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[mandawrites]

preview of my piece for @thebookoflovezine ! got to fulfill a goal of mine of writing craig with glasses 🤓

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: creek || || notes: hi i literally just wanted to write the boys being cute in the halloween store from the last ep. this is my bare minimum contribution to the witch tweek fad lol. || 

“Maybe we should just be Ninja Turtles…” Tweek mumbles, staring at the ground and wringing the handle of the broomstick between his fingers.

Craig’s hand darts out and covers one of Tweek’s, grabbing ahold of the broom beneath it and halting his fidgeting. The suddenness of it forces Tweek to blink up at him in surprise.

“No. That’s what Clyde wants us to be. You should be whatever you want.”

Craig glances sideways at the wall of hats, eyes scanning each one carefully until he settles on one beside him. He plucks it from its hook and uses both hands to plop it on over Tweek’s mess of hair, tugging it down firmly.

“There. Perfect fit.”

The wide brim of the hat nearly blinds Tweek. With the tips of his fingers that he gently prods it just the slightest bit higher out of his face. He seeks out the mirror he’d been staring at before, gazing back at himself. The hat was huge, black and with a tiny pumpkin adorning the band, so tall at the tip that it curled back down against the back of his head, at the end of which dangled a small yellow crescent moon charm. Under the brim, his hair fanned out like the mane of a lion.

Craig sidles closer behind him in the glass, staring at their reflections with his arms crossed.

“How is it.”

Tweek touches the edge of the brim lightly. He’d been a bit nervous about possibly looking stupid wearing this, but...well, he definitely didn’t hate what he was seeing.

“It’s nice.”

“Great, let’s get it.”

“Well…” At this, Tweek whirls around until he’s facing Craig. “What do you think?”

“Oh,” Craig scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t ask me that. We don’t have that kind of time.”

Tweek frowns. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means...”

Craig reaches out a hand to flick the hat brim, revealing even more of Tweek’s face beneath it.

“...I could write Encyclopedic-length novels about how cute you look.”

Tweek, as he does every time Craig utters something this sweet in so straightforward a manner, feels like he wants to die. Like, in a good way, but also in the sort of way where he’s still not used to someone loving him so casually like that. Craig seems entirely aware of it, the look he’s giving him growing more affectionate if not a bit smug the longer it drags on. Tweek tightens his hands around the broom, resisting the urge to stomp his foot and protest angrily.

Instead, left with nothing else to say, he hastily changes the subject off himself.

“W-where’s your costume, then?”

“Right here.”

Craig uncrosses his arm to reach behind his back, pulling out the fuzzy black headband he’d apparently tucked in his pocket. As he begins twirling it casually around his index finger, Tweek can clearly see a pair of triangular ears sitting atop the band.

Then he slips it over his hat.

“Meow meow, bitch.”

Tweek stares at him, notably expressionless in a way that was a clear testament to the amount of time he spent around Craig.

“That’s it, huh.”

“You’re lucky I managed this much.”

To be fair, he had a point. Tweek wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if Craig had instead settled on a piece of paper that said “cat” and affixed it to his chest.

“I didn’t think you liked cats enough to want to be one.”

“Well, it was this or pizza.” Craig stops in the middle of his thought as he gets distracted by the thing he just said, the faintest shade of excitement suddenly lighting up his eyes. “They have a whole aisle with nothing but food costumes. Babe.” He put both his hands on Tweek’s shoulders. “I could’ve been a fucking slice of pizza.”

That’s all he needed to say. Literally everyone was aware of how much Craig liked pizza more than pretty much anything.

“Okay,” Tweek laughs. “Then you should have.”

“Nah. It wouldn’t have matched yours.”

“I could change mine. I could be, like, a pizza chef.” Tweek pantomimes tugging on a curled mustache that he didn’t have. “Wear one of those big poofy hats.”

“Next year,” Craig promises, nodding. “I’m down to be a cat, though. Whatever you want. As long as people know I’m with you.”

Tweek smiles softly.  “You really wanna do a couples costume, huh.”

“Yeah, of course. You’re, like...my boo, or whatever.”

The unexpectedness of him saying that causes Tweek to burst out in a laugh. Even Craig cracks a grin.

“That would’ve been funnier if you were going as a ghost. Can we redo this? Please change your costume.”

“Stupid,” Tweek mumbles through his snickering, gently pushing Craig’s arm. “And you say I’m cute.”

“Because you are.”

“Yeah, uh, not as cute as you.”

“Hey, do you wanna fucking fight?” Craig says with a scowl, pushing up his sleeve like he was ready to actually throw down. He makes it as far as putting a fist in Tweek’s face, which Tweek blinks at before knocking aside.

“Please don’t embarrass me in public. You and I both know I would destroy you. And have, for that matter.”

Craig stares at him a moment, struggling to maintain his tough guy demeanor, lasting all of three seconds before it melts away with a sigh. He drops his hands at his sides in defeat.

“I can’t even pretend to do this. You’re that fucking lovable.”

And before Tweek can say anything more Craig yanks down the brim of the hat until Tweek’s eyes are completely hidden beneath it. There’s yelps of surprise and protest before Craig swoops in and kisses him quickly on the mouth. Which just makes Tweek yell more.

“Oh, hey, we found you guys.”

“Told you, man, we just had to wait five seconds before Tweek started screaming somewhere in the store.”

Tweek manages to readjust the hat off his face just in time to witness Token and Clyde round the corner.

“Baby, look,” Craig says, elbowing Tweek. “Clyde’s an avocado.”

“An arr-vocado, dude,” Clyde says exasperatedly, pointing at his eyepatch and wiggling the wooden sword he had in his hand. “Like a pirate avocado. Come on, we went over this.”

“Sorry, yeah.” Craig turns to Tweek and gestures at Clyde again. “Whatever dumb thing he just said.”  

“What are you supposed to be, Token?” Tweek asks, tilting his head at him. Token was currently sporting a pink Mario Kart car around his waist, a Ninja Turtle shell on his back, a Spider-Man mask over his face, and a Naruto headband on his forehead.

“I’m every obsession I’ve ever had since I was five years old.”

Tweek nods approvingly. “Original, I guess.”

“Hey, are you guys matching?” Clyde suddenly exclaims, getting a good look at the other two. “That’s fucking gross. You’re too cute.”

“But he’s cuter, right?” Craig says. “Have you seen the goddamn pumpkin on his hat.”

Tweek looks more than eager to resume this argument, his mouth opening in swift retaliation. He is instead interrupted by what sounds like a harmonizing chorus of synthesizers from somewhere outside the store.

The boys all stop and glance around listening before a familiar obnoxious high-pitched voice shrieks a greeting above the music. They all then stare at each other in a shared moment of regret for having left their homes that day.

“Is this...who I think it is,” Token asks, sounding about as tired as they all felt.

They all knew exactly whose voice that was.

“Yes, obviously,” Craig says, rolling his eyes. “It was dumb of us to think we were going to make it through this whole day without Kyle and that fucker ruining it.”

“Should we...” Clyde says with a shrug. “I dunno, go check it out?”

Craig really doesn’t want to, none of them want to, he’d rather just stay in here and kiss his witch boyfriend a thousand times until whatever was going on outside blew over.

He sighs.

“Let’s just pay and get this over with.”

[mandawrites]

snippet of the thing i contributed to @thebookoflovezine 😌 a text convo between the boys.

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: creek || || notes: this is for lindsay’s marching band au!! ||

The rest of the band has long since dispersed, dragging themselves through the blaring heat in the direction of the back field to set up for practice. Only Craig lags behind, waving his section off ahead of him as he sidles up next to Token. 

“Hey, man,” Craig says, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t filled with his trombone and drill sheet binder. 

Token nods over at him, then gestures for Gregory to go on ahead when he attempts to wait. Gregory rolls his eyes and walks on. 

“What’s up, buddy?” Token asks. 

Keep reading

[mandawrites]

okay cool so i needed to write creek fic for the first time in two years bc that episode was a lot to take in so heeeere’s a tiny something. takes place toward the end of “tweek x craig”, after they hold hands for the first time.·

Keep reading

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: creek || || notes: takes place after “tweek x craig” ||

Craig had tried hard to ignore it, tried really hard, but he just can’t not notice how fidgety Clyde is being sitting across the lunch table from them. Under the table he’s furiously stamping the heel of his foot against the ground, the resulting jiggling of his leg shaking the table every once in awhile. He keeps eagerly glancing between Craig and Tweek where they sit across from him, bites his lip, drums his fingers against the tabletop. His food has been long since forgotten, and that’s probably the biggest tip of them all that something is eating at him.

Craig sighs, because he figures this probably has to do with him and Tweek, and finally puts down his pizza to give him a look.

“Whatever it is, just spit it out already.”

Keep reading

[mandawrites]

i know i have another fic that im supposed to be updating 8′’’) but i wanted to try writing something unrelated just for funsies so:

creek university library au !! should be two chapters eventually but here’s the first half, pls enjoy!! 

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: creek || || notes: for gabu’s wedding planner au!! the context is that tweek was doing a cake tasting for one of craig’s clients, the couple leaves, craig lingers, he and tweek eat leftover cake and Converse ||

In the ensuing silence, Tweek picks up his fork and spears a bit of cake with the hand not propping up his cheek, quickly popping it into his mouth. He doesn’t remove the fork immediately, to the point of it being noticeable, and when Craig sneaks a glance in his direction, he finds Tweek’s eyes on him, studying and contemplative.

Embarrassed, Craig looks away, busying himself pushing around the frosting from his own cake slice.

It’s then that Tweek slides the fork out from between his lips and casually gestures toward Craig with it loosely between his fingers.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Craig says, not looking up from his plate. The forced ease with which he utters the word betrays the mild panic he’s facing about whatever conversation is about to unfold.

“You’ve planned a lot of these events, haven’t you?”

“A decent amount, yeah.” An understatement.

“Well.” Tweek waves the fork around in a circle in the air, like he’s trying to find the words to phrase what he wants to ask. “What about you?”

Craig frowns. “What about me.”

“Have you thought about your own?”

A response does not come immediately.

It’s not a bad question -- it was certainly better than the hundreds of potentially worse questions that Craig’s mind had conjured initially -- but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer it. He’d never shared this information with a single soul, let alone...whatever Tweek was to him.

Instead of speaking, Craig traces the fork tines through the frosting once more before gently resting it on the dessert plate with a soft clink. He grabs his napkin to brush at his lips, gaze trailing to the wall adjacent to them.

Tweek, interpreting this as having offended the other man, drops his own fork in a clatter. His now freed fingers rush to find his hair and tug nervously.

“Sorry, was that too forward? I didn’t mean to - I just thought it was normal thing to ask, y’know, since you do this for a living, maybe you might have, for yourself - but you don’t have to answer, that was intrusive of me, I’m really sorry - ”

“It’s - ” Craig says quickly, halting Tweek’s apology just as the panic starts to rise in his tone. “Yes. I have.” He pauses. “It’s stupid.”

