paparazzi that Craig flips off.
“I’m happy you’re in this with me,” Stan says, and he puts his hand over
Craig’s, which is shaking on the stick shift.  
“You wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me,” Craig replies, thinking of
his black eye hiding behind the sunglasses Stan lent him.  
“No,” Stan admits, and Craig’s stomach sinks, but then he says,  “I was already
here.  I couldn’t fucking run from them forever.  Something had to give.”
It makes something thick and heavy roll up Craig’s throat, something protective
and new, and he feels like he’s choking on it.  
Is this what love is? He wonders.
The next day he gets a text message from Stan during fourth period american
history.  It’s a link to a gossip site, an article titled Stan Marsh: Not Out
of the Woods Yet? and the accompanying photograph is one of him and Stan
sitting in the Jaguar, Stan smiling shy and soft through tinted windows at
Craig, who has his finger raised at whoever is taking the photo.  “Although the
teen idol has returned to his native South Park for an indefinite period of
time to work on maintaining a sober lifestyle, we have to question whether he’s
eliminated all the bad influences in his life.”
That’s right, Stan’s text says, my boyfriend the bad influence.  
Craig thinks, oh.  He thinks, huh.
 
(interlude) seventeen
 
Craig shows up two hours late to Wendy’s, because he was busy editing another
homecoming video. She’s hosting a low-key function while her parents away at a
conference for the weekend, so he doesn’t feel overwhelmingly guilty showing up
too late.  He almost hopes it’s going to be over early so he can just pick up
Stan, who texted him two hours ago, so they can go make out with him somewhere
dark and quiet and away from everyone else.
Clyde bumps into him him on the front porch, leaving the house in a hurry.
 Craig can hear the sounds of EDM already, the house vibrating with bass,
someone’s laughter.  
“Well you’re just on time,” Clyde says sarcastically, pushing past him to get
to his beater of a car, keys clutched tightly in his fist.
“What do you mean?” Craig asks, but Clyde is already retreating too quick.
“You tell me!” he shouts as he gets to the sidewalk.  “You fucking tell me.
 See you later.”
Craig opens the front door with sudden trepidation.  He doesn’t like what he
sees when he walks inside; Wendy is stretched out on her parent’s worn sofa in
only her underwear, an expensive looking pink lace bra with a small black bow
in the middle, panties to match.  She’s got the soles of her feet pressed
against Stan’s, who is reclined against the other arm of the couch in only his
boxers and a t-shirt.  They’re talking loudly at a thousand words a minute.
 Token is on the floor between them, drinking out of a water bottle that he’s
holding too tight and crushing.  Jimmy is in the corner fucking with an iPod,
playing some inoffensive rap mashup while Bebe gives him a footrub.  No one is
fully dressed, and it all feels uncomfortably cozy.
“Uh,” he says, trying to take it all in, but something in his brain seems to be
short circuiting.  
“Babe!” Stan shouts when he sees him, which is embarrassing.  Craig hates pet
names, especially the ones that seem to infantilize him.  Stan kicks himself
away from Wendy, who rolls onto her side to whisper something to Token, and
Craig finds himself being pulled aggressively out of the living room into the
unoccupied study.
“What the fuck,” Craig says, wishing he was still alone in his bedroom editing
his stupid school video.  Stan grabs him by the wrists and kisses him, and he
sinks into it almost resigned, until Stan licks into his mouth.  There is
something on his tongue.  Craig sputters and pushes Stan away.
“What the fuck?” he repeats.  Stan smiles a little too big and lets his tongue
hang out.  There’s a blue pill on the tip with a little dolphin etched into it.
“What is that?”
“Ecthtathy,” Stan replies with his tongue still lolled out of his mouth.  “Want
thome?”
“No,” Craig says quickly.
“If you don’t take it I will,” Stan tells him.  It sounds like a joke, but
Craig knows it’s a threat, and suddenly the bass out in the living room, the
sound of Token’s laughter at something Jimmy is saying, all the noise in the
house feels distant, the study rendered quiet by the weight of Stan’s words.  
He wanted to see a movie tonight.  There’s a new Von Trier playing at the indie
theatre up north and he had asked Stan earlier in the week if he’d go see it
with him, and Stan had replied, yeah, of course, while laying kisses into the
nape of his neck, behind his ear.  It makes something sink deep and thick in
his stomach knowing that Stan probably hadn’t meant it.
“Becauth--” Stan takes the pill off his tongue, pinches it between his index
finger and thumb delicately.  “Because, it makes me feel good.  Because I want
to feel good with you.”
“You don’t already feel good with me?” Craig asks, hating himself for sounding
bored about it.  He still hasn’t learned how to raise his voice, use
inflection, show Stan that he cares with his words.  
“I do, I do,” Stan says quickly, and he pulls Craig into him again, rests them
both back against an old roll-top desk.  “Of course I do, fuck.”
“Okay,” Craig says.  “So I don’t see why we have to roll together for you to
enjoy my company.”
Stan presses a kiss to the back of his head. “Because,” he says, his teeth
grinding together painfully.  “Because it’s fun and adventurous and different.
 Like, I like just hanging out with you, I love that we can just be together
and not have to fucking try, you know?”
Craig always feels like he’s trying.  
“But sometimes I want to try new stuff with you, I want to do everything with
you.  Don’t you want that?”
“How many pills have you taken?” Craig asks, because he’s not willing to answer
Stan.  Craig hates new things, hates adventures, has never liked that side of
Stan and thought it had been stamped out with age.
