"Butters!"

Stan had opened his front door without waiting for Butters to answer it, but he didn't stop to consider the familiarity of the action; his living room was a mess, and the consequences of that were already bothering him. He shouldn't have gone along with Eric's idea, but, as usual, he did what the larger boy asked of him—and, as usual, he would surely be grounded for it. Besides, his house smelt horrible. Had it really been worth getting back at his parents? He was beginning to doubt it, especially if he got grounded.

"Oh, Stan!"

Stan seemed just as upset as he was beginning to feel, maybe more so.

Stan commented on the smell, just as he had moments before, and Butters replayed Eric's comment back to him. As much as he liked Stan, it wasn't his nose that Butters was worried about, and though he didn't want to snap at the boy over it, he also didn't want the reminder of what he had done; it'd only cause him to worry more, and he was quite proud of how calm he was currently being about the whole thing. Of course, that'd all fly out the window, along with his freedom, when his parents came home and saw the mess.

"Butters, we're running away."

"We are?"

"Our parents are never gonna admit what they did was wrong, and they're never gonna change."

It might have seemed extreme to anyone else, running away over something as silly as being lied to. Stan hadn't gone to "anyone else" though, he had gone to Butters—Butters, who had learned from the actions of his own parents, who he was anxious about that very moment, that lying is a very dangerous thing to do; Butters, who would do almost anything to avoid being grounded; Butters, who was so very impressionable. Stan had wanted company, and he had come to the right place. Maybe anyone else—Kyle, Wendy, Eric—would have thought of a better solution. But Butters was good for going along with things, even if it was usually what got him into trouble, and now would be no different. In less than a minute he had decided to do it—he would run away with Stan.

Maybe if he had waited a little bit longer, his parents would have came home and realized what they had done was wrong. Maybe he would have been okay. Maybe they wouldn't have grounded him. And then, maybe, they would have taken him out to Bennigan's as an apology. But Stan didn't want to wait around for 'maybes'.

They left within the hour.

They took the bus out of town, going only as far as two towns over before getting out to walk on foot; they needed to save what money they had scrounged up before leaving for food and a hotel room, Stan had explained. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—so had Eric's plan, which he was still regretting—but as it got darker outside, he grew nervous, and, admittedly, scared. They were, after all, walking between two towns that he didn't know along a road that he definitely didn't know to stay in a hotel room—assuming the next town even had one with a room open. The ever-dropping temperature was helping distract him from his worries—that they'd get lost, that someone would kidnap them, that they'd starve—though; his teeth were chattering too loudly for him to focus much on his thoughts—thoughts that he had apparently already voiced.

"Don't worry so much, Butters." Stan, who had been walking ahead of him, closed the small distance between them; even when his thoughts had been wondering, Butters had made sure not to linger too far behind the braver boy. "We have to be getting close. Then we'll get something warm to eat and rest, okay? Now, come on."

Either because he was a nice enough guy to do something to calm the blonde down, or because he thought it'd make Butters go faster, Stan took his hand, leading him to their shelter for the night.

They had a long trek still ahead of them, but Butters tried not to focus on the unknown distance in front of him, or the fact that his parents might be worried about him; instead he focused on the small amount of warmth and security that the gloved hand in his own gave him, and he tried to move on without anymore complaints. Stan had, after all, chosen a worrier for a companion, but Butters could also be an optimist when needed—and if Stan was going to be strong for him, by golly, he could at least try to do the same.

Butters didn't question the fact that the hotel manager rented a room out to two small boys; he was used to adults doing irresponsible things. Besides, his thoughts were stuck on how unclean the room they had was. He had seen more than a few roaches trying to hide in the cracked corners, it smelt worse than his living room had, and there was some type of mold growing on the walls. He wasn't going to complain though, still trying to be strong.

"Sheesh, what a dump." Apparently Stan was though. "Whatever, I'm going to take a shower."

A shower sounded nice—Butters liked to take showers after dinner, before bed, and they had just ate—but if there was mold on the wall, he didn't want to stop to think about the grime that would be in the shower. Besides, he was exhausted from traveling so much, and it was late anyway; he didn't think he could wait until Stan got out.