“Stupid?” Tweek’s hand drops from his hair to rest on the countertop as he cocks his head at him in wonderment. “You plan these things professionally. People pay you to do this. How could it be stupid?”

Craig sighs. “I was about twelve when I came up with this. It sounded really neat in my head back then. Now it just seems a little lame. The weddings I organize are classier, refined, y’know? Not reminiscent of a kid’s birthday party.”

“Why not just come up with a different idea?”

“The nostalgia, probably. There’s a fondness there. I couldn’t have it any other way.” He chuckles softly at the thought. “I’ve given away all my other good ideas. This one I’m holding onto.”

The small smile he wears as he says it is enough to ignite a curiosity in Tweek like nothing else.

Pushing his still unfinished plate of cake aside, Tweek leans forward over the countertop again, resting his face between his knuckles, gazing across at Craig earnestly.

“Tell me.”

And how could Craig say no to that? Tweek could probably ask for his credit card number with this face and that tone, and Craig would hand it all over without question.

“Space,” he says, letting it out in a breath like he’d been holding it in his whole life. “It’s space-themed. Celestial, if you wanna make it sound less like a fourth grade science project.”

Tweek’s eyebrows raise just the tiniest bit, communicating an inquisitiveness that begs for elaboration.

To go into any more detail than that was a feat not easily accomplished. Craig would need to pull up his spreadsheets, his pages upon pages of handwritten notes, his bookmark folder on his laptop’s internet browser, the sketches he’d done, the pictures he’s saved, would need to physically get up and walk the length of the room to accurately mime the particular arrangement of things. He didn’t exactly have five hours to kill.

So instead, his eyes slide shut, visualizing a decade’s worth of planning into as succinct a concept as possible.

“There’s an observatory in Los Angeles. Overlooks the city. Amazing view in the day but even more breathtaking at night. Excellent for pictures.

“Outdoor evening reception for sure. Telescopes set up on the lawn aimed at all the visible planets. Ideally the night of a supermoon. Maybe during August for the Perseids, not that the light pollution would lend itself well to that.

“Vintage star maps for invitations. An acoustic arrangement of Gustav Holst’s ‘Jupiter’ hymn for the processional music. Eight wedding party members, one for every planet of the solar system, with accompanying  boutonnieres and bouquets to reflect each individual planet. The groom and, ah, groom are obviously repping the sun and moon.”

He opens his eyes, suddenly aware of how much he’d blurted without thinking.

“Tell me when to stop. We could be here all day.”

Tweek, however, is staring at him with half-lidded eyes, eyebrows upturned in the middle, grin tucked in the corner of his mouth.

“But you haven’t told me about the flowers yet. Centerpieces. Dessert table.”

If Craig was bashful a moment ago, he’s forgotten about it entirely, his sudden excitement trumping every other emotion.

“Oh, yes, holy shit, hold on, can you - do you have a pen and paper.”

A few minutes turn into an hour, the countertop soon adorned in napkins, unfolded and undone and covered in ink markings depicting every inch of a wedding ceremony that before tonight largely existed solely in Craig Tucker’s head. He’d never talked this enthusiastically about any one thing with any one person this long without stopping in his entire life. Every time he thinks he’s done, Tweek prompts him with another question, pokes for further elaboration, politely asks him to sketch out his thoughts. He can barely stop speaking long enough to appreciate just how much of it there was all laid out like this. It feels like he was unpacking a heavy suitcase he’d been hauling around with him for what feels like forever, and it was surprisingly...liberating.

“...and then the rings,” he continues, too entrenched in his own fervor to wonder if he was rambling to an audience that might have long since stopped caring. “Forget about them. I want something more permanent. Matching tattoos.”

“Of?”

“Well, astrology is a crock of shit, but I like the idea of wearing each other’s zodiac constellations.”

He holds out his left hand in display and runs the index finger of his right hand up the length of the back of his thumb.

“His right here on me, and mine...”

Without thinking, he reaches across the countertop to delicately grasp Tweek’s hand and stroke his thumb in the same spot as well.

“....would be right here.”

“O-oh.”

And the sudden sound of Tweek’s voice, mouselike and nervous, seems to yank Craig down from whatever cloud he’d been floating in. He realizes almost immediately that he is holding Tweek’s fingers gently, tenderly, softly between his own, a reality that might have never come to fruition if he were not drunk on his own dorkiness and prattling on and on about something so trivial. The places where their skins meet feel electric, and he seizes his hand back, almost as if he’d been burned.

“So. That’s it.” He runs a hand, the same hand that had held Tweek’s, through his hair, messing the otherwise meticulously arranged look he’d spent far too long on in the bathroom that morning. “And now that you know too much I’m afraid I have to kill you.”

Tweek laughs. “I won’t steal your idea.”

“In all honesty,” Craig continues, more seriously. “I wouldn’t mind if you did. I might as well give this one away. It’s not like it’s going to happen.”

“You think someone won’t marry you?” Tweek asks, grinning at Craig like he’s a fool for even suggesting the idea. “You’re kind of a catch.”

Craig absolutely hates the way the words make him feel. He says nothing further, simply hugs his arms to himself and glances away at the wall. His face is warm.

“Well,” Tweek says softly, and when Craig glances back over at him, he finds Tweek has grabbed one of the napkins to himself and began scribbling upon it. “I think it’s a lovely idea, so, y’know, if I’m still available and you don’t have anyone else...hit me up.”

It’s like a punch in the gut.

“If...you’re…?” Craig stammers.

“As your vendor.” Tweek stops his pen, then, with just the tip of his middle finger poised in the center of the napkin, slides his drawing across the table. Craig blinks down at it. Tweek has sketched out -- beautifully, Craig might add -- a three-tiered, shiny, galaxy mirror cake. “I’d love to do your cake for you.”

Of course. Of course that’s what he meant.

Craig accepts the drawing, gazing down at it thoughtfully before arranging it in the mass of napkins strewn across the table. He smiles a small smile at it before drawing his eyes up to meet Tweek’s.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone else.”

[mandawrites]

I've written a handful of moments in aisle 10 from Tweek's perspective just to practice writing him and also to get a sense of his side of the story. soooo heres one of them

this is right after he got home on prom night. 

When I slammed the door behind me, one of my mom's tiny porcelain owls toppled over off the bureau in the front hall. I'm glad it did. I hate owls. I probably wouldn't hate them as much if we didn't own a thousand of them, but, even so, have you seen their eyes? Fuckin' saucers, goddammit. Who needs eyes that fucking big anyway? I don't care if they hunt at night, it's unnatural. 

I'm standing there, breathing deeply and with my back to the door, waiting for God knows what. I feel like crying. I cry more than I'd like to admit, sometimes when I'm sad or frustrated or stressed out, most of the time when I'm not feeling anything at all. No one ever sees it, and now especially is not the time. Dad is in the room, too.

It's two in the morning and he's in his ancient sofa chair holding a book the width of my face and has a single lamp on beside him. He'd glanced up when the door had burst open a second ago and was now watching me expectantly. He looks like he's been waiting for me, which he probably was. It's hard to tell sometimes what his motives are, though. I mean, he's always up this late. Mom is the one that sleeps. Sleeps all the fuckin' time, talk about laziest and most productive woman on the planet. 

"Enjoy your evening?" Dad finally asks in that annoying listless drawl of his. I can't stand it, to the point where it makes me want to rip my ears off every time I hear it. He sounds like he's high all the goddamn time. That wouldn't shock me much either if it were true, to be honest, but I know it's just the way he talks. He and mom both. 

I don't answer him right away because I'm listening to outside the door. Craig is still there. I can tell he's still there because I expected to hear retreating footsteps the minute I was inside, but they hadn't happened yet. It's the only reason I'm still standing in front of the door.

When enough time passes I wonder if his footsteps were too light for me to catch and he'd maybe left a long time ago, because there was no logical explanation for why he'd be standing there for so long. But as I turn to go check in the peep hole, I hear him, hear the sigh, hear the scuff of his dress shoes -- I can't believe he wore such nice shoes, I kept wanting to step on them all night just to dirty them up a bit -- and finally hear the sounds of his footsteps drawing him farther and farther away from my front door.

He'd been there for so long. We were not more than a foot away from each other this whole time, with only a couple inches of wood separating us. I could've whipped around at any minute and opened the door and he would've still been standing there. I don't know exactly what my plan of action would've been after that. I'd probably have shoved him or maybe yelled some more. I'd hope that I might actually calm down and talk to him like a sane person, but that was a lot to expect out of me. 

I've got zero time or patience or even topics of conversation that would make speaking to my dad right now enticing in the slightest, so I remain silent, stomping past him and straight up the stairs.

I've got a thousand things to say to Craig, though. A million questions eating away inside of me, milling around like fire ants. I've tripped on a fire ant hill once. It's not fun. They're persistent and painful, and so are my questions, and it makes me wish that in the five minutes that we'd been standing there with only a door between us that I'd opened it and finally asked a few of them. 

But for every three of mine he gets one of his own, and I don't like those odds. 

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: mysterion+kenny || || notes: god this was.............very experimental. tw for suicide mention ||

Somewhere between committing the act and reaching this place, there's a moment where a thought briefly occurs to Kenny that he should be more than used to this by now.

He is, of course, and in more ways than one. It's like waking up every day and getting on the same train to head for the same dead-end job or meet the same old friend - at times, it's annoying, other times droll, once in awhile even pleasant. He's used to the shock, that initial moment of understanding, that brief second of regret, like, "what could I have done differently?" He's used to the pain - fleeting or lingering, stabbing or stinging. It hurts, but then it's over. He's even used to the aftermath, to dragging his way through tomorrow and being treated like his previous day's horror had only been a dream. He's used to it all.

