Information that may be confusing from the previous chapter: For all intents and purposes, Elizabeth will be Craig's mother's first name. She's going to be a main character, so she needs to be called something apart from Mrs. Tucker, which she won't be for much longer anyway.

Also, there's going to be a lot of focus on different characters apart from Stan and Craig every

chapter. For instance, Mr. Mackey was really important for the first chapter, but won't most likely be seen for the rest of the story.

And lastly, just for kicks, I wanted to mention that the first chapter I wrote for this story was the third one. The next chapter will be almost entirely the party spoken of in the summary. It's a really long chapter as well, but I swear, just because there's one setting for a lot of words, it doesn't mean it'll be boring. A lot happens next chapter.

CHAPTER TWO: "Paper Thin Walls"

Otherwise: "Hey" by The Pixies


Stan wouldn't lie - he'd been through a lot in his life. He also, though, guessed most kids in his grade couldn't say they've met Jesus or Britney Spears. He could bet they hadn't been stuck in Peru and roped into ending the pandemic of guinea pig monsters or had to deal with alcoholism personally, or hoarding. At best, he'd say he's thankful for the good times - seeing Kyle and Cartman find the cure to HIV, being able to save Kyle's life by stealing Cartman's kidney, and making it big thanks to Guitar Hero - but then he'd also have to thankful for all the bad. He could still distinctly remember being trapped in a cave with his friends for days with no food, trying to bring Kyle back from San Francisco by writing a popular song, and housing all those baby cows in his room to keep them from being slaughtered. He didn't exactly regret all the noble things he'd done, but he still sometimes wished he could have had a more normal childhood.

But when he was a kid, he snapped back from having to see Kenny deathly ill in Hell's Pass and getting his heart crushed by Wendy numerous times. Being a kid meant you were hardly ever bogged down by all the shit that happened because you had this energy that never seemed to dwindle. But then, he turned ten, and suddenly he felt tired. He was tired, really. He was exhausted from everything he'd seen and participated in. He didn't want people to think of him as that kid who always got himself and his friends into bad situations. In fact, he's hated getting into those situations since he was at least ten. Stan hated how he was drinking so early and built up a tolerance over the years, but he didn't have any solutions. He didn't know of any way to keep a stable life.

Stan had always let Kyle lean on him - and Kenny too. He even supported Cartman until his antics became more obviously evil, and even then had troubles not defending him. He was loyal, sure, but lately not strong. He'd been leaning so heavily on Kyle and Kenny all through high school that he knew if he didn't play football everyone would assume he was a pussy. They probably did even know, but it was hard to pretend he had all this enthusiasm for life when his parents were constantly fighting and Shelley was spending all her time bossing him around. Still, he had been hopeful until now. He always figured he'd get into an alright college close to one of Kyle's and keep in touch with Kenny. Stan always hated thinking of the future, but then that was even better than dwelling on his present failures. Realizing he hadn't actually been at rock bottom before meant he could only be setting himself up for it now by moving in with Craig and his mother, something he was not at all excited to do.

Randy had informed Stan that he and Elizabeth had found the perfect little house, next to some good people in town. Stan hadn't dared himself the torture of knowing what that could possibly mean, so he hadn't asked. Now, he sat in Kyle's bedroom with him, Kenny hanging out there as well.

Spinning around in Kyle's computer chair, Kenny was complaining about the rising prices of weed. His oversized orange sweater was huge at his wrists and flowed easily over his hands, with elbow patches halfway down his lower arms. It almost touched his knees, but thankfully didn't so as to not disrupt the quite disposition of his ripped jeans and brown leather shoes, which were scuffed up along the bottoms. They were taller than normal shoes and barely resembled cowboy boots, which was still closely enough to earn taunting from Stan, Kyle, and obviously Cartman. "An eighth a chronic should not be that much, I don't care where you're telling me that shit's been imported from."

Kyle rolled his eyes, barely listening, eyes on his AP European History book. The heavy number was balanced on Kyle's lap and always seemed at least partially ready to tip over.

Kenny played with a hole in the arm of his sleeve, biting his lip. "So, I told Tweek, you know, that's just how it works. If you really need this shit and don't have the cash, you gotta get down on your knees." He looked at Kyle with his head tilted and sighed. Kyle was scratching away furiously on a notebook, which was looking to be more balanced on his hand than his lap. "And Tweek is totally into it, so he goes right down like it's no big thing. Which, you could bet, it totally is." His expression is lewd, but it didn't grab Kyle's attention, so Kenny raises his eyebrows at Stan, wanting him to play along.

"That's right, Ken. And when I came back into the hardware store's supply closet to look for you, there were like three other girls in there watching and-"

"Hey, guys, can you quiet it down a little?" Kyle asked, eyes on his book, pencil in his mouth. "I'm trying to finish a DBQ."

"What the fuck is a DBQ?" Kenny asked. He was trying to sit cross-legged in the computer chair, but failing miserably. His legs were long - way longer than most kids' - every since his growth spurt in eighth grade. When he finally got his feet up on the chair, he had no choice but to rest his chin on his knees, or risk ruining all that effort. Kenny looked to be cramping, at least that's what Stan guessed when he started visibly wincing and swearing. "Shit, that's my back."

