Wander, Lust

1st SP fic, though sometimes I feel like I've read every Style fic in the universe. Posted on the 64damn_prompts community for #16-rip and on my lj. I'd appreciate feedback. I don't own SP.

Flashback occurs right after 'Chef Goes Nanners'.

I. Angst

A long time ago:

She left him alone.

Third-grade or not, sometimes that was what he remembered at night: Wendy, giggling and relieved, cheeks flushed with pleasure—Wendy, dispelling her attraction for him in a handful of words. Leaving him forgotten, calling after Stan. As if those feelings could be cast off like a coat and discarded. Shocked, he had mourned—trudging off into the distance. For once, the mass of his body weighing him down.

Cartman jolted awake, angry at the dream-memory. Slowly his right hand drifted underneath the covers. The humiliation that he felt when he thought about her had never dissipated; in fact, it had only grown stronger and surged up into something choral, something tremendous…

His hand coaxed that spark into a fire, summoning that tension, that antagonism, the feeling of Wendy. Like the rough blankets swallowing him up, she rubbed against him in exactly the wrong way—a way that woke him at night sometimes, teasing his attention, but eventually leaving him alone.

A couple of hard strokes and he kicked the blankets off—grabbing for the wad of Kleenex already underneath his pillow. He crushed them in his hand when he was clean, wanting to choke the life and warmth from them. His eyes slid to the clock. It was already almost time to get up. He was always, it seemed, faced with this decision: to pull the covers back over his body and lay there in the half-light, or to wake early, filling those extra minutes before school. The prospect of a few minutes' more warmth resounded in the October air, but the longer he laid there, still and stale, the longer would be his…

Cartman flung himself out of bed. The cold choked in around him, but he ignored it and ran for the bathroom. He spent his first minutes brushing his teeth, and when the mirror started blurring his image he cast aside the curtain and got in.

…misery…

This was delight, washing the stale odor and the mild sense of shame from him. As he massaged the froth into his hair and let it run down his body, he managed to think of Wendy. She was giving a presentation in front of their entire class, something about a contest she had won. At least they would miss first period.

Swiping the last traces of shampoo from his brow, he stepped out of the shower. He went for the dark button-down that would hide some of his bulk, and the nice pants that went with it. Taking extra care with his hair. He would never be a model—nor would he be seen as attractive, especially not in South Park High—but he could be clean, presentable, well put-together. He wasn't a poor piece of shit like Kenny, half-washed and drowning his miasma in Axe. Nor was he one of those greasy losers hunched over in a baseball cap and hoodie.

He was nothing more, and nothing less, than he was.

Checking the clock again, he swore. Time had stopped in the shower, just for a little bit, and now he was running late. "Ma!" he shouted. "Get my goddamn Twinkies ready!"

His emergency breakfast. Jogging down the stairs with his backpack, he scooped up the lunch his mother had already prepared for him. He was running too late for insults so he submitted himself to a quick kiss as she handed over the bag. "Gotta go now!"

"Love you Eric!" She was going to force the issue.

Rolling his eyes, "Love you too, Ma! Now get the hell outta my way, woman!"

The short drive to the high school allowed him to go over The List. Keeping track of where he stood with whom (despite being generally hated, he was also generally useful), tallying up favors and working on goals…this was what made school bearable to him. It wasn't that his grades were all that bad. His teachers were constantly deploring his personality on the one hand and lamenting his 'lack of application' on the other. Would it really matter, if he were smart but still unbearable? Would that make his teachers proud? Cartman had no desire to impress those who were surely out of his reach. He would settle for the begrudging and generally unenvied admission of his status among his fellow students. It wasn't that he was all that different from them—he wasn't. He would just do and say the things that others wouldn't, content instead to hide behind a veneer of civility.

His spot in the parking lot. Others had learned, usually the hard way, to leave that spot alone. He pulled in easily, stopping to stuff some Twinkies in his pockets. People cleared out of the way as he walked towards his locker. A slow smile spread over his face. There was something enjoyable in it, wasn't there?

A bright flash on his right caught his eye. Unwillingly, as if being controlled, he jerkily turned his head. He knew what would be there—knew the exact hue of her jacket. Time slowed down, the students in the hall flowing like running water. When he saw Wendy, something inside him ached, like a tooth that had overindulged in candy and was now paying the price.

"Out of the way, fatass!" someone snapped irritably from behind him. Time, like an archer's bowstring, snapped into place. Stan Marsh, athlete supreme and possessor of things-that-he-should-not-possess, elbowed him in the gut as he passed, reaching out to her. Cartman's head whipped around momentarily; sure enough, the Jew-bastard was in the background like a ghost, observing the scene. His eyes, wholly determined by the fate of his face, witnessed Stan and Wendy's lips colliding, like a bunch of fucking Swiss scientists deprived of any real action. The ache in his heart pierced his lung—gasping, hating her but still eager to utter her name, he whirled away, stomping down the hallway like an enraged golem.

As he walked, he transmuted his rage into hapless thrusts and insults against the other students. But the deep pit in his stomach, like a self-centered universe revolving on its own axis, a volcano churning its own lava, that was still there.

This story is going to be (I think) a two-parter. Anyway, if you like, drop me a line!