Or most of it. What he'll never be used to, though, is the passing itself, the crossing over, and that's probably because it's inconsistent every time, and inconsistent in a number of ways. There are days when it's quick, easy, when the trip to eternal damnation or eternal salvation or neither is less of a visit and more of a blink of an eye, dropping him back in his bed before he realizes he's been gone. Other times it's longer, maybe a little longer, maybe a lot longer. Long enough to breathe, long enough to feel, long enough to talk, to ask questions, even, but he doesn't believe there are enough questions or answers to give him the kind of closure he wants. And then there's the way the passing feels. Sometimes it's maybe less like he's boarding that train, more like that train is slamming into him with a thousand tons and then like he's sitting under a torrential stream of warm honey. Other occasions it's like he's being dragged through a desert at high speeds and for miles before being abruptly dumped in deep frigid water. Once, he felt like he was spinning, like a top or maybe like those carnival rides he used to get on as a kid, the ones his friends would dare him to ride four or five times in a row right after eating ten corn dogs just so he would puke. It was like he was spinning on one of those, forever and for so brief a time, and then falling, freely and weightlessly. Mostly it was bright lights and wide skies and blurred shapes and sweet smells and coaxing breezes and deafening silence and suffocation and tears and darkness and warmth and cold and wanting and waiting and watching and wondering and -  He's had conversations with classmates who think death is like an airport, like getting off at your terminal after a fifteen hour flight and at the gate are all your loved ones, holding up signs and gazing at you with ardency and expectancy and you just feel like you're home. Kenny wishes the best for them, hopes death treats them with that kind of warm welcome, because as far as he's concerned, it's just a mess, a random allotment of feelings and confusion and not comfort but underwhelment and dissatisfaction. Guessing. Uncertainty. Disappointment. Today - or maybe tonight, he can't remember when it happened, although now that it's happen, all worldly concepts of time and day and night are completely arbitrary - today it's happening slow. The passing comes gradually, the walls of his moldy oil-stained garage walls dissolving away before his very eyes, the car floor and the ratty upholster of the seat sinking beneath him like quicksand, his entire concept of the physical and the now melting languidly like Dali's clocks. A wave, cool and calming, washes over him, both taking him and leaving him and it seems fitting to him that it can't make up its mind. It's like he's beached on a shore, and probably he is, or maybe it's a lake, or maybe it's nothing, it doesn't have to be anything, he reasons. It takes him a long time to open his eyes. He can't say how long, a minute or a month or even a lulaplex which is an increment of time he has just made up because fuck you who cares but he keeps those peepers locked down tight. Relishing the moment, perhaps, or eager to speed through it. It's all the same, isn't? The same as it's always been. Kenny hadn't anticipated he would be here, though, not until he speaks. "Just what the fuck do you think you're trying to do?" This is enough to seize his eyes open. Slowly, actually, because his lids feel like they weigh thirty pounds each, but they open eventually and he glances about. His vision locks on a gloved hand hovering beyond his nose, and he grabs it automatically, not waiting to acknowledge its owner first. When he's on his feet, the hand comes back, a fist now, clenched tight and smashing straight into the center of his face. It both hurts and it doesn't, and it feels like it sends him sailing thirty or ninety feet back, but he doesn't move an inch except to be knocked down to the floor again. It is in this moment that he finally observes that the ground beneath him is, in fact, sand, and beyond that, stretching to forever before him, is blue-green grass and a field sunflowers. There's a hum somewhere, he can hear it and feel it, but he has to tend to the matter at hand first so he can't spare it any more than a brief thought. He rotates his jaw, hearing it pop back into place, and automatically reaches to wipe the blood from beneath his nose, for, though there isn't any there and indeed none in him at all, like a phantom limb, he feels it anyway. "Answer me!"

It's him again. He's always been demanding, that one, and in that same guttural growl that has whispered so often in the back of Kenny's minds on sleepless nights. He even looks the same, too, Kenny realizes. Standing there, poised like a feral dog, he looks striking against his bluegreenyellow background, all done up in that skin-tight lavender spandex, those tighty-whities clinging to his pelvis, the boots and the gloves and that mask. Even his cape billows in the invisible nonexistent wind, and the question mark wiggles on its spring from its perch atop his head. The only thing different are the eyes. Normally they look like Kenny's, that same bright blue, just angrier and scathing, like it has no capacity to feel anything else. The young man before Kenny lacks any such color in his eyes now. Those eyes contain no irises. They're purely white. "What difference does it make?" Kenny asks, because he knows what he wants to hear, which neither of them need to specify. It's weird for Kenny to hear his own voice coming out his own mouth, somehow weirder than hearing it come out of his mouth. It sounds far away and filtered, like it's reaching his ears via some horrid reception. His face contorts, his teeth bared in a grimace and his brows furrowing tightly. "What difference does it - ?" He can't even finish the thought. His gloved hands clench, outstretched, at the air between them, like if he didn't possess so much self-control he would have lunged forward and strangled Kenny's neck. "You tried to fucking kill us! What, it isn't enough that we're the most accident prone body on the human planet? Everything and everyone has already marked us easy prey, no need to help it along!" Kenny scoffs, and even that feels foreign to do. It's like this every time he dies. He doesn't know how long he's been dead this time, but it's been long enough to forget. He can't remember what it's like to feel cocky, to feel so sure and confident, to smirk or laugh or snort in derision. "Don't say us or we like we're the same goddamn person," Kenny drawls, his words sticking to his tongue like flies to flypaper as they make their way out. "You're a name, man, a symbol. A pile of dirty laundry and some window curtains I finagled into a clown suit. You're free to go whenever you goddamn well please." "Dirty laundry?" he snarls. He's so offended he spits a wad of saliva aimed at a spot close to Kenny's feet. "I'm not some fucking shirt you take off and put on. You created me. I am proof that you are beyond what the world forces you into submission to be. I am an embodiment of your triumph. Don't you dare discard me." Kenny's palms squeeze around a handful of sand, letting the granules seep out between his fingers, then responds, both aloud and to himself.  "We're not the same."  You're so much more. 

"I'm just your vessel."

Can't you see? I'm trying to free you. 

"But if I must humor you, sure, okay, I locked us in the car in the garage and turned the ignition. We're dead."

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  

"You know just as well as I do that we'll be back tomorrow morning."

But I hope not. I really do.  Maybe this time more than you and I will notice. Here, he speaks. 

"Don't you get it, you spineless shit?" "That really helps right now." He's walking forward. He couldn't have been more than two feet away, but in long, long strides he makes his way over, and Kenny can't move away, even if he desired to. Kenny thinks he's going to hit him again, and Kenny glances up expectantly, as if inviting it, as if asking for it. But he doesn't hit him. Still snarling, he mutters, "do you think I enjoy this any more than you do?" And then he's standing over Kenny, legs framing him on either side, then swoops down into a crouch, their faces only inches away from complete alignment. Kenny's eyes roam over the lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the rows of teeth, avoids the eyes.

He continues, "believe me, I don't." He grabs a fistful of cape in one gloved hand, wrapping it around and enveloping the two of them, tugging them close together, and Kenny feels warm, like he's being wrapped in a cocoon or the folds of his sheets. "But you know why I think we never attain eternity?" He's got his free fingers dancing along gently beneath Kenny's chin, taunting it up, angling it ever so slightly, then grasping it with a tenderness that the harshness in his tone betrays. Kenny's eyes are rolling around in his head, finding it harder to miss those eyes, though Kenny strains with all his might to focus on the question mark, on the folds of the hood, on the sunflowers stretching off in the distance just behind his shoulder. "It's because we've got too much promise to be rid of so easily." A thumb runs over Kenny's bottom lip, caresses it, coaxes it away from the top and his mouth ever so slightly opens, and Kenny can't help it, he's dissolving again, he's fading, and his eyes fall so flawlessly to temptation. He catches Mysterion's gaze, that absent stare, and in those vacant eyes, Kenny sees his past and present and future and all the spaces in between that need filling by his shape and his shape alone. There's this split second he completely misses where the distance between the two is crossed and there's a pair of lips pressed ardently on his own, and they're moving, not kissing, but speaking, a whisper, not guttural, not rough, not unfamiliar or foreign or far or filtered but his own, his own voice, the voice of Kenny McCormick, sweet and boyish, and at the same time those lips utter the words, he hears himself saying them too, simultaneously, and then the voice melts into one, "Let's go home." Kenny McCormick wakes up in a Hell's Pass hospital bed seven hours after he slipped out of consciousness in the station wagon in his parent's garage, chest heaving, gasping for air, and his lips still warm.

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: creek || || notes this was a dream sequence i had potentially planned to put in aisle 10 at some point but thought that might be Too Much lol but it can stand alone w/o context so here it is ||

"Craig." Him saying my name is enough to steal my attention, but it's the slight tinge of nervousness catching on the edge of his tone that causes my grin to slowly slide from my face. "There's - ugh. I - uh, God."

I feel his fingers - they're long and thin and right now clammy as they wrap around my hands. He grips me like he needs something to hold onto or he might float away.

"I just wanted to tell you something. I’ve never told anyone else this before and - just... is that okay?" 

I swallow, and it's loud, I can hear it, and I'm pretty sure he can hear it too. "Yeah, of course. What's up." 

"I've just - " He's blinking rapidly, gnawing on his lips. His fingers are vibrating on all the places I can feel them. He seizes his eyes shut, and though his voice sounds choked and a bit garbled, he suddenly cries through clenched teeth, "I like you, okay! I’ve liked you this whole time!” 

All motion, all sound, all feeling... it ceases. For me, anyway.

His shivering stills, his head ducked low as he quietly continues. 

"For a long. Long. Time."

It takes me a few minutes before I can bring myself to speak.

"You're - " I don't realize it until I start speaking - and in that desperate and pathetic-sounding voice of mine, no less - but I suddenly feel the trails of warm liquid trickling out the corners of my eyes and crawling across my cheek, dripping onto my clothes only when my lips start moving and agitate them. "You're joking."

He shoots me daggers, all shyness and nervousness gone as he glares at me beneath his bangs. "Why would I joke about that? What do you take me for?" 

"Why would you be serious about that?" I counter, feeling myself grin as more and more droplets hit the front of my shirt. 

"You're such a fucking idiot," he says, releasing my hand and using his thumb to swipe roughly against my tear-stained cheeks, trailing further and further up my face until he's dabbing at the corner of my eyes. They do little to help the situation; every time he touches me, more tears seem to spill out.

"Why are you crying?" he demands, frowning as he struggles to eradicate me of all moisture seeping from my tear ducts. He's close to me, and I can see the details on his own face, can see the flushed tint of his cheeks, see the tiny wrinkles on the bridge of his nose as he furrows it in concentration, can see the shine in his own eyes as he struggles to hold his own tears back.

Compelled by some force stronger than my own, my hands leave my lap and trail to his face, holding his cheeks between my palms and stilling the movement of his hands. I draw him closer to me, and gently press my lips once against the corner of both of his eyes. When I pull back, my lips slightly damp, it's like I've released the floodgates. 

"Because I love you." 

The tears are coming out in torrents now, bathing his cheeks as his face scrunches into a glare, like he wants to punch me or strangle me. His arms thrust forward and for a second I truly believe he's going to act on those impulses. Instead, his arms wrap around my chest until he's clinging to my back, and he buries his face deep against my chest.

I can barely hear him with his mouth muffled against the material of my shirt like it is, but I feel each word as it hums against my chest.

"God, I can't fucking stand you." 

I grin.

I'm not sure what to do next - I've never been one for hugs or clinging or touching. My own arms seem to move without me telling them to, though, and my left hand finds its way to his hair, his unruly and untamable and custard-colored hair, and I rake my fingers through them.  

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to hear you say that." 

and then craig wakes up because it was actually a dream ha ha haaaa 

[mandawrites]

this is literally just a scene from ch11 of aisle 10 when craig goes to talk with dogpoo? i think i cut some of it, most of it being uhhhhh character development shit for mr petuski so i posted the whole thing just for funsies. i think the part i cut out is the stuff in the brackets.