“Uh,” Stan says, pauses, swallows around nothing.  “Like, two maybe?  No, shit,
three.”
“Fuck,” Craig says.
“Please,” Stan pleads into the back of his neck.  “Please, I just want to try
something new and different with you.  It’ll be fun.  It’s not like--it’s not
an addictive thing, it’s not something that’s gonna happen all the time.
 Everyone’s doing it, but it’s chill.  Hey, please?”
Craig feels guilty, and then he feels angry.  He’s starting to wonder why Stan
makes him feel angrily resigned most of the time.  When they’re alone together,
Stan is the person he wants Stan to be--unaffected, strong, with a quiet, mean
sense of humor that speaks to the very bones of Craig.  But when they’re with
other people, when they’re with friends, Stan is the person that those friends
want him to be too, and it’s scary to think that Stan might be neither of the
people that Craig assumes him to be.
“Sure,” he says, feeling weary.  He takes the pill from Stan’s fingers.
 “Fine.”  
His mouth curls around the bitterness.  He’s always stayed away from the harder
things, preferring to get high by himself in his room the months before Stan,
or drunk on the fringe of parties until he passed out on a couch alone.  He’s
never been explicitly against other substances, but he’s never had any sort of
drive to seek them out.  And he wants-- he wants Stan to want to be with him,
despite everything.  
“Let me get you water.” Stan laughs when he sees the grimace on Craig’s face,
pushing one more kiss to Craig’s forehead, and letting his hand slide
possessively along his shoulders as he makes his way out of the study.  
It takes almost two hours for the pill to hit.  Craig is at the point where he
can’t stand Stan and Wendy anymore, even when they’re protesting that “boko
maru is a very Real Thing, Craig, don’t you even read Vonnegut?” He’s near
ready to leave with an angry text to Clyde about how shitty their friends are,
when suddenly:  
It’s rolling, right, because it feels like pleasure is rolling up your throat,
from your chest to the tips of your fingers.  Craig’s got his hand over his
heart the first time he breathes out and it feels like he’s coming in his pants
even when he’s not hard, even when it feels like he couldn’t get hard if he
tried.  The euphoria is almost frightening, and he reaches out for Stan, whose
hand is sweaty and too-warm, and he instantly lets go after grabbing it.
“Oh,” Stan says, twisting around on the couch to face him.  This time their
pupils are a reflection, blown to sin. “Babe.  How you feeling?”
“I feel like I’m being crushed to death by happiness,” Craig admits, because he
can’t stop himself.  It’s like he can feel every cell of himself moving,
thriving, doing their best to stay alive.  It’s terrifying, and it makes him
feel exposed in front of the few people in the living room, but also fills him
with a sense of completion.  A smile spreads across his face, and it feels
unnatural, he wants it to stop.  
“Dark,” Stan says, rolling over and kissing him, dry mouth with too much
tongue. It feels amazing anyway.  “So fucking dark always, I love it.”
“Do you?” Craig asks weakly, because the small, fragile part of himself that
wants to have this conversation is rapidly taking control.
“Yeah,” Stan says, slipping off the couch, the soles of his feet leaving
Wendy’s immediately so he can pin Craig against the floor.  “Of course I do,
God, I love you so much.”
“Oh,” Craig says, startled and overwhelmed with hearing it for the first time.
 “I love you too.”
They start making out, their movements slow like they’re wading through
molasses to reach each other.  Craig lets Stan take off his shirt and writhes
against the soft carpet of Wendy’s parents’ living room without care, doesn’t
listen to the hush of whispers or light laughter that reverberates around them.
 The noise seems to get louder in the room, but it feels good against his skin,
Craig thinks, he welcomes it as long as he can wear Stan like a shield over
him, their mouths connected and bodies rediscovering each other.  Craig feels
like he’s lost in the ether with Stan as his guide when they kiss, like he’s
next to fading away into oblivion.  
When Stan eventually stops kissing him to go get more water, Craig looks around
the room from his place on the floor to see the party has grown by at least
twenty people.  He feels self-conscious suddenly, groping around next to him
for where Stan discarded his shirt and pulling it back over his head.  
“Where did all these people come from?” Craig asks Stan when he gets back,
opening and closing his jaw dramatically.  He needs gum or something, fuck, his
teeth are gonna be dust tomorrow.  Stan shrugs, sitting down next to him, both
of their backs against the couch.
“I dunno,” he says, slyly.  “I’ve been uh, distracted.”
Craig smiles and tries to lean in to continue where they left off before Stan
so rudely stopped to hydrate himself, but Stan turns away to look around.
“Hey,” he says eventually, “why doesn’t Kenny ever come to these things?”
Craig’s never been entirely sold on Kenny, and is sure that everyone they know
feels similarly.  In middle school he got more aggressive, and in what was
probably some misguided attempt to look cool, talked about dying and other
morbid shit all the time.  He was briefly cool again when he was selling weed
for his brother, but he stopped a year and a half ago suddenly, and no one
really saw any reason to keep inviting him to parties if he was just going to
be some sober downer.  Craig tells him this in one breath, and watches Stan’s
face go from vaguely impressed to sad.  
“A year and a half ago?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” Craig says, rubbing at his face, his hair.  Stan brings up two hands to
start scratching his fingers from Craig’s temple to the nape of his neck, and
it feels incredible.  “Just, ohfuck, just stopped one day, was a total asshole
to anyone who asked him for an eighth, uh.”
He trails off, overwhelmed with the feeling of Stan’s hands on him again.
“This was what, last May?” Stan asks.