Stan clapped Kyle's knee from his spot on the bed, ahead of Kyle. Lounging against the headboard with his lap still trying to balance the huge book, Kyle finally glanced up. "I've gotta get going to football practice," Stan said, standing up. "I'll tell Cartman you say hi."

"Tell him I think he's a fat fucking bastard." Kyle had already gone back to working, squinting at the page until he started nodding and licking his lips. Jotting something down, he ignored Stan's leaving. Until Kenny decided he needed more attention.

Stan had just made it past the bed and was heading toward the door as Kenny had stood up and ran headlong into Stan. Feeling the air getting knocked out of him, he groaned and couldn't help but fall backwards to the floor. Kyle's carpeting had spared his head a concussion, but Kenny wasn't helping. He was balancing above Stan on his elbows, laughing. "Mr. Marsh, you slay me. But don't you think we should wait until marriage?"

"Ugh, don't call me Mr. Marsh, for Christ's sake." Stan rubbed the back of his aching neck and tried to escape Kenny to no avail. "Kyle, help!"

Kyle finally peered over to them, but made no move to stand up and help. Scrunching his mouth in disapproval, he snorted. "Just don't be too loud if you're planning on de-flowering him, Ken. I have work to do."

Kenny seemed to find this hilarious, but Stan couldn't disagree more since he seemed to have no say whether he was getting up or not anytime soon. "Get off, Kenny."

"Well, Jesus, Stan. That's what I was trying to do."

"Ugh." Stan finally got lean way over Kenny by elbowing him in the groin. Using his knees to get back up, he groaned. "Okay, I'll see you assholes on Monday."

"Always a pleasure," Kyle remarked from his bed, paying no attention to Kenny' s savage show of licking his lips in Stan's direction.

While Stan was halfway down the hall, he could hear Kenny make a running leap on Kyle's bed as the springs squeaked. Then, Kyle was laughing loudly.

Stan shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wondered where all the normal people in the world lived.


South Park High's football team was usually a disappointing group. Although they trained all of the Saturdays almost every weekend, including this one, they seemed to improve very little. Except for Cartman, of course, who was their Coach's favorite. With a chest that was double the size of every other guy's on the team, thanks to his exercise and nasty protein shakes, he looked and played every bit of his role as high school football jock. He wasn't all that much taller than Stan himself, maybe two inches max, but he looked it when he stood beside him. Stan usually avoided standing too close to Cartman during practice because of all the sweat. Doing lunges beside Cartman was kind of like standing directly under a rain cloud and expecting not to get drenched. And Cartman sweat like a farm animal, no matter how much deodorant he wore.

That day they would be doing their regular routine - warm-up exercises like lunges and push-ups. Then, they'd do some run-throughs of game plays. Because the school itself was larger than need be for such a small town, Stan could always still see the basketball court from the football field's far left-hand. One of his Coach's frequent commands to the team was to stop watching the basketball guys play and spend more time on their own abilities if they were supposed to be playing whoever that next Friday.

Currently, Stan could see Token from the football field, dribbling the ball while several guys Stan had seen but didn't know stood around him talking. The guy was odd - but not because he was still the only black kid in their grade. He'd gotten kind of ripped somewhere between sophomore and junior year and seemed to have gotten his style from that Dragon Tattoo chick with the bleached eyebrows and facial piercings. The back of his head held a permanent design of an inverted cross and he had a couple tattoos that were mainly on his upper arms and shoulders. Plus, that summer he'd gotten his eyebrow pierced. And his nose as well. In Stan's opinion, it suited the guy, but he could only imagine how it must piss off his basketball coach. Generally speaking, piercings were looked down up for athletes since they could easily be tugged on or yanked out, whether accidentally or otherwise. According to Cartman, nose piercings of any kind were the absolute most fun ones to pull on because they hurt the most - but Cartman was a fucking liar and Stan doubted how he'd even know what area of the face would be the most painful to have pierced. If Cartman ever did try to yank on Token's nose, he'd have another thing coming. As if on cue, Token breached the non-contact rules on the court while Stan watched, roughly throwing himself into some sophomore who probably thought he was hot shit for trying to steal the ball. Token wasn't the tallest kid around, but he did have muscle.

"Shit, did you see that black asshole ram into that little pussy?" Cartman laughed from beside Stan, standing a little too close in Stan's opinion. You could never be too far from Cartman during practice.

"Yeah," Stan nodded. He side-stepped so he could move himself a few feet over. "There's one place I wouldn't rather be right now." Wincing as he watched Cartman wipe at his dripping forehead with the back of his hand, Stan glanced back quickly to Token, who was now fist-bumping Clyde, who was also on the team.

Cartman snorted haughtily. "You'd rather be here alone than over there getting rammed by Token? Stop lying to yourself, Stan." Always with the condescending tone and self-righteous attitude like he knew everything about you just from a glance.

"By the way, Kyle told me to tell you he thinks you're a fucking fatass. Oh, no. I'm sorry, that was what I said. He said you're a fat fucking bastard."