(btw this is what the back of the school would look like; see the row of trees and that little space of grass and then that stretch of dirt?? behind that is a chain fence)

Without thanking Kenny or even acknowledging what he said, I spun around and walked away immediately, ignoring the cries of confusion and protest he shouted at my retreating figure. Only when I put a  few yards of distance between him and I did I stop to rifle through my backpack for a loose, unmarked sheet of notebook paper. Finding one and a pen, I set off again for the back field that stretched out far behind my school's gymnasium. 

The perimeter of my school is surrounded by a high chain-link fence, which really only completes the "state penitentiary" atmosphere I'm sure this place was going for. Near the section of the fence that bordered the back field sat a tall row of aspen trees, and between that row of trees and the fence behind them was a dip in the ground that led to a long stretch of dirt. The elevation of the dip meant that all the rainwater and melted snow water seeped from the grass and trees and collected down here, leaving the dirt continually damp and muddy. 

It was here that I found Reggie Petuski. 

That name may not sound familiar, and that's because, to most of us, he was more unpleasantly well-known as Dog Poo. 

[It's not the most flattering nickname, but everyone has been calling him Dog Poo pretty much since our elementary school days. For reasons that still elude those of us that remember that day, he showed up to the classroom one morning covered in dirt and grime and smelling like wet dog. There was even this little flock of flies following him around, and he actually took to naming and addressing most of them. 

I'm sure it would shock no one to discover that it was Eric Cartman who coined the name in the first place (although I believe his initial words were, "dog shit" rather than "dog poo"). His friends caught on, then some of the more popular girls caught on, then eventually by the end of the day everyone was calling him that.

The name somehow managed to stick so well that it took most of us until high school before we surprisingly learned he had an actual first name. Even then, most people still called him Dog Poo, and it doesn't help that it isn't exactly any less fitting a nickname. I've heard he keeps a dirt collection in his locker, that his real skin color is buried under several layers of grime, that everywhere he walks leaves behind a trail of mud like some kind of dirty snail, that the air surrounding him is so abundant with dust that it's impossible to breathe--

But of course these are all just rumors. I've learned to stop believing rumors after I heard the ones they tell about me. My favorite is that I'm actually a deranged serial killer a la Patrick Bateman, and I've taken to that one so much so that I like to end conversations with people by saying I've got video tapes to return. 

I admit, I don't really know a lot about Dog Poo. Not many people do, and it's probably because he spends a lot of his time alone. The reason for this isn't even because he's so gross either. I just never see him with anyone, nor ever hear people talking about him, and I mean really talk about him, outside the rumors.  His usual habitat is this stretch of mud in the back field of our school, and no one ever goes back there for any reason.

It's like he wants to be alone.

His insistence on isolation always confused me. I mean, I love being alone, but I'm also an asshole, which doesn't leave me with a lot of options in terms of a social life. Reggie...he's not an unlikable person. Overlooking his stench and lack of basic hygiene, he doesn't really deserve his nickname. He's actually a really sweet kid--and this is coming from the guy that has an aversion to more or less everybody. Although, to be fair, it usually only takes one word out of a person's mouth in order for me to detest them, and Reggie rarely speaks. 

He was also unusually generous, prone to constantly giving people food or money, or letting people borrow his stuff and never asking for it back. I've also heard that he's got an IQ to rival Kyle's or Token's or even Wendy's. Under all that gunk, he's not even all that bad looking, with boyish sort of good-looks and charm to match.

Not many people know this either, but I've been to one of Token's string ensemble recitals, and I've witnessed firsthand that Reggie is a pretty fucking talented fiddle player. He had, like, three solos, and Token only had one on his cello. 

I never would have guessed that he was so well-rounded, but I suppose I don't know a lot about too many people. 

Despite being a perfectly genial and well-mannered guy, someone who could probably rise in the social hierarchy if he so well pleased, it was by his own choice that he continued to go out in public covered in various shades of brown and smelling fouler than the boy's locker room. No one knew why he was like this and no one thought to ask, and people in general are often resistant to change, so the name stuck. 

Or at least it stuck with most of us. 

Kenny is actually the first person I've ever known who's insisted on calling Dog Poo by anything but that horrid nickname. When I asked why, he explained to me that he felt like he was returning his identity to him by refusing the nickname. This was important to Kenny, for whatever reason, and, because it sounded reasonable enough to me, I opted to pick up the practice as well.] 

"Petuski," I said when I was close enough for him to hear me but far enough away so that I didn't have to smell him. 

Reggie glanced up from where he was laying flat on his belly, his attention previously fixed on the pages of what looked to be a copy of Les Miserables. He smiled a closed-lip smile.  

I smiled back. "Dude, can you do me a solid?"

His reaction was less immediate, his eyebrows slowly knitting into a slight frown.

Realizing I was being a little forward, I tried again.

"I'm not bothering you, am I?"

He shook his head vigorously, and when he did, his mousy mop of hair tossed around ridiculously, sending dirt and twigs and grass flying out of it and all over the place.

"Thanks." I moved to sit down in the dirt about two feet away from him, but not before asking, "is it cool if I join you?" He nodded again, more dirt flying out as he did, and I plopped down, quickly reaching into my back pocket to pull out the sheet of paper and pen.

"If you don't mind, I'd like you to give this to someone for me," I said, my attention focused on scribbling on the paper. I glanced up to meet Reggie's eyes. "You know Tweek Tweak, right? He lives on your street." 

The name didn't seem to ring any bells for a moment, which I deduced from the curious look he was giving me. I almost thought Kenny had lied to me about this until Reggie started nodding furiously. 

"He hasn't been to school in a few days, and I need to talk to him." 

My note done, I began creasing and folding the paper, twisting it this way and that until it took on the shape I desired. 

"Can you give this to him for me? When you get home from school today?" 

It was a boat now, crude, but the only other shape I knew how to fold paper into besides an airplane. 

Crawling closer to him, I held it out, and he didn't hesitate to accept it from me. 

After inspecting the note for a second, turning it over and even pretending to float it along on an invisible river in front of his eyes, he suddenly reached out and patted the back of my hand, still smiling and now nodding. 

I automatically flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away. Instead, I tried to return the smile again, but he'd already rolled away to where his canvas messenger lay in the dirt a few feet away. He carefully tucked the boat inside and then rolled back over to me, collecting more mud on his clothes as he did. 

"Thanks, bro. I owe you." 

I held out a knuckle and he bumped it automatically. 

The deed done, I placed my palms flat against the mud, ready to push myself back to my feet. 

Before I heaved myself forward, however, my eyes flickered to glance at him again, and I watched him turn back to his book, a soundless sigh shuddering across his shoulders. 

I placed my hands back into my lap, remaining where I was.

"Could I crash here with you for the rest of lunch? We could walk to class together. I won't bother you. I swear" 

He jumped slightly at the sound of my voice, and when he looked up at me, blinking, it became clear that he was actually surprised by my request.  

The surprise didn't last long. His wide eyes and slightly gaping mouth were swiftly replace by another grin, beaming this time and with a mouthful of teeth. I'm pretty sure there was a clump of dirt between his molars, but it didn't make it any less charming. 

Before I could do anything else, he eagerly patted the dirt next to him, then pointed upward.

Following his silent instructions, I eased myself into a lying position, with my back flat on the ground and my gaze fixed upward. Peeking through the canopy of green leaves above us, the sky stretching wide and blue, a field of puffy white clouds crawled in varied shapes across my line of sight. 

He leaned over close to me, and for a second I thought he was going to curl up next to me or bite me or something. He didn't smell too bad, I noted, maybe like a shirt that had sat in at the bottom of a laundry basket for a few weeks, but nothing too terrible.

Instead of all the things I thought he was going to do, he placed his head close to mine, bumping them together clumsily as he exclaimed, "cumulus clouds! Gorgeous, huh? That one kinda looks like a puppy!"

I grinned and nodded.

Reggie took that as an invitation to keep talking, which was fine by me, as I had a lot to get off my mind. 

I would be lying if I said I wasn't the slightest bit nervous. About what exactly? It was hard to say. I guess I was a little nervous about everything. My stomach turned when I thought about my note, how Tweek might receive it when he read it, how he might react. It was stupid, really. There wasn't much on it. But I cared about what he thought of me. I didn't want to get rejected again. 

And if he accepted my proposition? I didn't even want to entertain the idea of finally confronting him, nor any of the hundreds of possible outcomes that could arise from it. 

I glanced at Reggie in the corner of my eye, caught his wide grin, studied the way he'd push hair out his eyes in his excitement to point out cloud formations, saw the oddly shaped birthmark that peeked out beneath the collar of his sweater. He was an interesting boy from afar and even more interesting up close.

I guess a lot of people are pretty interesting, were I to give them the time of day. Tweek had certainly proved that, and now Reggie was further evidence.

I'd long since realized that Tweek was an admirable sort of person. Admirable because of his curiosity, because of his ambition, because of his strength, because of his bravery - aspects I'm sure he never realized he possessed but I could see in him as clear as day.

In a fleeting thought, I humored the idea that there was something admirable about Reggie too, and, spending even just five minutes with him, I wasn't surprised to discover that there were plenty things about him that were admirable. I liked the confidence he exuded. He was so comfortable with himself, with the choices he made, with the person he'd developed into, and he just looked so happy because of it.

I could see a lot of myself in him, and in Tweek too, but I could see a lot of the better qualities in them both that I lacked.

It was weirdly inspirational. 

It was getting closer to summer now, which meant the weather was getting hotter, more uncomfortable. Back here, though, the heat was barely noticeable. In fact, it was rather nice. The trees cast fat circles of shade around us and the mud wasn't so much wet as it was damp and cool. A low breeze raced through the trees, dancing across my skin, blowing through my hair, ruffling my clothes. 

I slid an arm behind my head and let my eyes ease shut, dozing off to the gentle caress of the breeze and the sound of Reggie's seldom-heard voice spouting off cloud types and cloud shapes, right up until I couldn't tell whether I was dreaming them or they were really floating miles above me in the sky. 

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: creek ||

You think he might be dead. 

He hasn't said a word in thirty minutes and you can't remember what his breathing sounds like and you've been staring at his chest far too closely and can't tell if it's moving. 

You're pretty sure he's dead.

It's misleading, really, the way he's got his fingers laced across his torso like that, not to mention the way he's snuggly nestled two inches deep in those long blades of deep green grass. You're sure it must itch, the spiked ends tickling and brushing against his cheeks and his ankles and the exposed sliver of skin just below the hem of his t-shirt, and it worries you that he doesn't react to this, that he isn't scratching and clawing away at the sensation. And the way his eyelids are shut like that, without strain or effort, his eyebrows at ease and his muscles relaxed. It's as if he's sleeping, but you know better than that. He doesn't sleep in front of you and you don't sleep in front of him. Neither of you sleep in front of anyone.

It's while you're staring at his eyelids, when your eyes finally travel across the row of dark eyelashes resting across his skin, that you notice the stray strand sitting an inch away at the peak of his left cheekbone. It's thin, short, barely noticeable, but you've had your eyes on him for a long time now and you notice everything. 