“Yeah, I mean, exactly,” Craig says.  “How did you know?”
“Last May,” Stan says firmly, his hands tracing circles now, “was when I got
out of rehab.  Kenny knew.  We never stopped talking when I moved away.  Fuck,
he always does this shit.”
“Oh,” Craig says.  It feels like something in his chest is crumbling at the
revelation, like, of course.  Of fucking course.
“Yeah,” Stan says.  “Do you think he could come sometime?  To something like
this?  I think he’s lonely.  His only friend is Butters.”
Craig finds himself nodding, too content with the feeling of Stan against him,
moving in soothing circles.  “He’s gonna babysit you though,” he tries anyway,
somehow.  His eyes are closed.  “You won’t be able to get away with shit like
this.”
“Sure I will,” Stan says, and when Craig opens his eyes there’s a confident
look on his face that rattles Craig at his core.  
A majority of the party moves away from the living room when a game of beer
pong starts going in the basement.  Token finds a guitar somewhere and starts
playing simple nonsense chords on Wendy’s loveseat.  Eventually Stan starts
freestyling along, beat box rhythms that feel good when Craig turns around and
leans into his body to collect the vibrations.  Even still, he says, “this is
so embarrassing, I can’t believe I’m dating you.”
“You don’t like my sick beats?” Stan asks, completely genuine.
“They are terrible,” Craig tells him, but then pulls him down for a kiss, their
mouths slipping together in an unnatural way, all upside-down and turned over.
 It feels great though, any contact at this point does, and Craig is so happy
with the sounds that he feels distantly concerned with it, like pleasure is
this untouchable, inescapable thing.
The party gets louder, then quieter in waves, the periods between basement
games evident.  Despite the comfort of having Stan wrapped around him and the
steady noise of Token’s guitar, Craig can feel himself start to freak out after
the third game ends and the room crowds over again with drunken teenagers and
their conversations, their enthusiasm.  It is the exact wrong time for Stan to
ask him, “do you think we could, you know, tell people?”
“Tell people?” Craig repeats, gesturing at the few dozen people around them who
just bore witness to their excessive making out.  “Like they don’t already
know?”
“I mean, officially, you know,” Stan says slowly.  “I just like, wanna shout
from the rooftops about you.  That I’m with you.”
It doesn’t escape Craig what Stan is asking.  The paparazzi have trickled down
in numbers to the point where they are no longer a presence in South Park at
all, and if they are, it’s usually for some visiting public figure removed from
Stan.  No one wants their pictures anymore, they aren’t worth anything.  Craig
knows that after a few months of boring candids of him and Stan walking places,
him and Stan getting coffee, Stan really began to slip into irrelevance, and in
a final act of desperate manipulation, Cartman tried to sell the video.  No one
would buy it, though there were a few people willing to take it off his hands
for free.  The rumors about Stan are out there, because people know it exists,
there were certainly enough things said about them when they were constantly
seen together, worse than Stan and Kenny.  Stan hasn’t shown any sign of caring
though, and has started to hint at maybe a desire for people to know, a desire
to show Craig off as an important person.  
Still, something pushes Craig to say, “That’s just the E talking.”
“It’s not,” Stan says, but Craig brings a hand up to the side of his face to
quiet him.  Stan kisses the soft of his palm.  “It’s not.”
“Okay,” Craig says.
“I promise,” Stay replies.  “I swear.”
“I know,” Craig tells him, hoping it comes off as confident, but it probably
doesn’t.  Between the party blowing up and Stan trying to have a serotonin-
fueled relationship chat, Craig is really starting to freak the fuck out.
 “Hey, I’m uh.  I think I need some fresh air, so I’m gonna go out back for a
bit, okay.”
Stan looks at him, really stares him down for longer than necessary.  “Okay,”
he says eventually.
The chill outside feels perfect against his skin.  There are a few kids smoking
on the patio that he sidesteps so he can lay down in the grass.  It’s already
starting to get cold, not even October, and it rained a few times this week, so
the ground is wet and seeps into his clothes quickly.  It still feels good
though, his own skin suffocating and warm.  His mind is racing; there are
thoughts about him and Stan as their own entity, their own island, as something
permanent and enduring, and there are thoughts about Kenny, his protective
streak, the angry fondness that Stan seems to have reserved for him, the fact
that Kenny is probably a better person than he is, because he’s willing to tell
Stan the things Stan doesn’t want to hear, is willing to be the person that
Stan needs instead of the one that Stan wants.  Craig isn’t sure if he could
ever be any of those things, if he could be anything other than himself even
for the sake of someone he loves.  
Stan finds him like this half an hour later.  He’s still laying on his back,
and probably muddy with it by now.  The notion of getting up right now makes
him feel sick.  
“You okay?” Stan asks.  He’s standing, and he seems so tall; he seems a million
miles away.  
“No,” Craig says weakly.  He can hear Stan breathe out sad and slow, a resigned
little huff.  Stan sits down in the wet grass next to him, even though it will
probably ruin his hundred-something-dollar jeans.  
“I’m sorry,” Stan tells him earnestly.  He does not touch Craig.  “I didn’t
realize it would be like this for you.  I should have thought it through.”
“It’s okay,” Craig says, because now he feels bad, which.  He shouldn’t, he
knows distantly that he shouldn’t, but that doesn’t help him now.  “I don’t
want you to think I don’t want to be with you.”
“I know you do,” Stan says, and now he’s lying down too, spreading his body
parallel to Craig’s on the grass, unmoved by the wet and the mud.  “You don’t
have to be explicit, because I know you.  I know you tell me in small ways.
