It had been an unusual week in South Park. Storm clouds had been perched at the edge of the horizon since last Thursday and the winds blowing in from the Colorado mountains had kept Stan Marsh turning in his sleep for nights. At this moment, the teen sat against the wall that was adjacent to his bed. Forgotten history homework lat helplessly on his pillow while the boy carried on with a particularly… interesting conversion with his classmate Heidi over his cell phone.
"Heidi. Just tell me. Come on," he teased gently.
"Stan! I'm not gonna tell you that! Don't you and Bebe have a thing going on right now anyways?" she questioned.
Kinda. "No! Not at all. What gave you that idea?" Stan asked. Its not like he was obligated to Bebe or anything. So they had "gotten friendly" after one too many drinks at homecoming. Everyone knew that the two never committed to anyone. Bebe was indecisive and Stan got bored with girls all too quickly.
"I heard about you two at Craig's after homecoming. Really Stan, who hasn't?"
Stan smiled widely. He could hear bitterness in Heidi's voice. That always meant jealously. It wasn't as if he was a bad person. In fact, he felt horrible when breaking some girl's heart. It was just that he was, you know, flirty by nature. Plus he always made it clear that anything that happened to occur was never serious.
"That was a mistake. You how I get when I'm wasted." he said, sincerely. Heidi, in truth, did like Stan.
Everybody liked Stan. What could she say? The kid was persuasive. Stan Marsh? The name was mentioned and murmurs of approval would circle around the room. He was the homecoming prince. One of the star quarter backs. The golden boy.
Their discussion was cut short by his mother's knocking on the door which always signaled dinner. He hung up and pushed himself from the mattress. Stretching backwards he caught his reflection in the mirror. His handsome features were slightly marred by the bags under his eyes. Fucking wind.
He ate dinner quickly and without interest, even as his mother prodded him with the standard questions like "How was your day?" or "How are your classes?" or his personal favorite "Have you met any nice girls yet?" Cleary, Randy and Sharon were not aware of Stan's late night escapades nor of his playboy reputation at school.
He usually responded with monosyllabic answers- preferably noncommittal grunts, but the occasional yes or no when necessary.
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Stan was awakened later that night the howl of wind at his window. Sitting up to touch the glass, he could feel the cool, smooth surface vibrate under his fingertips. His hands left foggy prints that slowly shrunk and faded. Looking around the room, the sharp angles of shadows filled the corners and encroached on he edges of the floor, driven back by the moonlight.
He cracked open the latch on his window and leaned outside. Icy bursts of air pierced and stung his face like pine needles. Closing his eyes, he took in long, steady breaths of night wind and exhaled white lace. Abruptly, he open his eyes and retreated from the window as if startled by some inner sentiment.
He lay down, face up, and brought the sheets to his chin, mulling over some vague sense of approaching change. It terrified and thrilled him, causing tiny sparks of ice to crystallize in his bloodstream, right under his skin. His ceiling seemed to lower, then rock, sending Stan head first into uneasy dreams.
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It was Friday afternoon and Stan sat in Tweek's room with Craig and Kenny. Football season was over for Stan, who was now just beginning to settle back into his schedule of game-free Friday nights. It was incredibly dull, he noted.
Kenny was leaning, one arm out the window of the room, while smoking a cigarette and Craig was sitting patiently, trying to explain to Tweek the summary, character analysis, plotline, and crucial themes and motifs of some English novel that the two were assigned to write an essay about. The two had a unique and finely tuned system of study that they had developed over the years: Craig did all the reading, note taking, general outlining, and research while Tweek nodded his head and downed coffee. Unbelievably, Craig never seemed to mind.
Suddenly Tweek gasped. "Oh God. Craig! Jesus! I'm-"
"-out of coffee? Yea I figured. Come on. We've got new filters- I can make some more" Craig informed the blonde while he heaved himself from the carpet. The two proceeded down the stairs to the kitchen.
Kenny took a long drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out of one side of his mouth, towards the window.
"What a goddamn good friend" he announced, nodding his head towards the stairs in reference.
"Hmmm" stated Stan in agreement.
Kenny tapped the end of the white stick, shaking the ashes, took one more quick puff, and grinded the stub unto the windowsill.
"How come you don't ever make me coffee Stan? Hmm?" he teased jokingly.
Stan ignored him. He was far to engulfed in a text message conversation with Red, at the moment. He wore one cocked eyebrow and that tiny little half smile upon his face, a look Kenny had seen many times whenever Stan looked at the opposing team's quarterback after running an hundred yard touchdown.