You're tempted to brush it off. To pluck it off and put it in your pocket. To scoop it up on your fingertip and release it into the wild with a puff of your own breath. 

Eyelashes are lucky, or so you've heard. Good for wishes. 

You don't believe in luck and you don't believe in wishes, though. Craig does. Craig would catch the eyelash and hold it out for you to blow and you'd pretend to make a wish because you know he likes to believe that wishes are real. You can almost see the rows of crooked teeth he would flash at you, can see the shiny metal of his braces and the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth.

The image is easily conjured in your head and even the thought of his smile alone is infectious. You're suddenly smiling too, the smile of yours that you've never been fond of, the one that's lopsided and unsure of itself. You smile even harder, though, because you know what he likes to say about your smile, "I don't really keep track of these things, but your smile is definitely in my top five." He tries to bathe his words in sarcasm and his tone lacks all life, but you can hear the fondness just beneath the surface and you can practically hear him beaming harder and it makes you want to smiler harder too and then it just never ends. 

You want to steal the eyelash. He'd want you to, especially now that he's deceased. You could probably use it to wish him alive again, or at the very least make it a gesture to honor his memory. It's very tempting. 

Unfortunately, your legs are locked and your arms are frozen where they're folded around your head. You can't speak or breathe too loudly either, with both your hands clamped over your mouth as they are. You can only wiggle deeper into the grass, farther below the bush you've both taken cover behind, and hope you've adequately continued to avoid detection from the people looking for you. 

You've already sworn to him that you wouldn't move, but you wonder if promises made to the now-deceased still count. He'd probably haunt you, you reason. He said he would, actually, right before he laid back and shut his eyes a half an hours ago. Said that in the off-chance that he bit the bucket before you were both found back here, his ghost would noogie you mercilessly from beyond the grave. 

You wonder how long you have to lay back here. You wonder if you ever will be found. You wonder how much longer you can go before passing out from dehydration. 

Maybe you'll die too. That would be romantic, wouldn't it? 

But you've never envied Romeo and Juliet, and you don't want to start now. 

You wonder what the average body count is for most hide-and-go-seek games.

You blink four or five or fifteen times in a row, hearing it loud in your head each and every time you do. You feel the wind sail low across the ground and blow long wisps of pale blond strands across your forehead and right in front of your eyes, and you strain to remember the last time you had a haircut. You inhale noiselessly through your nose and breathe in the scent of moist dirt and the itchy smell of grass stalks and inhale him, with his rainwater-scented laundry and the cigarettes you like to smoke and the coffee you like to drink, neither of which he does but instead absorbs because he's around you so much. 

It's eight long seconds more and then a sharp sting of pain strikes you like a bullet grazing the skin across the back of your hand. You feel yourself jump in alarm, a thousand suspected perpetrators crossing your mind almost immediately. You told him this was an awful spot to hide in, you knew what was lurking down here, "black widows and fire ants and scorpions, Craig!", and you wish he were alive right now so you could throttle him to death before whatever poison was now coursing through your blood stream paralyzed you indefinitely. 

Your hands leave your mouth, and you've got a yelp at the back of your throat racing for the tip of your tongue. You want to call for help, call for a medic, call for anyone, and you almost do. 

You make it as far as a whine or a whimper before the noise is swiftly killed by a fast-moving hand clamping like a bear trap across your lips. 

The hand does not belong to you and after you get over your initial shock, your eyes follow it from wrist to elbow until it leads back to him, now rolled over onto his stomach with his index finger pressed firmly against his lips. His eyebrows are narrowed, and you think maybe he's angry with you, but his eyes are also half-lidded and he looks unsurprised. He probably is. 

Without saying a word, his eyes tell you to shut the fuck up.

You struggle against his hand because once you're riled up it's a real doozy to calm you back down. You still want to cry out, you're still worried about your hand, and it's great that he's alive and all, but you're convinced that the years of your own life have been severely cut short.

He doesn't release you, but you're watching his eyes, those gray-blue irises searching your face, and his brows relax, his look softens, and he removes his hand from where it was poised across his lips. It crawls across the grass in your direction, and, without taking his eyes away from your face, he blindly searches for one of your hands. 

For a confused moment you think he means to hold you, and it almost startles you enough to forget all your other troubles when he does grab one hand and holds it between his fingers. Almost immediately he rids you of your perplexity when he places your hand palm-down against the ground and begins dragging his fingernails across your skin. 

You don't know how he knows which hand you were bit on. You don't know how he knows exactly where you were bit, either, as you register the sensation of him lightly scratching around the joint where your thumb meets the rest of your hand. The feel of his nails raking short lines across you skin sends a wave of relief through your body. It feels so good, the kind of good that a cold glass of water tastes like on a smoldering summer afternoon like today's, and the pleasure sinks you into something of a temporary euphoria that causes you to sigh happily and murmur appreciatively without meaning to. 

He shooshes you under his breath, but you can see the muscles of his mouth tug at the corners as he strains not to smile. His scratching turns to rubbing, the pads of his fingers gently massaging over the sensitive spot where you were bit, his motions coaxing and reassuring and calming, and he seems content enough with you to remove his hand from your face. 

You mouth a "sorry," and throw in a, "thank you," while you're at it, and he shakes his head and shrugs dismissively. 

You want to tell him more words than your soundless lips can convey. You want to tell him you're happy he's alive, you want to tell him that Clyde has walked by this bush four times in the past half hour and has been none the wiser of their presence, you want to tell him that you're a little hungry, and you want to tell him about the eyelash on his cheek, because it's still sitting there, you can see it as plain as day. 

He's distracting you, though, because his eyes are still on you, albeit wandering away from your gaze now. You don't know what he's staring at. Your clothes, maybe; they're embarrassingly askew. You're also aware of the pimple you've got protruding on your chin, and you'd probably be more embarrassed of it if you couldn't see about a dozen of them littering Craig's own skin. No, his eyes are traveling higher, to the top of your head, and you suppose your hair is covered in rocks and twigs and dirt, on top of being hopelessly unruly to begin with. 

You want to apologize for the state of your hair, you always do, and you don't know why, especially when his typical retort to this is to mention that your hair is also on his aforementioned "top five." But then his hand is moving again (the free one, not the one now worshipping the back of yours with light caresses) and he's reaching up, tugging on a strand sticking out above your forehead and far out of your peripherals. 

Before you can ask any questions, he stretches his fingers out before you, right in front of your face, and there, marching across the tip of his index finger, small and round and shiny and red, is a ladybug. 

Your first thought: that was in my hair

Your second thought: THAT WAS IN MY HAIR

You think these thoughts so loudly that he can probably hear you. He looks like he can hear you. More likely is that the expression on your face betrays your silence, because he takes one glance at you and immediately shoots you one of his looks again, one that dares you to scream right now and see what happens. 

The creature demands the attention of both of you, and you both give it to him. You watch it waddle its way across Craig's fingers, watch it crawl across the crevices between his digits, watch it dance across the contour lines of his palms, all details that you've memorized and spaces you've filled your own fingers. He turns his hand this way and that, allowing the thing to explore every inch of his skin, wander in an endless fashion, over and under and sideways. When it stops at the fingernail of his ring finger and flutters its wings hesitantly, as if ready to take off, Craig's eyes trail upward and meet yours.

You know what he's thinking. For all your disbelief in wishing and luck, you wouldn't deny him this even if you could speak right now. 

Instead of reacting how expects you to, however, your hand darts out, heading straight for him. He flinches automatically in his surprise as your finger swipes across his cheek, and as you draw your hand back, you allow it to hover between the two of you, near his own hand but closer to his face. 

His eyes go slightly cross-eyed as they narrow on the eyelash that sits atop the tip of your index finger, and it's a downright adorable look on him. 

He understands almost immediately, as quickly as you understood him, and his gaze shoots upward, meeting you again. He's grinning, relentlessly, unrestrained, unashamed, braces and all. You don't hesitate to grin right back, all crooked and shyness, biting the corner of your lip as you do.

There is no countdown, no "one, two, three," no nod or "get ready, set, go." You both just do it. You blow and he blows and your breath hits his finger and sends the ladybug flying up into the sky at the same time that his warm breath tickles your fingers and shoots his eyelash off in some indeterminate direction. 

You watch his expression fail to change, save the scrunching of the bridge of his nose, but you know he's wishing in there. 

You're wishing too. 

You're wishing for eternity, for assurance, for safety and comfort, and all sorts of things you know this ladybug can't actually provide for you. You wish for whatever the hell comes to mind, because you really don't care whether any of it comes true or not, not because you don't believe in wishes but because you know that everything you could ever want is rolling around in the damp cold grass right in front of you, right along with you, in this silly game of hide-and-seek.  

You don't know who moves first, you or him or maybe it was a little of both, but the distance between your lips gets smaller and smaller until it's nonexistent, and you feel him soft and gentle and sweet against you like he always is. You can feel him smiling against you and you smile right back, and his fingers have long since stopped rubbing your skin and are now intertwined between yours where they sit nestled in the grass.

With a collection of triumphant hollers and merciless taunts from the boy now towering above you, you're both found by Clyde in exactly five seconds thereafter.

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: crenny || || notes: based on this pic ||

Kenny's eyes are trained on the window, gazing past the reflection of his grinning face and staring far out onto the long stretch of sun-drench highway.

"Look, look, there's one." He stabs the index finger of his left hand against the dirty glass of the bus window, elbowing Craig as he does.

Craig is returning a mostly empty bottle of Arrowhead water back into his blue backpack, and as he zips the thing shut and returns it to the space of floor between his legs, he spares a glance in the direction Kenny is pointing. Down the road and tiny in the distance, he sees the high-rising, looming, golden arches of the McDonald's their bus is nearing.

"So are we doing this or what?" Kenny asks, his hand poised and ready to reach for the cord hanging above their seat.

Craig delays his response, and Kenny watches him, sees the way his lips maintain their straight, terse line while his brows furrow in concentration.

A second look out the window tells them the McDonald's is getting closer.

"Listen," Kenny tries again. "It's either you soil your delicate sensibilities at a McDonald's restroom, or you pawn your granddaddy's wristwatch and I sell my expert tongue and nimble fingers to some horny desperate in a back-alley, and we make enough money to rent a motel room for the evening."

No change crosses Craig's face, not until Kenny mentions the potential prostitution, and then a look shoots across his eyes for the briefest of seconds. It's fleeting, though, and Craig quickly replaces it with a glare, using his arm to shove Kenny where Kenny's arm is resting against it. Kenny offers a toothy smile, holding up two hands in defense and reminding Craig that it's a joke, but  he has already regretted saying it in the first place.

"How can you be nonchalant about this?" Craig finally says, staring out the window again. "It's so fucking sketch, man. Gross."

"Oh, hush up, princess. Sorry it doesn't have the well-laundered towels and running hot water you've got at home, but you need to live a little."