 I’m sorry, I’m a selfish asshole for wanting this.”
Craig wants to respond, but as he opens his mouth he sees the flash of red and
blue lights over Stan’s shoulder.
“Shit,” he says instead, and Stan looks briefly hurt before rolling over to see
the lights as well.
“Fuck,” he agrees, and they both scramble to help each other up and
instinctively run for the back fence.  
Stan’s got mud all over his right side just from the brief second of laying
next to Craig, so Craig is sure he’s ten times worse.  His pants are tight from
being soaked through, and rip when he jumps the first fence into the neighbor’s
backyard after Stan.  If Stan notices, he still doesn’t care, just keeps going
for the next fence.  Craig follows, blood pounding too loud in his ears.  They
jump a few more fences before they hit a patch of woods.  Stan hesitates for a
second, looking at Craig for his approval, and then he’s running forward again.
 
They don’t stop for what feels like a half hour, though it’s probably been five
minutes.  Stan finally biffs it tripping over the root of some tree in the dark
and goes face first into a bush.
“Fuck!” he cries again, and Craig worriedly stumbles over to help him up, but
trips after him instead.  Craig tries to push himself off of Stan, but Stan
pulls him back down laughing.  
“What are you doing?” he asks, writhing in Stan’s possessive hold, trying to
listen for the sound of others running in their direction.  He can distantly
hear sirens.  
“Having my way with you,” Stan replies, kissing at his jaw, his neck.  
“Here?” Craig asks, looking over his shoulder.  He can’t see shit, can barely
see Stan a half foot in front of him.
“You’re so paranoid, babe, like people are gonna fucking find us.  Like people
are gonna fucking care,” Stan says, one hand already slipping between Craig’s
thighs, fingering at the tear where his jeans split.
“I would care,” Craig tells him, even though he likes the way Stan’s thumbnail
scratches against the soft skin too close to his crotch.
“Yeah, if someone actually caught us, which they won’t,” Stan says.  “Come on,
where’s your sense of danger?”
“Nonexistant,” Craig says darkly, but he thrusts into Stan’s hand a little when
Stan squeezes.
“Not true,” Stan replies, “I know you.”
At times like this Craig wants to say, no you don’t.  You know who you want me
to be, maybe, you know the void you want me to fill like some surrogate lover,
some surrogate best friend that you lost.  Stan goes to unbutton his jeans and
Craig’s mind is going a thousand words a minute wondering, did you ever try to
get to know me?  Did you ever really want to know me at all?
He gasps when Stan works his pants down around his thighs, the cool night air
kissing his flaccid, oversensitive dick.  Stan works a hand underneath his
balls to find his hole with greedy, wanting fingers.
“Let me fuck you,” Stan asks, breathy and tender.  
“I don’t know,” Craig says.  He feels like there’s some disconnect happening
between his top and bottom half tonight, and he doubts his ability to perform.
 
“It feels so good,” Stan says, “even if you can’t get it up, babe, I’d make you
feel so good, you’d be so full of me.”
“Could you even get it up right now?” Craig retorts, palming at the crotch of
Stan’s jeans and feeling mean about it until, of course, Stan is half-chub and
twitching underneath him.
“Practice,” Stan tells him shamelessly, before gripping him by the meat of his
arms and kissing him again, hips rolling up so the rough of Stan’s denim is
rubbing against Craig’s bare ass.  It feels oddly exquisite, in a way that
Craig knows it’s going to chafe and hurt like a bitch tomorrow, like grinding
his teeth or scratching an itch for too long.  “Please?”
“Fine,” Craig relents, and allows himself to be rolled onto his back so Stan
can climb over him and roll his pants down even more.  Craig’s stomach flips a
little with the noise of wet soil squelching underneath him, the sudden
paranoia of a bug crawling into his open mouth while Stan fucks the air out of
him.  He doesn’t say anything, just passively lets Stan crawl under his legs,
where his jeans are now stuck around his ankles, lets Stan push against his
thighs so he can get a taste of Craig’s ass.
Stan was right about it feeling good.  Stan’s tongue against his asshole feels
like a match striking against him again and again, and he feels absolutely lit
up, burning and hungry for more of the too-loud moans that Stan presses inside
him.  Craig forgets his body completely, just drowns in the hot rhythm of Stan
licking at him in steady, earnest strokes, dipping his tongue inside like it’s
a question he wants Craig to answer.  
“Fuck,” Craig moans, throwing his head back and covering his face with his arm.
“Just, fucking fuck me, Stan, Jesus.”
“Can’t,” Stan says into his ass, and just the way his words feel like they’re
reverberating inside him makes Craig think his brain is about to leak out of
his ears.  Stan pulls away to talk to him, and Craig aches with his absence.
 “Mouth too dry, so.  Ass also too dry.  You could like, choke me with your
dick maybe?”
Craig looks at his dick from under his arm, which is still woefully soft.  He
looks up to Stan then, who is staring down at his crotch like a challenge.
“I got this,” Stan says, ducking back down and breathing hot against Craig’s
shaft.  He kisses at the soft patch of skin at the base where his dick and
balls meet, and Craig’s toes curl in his sneakers.  “Let me.”
The blowjob is excruciating, and it feels like it goes on for at least a few
millenia.  Craig never gets fully hard, and Stan seems to take it personally,
even though Craig is breathless otherwise, writhing in the dirt and fucking up
into Stan’s mouth.  
“It’s okay,” he says, pulling Stan up by his hair.  “You don’t--you can fuck me
anyway, it’s fine, just fuck me.”
