Author notes: Hi. :] I'm kind of new to this. Well, not writing, but to the whole fandom side of things. Never submitted to here before, and well, I'm very nervous! Though I hate to sound the review whore, any comments regarding this small submission are something I am incredibly grateful for; whether they are criticism that kicks my soft and inexperienced ass or just mushy praise that fills my stomach with warm cotton I will be happy.

Anyway, yup, I'd usually warn that bits of British faggotry are to most likely seep into this fic [read: TONS] yet considering I'm writing from the POV of a homosexual British kid already that warning is pretty darn redundant. Character ages here are in the 14/15 area [9th grade]. I'm not the most reliable source when it comes to US education, though I feel that I've researched enough to keep things making sense. Any problems you spot regarding Colorado State schooling please tell me, so I can know in the future about avoiding them.

Also, I am quite the slow writer. Expect updates to be sparse.

Flâneur: (n.) One who strolls about aimlessly; a lounger; a loafer.

"... A flâneur thus played a double role in city life and in theory, that is, while remaining a detached observer."
Charles Baudelaire

"There is no English equivalent for the French word flâneur. Cassell's dictionary defines flâneur as a stroller, saunterer, drifter but none of these terms seems quite accurate. There is no English equivalent for the term, just as there is no Anglo-Saxon counterpart of that essentially Gallic individual, the deliberately aimless pedestrian, unencumbered by any obligation or sense of urgency, who, being French and therefore frugal, wastes nothing, including his time which he spends with the leisurely discrimination of a gourmet, savoring the multiple flavors of his city."
Cornelia Otis Skinner

Prologue

My entire life, more than anything, I've wanted to be liked.

Not liked in the context of being good friends with everybody, or liked in the context of being able to hang out with anybody I feel like; not 'popular' – there's an episode of Weekenders which best explains what I'm trying to say here. One of the lead characters, Tino, hands out surveys to the entire school asking whether they like him or not, and two or three students mark 'no' and he completely freaks out and spends his entire weekend working at getting them to change their answer. That is pretty much me to the last fibre and molecule of my very being; however I'm certainly not going to hand out questionnaires regarding my general likeability to an entire school full of kids, however, as that would be an act of social suicide. For I am not liked by many; hell, not even 'liked' in the sense of 'Hello, I have no idea who this person is but I'll mark Yes simply because I'm in a good mood and he doesn't look too harmful' liked.

I not wary to hazard a guess at it all coming down to the fact that I'm the only honest-to-God British kid in the entire Park County – that, and sharing multiple classes with Eric Cartman: Evil Incarnate; Wickedness Personified; Fat Ass.

Now, there is of course the whole 'we guys rip on each other all the time cool dude' philosophy that Eric (and pretty much everybody else to a certain extent) swears so strongly by (You were burgled? He'd insult your lack of intelligence regarding home security and call you a faggot. You were beaten up? You shouldn't be such a wimp. Or faggot. What about your religious beliefs? If Mel Gibson doesn't positively fit in somehow, you'll forever burn in the damned flames of Hell as A Slave of Sodom), but for some reason it's escaladed when I'm involved; I'm British, therefore any reference to England/Britain/Europe, ever, will warrant him calling my nationality to attention then insulting it. I'm also absolutely hopeless at athletics, so he's eager to pounce on that aspect of me as well, regarding me as a 'wuss', or a 'fucking pansy'. The only other boy in our grade who I can think of who gets it as bad as I do is Kyle and, and perhaps it's how he genuinely doesn't care how somebody like Eric thinks of him, or perhaps its how, most of the time, he is able to shake off the majority of Eric's insults off like water off a duck's back but whatever the hell it is, I'm utterly infatuated with it – with him and every buggery-fucked aspect of what he represents, stands for and is – and it drives me insane. Up the wall. Mad as a bloody fucking hatter for jewboy.

I don't know when it started. For most people there's that defining moment, the moment a person realises their feelings for another person and from there God knows what. However, in my case it's as if one morning I simply rolled, breathing hard and sweating bullets, out of bed with the ideology that hey, maybe I have a boner for somebody and God forbid it should spring up for somebody who I can easily talk to. No, it had to spring up around Kyle Broflovski, the one boy I've been obsessed with ever since that dreaded day in gym class when I almost brained him with a dodgeball. By the Gods it just had to be Kyle Broflovski who, even for a freshman, is pretty cool and popular; who has everything I want and is everything I yearn for yet also know I'll never have.

As lucky as we were to have both our own elementary and middle school in South Park that changed when we began Park County High out in Middle Park, a large campus consisting of many small, disgustingly modern buildings situated almost an hour from our quaint town. Unfortunately, all of the guys decided that banding together would be the smartest thing, so it's an unspoken rule that everybody who lives in South Park sit together in lunch and in classes when given the chance. If not we'd get eaten alive, according to Kenny. So, as close as I am to Kyle most of the time, there's always the fact that another of our cosy little group is present alongside us and higher up on the ladder of popularity than I am. Fuck, even Butters is way cooler than I am, and that's bad.