"No wonder you're salivating over Token. Kyle can't be particularly satisfying in bed, can he?"

"Shut the fuck up, Cartman."

"Marsh, watch your fucking mouth!" Coach Barnley shouted, spit flying out of his mouth as he did so, directing the megaphone toward Stan's side of the field. "Twenty extra push-ups!"

Stan glared heavily at Cartman, but he was too busy flexing for the underclassmen's embarrassment to notice.

Two hours later, after Stan's body had been exhausted from all energy sources, the coach announced the end of the day. Thankfully, they weren't staying to do more run-throughs, which tended to only happen the Sundays before games. The main theory, popularized by Brydon Guermo's freshman brother, was that in order to ruin them for Monday morning and all of it's classes, they would need to first be bombarded with too many exercises and activities the night before. Stan couldn't argue because it seemed logical to even him when mentioned on Sunday nights when they were all practically puking up their dinners with shining faces and stinking armpits. However, today Stan only minimally stunk in comparison to the loathed Sunday stench he had gotten used to over his three year stint playing football. If it was one thing that got easier after practice, it was standing Cartman's presence. When Stan was stinking, he could barely smell Cartman, having to first work past his own sweat.

In the locker room, he was just finishing up changing out of his sweat-stained clothes when he remembered that he had forgotten to call Randy to ask if he could pick Stan up. Back when his family was still doing fairly alright, he could borrow his mother's car to drive to football practice while his dad worked, but now there was no extra car to borrow. Flipping open his cell phone, Stan quickly dialed his father, hoping he wouldn't have to sit around in the school parking lot for any length of time.

"Stan-"

"Hey, Dad. Listen, are you around? I need a ride home-" It was still hard getting used to calling their new place home. It's not that the house was too small or anything - well, there were rooming issues. But, the main thing was that the constant shuffle now was beginning to make Stan feel like he wasn't ever going to have a permanent place to live. From his childhood home to Mr. Mackey's to this place - which brought on it's own interesting challenges - everything surrounding Stan felt at least a little subject to change. He was still waiting for his dad to walk up to him one night and tell him that he was breaking off the engagement so he and Stan could move Mexico and smuggle drugs into the US through small children's stomachs. Anything crazy would be welcome at this point, since crazy had always been perfectly normal for Stan.

Instead, Stan had a small bedroom beside Craig Tucker's, with walls so thin he could hear Craig's music through his headphones at night. And Craig apparently never slept without music playing. But Stan wasn't really suffering there, the place was nice aside from the small rooms and limited amount of furniture. Since Randy and Elizabeth had both been kicked out of their respective houses, there were only the barest amount of seating thus far. There was no kitchen table or kitchen chairs, just the appliances that came with the house. Then, the living room had only one normal sized couch and a loveseat, which were placed very closely to the TV so as to be sure it's small frame could be seen from the seat you choose. Not that you had such a large variety of choices. Considering how often Randy and Elizabeth watched TV, Stan and Craig barely ever got there. This was due in part to the previous reason, but also the fact that joining their parents meant squishing together on the unoccupied loveseat only to suffer through the discomfort of watching Dance Moms. Stan strongly suspected that without each other's hounding exes, they needed a little screaming of some sort, even if that was done by a middle-aged and overweight bitch of a choreographer with a pension for making small children cry. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to make perfect sense.

It went without saying that life with the 'newlyweds' was more than awkward. Randy was torn between being heartbroken over his pending divorce and being thrilled to be sharing a place with Craig's mom. Stan had luckily not seen them thus far engage in any physical intimacy, but it had only been two weeks since they'd moved in. So far, though he was unsure of whether this was better or worse than the alternative, he'd seen more of Craig's intimate parts than either of their parents' and vice versa. He'd already been exposed to Craig's ass about three times and Craig had already seen Stan's dick once (all by accident, of course, but still). Stan could now conclude, after living with Craig for two weeks, that Craig was a fucking weirdo. He spent a majority of time at home naked (which explained the accidental viewing of Craig's ass), usually in his bedroom smoking pot. The smell wafted occasionally into Stan's room and made Stan a little anxious. It'd been about a month since he'd smoked with Kenny, and what with all the drama in his life as of late, he was on edge. Craig was also a bit of a neat freak for someone with such stoner qualities. Compared to Stan's room, which wasn't nearly as bad as it'd been when he was hoarding in middle school, Craig lived in an Ikea showroom. The posters on his walls - all of various movies and bands that eluded Stan for the most part - were framed and placed perfectly straight on their hinges. His bedside table had no cigarette burns in it like Stan's, but there was some candle wax stuck there that Stan assumed Craig hadn't been able to clean off. Neither of their rooms had carpet - wood being the assumed proto call for home buying in the twenty-first century, apparently. While Stan had already littered his floor with the standard mixture of clean and dirty clothes, Craig's floor was spotless. Stan had seen Craig Swiffer his floor last Saturday afternoon with a joint hanging out of his mouth when their parents had been out for lunch - wearing only white underwear like he was the teenage Tom Cruise with the house to himself for the first time in his life. In more ways than one, Craig mystified Stan.