"This impromptu little 'vacation' of ours hasn't been enough living for you, McCormick?"

"There is never enough living for me," Kenny says with a wink.

Craig rolls his eyes.

"And besides, how is it gross? It's a bathroom, that's what they're there for."

"That's what a bathroom with an actual fucking shower is for, not the disease-infested roadside McDonald's piss room."

"Tomayto, tomahto. The stop is coming soon; it's now or never."

There's about forty-five seconds between where their bus is at now and the nearest bus stop, and in that time, Craig's gaze is continually trained on the window. Kenny doesn't bother him further; he recognizes that calculating and focused look on his face and waits patiently. Craig seems prepared to maintain his poker face all the way past the bus stop, but at the last minute, his eyelids slide shut, and with a laborious sigh, he shakes his head.

It's not a gesture of denial, Kenny easily reads, but one of defeat, and he lights up instantly, grinning and reaching up to give a defiant tug on the cord. An automated bell chime goes off at the front of the bus, and the neon green letters on the electronic marquee by the driver change from "FOURTH STREET" to "STOP REQUESTED".

"Okay, let's make this quick," Craig says, reaching down between his legs to grab the strap of his backpack while the bus gradually slows to a stop. "Ten minutes and then we're out."

Kenny is already on his feet, reaching up to grab his own red backpack where it's sitting in the compartment above them.

"Ten minutes?" he asks, snorting derisively. "Excuse me, I haven't bathed in a week. I'd like to enjoy this."

"Ten minutes."

The bus stops half a block from the McDonald's, and when its doors slide open with a hiss, Kenny and Craig scurry from their seats and jump out, hoisting backpacks on shoulders and dashing down the sidewalk before the bus leaves the curb. Craig is more eager, but Kenny, his legs tall and his strides long, walks faster. He throws a hand out behind him, aiming for the hand of the other boy, but Craig, with a grunt, offers him nothing more than jacket sleeve, and Kenny takes what he can get, tugging it along up until they reach the door.

Kenny holds it open and Craig walks in first, eyes scanning the place quickly. There's about seven other people in here, four of them composing a single family, and it's about as averagely well-kept as any other McDonald's he's been to: the floors are slightly sticky and dark in some patches, the employees look miserable enough, it reeks of frying oil and meat.

It'll do.

While Craig sneaks away and slides into the empty seat closest to the restrooms, tossing his bag right on top of the table its attached to, Kenny heads for the register. With modest charm and a kind smile, he orders a plain hamburger, and, while he pays, politely requests a restroom token, which the woman behind the register exchanges as he hands her a dollar for the food.

Kenny returns to Craig and, unwrapping the hamburger, the two grasp the sandwich from either side and proceed to unceremoniously rip it in half. They bump the buns against each other, making clink noises out of the side of their mouths as they do, and then inhale their respective sides of the sandwich in single hungry bites.

Brandishing the golden restroom token between his index and middle finger, Kenny grins and holds it just out of Craig's reach, until the other boy rolls his eyes and snatches it from him. Craig grabs his bag again whirls around onto his feet, heading straight for the restroom. Kenny follows quickly.

It takes Craig an extra minute or so to fiddle with the door; he has to insert the coin and wait to hear the click of the lock before he can turn it, and all the while, Kenny is standing behind him patiently, glancing around at the restaurant behind them until his gaze settles on a blonde teenage girl watching them curiously from a booth nearby. Kenny winks at her, nods his head at Craig, and pantomimes a blowjob with his right hand. The girl's mouth pops open, her cheeks flushing before she turns around, and Craig has caught enough of the tail end of Kenny's gesture to justify elbowing him in the rib for it.

The knob on the restroom turns easily and the same moment they walk in and snap on the light, Craig is already zipping off his jacket and peeling off his shirt along with it. He doesn't even spare the extra second to survey the place, as he'd originally intended, because he doesn't want to be there any longer than he needs to, but he is slowed down considerably when he pauses to fold his clothes neatly and gingerly place them in a pile atop the tank of the toilet.

"The floor is fucking nasty," he remarks snidely and loudly as he reluctantly removes his hat and places it on top of his pile of clothes. He's watching Kenny in the corner of his eyes when he says it, and the other boy has already striped to his boxers and socks while the rest of his clothes lie in an abandoned heap in the corner.

"The bathroom germs are welcome to the party on my already groddy-ass clothes," Kenny replies with a smirk, now on his knees and rifling through the second zipper of Craig's backpack.

Craig intends to whirl around and protest to this, to assert his rights to privacy and demand just what the fuck Kenny thinks he's doing, but the boy is on his feet almost instantly, holding out a tiny motel bottle of shampoo and a small bar of soap. He wiggles them midair between himself and Craig, and Craig spares them a inquisitive glance before pointing at the shampoo, which Kenny tosses at him, and Craig barely catches it. Kenny strides over while Craig is distracted by the toss and shoves him aside from the sink where he's standing, turning on the faucet for warm water and splashing handfuls of it on his person.

Craig can only stand by and wait his turn, folding his arms as he leans against the hand dryer and focuses his eyes across the room on the almost empty roll of toilet paper dangling precariously from the broken rod it's wound around. It's only now that he takes note of his surroundings, of the flickering yellow light above them, of the variously colored puddles all over the grimy greenblue tiles beneath their feet, of the bizarre odors only a men's restroom in a fast food restaurant could produce. He thinks he sees a dead cockroach in the corner behind the toilet, and, as he shudders and groans in disgust, he's torn between whipping around and bolting out of the dirty restroom right fucking now...and keeping his eyes focused on that squashed cockroach.

Because if he doesn't, his eyes are tempted to wander, to flicker for the briefest of seconds on the body next to him, to roam across his shoulder blades and down his arms, to absorb the sight of taut muscles and bone beneath skin, of dirt and scars and bruises dancing along on top of it. Craig notes how skinny the kid is, reflects that maybe he should have relinquished the entire sandwich they'd shared earlier to him.

Kenny looks up suddenly, his eyes finding Craig's in the mirror, and Craig hugs his arms to himself tighter, glancing away.

"Your turn, buddy," Kenny says with a small chuckle, patting him on the shoulder and retreating to his corner of the restroom.

Craig hears the squelching of the soap bar as it slides across Kenny's skin behind him, then shakes his head, hunching over the sink. For all the desire he possessed earlier to be as fast as possible about this, he can't help but hesitate for a second with his head poised over the porcelain and running water. He feels a bit sick acknowledging how much dirt and grease must have collected on himself in the past few days. He can't even stand going a day without a shower, let alone a week, and, just as he expected, he runs his hand through strands of his matted black hair and feels the oil and grime cling to his fingers. Revulsion courses through him, and he begins mercilessly scooping and pouring huge handfuls of water over the crown of his head, letting it drip and soak through his hair and collect back down in the sink.

When he glances down, he sees the water turn a light shade of brown as it swirls toward the drain, and he shudders again, slamming his eyes shut and blindly feeling around for the shampoo bottle. He squeezes more than half the tiny bottle into his hand and violently begins scrubbing away at his scalp.

Both he and Kenny are so preoccupied with their cleaning that they fall to silence, not acknowledging one another for long minutes. Craig has almost forgotten Kenny is in the restroom with him; the white noise of the continually running water clears his mind and focuses him on his arduous task.

And arduous it is. His fingers are digging and scraping away so hard that he can feel the skin on his head ache slightly, but he ignores it for his mantra of 'get the fuck off me get the fuck off my skin get the fuck out of my hair fuck you oil glands fuck you.' 

His reverie is only broken for a fraction of a second, and only slightly, when, through the whooshwhoosh of the sink water he hears a small noise, like a voice, like a hum or a murmur, and he imagines it's Kenny over there saying something, hopefully to himself because Craig isn't in the mood to give him the time of the day at the moment. He continues washing himself, but the noise persists, a little louder this time, and it's definitely Kenny and it's definitely a hum. 

Craig can't ignore it anymore, and he's already rinsed his hair so much that he feels it'll start losing color soon, so he reaches out and shuts off the faucet, the confines of the restroom flooded with the sounds of drip-dropping water falling from his damp strands of hair...and the sounds of Kenny's humming.

It isn't a nonsense sort of humming, Craig realizes in the seconds he spends still huddled over the sink. It's complicated and structured, melodious and with a purpose, but bursts out from Kenny's shut lips with an air of nonchalance. Craig's eyes travel to the mirror and he watches Kenny's back, watches him continue to run the bar of soap under his arms and across his chest as the hum of his song grows with fervor and ardency, and believes that the other boy isn't conscious to his listening audience. 

"Con te partiro..."

It takes Craig a second or two to realize that this is Kenny's voice now -

"Paesi che no ho mai veduto e vissuto con te...."

- belting in a low decibel to himself and himself alone, like a whisper or a secret, sweet and soft--

"Adesso, si, li vivro con te..."

- and pouring out like honey, like an audible embrace, flooding the restroom as his voice grows louder and stronger -

"...partiro su navi per mari che, io lo so..."

- and ignoring it has become impossible at this point, it's hanging in the air and bouncing off the walls and invading the cavities of Craig's ears, and he can feel his heart pounding and his blood warming along with it -

"...no, no, non esistono piu. Con te io li vivro -"

"Hey, cut that shit out," Craig stammers, slamming his hands against the porcelain and whirling around. "It's already weird enough that two guys walked in here together, you want them to hear that too?"

Kenny jumps at the sound of Craig's voice, and when he turns around, Craig sees him blinking in what appears to be genuine surprise. "Sorry?"

"Your singing, Pavarotti, it's getting too loud." Craig doesn't mean that.  "You need to stop." He doesn't mean that either. "Or at least keep it to yourself, Jesus." He means that least of all.

"Oh." And Kenny smiles, a toothy one, and Craig sees the gap where one of his canines is missing. "My bad. I always sing when I shower at home. I don't even realize it." 

"Well, we're not home, idiot, in case you haven't noticed."

"I know." Kenny turns around fully this time, walking to join Craig at the sink again and nudging him over. He turns on the faucet and begins splashing the water on his body, the suds and bubbles clinging to his skin sliding down his body and puddling on the floor. "Sometimes I forget. Just being with you. You're my own slice of home, y'know what I mean?"

Craig does know. Craig knows exactly what he means. He knows exactly what Kenny means better than Kenny probably thinks he does.

"What did I tell you about saying that kinda shit, man, God damn." He snatches the soap from where Kenny has abandoned it on the side of the sink and begins scrubbing what's left of it on his own body. He's surprised, though, when Kenny slaps it out of his hand and grabs it before it hits the ground.

"Ten minutes are up, sweetheart," Kenny says with a grin, handing Craig one of his shirts (he brought two with him) and gesturing for him to use it to dry his hair.

They're both dried and dressed in under a minute, then flying out the door, running to the same bus stop they got dropped off at and waiting for another bus. When it would arrive, they didn't know. Where it would go, they didn't care.