Kenny rolled his eyes. He wouldn't be getting in a word in edgewise against Red. He could only imagine the riveting discussion the two were having.
There was a small commotion outside, a series of gasps and exclamations of joyful reunion that pulled Kenny's head to the window like and puppet being controlled by a wire. In the street was a moving truck and some kid- short, black hair- was hugging his red-headed mother who looked kinda like… Kenny froze.
"Dude. DUDE. Stan. I'm not even joking. Get over here man."
Stan got up. Right there, outside on the sidewalk, in the October sunset was Ike Broflovski being mauled, quite literally, by Sheila Broflovski.
Stan blinked. It was like watching a movie in which someone had unknowingly pressed the fast forward button while he had gone to grab some popcorn. The image in Stan's mind's screen did not match up to the scene outside. The kid was taller and like, at least five years older in appearance, which the brunette knew made no sense. Ike bounced into the truck to assist his father in removing the cardboard boxes of luggage.
Stan's heart stopped. There was Kyle. He was stepping out of the truck, holding a large box, which he set down on the asphalt to greet his mother.
The brunette swallowed hard as he watched Kyle's slender figure take on Sheila's onslaught of affection. The Jew smiled brilliantly as he conversed with his family. There was excitement glowing in his green eyes and attractive face as he listened intently to his mother's rushed stories, rubbing his arms every couple of minutes due to the wind chill. Really, the kid was not dressed to be back in South Park, Colorado, thought Stan incredulously as he eyed his friend's apparel. Kyle was wearing a thin long sleeve shirt coupled with what looked like expensive jeans and designer sunglasses.
Stan snorted in minor disgust.
He watched the Jew run his hand through his stylish red waves of hair. In fact, Stan stared, unabashed at the redhead until it clicked.
Ah ha! He's not wearing his hat! Wait- WHAT?
After several minutes of shocked observation, Stan turned to look at Kenny who was… not there?
"Kenny?" he cleared glanced around the room and cleared his dry throat. Why was it dry? "Dude. Kenny."
"BROFLOVSKI!" Stan heard from beyond the window. He peered down to see the hooded boy land impressive running tackle on the redhead, forcing him unto the ground.
Kyle's mother looked on in utter horror as she watched the two wrestle in the snow. It wasn't much of a match- Kyle was small and underdressed and weaken by the surprise tackle while Kenny, taking the upper hand, continued to pin Kyle to the snow in an arm lock hug. Kyle was simultaneously laughing pleasantly and chattering his teeth.
"Kyle! You getup this instant, young man, before you catch a cold!" came the voice of Sheila.
Kenny sighed and helped the redhead up, who, to Stan's dismay, gracefully resumed the poise he had held earlier. Jeez, Ky had only been back in South Park approximately twenty minutes and he was already frustrating Stan. This was something that had one-sidedly developed even before the Jew went away. Stan would just look at Kyle and, for some reason, become infuriated. Some small part of Stan hated-HATED- the redhead, for an unbeknownst reason that would keep Stan pondering in his bed at nights. Kyle, on the other hand, would have no clue as to Stan's peculiar behavior and attempt to talk to the brunette, escalating the situation in the process. This led to the complete avoidance of Kyle. After all, Stan, at the time, had a girlfriend and absolutely no reason to be attached to the hip to the Jew. Come to think of it, Stan couldn't remember the last time the two had spent together in the weeks leading up to the fire.
Stan clenched his teeth. Turning sharply from the window, he headed towards Tweek's kitchen. The smell of coffee and the sound of the two friends laughing permeated his senses.
Craig was kneeling on the ground next to Tweek, who sat with his back to Craig, curled around his coffee thermos protectively as Craig attempted to steal it through a torture method know as tickling. The two were laughing hysterically.
Stan raised an eyebrow, but resolved not to say anything. He reached out to grab his backpack from the kitchen chair as quietly as possible. Suddenly, Tweek let out a shriek and Stan pulled back sharply, knocking a mug of coffee to the tile. The two looked up and quickly untangled themselves.
"Hey man." Craig was the first to speak. "Kenny just ran outside a minute ago." He pointed towards the front door.
"Yea. I know." answered Stan angrily. He snatched up the bag and heaved it over his shoulder. Heading for the kitchen door, he muttered a quiet "Later," to the two boys, who looked at each other in confusion.
Stan proceeded out the door and through the side garden gate, a route that cut through the hills that separated Craig's side of the neighborhood from Stan's and completely avoided the front street all together.
Glancing quickly to make sure Kenny wouldn't spot him, Stan walked home.