"Stan, I'm with Elizabeth shopping for a kitchen table. We took her SUV, so Craig's coming to pick you up." The blase tone of Randy's voice astounded Stan. It wasn't as if Randy couldn't tell things were awkward between him and Craig. What did he expect? This had all been sprung on them so suddenly and they had, as far as they knew, very little in common. Nobody was helping the situation either, letting the boys fend for themselves when it came to dinner so they all ended up eating in separate rooms. Stan hadn't actually had a full conversation with Craig as of yet and he'd been hoping not to push that, at least not today.

"Wait, Dad, just let me ask Cartman if he can-" Just as Stan had craned his neck over his shoulder to look for Cartman, the prick had started drawing a finger across his neck artfully, the universal sign for no fucking way. Just out of the shower, Cartman looked less frightening than usual, so Stan scowled openly at him. Covering the end of his phone with his right hand, he swore loudly.

"Why the fuck not?"

"Don't fucking snarl at me, asshole. I have legitimate plans."

Some of the guys were raising eyebrows and obviously staring, but Stan couldn't give a shit. "Like what?"

"Going bowling with Token and Clyde."

"You've got to be shitting me."

Cartman shrugged. "Have you ever seen that asshole's indoor bowling alley?"

Stan grimaced, bringing the phone back up to his ear. "Nevermind, he's busy."

"Craig should be around soon, Stan. See you at home around seven?"

"Yeah, sure." Stan inwardly groaned.

"Tucker coming to pick up your sorry ass?" Cartman calculated scathingly. Shaking his head, he threw open his locker and reached for his football jacket.

Snapping his phone shut and shoving it into the pocket of his knee-length cotton gray shorts, Stan didn't bother to dignify Cartman's ridiculous attitude with a response.

"You need to get a car, my friend. Even a shitty little Prius or something. No need to hold out for a hybrid, man."

Stan just shook his head angrily. "I'm not gonna ask my dad to buy me a car right after he just bought a house with Craig's mom." When he'd finished changing, throwing a red zip-up sweater over his white tee shirt, he figured he should go out to the parking lot to wait. He probably shouldn't really presume Craig would text him upon arrival when he'd been forced to pick Stan up.

The basketball team was just getting out when Stan got to the parking lot, but they practiced for the same length of time. Usually football started half an hour before basketball did. Token and Clyde were leaning against the school wall in the back, dressed in heavy sweatpants and light tee shirts. When Craig pulled up in his beat-up black Jeep Wrangler, the two of them stopped laughing and glanced over, smiling slightly. At least they seemed to be enjoying the show. Stan, however, wasn't.

The driver's side of the car was facing all three of them, Craig slowly pulling to a stop and proceeding to roll down the window. As soon as the window began moving, even when it'd only moved down an inch, the blaring music was easily heard. Several guys from the basketball team were watching with skepticism, probably wondering who Craig thought he was to just show up at practice like he belonged there. The song playing was heavy and electric, something with a girl singer who had a sort of rasp to her voice. Once the window had been successfully rolled all the way down, Craig's face finally showed. He was wearing black sunglasses, the kind that looked like he might have robbed Andy Warhol's closet to find. There was a spec of something bright red on the tip of his nose and on closer judgment Stan could see some red in his hair as well. His head bobbed slightly to the music before he licked his lip and waved Stan over. Cartman was now outside, standing behind Stan with a chuckle. He gently pushed Stan forward with one rough hand.

"Better hurry, Stan. Your boy toy's waiting."

Stan ignored Cartman as he walked over with his head lowered to the opposite side of Craig's Jeep. Feeling like a little kid again, climbing into his mom's car while the other kids stood waiting for their rides, Stan blushed. Luckily, Craig was too immersed in flipping off a chuckling group of guys - including Token and Clyde - to notice. Craig rolled the window up easily, not bothering to say anything at first.

He drove without barely moving, one hand on the bottom of the wheel and the other laying on his lap. He was wearing a pair of maroon sweatpants low on his waist and some kind of heavy cream-colored sweater that was obviously too big for him. Stan easily picked out the red spots in Craig's hair, even one on his jaw line he hadn't seen before.

"You've got red spots in your hair." Stan kept his eyes carefully on the road, voice rising to be heard over the speakers Craig had. The Jeep must have been from the late 90s, but Stan would bet anything he'd saved up for months to get fantastic speakers. His iPod was connected to the car and the screen flashed across a song by Sleigh Bells.

"I'm painting my bedroom," Craig supplied in a monotone. "I'm too clumsy to not get paint all over myself." He moved his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, as they'd been slipping. Stan wondered why Craig was spending his Friday night holed up in his room painting until he'd realized he'd be doing something even less interesting when they got back.

"Need any help?" Stan wondered almost immediately why he'd even asked.

Craig briefly took his eyes off the road to look at Stan, obviously surprised. "Sure, Marsh."

Stan just nods and makes sure to file away a request for Randy to pick him up for the next week.

