Black Tie

By AllzStar

A/N: Umm whaaat? I don't even know how this happened.

Chapter One: When I Think Of You In The City

When I think of you in the city

The sight of you among the sights

I get the sudden sinking feeling

Of a man about to fly

Never kept me up before

Now I've been awake for days

I can't fight it anymore

I'm going through an awkward phase

Demons, The National

Stan Marsh is a fucking moron.

I don't know how many times how many people in how many scenarios have uttered that sentence in this lifetime, but I swear it's up there with "The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost...".

That being said, all I am thinking as I drag Stan's drunk ass out of yet another sticky-hot-mess-rave-dorm party, is that Stan Marsh is a fucking moron. His puke is on my shoes. Again. They are now my Stan-puke shoes. Birks' knockoffs. Forty bucks at Payless, motherfuckers.

Jesus Christ. I am so done being both his roommate and his babysitter. I only moved in with him because I simply had nowhere else to go. Now I would much rather still be at home with my disintegrating mother.

No. That's not true. That's a bit extreme.

I don't want to put Stan in my car because I know he's going to puke again. I found that out the hard way four times ago.

Instead, I prop Stan up against the side of the building. He is mumbling nonsense to himself; I can see his eyes trying to focus on something—anything—around him. Impossible because a) it's too dark outside to see anything even whilst sober, and b) even if it were light out he is too drunk to focus at all.

I really need to get out of Colorado.

Denver, in all its snowy, freeze-your-balls-off, Rocky mountainous glory, is a bitch in the wintertime. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck. I can feel my pulse thudding in my veins there. I fish in my pocket for a cigarette.

Stan pukes. All over himself. I light up and take a long, slow drag.

Snow is swirling around me, dusting my shoulders, my hair. I'm a barrel of a dude. I've lost a shit tonne of weight since graduating high school but I have still somehow maintained my massive size. In addition to growing another three inches, I have put on literally pounds of muscle. Better than being a fat piece of lard, I suppose.

I debate just sending Stan home in a cab.

Cigarette still burning between my fingers, I go back into the dorm in search of a plastic bag. I push my way past streaking sorority girls and some guy guzzling beer from a funnel. Sure enough, in the communal kitchen area, there are a few bags lying around that people no doubt brought alcohol in.

I emerge from the dorm with three plastic bags. Stan is kareening over the lawn, stumbling in the snow, laughing his tight little ass off. I grab him by the hood of his jacket and steer him towards my car, shoving the bags into his hands.

"You puke in my car," I tell him as I open the rear passenger side door, "and I swear to God I will chop your balls off in your drunken sleep."

He nods, as if he has any notion of the severity of my threat. I push him, cop-style, into the car. He flops down onto the backseat and promptly passes out.

I shut the door and sigh, and finish my cigarette, squishing it between my toe and the slushy asphalt. The sky is too cloudy to see the stars. The air smells like Christmas.

Fuck, I miss Kyle sometimes.

I push that thought out of my head immediately. I won't think of him.

Kyle—

I go around my car to the driver's side and get in, shivering as I start the engine and blast the heat.

I wonder what New York looks like this time of year.

I wonder what he looks like now.

Stan Marsh is a fucking moron.

I turn on the radio, softly so as not to disturb Stan from his slumber—although I doubt anything could have at that point—and drive. The National croons out at me through the speakers (When I think of you in the city / the sight of you among the sights), and for a moment, just a tiny moment, I let myself think of Kyle.

The little redheaded Jewish fuck had promptly moved to New York City shortly after gradution. He got into TISCH or Julliard or some other nauseatingly expensive place. It came as no surprise to anyone, really. I can see Kyle in New York—all artsy-fartsy and gay as Broadway. The last thing I saw on his Facebook page before unfriending him was a slightly blurry camera phone picture of him at some dark bar, the flash illuminating his bleary drunk gaze, some chunky dude's arm draped around his thin little bird neck. The caption read, Sloppy night with these fabulous fags! :D 3 – with Kyle Broflovski and somerandomfuckwhocanandwillsuckabigdickbutpreferablynotkylesplease

Our last conversation had gone like this:

*Ding*

Kyle: Hey

Me:

Kyle: How r u

Me:

Kyle: I'm moving to NYC

Me:

Kyle: Thought we could hang out before I leave?

