A/N: Jfc, look at who's no longer dead! Me.
Seriously though, long story. But I'm apparently going to start using this account again, so...
Anyway, South Park fic four years later? I think yes.
Read on..
The sun was hot and shining on the small mountain town, the altitude, as always, allowing for more intensive rays to shine upon the townsfolk.
It was summer, and summer usually meant getting into trouble for the teenagers of South Park. A strange town with constant, scarring events was a bad mixture with growing kids. But they'd all grown up in this godforsaken town, and most of them had taken up some kind of less-than-healthy coping mechanism to remain somewhat sane throughout their experiences.
Craig Tucker and Clyde Donovan were no exception.
A popular "coping mechanism" was why Craig was currently walking Clyde home, irritated beyond belief and trying to keep the heavier boy from wandering into the street. In between trying to keep Clyde out of the small amount of traffic and stop him from crushing random people's begonias, Craig was swearing to himself that he was going to kill Kenny McCormick.
"Craiiig," Clyde drawled as they walked, a half-laugh in his words. "Guess what?"
"If you say 'chicken butt', I am going to slap you so hard upside the head."
Clyde giggled at this, and Craig grit his teeth.
"Noooo," he said, and his drawn out words were probably more irritating than what he was actually saying, if Craig were to be honest.
Craig gave him a questioning glance.
"I can do math!" Clyde exclaimed, shooting his arms up as though he were five. Craig grabbed his arm roughly and pulled him off Marsh's lawn.
"Can you? What's five times two?" Craig snickered despite himself.
"Not that kind of math. But like, the squares, y'know?"
The bright blue of the sky hurt Craig's eyes as he glanced up, searching his brain for an idea of exactly what the hell Clyde was talking about. He didn't know. "What? Like geometry?" Craig asked.
It wasn't as though Craig would particularly know himself; he ditched far too often to have a tangible grasp on anything academic. Well, anything beyond eighth grade.
"Nope," Clyde said happily. "I mean like, two-squared. Like, multiplying a number times a number."
Craig rolled his eyes. "Every multiplying is a number times a number, dumbass."
Clyde shrugged. "You know what I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
"Like you and me. We could be numbers."
Craig looked at Clyde incredulously. "You are so high right now. Jesus." Yep, McCormick was going down.
Clyde ignored him. "Like, we're 'c' times 'c'," he explained, but the thought process was beyond Craig. "We're C2, buddy."
All Craig could really do with that revelation was: "Buddy?"
"Yeah?" Clyde said, acting just as confused as Craig. Craig made a mental note to never allow Clyde near weed again. "You're my friend. My pal. My asshole."
Craig let out an exasperated breath. "I could argue with all of those. Specifically that last one."
Clyde got close to Craig, causing him to stiffen uncomfortably. "No," was all Clyde really had to say. "Like, you're my asshole, man. You're such an asshole, you know that?"
Craig's eyes were going to roll out of his head by the time the day was over. Or perhaps it would be sooner. By the time this walk was over seemed just as plausible.
"I know. I don't care. If other people find me not caring to be an asshole thing, it really doesn't bother me. At all," Craig answered with his usual monotony.
There were few things in this world that Craig cared about. His guinea pig—Stripe III—cigarettes, and-
"What if our emotions were like, wind sounds?" Clyde said randomly, pulling Craig out of his thoughts. A breeze had picked up, and Craig figured that was what had brought on such a deep and intellectual hypothetical.
"They're not. That doesn't make any sen-"
"Shush! Listen!" Clyde shouted. Craig's expression was just bizarre as Clyde put his hand to his ear with such intent. Christ.
"That's the sound of me falling in love with you," Clyde said, and how high he was made him sound incredibly sincere. But it was laughable.
Craig rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time. Only Clyde could say such a thing and still have it sound more ridiculous than not.
"Actually, that's just your brain making lousy connections because you're high off your ass," Craig said dryly, trying to ignore how the sentence made him feel. Because, face it, gross.
Finally, their destination was reached. Just in time. Up the driveway and to the front door.
He led Clyde into the latter's house, though he chose to shove him in by the shoulder rather than grab his hand or anything Ultra-GayTM like that.
"I'm not high," Clyde giggled as Craig accidentally ran him into the couch.
Craig looked at him with irritation. "Yes, you are. Trust me, I would know better than you." Not that it was really confirmed to Clyde that Craig did get high at times with various less-savory people, but it wasn't like Clyde could process that in the moment anyway.
"Just because you ditch class to smoke all the time doesn't mean you know everything," Clyde rattled off, heading to the kitchen. Great. Bringing up two of Craig's bad habits in one go. Super.
Craig headed after him and stood in front of the fridge before Clyde could get to it. "No," he said simply as Clyde attempted to push him out of the way.
Which was sadly successful. While Craig was taller, he was also practically skin-and-bones thin. Clyde always cited cigarettes as the source; Craig didn't like to think about it. Either way, Clyde was a cornerback on the football team and had a good fifty pounds on Craig. Even if he was completely wasted and Craig was as sober as an observant Mormon, he would still be able to push Craig around.
When Clyde opened the refrigerator, a noise of disappointment escaped his lips. There was barely anything in the fridge. A bottle of expired ranch dressing, mustard, a half head of lettuce, a can of tuna, and some ham that had turned an odd green-gray color.
Craig wrinkled his nose. Clyde whined. "There's nothing to eat."
"It's not like you need anything anyway." Craig shrugged. "You just have the munchies. Go to sleep or something."
Clyde clicked his tongue. "No, no I don't think so. I'm starving. I'm wasting away. Soon I'll look like you." He snorted, more to himself for thinking of something so witty than to Craig.
"Ha," Craig said, his voice at utter carelessness. It wasn't funny, and it was close to pissing him off.
He flipped Clyde off, who didn't even take notice. Instead, he decided to head back to the living room and lounge on the couch, spread out and barely leaving any room for Craig.
Not that Craig wanted to sit next to Clyde when he was being a douche, but it wasn't as though he had anything better to do. It's not like he could leave Clyde alone; he would probably become depressed and cry if he did.
"For future reference, Clyde," Craig said, stuffing his hands into his jacket's pockets. "Don't take any more brownies McCormick offers you. Or better yet, just stay away from him in general."