Drunk
Whil-o-whisp
Fandom: Goth Yaoi Love (Red Goth x Curly Goth), South Park
Word count: 469
A/n: RAWRAWRAWRAWRAWRAWR! This is number sixty five of my hundred word drable thingy majiggers! :D YET ANOTHER GOTH FIC! I love this fandom, I write it well. Its kind of sad though… Red Goth is ASHER CUS I REFUSE TO CONFORM TO THE DORKY NAME OF DYLAN and Curly Goth is NICKALUS BECAUSE I HATE THE NAME ETHAN AND THE NAME EVAN! Gosh. Caps Abuse. But seriously, I hate those nmes, so yeah, deal with it if you don't like it. (the name game is going to tear this fandom part I suppose. Shame.)
Disclaimer: I own a… jeeze I'm running out of witty things to say. Well, its not south park.
There are a few things in this world I never want to see again; Eric Cartman trying to be Goth, Eric Cartman trying to make out with Henrietta, My parents fucking, and Asher bloody, bruised, and battered, shit-faced drunk, and alone.
Fucking hell, he should know better! It wasn't even the first time he's gotten drunk, he knows what his tolerance is. And with it, he should never drink alone. Especially not with that fucking stuff. That's for us, when I'm there to keep him from doing something completely stupid. He protests, but he's too drunk to even get up when I take his vodka away from him. Fuck. I haven't seen that much blue since he mixed up the hair dye (really? Black hair dye and blue hair dye don't look anything alike.) His nose, his eyes, his cheekbones, even his neck is bruised. Those look like fingers...
His hair is more in his face than I seem to remember it being. "Go the fuck away, Nickalus." He slurred, hiding his face in his arm. Oh god, has he been crying? His eyeliner's smeared, and his voice is thick. What the hell did that ass hole do?!
"C'mon Asher. Lets go home." He doesn't protest this time as I heft him to his feet. Fuck, its too hard to walk with him like this. His feet drag and stumble and he nearly topples us. I almost want to yell at him. Like that'd help. That's probably the worst thing I could do right now, yell at him. He's so fragile. So small on the inside. How can anybody do this to him? Hurt somebody like him? Even the heartless know better. We would never hurt him. How could we? How could his own father think of hurting him like this?
"Asher." He looks up and I feel like screaming. Those eyes are so blue, he's hurting. How could anybody do this? He doesn't even protest when I sweep my arm underneath his knees, hefting him up against my chest. He's lighter than I remember. Maybe Henrietta will have something he can eat. "He did this, didn't he."
"I don't wanna fucking talk about it." He snaps and I sigh, hefting him a bit higher into my arms. Of Course he doesn't want to talk about it. Asher is so stubborn. He's convinced his problems are only his own. But he can't handle the weight of all the problems he pulls into his mind; his, mine, Henriettas, Lucas's? They're too much.
He buries his face in my shirt, and it'll probably be bloody in the light, but I don't give a shit. He's crying, and nobody needs to see his soul bared. Nobody deserves to see such a beautiful soul, even if it is soaked in blood and tears...