Deciding to check out the bathroom situation in the morning and bidding goodnight to his roommate in case he really did fall asleep, Butters pulled the sheets belonging to the single bed in the room back. He had brought his pajamas with him, along with a few other items, but he was too tired to bother with them. The dingy hotel room was too cold for the thin fabric anyway; he would have wished he had packed two pairs to wear for extra warmth had he been more awake. The blankets in his own room at a home he could no longer actually call "home" had been much thicker.

"Butters, come on, move over."

Someone was shaking his shoulder, he dully realized. The long walk had wore him out more than he had realized, and it was causing him to come back to himself after sleep a lot slower than he normally would have. He couldn't bring himself to care about what he was being told; he shifted away from the voice, wanting nothing more than to be able to go back to sleep at the moment.

Stan, relieved that the boy was finally doing what he wanted, climbed into bed with the blonde. The spot that he laid down in was still warm from Butters' body heat, but it wasn't enough; his pajamas were thick, but the room was cold and the warmth from the shower water, which hadn't been too hot in the first place, was quickly fading. With an aggravated sigh, he scooted closer to his friend; he had already held Butters' hand, he didn't see the point in putting up a fuss over cuddling the boy—-though he wouldn't call it that—when it'd make him warm, and it wasn't like Butters would mind. At least Cartman wasn't around to make fun of him.

Stan fell asleep to thoughts of his childhood friends, wondering what they were up to, if they'd miss him. He knew he'd miss them.

At least he had Butters for company.

They left early the next morning, wanting to get as far away from South Park as soon as possible. Butters had tried telling Stan that he was ready to go back, but Stan had none of it, though a part of him agreed with the sentiment.

"It's too late to go back, Butters. They're not going to change, okay? It's the same crap every day anyway; if we did go back, we'd just have to deal with aliens or leprechauns or something else stupid like that. Besides, you took your parents' money. How do you think they're gonna react to that when they figure it out?"

Butters said something about being grounded, letting Stan know that he had proved his point, but he wasn't paying much attention to his companion; he was thinking about how big of an asshole he was being. The tactic had worked though, like he knew it would; he had seen Cartman push the boy around countless times to get whatever it was he wanted from the kid. The thought made him grimace, his guilt doubling.

He apologized, but when Butters smiled and told him that it was okay, that they should get going, it didn't make him feel much better. Still, he didn't let it get to him too much; they needed to get walking if they were going to make it to the next town within the hour.

The next few days passed like that; eating cheap, greasy food, staying in rank hotels, traveling on foot. By the fourth day, however, that changed; they had enough money for a few more meals, but no where near enough cash to spend the night indoors—so they didn't.

The first night that they slept outside they used an abandoned train compartment for a makeshift shelter. It was freezing out, even with the layers of extra clothing that they pulled on, and it was snowing to top it off, but they both sent a prayer of gratitude Jesus' way; they had a roof over their heads and they had been able to eat that day. It could have been worse.

"I'm c-cold, Stan."

Of course, it also could have been better.

As usual these days, they were pressed together in an attempt to get warmer. Despite this, it still didn't seem to be enough; Butters was shaking, his teeth chattering away. It reminded Stan of a movie he had seen once: a couple were stuck out in a cave during a blizzard, huddled together for warmth, and the man suggested that they kiss to make it hotter. He never got to see what came next—his mother had turned it off—but the woman seemed to think it was a good idea. Maybe it could help their situation.

"I know, Butters." His arm was already around the blond's waist, but he moved closer; his chest pressed against the other boy's back. His chapped lips pressed firmly against the other's neck. "I know."

When Butters asked him what he was doing—the boy had never been kissed there before—he explained it to him simply as a way to help, because that's all he saw it as. There was nothing sexual in the act, nor in either of their minds. They were, after all, just young boys.

They wouldn't stay that way forever though.