Inside their new house, Craig throws his set of keys onto the kitchen counter, which is the first room when entered. He's pouring himself a cup of coffee while Stan unzips his red sweater so he's left more comfortable in his white tee shirt. With Craig's back turned, he can make out a couple of small splotches of red paint on the backs of Craig's maroon sweatpants. He wonders if Craig wore them on purpose in case of any accidents.

"You sure you don't have any big Friday night plans with the meat heads and cheerleaders?" Craig asked from the coffee maker, tapping his foot impatiently on the tile floor while he waits for his coffee.

"Nah," Stan answered truthfully, then felt like he was being too sincere. "Am I going to need a smock? The back of your pants have paint on them too."

"Yeah. Don't forget your oven mitts, Marsh."

"Seriously, though, how did you get paint in your hair, on your face, and on the back of your legs? Do you use a hairdryer to paint or something?"

"Yeah, I borrowed your's. Hope you don't mind." Craig finally turned around, smirking. He gingerly sipped from his coffee mug and shook his head.

Stan laughed, then followed Craig upstairs.


In Craig's bedroom, it was getting dark, so they turned on his lights and the hallway lights as well. Craig had his bed shoved up against the wall with the closet, the wall so taken up by closet space that it might not need to be painted. He's already covered the left wall, but it'll need two layers anyway. There were newspaper pages splayed all over the fucking floor and Craig had to toe off his shoes at the doorway so that he could tip toe across the floor without moving the pages around. On his way to the wall straight ahead of the doorway, he started lifting his sweater over his head and then flung it across his room so it landed on his pillow.

"I advise you don't wear anything you care too much about," Craig suggested, wearing no shirt and bending over to reach a brush from the tray at his feet. His sweatpants slipped a little at his waist and Craig looked a little tan for September. Stan followed Craig's lead by kicking off his shoes before entering the room and grabbing a brush. He headed to the right wall instead of the middle one, not wanting to make himself or Craig uncomfortable.

Halfway through the job, Craig started playing The Strokes from his iPod dock and before they'd noticed, they were finishing the last wall together. Stan offered, while wiping across his brow, to help Craig finish the second coat the next day if he needed more help. Craig merely nodded, accidentally smearing red paint on his arm as he moved to lean against the doorway. Stan laughed and watched Craig's mouth curve up slightly enough to seem amused. They talked a little about movies while admiring their paint job from the doorway, and Stan learns that Craig's seen basically every movie ever, including the Star Wars series an extensive number of times.

"You're one of those huge Star Wars fans who goes online and blogs about the characters, aren't you?" Stan asked.

Craig laughed lightly with his back turned, flipping Stan off.

After, they sat cross-legged on the newspapered floor and made sure the wood hasn't been splattered. There'd been one spot that needed to be cleaned up before it stained, which Stan could tell Craig was going crazy over. Stan laid down on top of the paint, not caring if his tee shirt got ruined. Craig tried not to laugh, biting his lip while Stan yawned and stretched for show, but it didn't work.

Stan crawled into bed late, not hearing any music from Craig's bedroom as he did so. He fell asleep almost instantly, although he had to trip over several pairs of jeans in the dark to reach his bed.


The next morning Stan had woken up late, his feet hanging off the edge of his bed and his pillow somewhere on the floor. He moved around a lot when he slept, but hadn't actually fallen out of his bed in years, thankfully. Still, it made sleepovers awkward when people would wake him up from his heavy slumber, him taking up too much room and edging over into other people's space. Having stepped out into the hallway to crane his neck into Craig's bedroom, he saw that his stoner half brother was nowhere to be found. It was a bit odd for Craig to have plans early on a Saturday, but then again, Stan could only say that after living with the guy for two weeks. He probably didn't know all there was to know about Craig.

Kenny texted Stan just before he had been about to pour himself a bowl of cereal and asked if Stan was up to smoke. Although that automatically gave Stan the knowledge that Butters and Tweek must be busy, he didn't actually care. Being taunted by Craig's near constant smoking lately was starting to seriously piss Stan off. He wondered briefly if Craig normally got high that often and was actually giving Tweek a run for his money that nobody knew about, or if he smoked up more when he was stressed and therefore, because of the move, had a more urgent need to relax. Stan could definitely relate to the latter.

Kenny showed up twenty minutes later, toting a bag of fast food french fries and burgers with his messenger bag slung across his shoulder, where the weed would presumably be. Sometimes Kenny did actually treat Kyle and Stan to lunch after getting paid from either of his jobs - being a drug dealer or being a hardware store guy - but most of the time his money went straight to his family's bills. On the occasion that Kenny paid for food, Stan would feel a little guilty, but didn't honestly have any say in the matter. Kenny was a stubborn guy, especially when it came to money, and didn't like to be anyone's charity case.

They ate first, sitting down at the new kitchen table Randy and Elizabeth had bought the day before, celebrating their choice of breakfast. Stan could tell Kenny was in a good mood by his bright eyes and hyped up movements. He had come to understand through the years that there were mainly two different Kenny moods - distant and frustrated or hyper and cheerful.

"You certainly seem happy," Stan commented with a grin, wiping off ketchup from his mouth. Kenny merely nodded at first, mouth too full to speak. Then, "Yeah, Kyle and I went to the movies last night with Ike and Filmore."