It takes some self-scolding on his part, a few minutes of internal arguing, but while they wait, Craig reaches out. He sees himself doing it, he realizes he's doing it, but he can't believe he's doing it, and he grabs Kenny's hand, giving it a tiny squeeze. The fingers of the other boy tense, surprised, in his grip, and Kenny glances over with curious eyes.

Craig releases him instantly, a bus pulls up, and the two of them climb on board.

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: kenstophe || || notes: kenny and christophe! not the most conventional pairing but it’s a fun one :’) ||

"You'll be safe here," he'd promised, his voice an excitable whisper, his eyes aglow. "No one will think to look here. No one will find you."

Christophe doesn't want to trust him, has been led to believe that trusting anyone is dangerous, but dammit if he doesn't believe him, this man that keeps company with rats, that reeks of death, that finds room to grin despite it all. Kenny opens up his home and says it's a safe place and Christophe, nodding curtly and putting his cigarette out on the rotting wood of the door frame, believes him.

The grand tour leaves much to be desired. There's nails jutting out of the creaky floorboards, a constant draft, a stench of mildew and dried alcohol, no glass in the windows and holes in places where there isn't mold or other unidentifiable stains on the walls. The staircase threatens to fail with every footstep, the piping offers no heating, the only occupied room contains not more than an old stained mattress, moth-devoured curtains, and a single flickering ugly side table lamp that Christophe would date back to the seventies. "What is keeping this trash heap from crumbling?" Christophe inquires with a genuine curiosity and with only a glimmer of malice, his eyes inching across the ceiling of this tiny, dusty room, the corners of his lips twitching in a grimace. Kenny takes no offense. He smirks and flops down on the mattress, shutting his eyes and folding his arms behind his head. "Take it or leave it, hombre." His chest is rising gently and he's snoring lightly before Christophe can give him an answer. No matter, Christophe reasons to himself, his heavy combat boots thumping quietly against the floor as he backs out and exits, commandeering the tour himself, 

a mole finds comfort in the dirt and grime.

With some old couch cushions they dig up in the backyard and a stack of cardboard boxes Kenny nicks him from the back of a dinner, Christophe sleeps in the third room down the hall for two long but not wholly unpleasant weeks. The days pass him by out his window, the sun rising, the snow falling, the cars rattling by, the local rednecks jeering, the neighborhood children daring each other to get as close to the house as possible before cackling noisily in hysteria and running down street. Information from the outside world comes to him in the newspapers Kenny steals for him from the slightly more affluent houses nearby, and for entertainment, he rereads the same three children novels Kenny has stashed away beneath a broken floorboard under his mattress.

When he's not an audience to the literary works of Beverly Cleary or Judy Blume, he's doing push-ups or sit-ups or sitting under the window sill and counting the minutes that trickle by him for hours at a time, his mind racing, listening as Kenny exits the place early in the mornings and returns very late every night. It takes three days of Christophe holed up in the room without noise or movement before he really acknowledges his host. Kenny is patient, he waits, doesn't say a word or pry, but it's on the way to the bathroom at three in the morning that the other man finally slips out of his room and, as gruffly as he can manage, asks for food. For their first meal together and for every meal thereafter, they eat frozen waffles and cold cans of refried beans that Christophe pries open with the end of his shovel. On nights when Kenny's houseguest is feeling social, they'll light a candle and swap shadow puppets on the bare walls of the living room. Christophe spent the first week killing all the vermin that crossed his path, then, for whatever reason, gave up spent the remainder of his time counting and naming them all. He never does this in front of Kenny, but the other man can swear he'll tiptoe past Chris's room in the middle of the night and hear him talking to them, telling them the horrid things life and God have done to him. The conversation between the two is kept to a minimum. Christophe doesn't care to speak and Kenny can sense that. Questions are never asked. Instead, they observe. For Kenny, it's all in the body. He's fluent in this language, and he's inconspicuous about his fluency. His glances are furtive and fleeting. In them, he takes in volumes of information. He observes callouses on hands, takes in the scars on every sliver of visible skin, reads the years of turmoil in those eyes, studies the guarded and harsh movements of the other man, even in as simple an action as brushing the long hair from his forehead or stomping out a cigarette butt. In Christophe's case, he's curious about history, and all around him it's loudly proclaimed in the abode. Walls hold secrets that people will never tell, he's always thought so, it's his job to believe so, and when Kenny disappears in the afternoon, Chris roams, runs his fingers along the walls, walks in and out of every room after having scrutinized every inch of them with his eagle eyes, presses his ears to the floorboards and peels away at wallpaper. Between all the observation and a daily exchange of five to ten words, they've opened up more about themselves to the other than either of them realize.  Christophe never leaves the property and, in fact, never leaves the house, except to steal away to the backyard at odd hours of the day to dig holes in the ground. Deep ones, shallow ones, some with large diameters and some without. Kenny, when he's around to witness it, sits on a tree stump and watches him with mild amusement, never asking why. When he's through, usually when there is nowhere else left to dig, Christophe stomps back inside, and Kenny goes about kicking the dirt back into the holes, returning the earth to its unturned state. On his fourteenth day of doing this, Chris wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and, after stabbing his shovel into the loose dirt, approaches Kenny on his perch on the stump. They exchange a brief glance, then Kenny grins, moving over and patting the space on the wood next to him. Christophe eases himself down with a tired groan, tugging a cigarette from one of the many pockets of his cargo pants and slipping it in the corner of his mouth. Kenny is quick with the BIC lighter, tugging it from virtually nowhere and quickly lighting the end of the stick. Christophe nods in thanks and pulls out another stick, offering it to Kenny. The other man shakes his head, and Christophe returns the cigarette to his pocket. They sit together in their familiarly comfortable silence until a crow lands on the back fence and caws for long minutes and suddenly the need for silence is dissolved. So Christophe plucks the cigarette with his index finger and thumb, breathes a strong stream of smoke out a tiny opening between his lips, and shocks Kenny by speaking. "What happened to your family?" His voice is low and raspy, his accent thick, his tone lacking any feeling. Kenny asks him why, and he truth is that Christophe has seen the spaces on the walls that used to hold picture frames, that he's dug up the remnants of a pink tricycle in his excavations of the backyard, that there are dirty footprints in the large empty room at the end of the hall that don't match Kenny's shoe-size, that no man would live in an unlivable three-room home and stay there unless there were some sort of emotional connection, and the combination of all these things ignites a curiosity that he desires to be assuaged.  

However, Christophe doesn't indulge him with this or any answer, and instead simply presses on with the question. So Kenny unzips the top of his sweater, lets down his hood, and shocks Christophe by laughing loudly. "My parents are dead. Overdose and liver failure. Respectively." He glances skyward in thought, as if trying to keep his facts straight. "My brother is serving ten years in the slammer, and my sister hitchhiked her way out of town two years ago. Last I heard from her, she'd made it all the way to California." Christophe's next words fly out almost instantly, and he forces them to do so as uncouthly as he can so as to mask the fact that they've been at the edge of his mind since day one. "Why the fuck would you stay?" At this, Kenny chuckles again, darkly this time, and cracks his knuckles non-threateningly. It's after a thoughtful silence that he finally utters, "do you ever ask yourself why such a hateful individual like yourself is still alive?" "Always." The answer came quickly, and Christophe brings the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling deeply. 

Kenny stares at him with narrowed eyes, examining, scrutinizing, then frowns faintly and shakes his head. He then leans over swiftly, grabbing Christophe by the chin and toying his face closer. Chris opens his mouth in slight alarm and Kenny immediately presses his own lips there, sucking in the smoke, the taste of nicotine flooding the cavities of his mouth and when he releases him, Kenny throws his head back and sends a thin stream of smoke sailing over their heads. In Christophe's flustered and surprised silence, Kenny tells him he's been waiting, for what, he doesn't know, and Christophe is still trying to find the string of obscenities that have gotten stuck in the back of his throat in response to his gesture from just a moment ago. Kenny takes advantage of this loss of words by snatching Chris's vacant hand and drawing it to his face. He drags his lips gently across his fingers, languidly worshipping each individual digit with tiny kisses, feeling the rough pads of the fingertips and the coarse lines of the palm grazing against his mouth. Against Chris's hand, Kenny mumbles the words: there's always a life that needs saving, and Christophe immediately seizes his hand back and begins cursing in French, gesturing wildly, his face turning red. He leaves the house in the next hour, slamming his way out, and is gone for six days. When he returns, he finds all the holes in the backyard have been filled again. Kenny's mattress has moved into his room.

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing: crenny ||  || notes: I just really wanted to write them beating each other up and then kissing ||

Between Kenny and Craig, neither can remember what brought them to this point: the latter with one hand snaked through and painfully gripping the dirty blond hair of the other, the former with a single fistful of the other's shirt balled in his iron-grasp, both with a fist pulled back, poised, waiting like dual loaded pistols. They've only paused long enough now just to breathe, their faces so close that they can't see past the almost palpable loathing in each other's eyes, so close that with every haggard exhale, their hot breaths mingle visibly in the cold air between them.

Look at him, they both think when they break their locked gaze just long enough to allow their eyes to roam, soaking in the layers of sweat on each other's brows, the swollen lips, the cuts and, oh, the bruises, all dancing along their skins like purple-blue-green abstract works of art. Twin trails of blood are crawling down both of Craig's nostrils, trickling across his top lip, dribbling down and off his chin and collecting in tiny puddles in the snow around their feet. Kenny's got one to match, inching its way from the corner of his left eyebrow to the corner of his eye socket, and maybe his vision there would be obstructed by this if that same eye wasn't already swelled and purple as it is. They notice each other's clothes, notice the tears and ripped seams, the dark stains around their rib cages, the cakes of dirt and mud and places where they're soaked through with melted snow. Kenny's jacket is flimsily clinging to his frame from the areas Craig has repeatedly grabbed him, and Craig's hat has been missing for God knows how long. They can't even register the searing pain and the throbbing sores coursing and radiating through their tired and wasted bodies. They're both too busy sneering the same smug jeer in their minds: dirty little shit, what a fucking mess Then someone moves a little too quick, a little too suddenly, maybe not much more than an involuntary flinch or twitch, and neither can say who commits the act first, but their fists launch too simultaneously and immediately to say, and their aim is impeccable. Kenny trips backward as Craig's body launches forward, and they're a confused, rolling heap of kicking and pummeling, their limbs are moving too frantically to make sense of just who or what they're assaulting anymore. Craig's not the most confrontational of boys these days - doesn't know how to fight outside of reckless punching, doesn't want to fight if he has any reason not to. His words, though seldom heard, quite literally fight all his battles for him. Physicality is beneath him. Touch makes him uncomfortable. He doesn't even like getting dirty. And Kenny - Kenny likes being alive, but what he doesn't like are the heightened odds of risking such a pleasure when he puts himself in a position of injury. He'll get a punch in, but he walks away from most disputes, and whether that threatens his dignity or not matters little.  They can't explain their predicament, not now, not to themselves, not to anyone, and they figure, were there witnesses, they couldn't have assessed the situation any better. The two persist, then, as if the answer can be found the more senselessly they beat the other, the more profusely they manage to make each other bleed. An end comes just as unpredictably as a beginning might have been. Kenny is staggering to his feet, dragging Craig up with him by the collar of his coat and shoving him up against a tree when they both gain the necessary balance, gripping Craig with both hands and as much strength as he can muster, which isn't much at this point, about as loosely as Craig's own fingers wind themselves around his wrists. "If you're going to do it, f-fucking do it," Craig snarls, his teeth coated in red as deep as his lips, the same color of red that's matted in his hair and dancing across the front of his coat and painted along his knuckles. Kenny can't help but stare. His left eye is now swollen shut, but he can clearly see Craig and he's so fucking disgusting, it's absolutely transfixing. With every exhale out his mouth, Kenny's lips feel the moist and hot liquid of his own blood, and something crazy drives him forward, and as hard as he can punch, he slams his mouth on Craig's, their lips lubricated by their own blood and sliding against one another before they can make properly pursue the action. Not yet feeling the wet warmth stinging in their cut lips, not yet hearing the sicking squelches and the smacking, before either of them understand what they're doing, they both taste it, taste the copper, taste the dirt, register revulsion, and pull away immediately, their eyes (the ones not suffering from bruises) widening. When they release each other - and they do, quickly so - only then does the pain start to set in. Craig wipes his mouth against the back of his parka sleeve, Kenny does the same, and with a final glance that couldn't end soon enough, they stalk and limp away in opposite directions. They're bandaged and bruised and swollen and dragging themselves through their following day of school, and when they cross paths in the hallway, neither says a word.