The years had passed slowly after that night, like years of poverty were bound to do. The boys grew older, their bodies larger and stronger, their minds sharper. They became thiefs, stealing clothes and food whenever the opportunity presented itself; they also took odd jobs when the chance to do so arose. They spent nights inside of abandoned buildings, cars, sometimes mere alleyways. They went from town to town, searching for the place that they could finally settle down, safe.

It was in a quiet town, miles away from South Park, that Butters found a job cleaning dishes, Stan a job as a mechanic—a job he had learned over the years as other children, children he knew, sat in classrooms and learned useless facts from pages in books that he would never get to read. With real jobs, they could finally afford to stay in a hotel again. It didn't last though. It never did.

The only thing that seemed to remain a constant during their journey was that they were together.

It was in a cave that they finally settled down in. It seemed drastic—or "stupid," as his nine-year-old self would have said—but compared to some of the other places they had stayed, it got five stars. Sure, it was cold and the floor was hard, but it was home. It was their home, and it had taken them years to finally find it. Years of searching, starving, running, freezing. No, he definitely wasn't going to complain.

After staying there for a few weeks, Butters stopped bringing up how cold it was, too—for the most part anyway. The blond would usually wait to whine about it until they laid down for the night to sleep, but Stan was used to it—expected it at this point—and he already knew to scoot as close as possible without actually being on top of the boy. That, an arm around the waist, and a few kisses on the back of the neck were all it took to lull his companion to sleep—that is, until the blizzard had hit.

The temperature had been colder than usual that week; if he wasn't mistaken, Christmas would be coming up soon. He wondered what his parents would have gotten him had he been home, but he quickly shook the thought off; there was no point in thinking about it, and Butters needed something from him—either attention or just heat, he didn't know.

They had formed an odd co-dependence over the years. Though Stan still missed Kyle, Butters had replaced him and then some; he loved the blonde as much as he had loved his own family. That in itself wasn't so strange—they had been with each other every single day for years, surviving because of each other—but Butters... Butters needed him in a way that he was sure wasn't normal. The blonde couldn't sleep without being held by him, which made sense, he supposed, since it had become their nightly ritual, but it was more than that. Butters had confessed to getting really anxious if he wasn't around, stating that it almost got to the point where he couldn't breath. It had freaked Stan out at first—with good reason—but he had had years to adjust to his friend's neediness—or loneliness, whichever it was. Besides, it wasn't like Butters got on his nerves anymore; being around the blonde so much over the years had made him immune to the more irritating parts of his personality. Of course, there were still days where he'd rather be left alone, but when he'd snap at his companion, he'd feel bad for it and end up apologizing. So, he let it go, only feeding the co-dependence. He didn't see what the big deal was anymore anyway; it wasn't like they'd be separating any time soon.

"Taking warm showers."

They were playing their usual game for the nights that neither of them could seem to find sleep: they took turns listing off what they missed from home. It was simple enough, but it usually worked after the first half hour or so.

"Not being called Toolshed." It had been his nick-name the guys at the auto shop had given him a few towns back, back when he still had a job that he actually liked; these days he waited tables. "It made me sound like some stupid kid pretending to be a superhero. Or a porn star." It was a lie, of course; he missed the stupid name, just like he missed being able to work with his hands. It had made Butters laugh and relax a bit though, and that had been his goal.

"TV."

Of course, the game became more than a bit repetitive over the years.

"Butters, you already said that."

"W-why, I know. I'd even watch Becker right now though." It bothered him that he could barely remember what Becker was, but he didn't want to mention it to Butters, knowing it would only make the blonde's mood sink even lower. "What about you, Stan?"

Because of the cooler-than-usual weather, they were pressed closer together than they'd usually be. Stan liked to think that that was why his hand had made its way under Butters' shirt, palm spread out over the smooth stomach, rubbing it. It wasn't anything new to either of them, so Butters didn't question it. Still, Stan had to wonder—when had he become so comfortable with touching the boy? Nights pressing against each other had surely caused it, but Butters hadn't even mentioned being cold yet, so why...? He wasn't going to let it bother him though; he was in a good mood despite the cold, feeling playful even. Maybe that's why he answered the question the way that he did.