"Oh, cool." Stan took a huge bite of his burger and then asked, "What'd you see?"

"Project X," Kenny confirmed. "Speaking of teenage rebellion, Bebe's party is tomorrow."

"I didn't even know there was going to be a party," Stan thought out loud, chewing on a mouth full of cheese. "Didn't she just have one like three weeks ago?"

"Three weeks is a fuck of a long time between house parties, Stan." Kenny finally looked up from his fries to drink from his milkshake. "And you didn't know about the party because after I leave here I'm off to Bebe's to convince her to throw it."

Stan laughed. "That's nice of you. Was I just a drive-by, then?"

"What, because you're right next door to her now?" Kenny asked, eyebrows raised. "Nah, I wanted to smoke with you anyway."

Out of all of Stan's new neighbors, he had to say, he didn't mind being so close to Bebe. Facing his house's backyard was Mr. Garrison and Mr. Slave's place and to his house's left was Butters' house. With Bebe to his direct right, he at least didn't have to walk very far to make it to her parties on time now. Not that house parties had a set starting and ending time, but nevertheless, it made life slightly more convenient.

"Although," Kenny continued, "It's been a while since I've gotten off and now that you two live so close-"

"I'm eating, Ken." Stan dropped his forehead down to his palm, reluctant to hear the details of Kenny's sex life.

"I was just going to say that with you two being neighbors, I can now fuck directly after I smoke up, which should be nice. Unless that's something you can save me the trip for," Kenny added with lewd grin from around his straw.

Stan coughed behind his burger and shook his head. "It's a good offer, but I'll pass."

"Oh, well." Kenny wrapped up his food wrappers and got up to drop them into the trash across the room. "I've got other offers lined up anyway."

"Do you wanna smoke upstairs? My room's a little messy, but-"

Kenny snorted. "It's been, what, a couple weeks? You need to work on your housewife talents."

"Don't need to with Craig around," Stan supplied. "His room's clean enough for the entire house."

Kenny lifted an eyebrow. "And do we get to see this scary place?"

"Sure, you can check out the new paint." Stan stood up to throw away his stuff as well, pushing past Kenny, who stood in the doorway scratching his neck idly.

"When did he have time to paint his room with all the moving in?"

"I helped him last night," Stan said.

Kenny scrunched his eyebrows. "Really?" He asked in confusion. "Why?"

Stan shrugged. "He was too clumsy to do it alone - after he picked me up at football practice yesterday he had a shit ton of paint in his hair." Not stopping to check Kenny's reaction as he started to walk to the stairs, Stan didn't wait for Kenny to follow.

"Maybe he did it all on purpose to con you into helping his sorry ass."

"What would the point of that be?" Stan asked.

"He wants in your pants. Just like I do." Kenny slapped Stan's ass on their way up the stairs, Stan automatically knowing not to bother giving a reaction, since that was almost sure to give Kenny the idea of throwing Stan down onto the ground.

"Maybe you should go to Bebe's first if you're so horny." Stan led Kenny into Craig's room slowly, peering through at first as if wondering if he'd be caught. Not that he'd been banned by Craig from entering, but he couldn't imagine Craig not minding when he wasn't even home to give an answer.

"I'm just kidding, buddy. I've only got eyes for Kyle," Kenny commented, throwing an arm casually around Stan's shoulders as they stood in Craig's room, observing the place. Since the paint was new and the top coat hadn't been done yet, the posters were laying flat on the floor beside Craig's bed, but those were the only out of place objects. The rest of the place was spotless and even the bed was made perfectly.

"Weird," Kenny noticed as he walked over to the bedside table.

"What?" Stan walked closer, tipping his head sideways to try and see whatever Kenny thought he'd stumbled upon. On closer inspection, there was something interesting there. There was a plastic bag sticking out a little from the draw, only barely visible considering it's transparency. Kenny opened the draw without asking if Stan thought it'd be too much, but after going through Craig's things, Stan was glad he hadn't been asked. Missing that kind of information would have been a downer.

With the entire draw out of the bedside table and in Kenny's hands, Stan peered inside doubtfully. He didn't know what he'd expected to be in the bag - maybe loose colored pencils since Craig liked to draw or something similarly inconspicuous enough to be put in that obvious of a place. Instead, the bag held weed and only weed. Next to the bag was a small pipe, maybe six inches long, and there were other interesting things as well. Kenny pulled out a small bottle of lube with a comical expression, eyes wide and teeth showing as his mouth dropped in glee.

"He's fucking dudes." Kenny quickly dropped the bottle back into the draw, as if he'd be stung with other guys' germs by touching it.

"He's not gay," Stan said in disbelief. "He's got a poster of Uma Thurman on his wall." He was referring to the Pulp Fiction movie poster. Actually, it was on the floor at the moment.

Kenny paced over to the floor where the framed posters were stacked, eyeing them warily. His fingers lightly tapped on one, him chuckling at it's contents. "And one of Brad Pitt, dude. And Jake Gyllenhaal." Giddy with his supposed discovery, Kenny laid the posters back on the ground and shrugged his shoulders. "Man, that explains so much."