Stan looks down at himself like he’s not sure anymore.  He rubs at his own dick
through his pants and sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth.  “You sure?”
“Yeah, just--everything feels good right now, just fucking do it, I’ll be
fine,” Craig tells him, and Stan nods like it’s an order before pulling his own
dick out.  
It hurts like hell.  Stan gets a few inches in and Craig already feels like
he’s being torn apart, and worse, like he has to take a huge shit.  Stan makes
little ‘huh’ noises while shallowly thrusting into him, and usually it would
drive Craig crazy with need, make Craig pull Stan deeper into him, but now all
he can think about is how he’s going to shit all over Stan’s dick in the woods,
and how it’s going to be the worst thing to ever happen to him.  
“Please stop,” he cries, hating himself for it.  “Please, please, please stop
oh God.”
Stan does, immediately, pulling out and holding his dick protectively in his
hand.  “Are you okay?  Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Craig says.  “I just--it feels too weird.  I don’t trust my body.”
“You’re not gonna shit on my dick,” Stan says, reading his mind, or maybe
coming from a place of experience, but Craig can never be too sure.
“You don’t know that,” Craig protests.  “I don’t know that.  Fuck.  Can we go
home?”  
“Yeah,” Stan says.  He sounds disappointed.  “Yeah, of course.  Jesus, I’m so
sorry.”
Craig can feel he’s coming down on the walk back to his parent’s house, because
he no longer wants to talk a mile a minute, which thank God.  He was really
beginning to feel betrayed by his body.  Both he and Stan are covered in thick
patches of mud that will make Craig’s mom scream if she sees them, and he
almost feels like throwing away his clothes completely.  Stan doesn’t seem to
notice though, wraps an arm around Craig’s neck and doesn’t let go, presses a
kiss into Craig’s matted, dirty hair that lingers a little too long.  
The lights are out at his house when they get there, so Craig lets Stan sneak
inside with him.  They take a shower together, and Craig feels like he could
stay forever between Stan massaging shampoo into his hair and watching the
dirty water swirl down the drain.  
“I’m sorry,” Stan says again, soapy thumbs at Craig’s temples, rubbing circles.
 He’s apologized about twenty times since they started walking home and said
little else.
“It’s okay,” Craig says, grabbing him by the wrist and squeezing gently.  He
feels so tired all of a sudden.  “It’s fine.”
He lends Stan a pair of boxers and a t-shirt when they get out.  Stan has half
of his wardrobe by now, a drawer in his own dresser that Craig tries to steal a
few things back from every time he’s over.  He will never let Stan know how
much he likes seeing Stan in his clothes, stretching out the shoulders and
stomach until they’re see-through.
“You sure?” Stan asks as they crawl together under Craig’s cool sheets in the
dark, his arms instinctively wrapping around Craig’s waist.
“Yeah,” Craig says, because despite everything, he couldn’t imagine this with
anyone else.  Years ago, he could never imagine being with anyone like this at
all.  For all their problems, they’re okay.  He closes his eyes and exhales.
 “Yeah.”


iii. eighteen
 
Moving in together sounds like a great idea when Stan asks him on his
eighteenth birthday.  They’re at some steak place, haven’t been there for even
ten minutes and Stan asks without being able to look him in the eye, chasing
olive oil on a plate with a slice of warm bread.  Craig makes him clarify, and
when Stan starts to recite a well-rehearsed speech about test runs and college,
Craig kicks him under the table and tells him yes, of course he’ll move in with
Stan.  He likes to think that they don’t need reasons to want to see each other
anymore, they don’t need excuses to fall asleep in each other’s arms every
night.  
Sharon’s been moved out for almost six months, and when they pull up to the
house after dinner Craig expects there to be some sort of loud, obnoxious party
that Stan pretends to be fond of, but instead the house is as dark and quiet as
it is big.  “Welcome home,” Stan says, looking at Craig with some mixture of
awe and pride.  
Moving in together still seems like a good idea when they’re curled up together
in the reclaimed master, naked except for the throw that Stan’s wrapped around
their shoulders as they smoke a joint and eat cake off of paper plates.  Stan
had convinced his sister to spring for an expensive bottle of champagne as a
birthday gift, but Craig can’t tell the difference when Stan pours him a glass,
and they inevitably just start drinking straight from the bottle.  Craig isn’t
sure if he’s supposed to be overwhelmed by the luxury of it, and he figures
he’s become accustomed to it in small doses having dated Stan for the better
part of two years.  However, he can’t help but think if he were at home--his
parent’s home right now, his mom would scold him for trying to bring food
upstairs, would try to set a curfew and make him keep his door open if he was
on the phone with Stan so she could listen in on the conversation.  Some small
thrill manages to burst out of him anyway, and he finds himself high and
deliriously happy sucking frosting off of Stan’s fingers at two in the morning
on a school night thinking, home, here, I’m home.
Moving in together still seems like a good idea when Craig tells his parents
the next day, because they both become incredibly upset, and Craig feels like
he’s winning although he’s not sure what.  