"Marjorine." He could feel Butters tense against him, clearly surprised and, no doubt, unbelieving; Stan's hand kept rubbing, trying to get the muscles in his friend's stomach relax once more. "She was a babe."

Maybe he had taken it too far? He had only been half-way joking, though he wasn't sure if Butters could actually tell. He meant it though. Picturing Butters in a silk dress, the fabric pooling around his thighs... His hand stilled as he thought about it, his teeth biting against his bottom lip. It was definitely hot, and he was a teenage boy... He tried to calm himself down though, not wanting to freak his best friend out by pressing a boner against his backside.

"R-really? B-but the girls said that I was u-ugly."

His mind drifted to the girls that Butters spoke of; to Bebe, who was superficial and used people but was a lot smarter than what she was given credit for; Red, who he had always kind of had a thing for but never made a pass at because—because of Wendy. Wendy, who he had thought about every day for months. Now he had trouble remembering if her eyes were green or brown... Green. Definitely green.

"Girls are fags, Butters." He didn't pause to consider the irony of his statement considering their position. Instead, he pressed his lips against the back of Butters' neck, the spot behind his ear, the back of his head. He would have pressed them against the blonde's eyelids, against his soft eyelashes, had Butters been facing him. Butters had blue eyes, eyes that were a lot lighter than his own. He knew this without having to think about it. "You shouldn't listen to them."

Wendy's eyes are brown. When Stan finally realizes this, mild nostalgia is what he feels before indifference takes over.

A few minutes pass by, but neither are ready to go to sleep yet. Stan's about to break the silence when Butters does it for him.

"St-Stan? I know it's e-early and all, but c-can I give you your Ch-Christmas gift?"

The blonde, who had grown out of stuttering—for the most part, anyway—over the years, had been slipping back into the habit for the last few weeks. Stan knew it was a sign of nervousness, and he had to wonder... If this was what Butters was nervous about, and he would guess that it was because Butters would freak out every time the subject was brought up, what could his gift be? They usually just gave each other small things that had been stolen or found in cheap stores: small cakes, used gloves, an old, worn hat. The thought of what else it could be caused his heart to speed up and a blush came to his cheeks.

He was still half-erect.

His hand was still running over soft skin.

His lips were on an earlobe.

He was sixteen.

And he was horny.

"Yeah, if you want."

If his gift wasn't what he thought it was going to be, he'd explode from frustration—right against Butters' ass. And if it was what he thought, he'd still explode—maybe still against Butters' ass. Either way, if Stan didn't calm down soon, the blonde was going to have a mess on his hands. Or lips. Wherever. Stan wasn't picky.

There was a moment of awkward silence between them, and Stan started to panic. What if he had been wrong? What if Butters had just been overreacting, freaking out because he thought Stan wouldn't like whatever he had gotten him? What if he had his dick shoved against his best friend's ass, getting harder by the minute, in an unwanted gesture, and he was freaking Butters out? Guilt was rushing through him, and he was about to apologize when his voice hitched—Butters was breaking away from his grasp, sitting up. The movement both terrified him—though he said nothing about it—and filled him with hope. Maybe...

"O-okay then.."

Stan propped himself up on his elbows, and they sat like that, beside of each other in silence. Stan, calming down a bit, the guilt being a large cause of it, was about to tell Butters that it was okay, he could forget whatever it was he had wanted to do, when something happened—the blonde moved. And though Stan expected it, expected the hand slowly reaching out for the obvious bulge in his jeans—and that would have been so embarrassing, had he been wrong about what Butters was going to do, and even though he had apparently been right, he was still more than a tad bit embarrassed—he still couldn't believe it. Butters, his childhood friend, his best friend, his only friend, was about to touch him. And more than anything, he wanted it—had wanted it for a long time.

He wasn't sure he wanted to want it—that he wanted to want Butters. There was nothing wrong with the blonde; Stan definitely loved the kid, even to an extent he wasn't aware of. But Butters was, as mentioned, his only friend. What if he fucked it up? Or what if Butters wanted more than what Stan could give? What if the boy wanted an actual relationship? Stan didn't care if Butters was gay, having said so years earlier, and it would be pretty bad of him if he did considering what was about to happen—assuming Butters didn't chicken out, which Stan half expected him to do—but to be in an actual relationship with the boy?