[mandawrites]

|| fandom: south park || || pairing/character: bunny, craig + kenny friendship || || notes: narrative bounces between past and present so it might get a little confusing. this was very experimental in terms of tense usage :x || 

Craig has been staring at Kenny for a good long while now, but he isn't aware of it until Tweek appears out of nowhere and puts a hand on his shoulder, asking him if he's ready to leave and what exactly he's looking at.

He doesn't mean to stare. Not that it matters to him if he's rude, more that he wouldn't want to give the impression that he cares, because he couldn't care less, really, or so he needs to keep reminding himself.

Caring, in this situation, would make him a good friend, the kind of good friend that, just the night before, sat outside on the curb in front of his house after being asked to after an urgent-sounding phone call from the boy he was currently staring at.

It'd been a cold night, he remembered, the kind where the wind stung his exposed cheeks, where his fingers numbed even within the confines of his gloves, where he could feel the snow under his ass melting through his jeans. It was only made colder from having to sit out there for twenty or so minutes before Kenny wordlessly strolled up and eased down to his bottom next to him. "Can I ask you something?" had been Kenny's first words, stumbling out of his mouth in a bit of a whisper and mumbled through the cloth of his coat hood. His arms were curled tightly around his legs, hugging them fiercely to himself, like he was trying to roll into a ball and disappear.  He looks like that now, Craig realizes. Though he's floating around over there on the other side of the room, a grin slid on his face as he shuffles between conversation with each of his friends, his hands, when not balled up tightly at his sides or shoved deep in his pockets, are constantly tugging on the strings of his hood, as if with a denied desire to pull them hard and let the fabric swallow him. Craig's first response to Kenny's question had been, "no," as if scripted and rehearsed of him to say, but as Kenny pursues his inquiry anyway. It's clear to both of them that Craig wouldn't have sat out here as long as he did if he really believed his own answer. "You can't make fun of me, alright?" "I'm not making any promises." Kenny had been sitting so close that Craig could feel the shudder of his body when he sighed deeply. "How was your, um - shit." Kenny had tugged on his hood strings again before he started bouncing his right leg on the ball of his foot, which Craig only remembers because he detests this habit of his. "Uh, first time? With You-Know-Who?" Craig knew exactly who he was talking about, and his face flared up at the image suddenly thrust into his head. "You fucking pervert," he'd stammered out, shaking his head as if to rid it of the thought. "Even if we had already, I wouldn't tell you - " "Nonono!" Kenny waved his arms about in protest. "Not that! I meant, um." He paused, then leaned over, and, close to Craig's ear, mumbled, "I meant the first time you kissed." "Oh." This shyness was coming from the same boy who, as a child, had willingly taken a face of cat piss just for the chance to be in the vicinity of a pair of breasts the size of his head. Kenny's insistence to dance around this particular subject had confused Craig. He chose not to comment on it. "It was - " Craig rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Nice." "Nice how? What did you do? Where? How?" "Dude, I'm not talking about this shit with you." "Just - you don't have to be graphic or anything." His tone was so pathetic that Craig sighed and relented, saying, "at his house. After school. And, ah, it was…here." He pressed his fingers lightly against his own lips, unable to bring himself to specify them with words. "I aimed for his, uh - " his fingers moved to his cheek, " - then changed my mind at the last minute." "So it was you who did it?" "Yes." "How did you know it was the right time?" "I don't know." "Weren't you afraid he was going to tell you to stop?" "A little." "Or that you weren't very good?" "I probably wasn't." "What if he'd hated it and ran away and things got really awkward between the two of you and it made it hard to hang out ever again?" Kenny's voice had adopted a more intense tone of desperation with each consecutive question, and with this final one, the words had tumbled out of his mouth so quickly that by the time he'd gone through half of them, his voice had cracked. It was a sound Craig had never heard out of him. "You sound like Tweek." Craig peered at him, as if the answer to Kenny's curiosities could be found just by looking hard enough. "Why are you asking me this?" "No reason." The response had come a little too quickly, and Craig was not fooled. "Is this about Butters?" No answer was necessary, not then, not even now. Craig was watching Kenny all evening, has seen the devolution of this suave bastard, witnessed all those glances, some ardently searching, others sidelong and guiltily consuming. The one that dissolves any of Craig's doubt is the one Kenny makes when he's finally face-to-face with the boy. He can't even make eye contact for too long, and when he does, his eyes are absorbed, shinning, and a bit confused, like he's incapable of understanding what's standing before him, too awed to believe he could coexist alongside it. Craig had broken what was a long and awkward silence with, "you do remember that you're the one who told me how to do it, don't you?" "Was I?" "Yes, you want me to give you the condensed version of that?" Craig produced three fingers and began counting off them with his other hand. "No tongue, no longer than five seconds, and make it count, because the first one's the one he'll always remember." "I said that?" "You sure did, you sleazy asshole." "Huh." Kenny snorted and glanced away. At the house across the street, Craig presumed, though Kenny's eyes hadn't been particularly focused.  "Cute." "You're acting really weird, so I'm going to tell you this upfront," Craig continued, frowning. "You gave me more words of 'wisdom' than I wanted or needed, so whatever this - " He gestured vaguely at Kenny's hunched person. " - is supposed to be, I'm sure you can bounce back." "Ah, I give very good advice, but I very seldom follow it." Kenny grinned a weak and hollowed grin at his own words. "Alice in Wonderland." "Bingo.” He shoots a little finger gun right at Craig.  "Look,” Craig continues, unamused, “up until two months ago these lips had never touched another human being beyond the cheeks of all my extended family members, so I'm not sure what you expect to gain from this conversation." Craig paused. "You can't tell me you've never kissed another person before. Not with all the people you've been with." "Those don't count." "Oh, don't they now." "They don't. This one is - " "Don't say 'different', please, or 'special', even, and God forbid that next word be 'perfect.'" "And why not?" Craig scoffed. "That's cheesy and gross, and I don't want to fucking hear it." And, outside of that, Craig knows Butters, knows that happy little shit beaming wildly and widely on the other side of the room. He knows about all the dumb children songs he hums to himself, knows his affinity for girl's clothes and the chest of toys he still keeps in his room. He knows about the obnoxious way he bumps his knuckles when he's nervous or his inability to utter a single obscenity unless otherwise prompted to or even the annoying stutter that mingles between his words. He knows about his proficiency at being awkward or clueless in any and all social situations, as well as his foolish and naive desires to please everyone around him. That Kenny would still pursue him in spite of (or perhaps because of) all such facets of the boy required, for Craig, no other words. They're moving, Craig notices, with Kenny tugging at the sleeve of Butters' sweater to guide him, which is bolder than Craig believes Kenny is capable of right now. Perhaps tamer than what he knew Kenny was capable of in general, but Kenny, with all his lip-biting and averted eyes, wears a nervousness Craig wouldn't have believed Kenny possessed if Craig hadn't witnessed it right in front of his eyes. "Craig," Tweek says again, this time easing to sit down next to him on the couch and attempting to follow his gaze. "What are you looking at?" He feels like a voyeur now, and it's a little gross to him, but he can't help but follow them with his eyes, seeing them stop in a corner and Kenny, his hood down now, speaking very fast, his hands more animated than usual, running anxiously through his hair and lightly playing with his hood strings. Butters' back is mostly to him, with a sliver of the side of his face slightly visible, so his reactions are a complete mystery. Anyway, Craig can't catch everything that's going on over there; there are too many people in the room moving between him and them for him to gather much from the conversation. It's for this reason that he doesn't see what triggers the movement, nor who moves first, and when Bebe Stevens walks right in front of him and past him, he's just barely able to catch the collision. Butters is on his tiptoes, his fingers twisted tightly behind his back, and Kenny's hunched over, his own hands hanging uselessly midair. Their noses awkwardly bump and slide against one another as Butters pushes forward faster than Kenny does, and at an angle that is not mutually understood. Their jaws, not lips, make contact in a way that causes them both to instantly recoil, gripping their mouths in what Craig can only see as pain. Unless the corners count, their lips have yet to touch. Craig can't bear to watch any longer. "I just wanted to see something," he tells Tweek, suddenly standing up and offering his hand. They leave the party together. It isn't until the following evening, at the same time and on the same curb as two nights ago, that Kenny summons him again.

"I was aiming for his cheek, like you were," he explains to Craig, his grin huge and his eyes bright, "he was going straight for the prize." "It looked painful." Kenny throws his head back and laughs straight up at the lamppost above them. His jacket is slightly unzipped and his hood is down, which Craig can't understand because, as he commented minutes before, "it's cold as fuck." "I've been through worse. It sucked for him, though. He accidentally bit his lip." He leans back on his palms, his long legs extending far into the street. "Well, I don't want to brag," Craig said, "but at least I didn't injure Tweek." Kenny's gaze travels to that house across the street again. Craig still doesn't think he's really looking at it, especially not after Kenny licks his bottom lip and gnaws it gently in a grin. "He said we could keep practicing it, if I want." The last time Craig had seen Kenny wearing the face he wore now, the last time he'd heard him utter words in such a tone, was two nights ago, in this exact spot they're sitting in. "Cheesy and gross as they may be," Kenny had said at first, "doesn't make them any less true." "In what way?" "In every way." Craig believed him.