Moving in together still seems like it was the best decision after a month when
they’re making it work.  Stan hires a maid to clean the house three days a
week, and orders takeout for them every night.  Stan studies for the GRE while
Craig is at school, and they make rules about parties and Stan quietly converts
a spare bedroom into a studio for Craig so he can finish the college portfolio
he feels like he’s been working on for the past four years.  Sometimes Stan
comes in while Craig is working and plays nonsense songs on his guitar for
hours, and Craig feels like they’re building something together.  Stan starts
sneaking his sketches out to the kitchen to pin them to the fridge like a proud
father with alphabet magnets, but then he starts coming up behind Craig when
he’s working, arms around his waist, teeth on his ear, asking if he can put
this up in the living room?  The foyer?  Their house becomes a home, a
collection of them; there’s a picture that Wendy took of the two of them last
summer when they were innertubing part of the San Juan river half-drunk on
boxed wine and holding hands.  They’re both smiling, a sunburn crawling across
both of their noses, running up their chests.  The sunburn had lasted two weeks
after for Craig, faded into a nice tan for Stan, but Craig hadn’t even
complained with Stan there to rub aloe into it every night, had felt so goddamn
content that entire day, would relive it forever if he could.  He thinks Stan
probably feels the same, because Stan actually buys a frame for the picture and
puts in on the nightstand next to their bed, and sometimes Craig will catch him
staring at it with an undefinable reverence, touching the frame gently.  
Moving in together still seems like a great idea when Craig gets the acceptance
letter he was trying not to be too stressed about, and Stan looks so genuinely
happy for him, and then asks how Craig feels about selling the house, maybe?
 Stan following Craig, maybe?  There’s the whole “college experience,” he
knows, you probably want a dorm room and a roommate who isn’t trying to fuck
you all the time, and, uh-- Craig shuts him up with a kiss, says, “let’s
fucking do it,” and means it because they have a good thing going.
Moving in together still seems like a great idea even when Stan gets a bad
sinus infection that spring, and he is constantly miserable and sniffling and
Craig surprises both Stan and himself by making the chicken soup his mom always
made when he was sick.  Stan sips at the broth and looks at Craig admiringly
through glassy eyes, and if Stan hasn’t figured out how uncool Craig really is
at this point he never will, so Craig leans over and kisses him gently, the
rough, red around his nose, and says, “stop acting so pathetic, loser.”
Moving in together still seems like a great idea when it’s summer and Craig has
graduated and Stan has passed the GRE, and they spend too many days by the pool
drinking cheap swill beer, sitting around the living room with Token and Kenny,
Stan writing music while Craig sits against the wall trying to track the
movement of their hands with charcoal.  He’s got all of Stan’s curves and
angles memorized at this point, could trace Stan’s outline with his eyes
closed.  
Moving in together seems like a great idea until it’s halfway through July and
Craig finds Stan’s pills.
They aren’t Stan’s pills though.  They belong to a woman named Gertrude, who
is--or was--in a lot of pain.  Enough pain to need a script for oxycontin.
 Craig stares at them and three other bottles with labels he doesn’t recognize
laying under some old magazines in the bathroom no one ever uses.  
Stan is in the kitchen downstairs when Craig finds him, eating leftover cold
pizza for breakfast at the island and drinking what smells like a screwdriver.
 He beams at Craig, mid-chew, his hair cowlicked in five different places.  He
looks sweet, Craig thinks.  He is the love of my life, Craig thinks.  I’m about
to lose the love of my life, Craig thinks.
“Wanna take a shower with me?” Stan asks while swallowing around a big bite of
crust.  “I reek for some reason--”
Opiate sweats, Craig thinks.
“--and a couple is coming by in an hour to take a tour of the house, and also I
want to see how long you can last with your dick in my mouth in the shower.
 I’m gonna say ten minutes, max.  Jesus, I’m gonna miss the water pressure when
we move.”
Craig puts the pill bottles on the counter with more force than he intended to,
and Stan’s dopey morning smile fades fast.
“Just,” Craig bites out, because he’s not sure what to say, “just don’t lie to
me, okay.  Don’t try to tell me these aren’t yours.”
Stan leans away from the counter, his gaze drifting back and forth between
Craig and the pills, assessing.  He chews on the side of his cheek like it’s a
lie he’s trying to keep down.  Finally he says, quietly, “yeah.  Those are
mine.”
“Okay,” Craig says.  He feels hysterical.  “Okay.”
The kitchen goes still and quiet, with the exception of Craig’s heavy breathing
and Stan’s nails slowly tapping against the counter.  
“Are you going to ask me what I was doing with them?” Stan asks eventually.  He
sounds bored.
“Of course I’m not fucking--that’s such a stupid question.  ‘What were you
doing with them?’” He mimics, before pounding his fist on the counter and
looking away.  “I’m not a fucking dumbass, Stan, I’m not your dad, I’m your
fucking boyfriend and I know what the fuck you do with a bunch of painkillers.”
“Okay,” Stan replies, raising his hands like he’s the offended party. “Don’t
take it personally.”
“How am I supposed to take it?” Craig asks, and he’s even more frustrated by
how calm he sounds.  Stan probably thinks he sounds bored too.  “You’re just-
- taking pills now?  I’m living in the same house as you and I don’t know
you’re high all the goddamn time, I don’t notice my boyfriend relapsed?  How
the fuck am I supposed to take it?”
Stan shrugs.  “I’m not--it’s not all the time.  Just sometimes.  You say
‘relapsed’ and I’m not sure you know what that means.”
“It means you’re an addict,” Craig says, and Stan flinches like he’s been
punched, his hand instinctively tightening into a fist.  “It means I have
trusted you from day one to have self control, and I shouldn’t have.”
“Why the fuck would you trust me?” Stan asks.  He’s smiling, and it looks as
mean as Craig has ever seen him.  “I never told you to trust me.  I think I
explicitly asked you to do the opposite.”
“I trusted you because you’re my boyfriend!” Craig yells, out of nowhere,
yells.  Stan looks almost frightened by it.  