As he thought about it though, it wouldn't be much different than how they already were. They already lived together, slept together—soon to be in more than one way—spent their free time together. What would really be so different? More kissing? Stan could handle that. Being closer to one another? Stan was already closer to the boy than he had been with his own family. What then? What else—

All rational thoughts, along with the notion that he would think of anyone but his best friend during the act—Wendy, Bebe, Red, Kenny, Kyle, Cartman even—to keep himself from getting too attached to Butters, not wanting to fall in love with the boy, which he wouldn't put past himself—it was a fear that kept him up more nights than what could be considered normal—flew out of his head the moment a hand snuck its way into his boxers, past his jeans, wrapping around his erect cock.

Though his elbows were still propped up, his head fell back and hit the ground beneath him. It hurt, but he barely registered the thud; there would be a bump later, and it'd hurt like hell, but it'd definitely be worth it. The hand slowly stroking him, almost at a painful pace, was doing a good job of distracting him.

Butters was shy at first, but as Stan thrusted impatiently into his hand, a bit of his optimism came back; Stan did, after all, seem to be enjoying his gift. He knew that he could make Stan feel even better though, and wanting that for his friend, the boy that had taken such good care of him over the years, he decided to be brave. He'd do his best, and that'd be all his friend would ask of him—if Stan even asked that much. His friend was so kind, and thinking about it only made him want to take even better care of the boy squirming below him.

Butters withdrew his hand from Stan's jeans and underwear, carefully tugging Stan's dick out with it. He pumped it, still so slowly, as his eyes looked it over. Stan was still rutting into it, but Butters didn't mind; he squeezed the member lightly, experimenting. Stan seemed to like it, a small moan leaking from his lips—but as nice as it sounded, pre-cum was also leaking from the boy, and Butters felt it deserved his full attention.

He lowered his head, his eyes never leaving the head of Stan's cock. His hands wrapped around the shaft as he pressed his lips against the tip; the kiss was an opened-mouth one, and finding the taste bitter but tolerable, he chose not to move back. He parted his lips and let his tongue slip out, lapping at the underside; he knew that he probably looked inexperienced and stupid like that, on his knees with his head between his friend's legs, face flushed, hands on Stan's dick, lapping at his cock, but he didn't let it get him down, deciding that Stan's sounds meant he was still doing a good job. Finally, after getting used to the taste enough to decide that he actually liked it, he took the tip into his mouth, sucking lightly.

"Butters.." It was taking all of Stan's efforts not to thrust up and fully into the warm mouth teasing his dick. He wanted more—but he also wanted to be considerate of Butters. So, instead of shoving the boy's head further down onto his cock, he dug his nails into his own arms. Butters was too preoccupied with his job to notice. "B-Butters, I'm going to—"

Just like that, it was over. Stan hadn't even been able to finish his warning, a groan taking over at the end, before his load shot into Butters' mouth, choking him. Maybe he should have tried to push the boy off of him, but he hadn't had the sense of mind to do so. He couldn't seem to do much now, either, laying back and watching, panting, as Butters tried to breath. He was definitely going to feel like an asshole later, especially when the embarrassment from finishing so soon kicked in. For now though, he could only try to catch his own breath.

"Butters," Finally, after a moment of rest, he found the energy to speak. "You OK?"

"Y-yeah." Butters seemed fine enough. He moved back into his usual spot beside of Stan, though this time he was facing the boy he had just blown, and his arm went around Stan's waist, his leg tangling with the raven's. "Thanks, Stan."

Stan wasn't sure what Butters was thanking him for; not punching him in the face for the advance, maybe. He was too tired to care though; he felt far too exposed to care. His dick wasn't even back inside of his jeans yet, but he adjusted it, careful in his oversensitive, post-orgasm state. It was after that, after his arm went over Butters' shoulders, that he felt something press against his leg.

Butters was hard.

