'Author' Note: I like this pairing. I don't know if I came up with it, or if I am simply following the legacy of other Stan and Token (Stoken?) writers. Either way, the episodes 'Raisins' and 'With Regards to Jesse Jackson' kindled the little candle flame of this story idea. Also, South Park belongs to people who aren't me.
I trudged through the dreary puddles of melting snow that March had brought. Wasn't Springtime supposed to be beautiful? Evidently not in South Park, what with the wetness of it all, the flower buds that wouldn't bloom for another month just sitting there like weeds, and the rain. That damn rain, at once chilling and warm, never letting up, soaking everything, melting the snow left over from February. Spring in our humble town was...soggy.
Ah, but I was being a cynic. Appropriate, given the circumstances, but bothersome nonetheless. My feet carried me to that old spot of youthful contemplation, Stark's Pond. Knowing that I would, in fact, drench my expensive jeans, I sat down on the waterlogged, muddy ground by the ancient elm tree, watching the light rain ripple the pond's reflective surface. One car went by, splashing cold and grimy water onto my sweater. Another vehicle's tires grated against the gravel behind me, but it stopped before bathing me in filth again. I heard the distinct sound of an opening door, the slosh of boots in a puddle, and the closing of that same door. A figure stood beside me, its faint shadow playing on my face. The familiar voice was shocking in its melody, a trait not common in teenagers.
"Token, are you alright?" Stanley Marsh. The only other boy to survive a Testaburger heart-breaking. I looked up at him, feeling the lump rise in my throat for the umpteenth time this day. My husky voice sounded brash in comparison, but I really wasn't trying to be 'cool'.
"Nope. She's gone, and it hurts like...needles. Tiny little needles poking my sides." Amazingly, he slid down the tree and sat next to me, not paying any mind to the mud. He looked wonderfully sympathetic. It was nice.
"Hey, dude, it'll be okay."
"Five years." Stan, in a surprising gesture, grabbed me by the forearms and looked sternly into my brown eyes. His were blue. Shocking blue.
"Token, I want you to listen to me. Carefully." I nodded. "Okay. This is über, über important, okay?" I nodded again. He tightened his grip. "Don't. Be. Goth."
Despite myself, I cracked a smile, remembering the black fingernails and bleak poetry of Stan's 'goth phase'. He spoke again, releasing his hold on my arms.
"There we go, there's that smile." My eyes were inexplicably drawn to his. God, that was an excellent blue. More unsure than ever, I rested my head against his shoulder.
"Thanks, Stan." His hand came up and wrapped around my shoulder.
"No problem, man." He placed a teeny, tiny kiss on my temple. I grinned.