“Well,” Stan says after a few beats.  He doesn’t look at Craig, picks up one of
the bottles and turns it over and over in his hands.  “If I knew this is what
it would take for you to actually show some fucking emotion I would have
relapsed forever ago.”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” Craig asks.
“It means what you fucking think it means. Shit, Craig, I give you the goddamn
world and you couldn’t care less. You hate people, you hate our friends, you
get lost in your stupid art projects and film studies that focus on the things
you hate the most, and I’m so tired of it,” Stan says.  
“You hate those things too,” Craig says like it’s been ground out of him.  “You
just convince yourself that you like them, because you are literally fucked up
all the time, Stan.  It’s just like when we were kids, and you would go on
stupid adventures all the time, you’re just trying to escape.  And now you’re
trying to escape me too.”
Stan sucks in a breath and shudders.  He throws the pill bottle back to the
counter and lets it roll to the floor while he scrubs his face in his hands.
 “Fuck,” he says.
“I think we should break up,” Craig says.  It is something he isn’t sure that
he wants until he says it out loud.  “Just for awhile.  I think we should spend
some time apart.”
Stan is quiet.  He can’t look at Craig.
“What about all of our plans,” he says eventually.  “We were gonna find a place
together.  We were gonna sell this place, make our own.”
“Yeah,” Craig says.  “You should probably cancel that showing today.”
“Fuck you, Craig,” Stan spits out.  “God, you insensitive asshole.”
“You’re right,” Craig says.  He knows he is.  He wishes he wasn’t.  He doesn’t
know how to fix this.  “I am.  And I love you.  But you can’t expect me to
commit to this, you can’t expect me to commit to you if you’re using.  Fuck,
Stan, you’re so fucking selfish.  I’m starting school in a month.  What am I
supposed to do?”
“Help me,” Stan says, reaching across the counter for his Craig’s hands.  He
grabs one with both, squeezes.  Craig doesn’t react.  “Stay.”
“I can’t,” he replies.  “I don’t know how.  I don’t know how to get past this
if I don’t trust you.  I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with you if you’re
not even fucking here.”
“Because I’ll tell you the truth, please,” Stan is begging.  “Please.”
Craig hesitates, and Stan is holding onto him so desperately, like some sort of
plea.  
“I never stopped using,” Stan admits.  “I never even tried to get better.  I
haven’t been sober since the second I got out, and I mean, you know that,
Craig.  You fucking know that.  You’ve been with me the entire time, you’ve
seen me.”
“If you’re trying to say that I enabled you--”
“No, fuck, it was me.  I’ve been trying to make it look like I’m in control.  I
know I’m not.”  Stan gulps, turns away.  He can’t look Craig in the eye
anymore, but not because he’s lying.  He seems ashamed. “Recently, it’s been
harder, you know, the pressure of moving, the thought of you going to college,
meeting people.  Yeah, I slipped a little harder these past few months.  I
don’t know how to talk to you.  I don’t know how to tell you how I feel, and
sometimes it seems a little easier to just get away.”
“Jesus,” Craig says.  
“But I can’t lose you completely,” Stan tells him, leans forward and presses
his forehead to their hands entwined, where Craig has started to squeeze back.
 His entire body is shaking.  “I’d do whatever it takes to keep you.  I can
stop, I swear, now that you know, I can stop.”
“I need to go,” Craig hears himself saying, despite what he wants to say, which
is yes, of course, despite what he wants to do, which is stay forever, curl
against Stan and close his eyes and fuck the world, fuck every last one of
them.
“No,” Stan says.
“I want to be with you,” Craig says.  “But I need to know that you aren’t--
I need to know that you’re here with me too.  I need to know that I’m not just
an excuse for you, either way.  I need time to think about this.”
“No,” Stan says again.  “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Craig tells him, swallowing hard over the last word.  “I love
you so much.”
And then he leaves.
 
x
 
Craig doesn’t see Stan for the rest of the summer, hidden back in his old
bedroom at his parent’s house.  He has nightmares about Stan dying every night
in August, only made more jarring when he wakes up alone.  It is a suffocating,
hot, lonely month.  
Leaving South Park is a relief, like a boot that’s been pressing his chest into
the ground finally stepping off.  He lives in a dorm with some kid he hates.
 His bed is too small, and the mattress hurts his back, but no one sees him and
recognizes him for the mistakes he’s made, no one knows him in relation to Stan
Marsh, no one blames him for leaving Stan behind.  
He almost doesn’t go home for Fall Break, but his parents beg, and when he
talks to his sister on the phone it sounds like she wouldn’t completely object
to having him around for a weekend, which is the closest she’ll ever admit to
missing anyone.   
He comes home on a Thursday.  Stan doesn’t show up on his doorstep until
Saturday.
“I deserve some credit,” he says, leaning against the door frame and taking
Craig’s passive face into consideration.  “Not showing up immediately.  I
wanted to.”
A big part of Craig wanted him to as well, has wanted to catch Stan watching
him from across the quad while he walks to class, has been waiting for Stan to
pull up a chair next to him in the library, surprise him at any moment and ask
for him back.  He doesn’t dare admit to this out loud.  
“What do you want?” Craig asks instead.
“Well,” Stan says, hands casually in his pockets, “My house is still for sale.
 I’d like to get out of here, but I don’t know where to go.  I’m still really
hung up on this guy.”
“Stan,” Craig says, a little desperately, meaning to tell him to stop.  
“He was my entire world,” Stan continues.  “Just, completely.  The last three
months have been so hard without him.”