OK, that's kind of a low blow, but still. He is.

It's not that Kyle would much rather choose to talk to somebody else over me, oh no, it's my own stupid tendency to become overly friendly around everybody else, which in turn only sets the more brutish bullies upon me, thus making it impossible for him to get any sort of word in. Kyle is the only person I can think of who, when the chance of ridiculing the resident Brit presents itself, doesn't immediately jump on it to earn cool points amongst his peers. That is what gets me, what completely confuses me about him, how he can cope with this hell hole without having to depend on giving into peer pressure and popularity seeking. I tell myself, have instilled it into my brain like a mantra, that I am above doing such a thing too, yet when I'm confronted with somebody looking to get a cheap laugh from another's [usually mine] misfortune, I simply sugar-coat myself and act nice to them in the desperate attempt that they'd like me, instead of being, and sticking up for, myself.

Sure, there are one or two others from South Park who don't pick on me, but they just don't seem to be under the pressure of doing so in the first place.

Wendy is, first and foremost, good looking, smart, funny and an overall great person. Yet it's just against her human nature to say a bad thing about anybody, unless that somebody just so happens to be Eric Cartman. Everybody's got a bad thing to say about him. It's not human nature if you don't. But, as much as I like and respect her, I just can't find myself to feel anything except those things for her simply because she falls into the other extreme. The other person is Tweek. But that's a given, considering he's too worried over himself and his blood/caffeine level, and karma causing someone to kill him because he made fun of somebody, and the latest clothing-related conspiracy, and government plants, and— wow, Tweek worries too much.

Like I'm saying; as nice as they can be, knowing why just lessens the gratification I should feel when Wendy smiles at me when we pass in the corridor, or when Tweek squeaks a rushed "thanks" when I help him with math problems. Kyle doesn't need any help whatsoever from me, nor does he try and be nice to me because of some early-drilled mantra that's turned him into a softie. No, he can choose to act just like how his friends act towards me, yet he stands up for me instead. He'd go so far as to risk his popularity in standing up for the 'Frog' because he doesn't need to live off of other people's opinions of him.

I guess he does it because he, personally, is against such treatment of people such as my self, and he's prepared to risk—

Oh, God, I'm making myself out to be the victim in all of this. And only God knows why this topic, of all topics, has decided to burrow itself into my conscience so early on a Monday morning. Only God knows why I think so vividly at all when I wake up, as if the thought had been stewed throughout the night for me to start on as soon as I can. It happens frequently. Sometimes I would wake up and be murmuring song lyrics as my eyes adjusted to the morning light, or be giggling into a pillow over a daft idea that simply popped into my mind as my eyes snapped open.

But this thought, of all thoughts, to intrigue me now on a Monday morning? Of all the days and all the boys I could possibly think of, considering they intertwine and create what is my least favourite lesson: Physical Education, I am to think of them now? Perhaps my mental self does conspire against me. I've always tried to tell The Mole this when we bump into each other around the back of the Gym to smoke away our lunch hour, and he tells me I'm just paranoid. Perhaps I am.

In the process of picking what shirt to wear, I reach out to my bedside table beyond the alarm clock, where my fingers wrap around my phone. In the process of turning it on (hello, I have a new message, which I ignore. Call me insane, but I don't feel like filling up my bill with several failed attempts of downloading a trendy new ringtone), I fish out the first shirt that feels remotely comfortable and pull it on.

I always feel nervous phoning Christophé, simply because I don't know whether he's at home or spending an extended weekend at his father's place. I have a fear of his mother who is, admittedly, rather terrifying. Plus, he's kind of cranky on mornings when I do phone him and he's there to answer. Why he's cranky I'll never know, I guess he's not a morning person. But really, who is such a thing? It's all a case of how much of a cry-baby you are, when you think about it.

After four rings a growled ''ello?' answers my call. Success!

"Good morning, Christophé. Do you feel like skipping first class?"

"… Peep?" Aww, bless, his accent is currently making its last stand against the godawful drawl of the locals. And losing. Please say I'll never succumb to such a fate.

"Why, gosh, indeed it is. Fancy that. Are you skipping then, or what?"

"God," he moans, for some reason. I don't understand him. He always skips class, regardless of me tagging along or not as company. Why he has to be a complete knob really confuses me. There are a few seconds of noisy scratching and a yawn, before he mumbles "What do we 'ave?"

"P.E." I chirp, imagining his grimace at my unashamedly British labelling of the class, he hates it when I do that. It's amusing to annoy him so early; I have to do it more often. He mumbles a "sure", before hanging up. I make sure my shirt is not too creased before making my way downstairs for breakfast.