Stan grimaced, one Fight Club poster and one Donnie Darko one were hardly a representation of a sexual orientation. "He has those because he likes weird movies."

"Don't try to protect him because he's your brother." Kenny was still grinning, now taking out his own personal baggy of weed to begin rolling a joint.

Stan sighed. "Half brother."

"If you combine the half brother and step brother titles together, you basically have one whole brother," Kenny said intellectually, as if he had studied the topic.

Stan didn't bother to correct him. Sticking the draw back in the table himself, he glared at Kenny expectantly. "Don't smoke in here, go in my bedroom."

"Fine, not that it matters. This whole room reeks like pot, dude."

Stan wasn't going to argue that either. He had a point.


After an hour and a half of he and Kenny smoking in Stan's bedroom, lounging on his bed and chuckling while they watched Workaholics on Stan's laptop, Kenny was ready to go. His eyes were a little red, but nothing too conspicuous, and he licked his lips as he jumped off the bed in one heavy motion. Feet stomping down onto the wooden floor, he nodded silently at Stan in a decisive sort of way. Stan watched in confusion, eyes feeling heavy as he tried to work out in his head if he'd asked Kenny a question and that was why he was nodding, or if Kenny just liked to confuse Stan when he was high.

"Alright," Kenny said. "I'm off to Bebe's. Tell Craig if he's interested in paying for his supply from now on in blow jobs, he's welcome to." Grinning in his regular lazy manner, if a bit more loose around the edges now, he turned and walked out the door without waiting for Stan to think of a response.

Left alone to ponder the meaning of life as he normally did when stoned, Stan quickly became distracted and realized very suddenly that he was starving. He sprinted downstairs with a newfound excitement. Cookies. Stan should make cookies.

He first took out the carton of eggs and then the milk - rummaging around in the cabinets for the right kind of mix. They had only sugar cookie mix, but that was fine by Stan, so long as the cookie dough itself would taste good. Cookie dough was the best shit ever. It was easily ten times better than any finished cookie would ever be.

As he mixed the bowl with hazy vision, he sung a song by The Strokes under his breath that he didn't remember the title of - only knew that it was one of the one's that Craig had played the night before. Regardless of his high, he made sure to use the stove accordingly, not wanting to waste any time between cooking and eating. However, he saved some of the cookie dough in the bowl and decided that while he waited for the cookies to be done - the smell already filling up the room deliciously - he wanted to eat the cookie dough now.

Pulling a spoon from the drawer in front of him, he stuck it into the bowl and probably enjoyed the taste too much, because he thought he'd heard someone groan, but maybe that'd just been his imagination.

However, he'd been right. Whipping around with the spoon hanging unattractively out of his mouth, Stan came to notice Craig's presence in the kitchen. He hadn't even heard the front door open.

"That smells fucking awesome," Craig declared, and Stan realized at once something important. He realized that Craig had a sort of nice yellow glow about him, with messy black hair in tufts that looked like the perfect hair for grabbing onto, and he was definitely attracted to Craig. Craig's under eye circles looked a little more obvious than usual, whether because he hadn't slept much, or because Stan was paying too much attention to Craig's face.

With a normal-paced stroll up to Stan, Craig squinted in Stan's face. "Are you on something?"

Stan's lips quivered upward and he laughed in a weirdly high-pitched way that he wasn't used to hearing himself make. His hand quickly covered his mouth, trying to keep his expression neutral. "No, why do you ask?"

Craig grimaced, and it made him look older and sadder. Stan's face dropped almost immediately and suddenly he didn't want to laugh. His high took on a sort of strange melancholy edge and he felt nostalgic for something he couldn't really place. He used his hands to lift himself up onto the counter top, hoping the height might make him feel more useful, instead of looking at Craig and knowing he wasn't going to be any sort of help to the twisted expression his mouth wore. Stan dropped the spoon in the bowl he'd been using, downfallen.

Craig was pushing buttons on the coffee maker, keeping his eyes on the machine and not on Stan, which Stan was immensely grateful for. The room sort of slipped into a position where the floor and everything else tilted to the right. Stan set his eyes on something immobile to keep himself steady so he wouldn't tip off of the counter: Craig.

Then, Craig moved what seemed very suddenly, and Stan felt sick. He didn't feel as if he was going to puke, it was more like something in his stomach dropped elevator-style and now he awaited the second drop to let him know that his feet were on the solid ground.

Craig moved forward as if he were floating, stopping short in front of Stan's knees with a heavy sigh. "I need the coffee beans," he declared, but his voice was fuzzy and Stan couldn't understand the meaning behind his words.

He leaned forward to hear more clearly and Craig repeated himself until his eyes were harsh and Stan felt guilty that he was in the way. Until he realized that he shouldn't be. Craig didn't need to be so stern and heavy-hearted. In frustration from Stan refusing to move, Craig's fist hit the cabinet above Stan's shoulder and Stan's focus slipped a little. He began to fall forward, had to grab a fist full of Craig's stupid navy sweater to steady himself.