Stan froze, but the blonde didn't seem to notice, already drifting off to sleep. Stan didn't know how he could with an erection, but he didn't question it, and Butters didn't mention it. He went to sleep, deciding he'd pay his friend back on a different night.

The morning after was awkward, but only on Stan's part. What were you supposed to say to a guy that had swallowed your jizz the night before? Especially if that guy was your best friend? He felt like an asshole, going along with it, especially since he didn't return the favor. Butters didn't seem to mind though, being as chipper as usual.

Stan decided that if Butters was going to act like nothing happened, he would too. Because of this, nothing else did happen—for a while.

"TV."

Stan didn't let Butters' usual reply for their game annoy him; after years of hearing the same response almost every single night, he was used to it. He did have to work to hold in a sigh though; trying to ignore what had happened between them earlier in the week was impossible, at least for him, and it was stressing him out. He didn't know if Butters wanted to be more than friends, if the blonde wanted to do it again, if Butters was in love with him or something. He didn't even know how he felt.

What he did know though was that he didn't want them to become less of what they already were, whatever that could be called. They were definitely more than friends with the way that they touched each other. It had become natural to be physical with the blonde without thinking much of it, even though it was often unnecessary. Normal friends didn't do that; he couldn't remember hugging Kyle for no apparent reason, couldn't remember running his fingers through his hair. Whatever that meant though, Stan didn't know. He wasn't going to ask either.

"My mom's mashed potatoes."

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, Butters trying to come up with something he hadn't already said; they had been playing for nearly an hour. It was a slow night, and Stan had already nodded off a few times. Butters' woke him up both times though, probably not even realizing that he had fallen asleep.

"S-Stan?" Stan, whose arm was over Butters' chest, could feel the blonde's heart racing through their clothes. "D-didja like the gift I gave you a few nights ago?"

Stan tensed for a moment before forcing himself to relax; he couldn't shake the sick feeling in his stomach though. Things were about to go really well or really, really badly.

"Yeah," His fingers were subconsciously rubbing Butters' earlobe. "Why?"

"Well... I was thinkin'..." Butters' hand moved to cover his own, warming it; he had long since grown out of his gloves. "M-maybe we could do it again?"

Stan tensed for a small moment, obviously surprised, before relaxing, a smile forming with his chapped lips.

This is how the next year passed.

Kissing was something that they had quickly picked up after Butters' gave him his Christmas gift, and that was often how Stan woke the blonde up in the morning—kissing him until neither of them could breath, swelling their lips and warming their skin.

"Are you sure about this, Butters?"

Eventually though, it had to end. Stan had known it, deep down, all along. He knew that Butters would miss his parents, school, civilization, too much to ever stay away for good. He knew that one day, they—because he couldn't let Butters travel that far on his own—would have to return to South Park. He had hoped that it would be after they turned eighteen, at least, so he wouldn't have to go back to his family, but the blonde couldn't take it after their sevententh winter; the cold had just been too bad, the hunger too strong.

Stan had also hoped, more than anything, that Butters would surprise him. That the blonde would choose to stay with him, that they could keep living together. He had known better, but he couldn't help but hope.

He would try to not take it too personally when Butters' stomped on that hope.

"I'm s-sure, Stan."

This was the moment that Stan Marsh realized he was in love. An urge, a very selfish one, came over him to bully Butters into staying once more, but he ignored it. Butters had put up with his idiotic idea for years, after all. It seemed only fair.

It would be Stan's Christmas gift to him.

Returning home had gone pleasant enough, he supposed. His parents apologized, his childhood friends showed up to see them, it was warm, he was fed, there was a celebration. Despite this, he was unhappy. He was missing something—or, more specifically, someone—that night.

It was when he heard a light tapping on his door that his misery vanished the tiniest bit; dismissing the idea of getting alcohol, he stood, ready to answer his bedroom door in pajamas that felt far too warm.

That night, as Butters crawled into bed with him, he couldn't help but think that some things would never change. As his hand went under his friend's shirt to rub at the boy's stomach, relief and love swallowed him whole, and he didn't mind.

They slept peacefully that night, the comfort of each other far outweighing the one brought by their old life.