Me:

Kyle: Eric?

Me:

Kyle:

I lean my head back against the headrest of my seat as I ease my old gal onto the highway. I want another cigarette.

Stan and I had been stupid enough to not live on campus at U of D. Instead, we live in a little bungalow about a twenty minute drive from the university. I like to call it the House of Douchebags. Because really, that's what it is. Six bedrooms: two occupied by Stan and myself, respectively. Two of the others are inhabited by the most godawful, hemp-wearing, chia seed-drinking, sun-worshipping hippies known to man: Alex and Amethyst (NEED I say more?). And the last two house the scummiest, faggotiest fucks of all: Craig Tucker in one, and Kenny McCormick in the other. Lately, though, their rooms have been interchangeable.

Oh, yes. My dearest friends Craig and Kenny discovered their mutual interest in cock sometime within the first two weeks of moving in to the place.

The ride doesn't feel long enough. Soon I am pulling into the driveway of the House of Douche, and Stan is violently vomitting into one of the plastic bags (I turned in my seat to make sure of where exactly it all was landing).

I drag Stan from the car and sling his limp arm over my football shoulders, half carrying him into the house. I lock my car as an afterthought, aiming the remote over my shoulder.

The house reeks of weed. The two A's (Alex and Amethyst, or the Assholes for short) are lounging in the living area, their dirty disgusting feet tucked on the couch beneath their respective asses, praying to whatever moon God that governs the planet they came from. They barely acknowledge me as I shuffle in, tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter before dealing with Stan.

I throw Stan down onto his bed and drag the waiting bucket out from under his bed. I have learned that no matter where Stan pukes, I will ultimately be responsible for cleaning it up. It is better to be prepared.

Closing the door to Stan's room softly behind me, I pad back down the hall to confront the Assholes.

"Guys," I grunt as I come around the corner, "Madeleine is coming tomorrow to inspect the place. I don't think she'll appreciate the stench of weed clinging to every surface in the goddamn house."

"Relax, man," says Alex, smiling lazily up at me. "We'll open the windows tomorrow. Let the house breathe. It will all be right, brother."

"Don't call me that," I snap. I head for the kitchen. I hear Amethyst giggle behind me. It's all I can do to not throw the fucking espresso machine at her.

I think about calling Kyle.

What a stupid thing to think.

I find Kenny in his room. He's only wearing sweat pants, and he's reading a porn mag. Typical.

Kenny and I have a weird relationship. Things got awkward during high school and shortly after. We were best friends for awhile, but it got...complicated. I thought I was gay then Kenny thought he was gay but he turned out to not actually be gay while I continued being gay until I got to college and finally fucked a woman then Kenny thought I was just in denial but I really just don't know anymore and Kenny ended up being bi or confused or something. Maye I had just really loved Kyle, but the thought of general dick just doesn't appeal to me.

"Hey," I say, leaning in his doorway.

He makes a sort of noise in greeting. "What's up?" he asks, putting the magazine down and stretching his arms over his head.

"Brought Stan home."

Kenny makes a face. "What is that? Third time in two weeks?"

"Something like that." I shuffle my feet, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Hey, have you..."

"Heard from Kyle?" Kenny grins at me wolfishly. "Yeah. Briefly a couple days ago. Says his school is putting on some play and he's hoping to get the lead."

I nod. "Cool."

Kenny doesn't let up. Of course not. "Why don't you just talk to him yourself."

I look at Kenny mournfully. "You know I can't do that."

"Yes, you can." Kenny gets up from his bed and walks past me. "You just won't."

I sigh, lingering in the doorway. If there is one thing Kenny has always been and always will be, it's fucking right.