"What are you doing?" Craig asked, obviously unaware of Stan's current predicament.

"Nothing," Stan murmured, finally releasing Craig's sweater.

"Well, let me get to the coffee beans, then, Marsh." Craig's hand was still on the cabinet, but Stan's head needed the same cabinet to lean on or else he'd fall over. Couldn't Craig see that?

"Sorry," Stan muttered. His knees knocked themselves into Craig's thighs. With Craig normally being taller than Stan and Stan now on the counter, they were at eye-level. With Craig's height making it easy for Stan to keep their eyes locked, he knew he should feel a little claustrophobic. Craig licked his lips, expression still hard.

He didn't.

He took the spoon from the bowl and put it back into his mouth, refusing to look away from Craig, who looked to be nearly angry enough to murder Stan. Stan only grinned a little as things became less cloudy and tilted, able to finally lift his head off the cabinet a little of his own free will.

"Move, Marsh." Craig's arm was aligned with Stan's cheek and Stan felt loose-limbed enough to want to nuzzle it.

"Marsh."

Stan giggled again, eyes twinkling. Craig leaned forward with a predator's aggression, head tipping down so his chin seemed sharper. But the tufts in his hair kept his appearance looking innocent, like he was only pretending to be angry.

"Move."

Stan licked around the spoon, knees opening so that they surrounded Craig's hips and kept him closed in. Craig didn't look down, but he started to look uncomfortable. Stan didn't dare move again, even if he felt torn between slapping the cookie dough onto Craig's face and wrapping his legs around Craig's skinny waist.

He choose to do neither, and Craig gradually became less dangerous looking, to Stan's relief. Stan lifted slowly away from the cabinet so that Craig's hand could finally slip behind Stan's neck to open it. Fishing for the coffee beans behind Stan's neck kept Craig distracted enough for him not to notice Stan playing with the bottom of Craig's sweater.

Finally setting the beans down onto the counter top, Craig just got back to staring at Stan in disbelief. Stan's thumbs edge into the pockets of Craig's tight jeans and he feels Craig's slight unease heavy in the air.

The bell rings to tell Stan that his cookies are done, but Stan doesn't move, so neither does Craig, still trapped between the two points of Stan's knees.

Then, Elizabeth returns home from the grocery store, kicking the front door open with an audible bang, and Stan lets his legs slip open further so that Craig can escape. By the time she's in the room, Craig is back at the coffee maker and Stan is taking the cookies out of the oven. Elizabeth smiles, totally oblivious, and Stan is almost guilty.


That night, Randy came home from his Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at nine, and sat with Elizabeth on the couch. Stan sat next to Craig on the small loveseat and it was cramped, but not too bad considering what happened earlier that same day. Craig seemed stiff next to Stan, but eventually his back curved into the cushions and his head dropped to the side while he watched a sci-fi movie that Randy had on. Stan spent more time looking at Craig than at the screen, but because Craig was already half asleep, he didn't notice.

His frame was tall, but thin enough to make him look smaller. There was a heavy blanket thrown over the back of the loveseat that Stan wanted to drape across Craig, but he thought it'd wake him up and weird him out enough for him to get up and go upstairs. After ten minutes of debating whether or not it'd be a stupid idea, he heard Craig almost snuffling in his sleep, and he did throw the blanket gently over Craig. It draped easily across most of Craig's legs and all of his chest, giving Craig the appearance of someone a lot younger. It didn't spread much onto Stan, though Stan isn't cold enough to need it.

Randy looked over, and Stan thought he was going to ask, but he didn't. He was curled up close next to Elizabeth, who looked to be half asleep as well. The parallels were enough to make Stan grimace, but Randy looked too at ease to be angry. He nodded like he was proud that Stan was finally getting along with Craig.

Stan was actually a bit guilty.

When he woke up, Craig wasn't next to him, and it was pitch black in the living room. His shoulders were cold, so he pulled up the blanket that'd been put around his chest and lap up a little. It wasn't until morning when he woke up for the second time that he wondered who had put the blanket on top of him.


The next morning at the breakfast table, Randy and Elizabeth announced that they were going on a weekend retreat. They'd be heading out that Monday afternoon for a bed and breakfast, leaving Stan and Craig alone until the next evening.

Over their plates of bacon and bowls of cereal, Stan and Craig's eyes meet. Stan supposed by now, assuming that Kenny had conned Bebe into throwing her house party that night, that Craig knew about the event. It was highly unlikely he wouldn't be going, since everyone did, making for one easy night. This way, they wouldn't even have to worry about stumbling home in the morning squinting at lights and complaining of headaches.

Stan flashed a smile at Craig with his mouth full of half-chewed Fruit Loops, but Craig merely shot Stan an unamused look.

If Stan didn't know better, he'd say that it'd been awhile since Craig must have smoked, but that couldn't have been true. Then, he thought of Kenny's ranting about his sexual libido and how he needed to get laid frequently to be happy and it all made sense. A flash of Craig's lube flitted through Stan's mind and he choked heavily on his bacon. Randy clapped him on his back and Craig stared, clearly not impressed.

Today would probably be a very long day.