“Please,” Craig tries again.
“I threw them away,” Stan says suddenly.  He shoves his hands even deeper into
his pockets, his body going rigid as if it takes every ounce of his control to
not reach out for Craig.  “All of them.  There were stashes you didn’t know
about, and I threw those away too.  I haven’t--I haven’t even had a drink, or
anything since you left.  I can do this, Craig.  Please, please let me show you
that I can commit to you.”
He looks good, Craig will grant him that.  Stan’s never had much mass to him
before, has been on the side of too-skinny mostly with random pockets of fat
awkwardly distributed around his middle, but now he looks like he’s been trying
to get in shape, the sleeves of his shirt a little more taut, his neck a little
thicker.  Craig wants to see him in motion, wants to see him naked, wants to
see the shape his muscles take when he’s holding Craig down.  
“Fine,” Craig says.  He feels exhausted from running and needing so much.
 Being away from Stan has been like those first few months when they were
constantly being pursued by the paparazzi, like being chased by nightmares.
 He’s felt haunted by all the not knowing.
Stan takes him out on a date that night, already has tickets to go see the
indie movie that Craig has been wanting to see.  When it’s over, Stan doesn’t
ask Craig to come back to the house, instead suggests they go out for coffee so
Craig can tell Stan all about college; Stan won’t be jealous, he promises, but
there’s a glimmer of fear in his eyes.  Craig realizes he’s never seen Stan so
open, so vulnerable.
Stan drives them to Tweak Bros., suggesting it because it’s open later than
Harbucks.  When they walk in, Craig feels like the wind has been knocked out of
him.  
The walls are covered in his paintings.  
“Stan,” he says, reaching for Stan’s arm.  He can’t take his eyes off of the
walls, the familiar canvases that used to hang over the fireplace, line the
hallways when they shared a living space.
“I couldn’t look at them anymore,” Stan says.  “It was so fucking hard, that
first month especially.  I, uh, if you didn’t come back, I was just going to
send you a check.  A few of them have already sold.”
Craig walks up to one, an abstract nightmare in acrylic that had felt like his
heart on paper when he was laying it down.  Underneath it says his name on a
white, cardstock triangle in a small, bold font: Craig Tucker, untitled #23
(2011).  $150.
“One-fifty?” he says, blanching a little bit.
“You gotta pay for college somehow in this economy, right?” Stan suggests,
walking up behind him. He rests his chin on Craig’s shoulder, and it feels
familiar, it feels good.  Craig laughs, unbelieving, his heart painful and
swollen in his chest.
They end up sitting down eventually, coffee mugs warm against their palms.
 Craig tells Stan about his college experience so far in concise, angry
stories; how he hates his roommates, the stupid debates they have in class, the
kids who play devil’s advocates and make loud, inappropriate jokes in his eight
a.m. statistics course when it’s too early for that shit.  Stan gives him a
sad, deep look at one point and Craig says no, there hasn’t been anyone else,
don’t be a fucking idiot, and Stan smiles shyly into his mug and turns away.
Stan attempts to drop him off afterwards.  It’s already late, past midnight,
and he walks Craig to the door like a gentleman.  
“I had a delightful evening, thank you,” Stan says, a caricature of some
fifties boyfriend, holding his hand and swinging their arms together sweetly.  
Craig can’t take it anymore and grabs him under his jaw to kiss him.  It’s
supposed to be chaste, but Stan gets with the program before he pulls away and
ends up pinning Craig to the front door.  His hands are everywhere, his tongue
licking into Craig’s mouth needily.  The taste of him is achingly familiar, is
the sum of things that Craig has missed the past few months, sweet and tender
and his.
“Please,” Stan says into his mouth, punctuating his words with closed-mouth
kisses, “please, come home.”
“Okay,” Craig says, and lets Stan pull him back toward the car.
Before they even get back to the mansion, Stan is palming Craig through his
jeans from the driver’s seat, pulling him in for hungry kisses at every red
light.  Stan legitimately carries him into the house when they do get there,
dumps him on the stairs and proceeds to blow him right there.  Craig hasn’t
gone so long without sex since he started having it, and blows his load fast in
the slick, warm familiarity of Stan’s mouth.  Stan swallows all of him, staring
up at him through the dark with big, wondrous eyes like Craig is a prize he’s
just won.
“Bed?” he suggests, his mouth slipping off of Craig’s spent dick
“Yeah,” Craig agrees breathlessly, allowing Stan to grab him underneath the
armpits and nudge him further upstairs.
Stan fucks him for an hour or more, to such an intense degree that Craig
wonders if the fight, if the break-up was just some sort of fever dream he had,
if he’s been here forever, Stan inside of him, touching every inch of him until
he’s just one raw, exposed nerve.  The reality of it only washes over him when
Stan kisses him at the temple and rolls away from him to saunter off to take a
shower, and Craig turns away on his side toward the nightstand where their
picture used to sit to find it suspiciously empty.  
He mentions it when Stan re-emerges, smelling sharp and clean from the shower.
“Oh,” Stan says, looking past him at the empty space.  “Yeah.  It’s--I still
have the picture.”
“Are you gonna put it back up?” Craig asks.  What he means is, will you take me
back?
“I don’t know,” Stan says, and Craig’s heart sinks with it. “The break has been
hard for me.  But I realized--”
“Yeah?” Craig prompts, uncomfortable, picking at his own skin.
“Babe,” Stan says, “you don’t want to be that.  You are so much more to me than
a picture on my nightstand.”
End Notes
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