Wander, Lust

So, here's the next...thing. There is an arc in place, and there should be at least four parts to it. I enjoy the C/W dynamic.

II. Authority

"Jesus, I never thought I'd have anything in common with you, Cartman."

Since that revelation, Cartman had tried to hold off on eating double stuffed Oreos, denying himself the particular pleasure of yanking things off, of meshing things together. But every once in awhile, he would cave and buy a whole pack, ripping off the chocolate pieces with ardor and angrily stuffing the whites together. For him this was an act of defiance, ending with a pile of discarded chocolate wafers that lost all meaning and flavor without the soft, velvety middle.

He would crush those extra pieces after, as though they were records of something shameful, crush them in his fist and savor the pain they brought him, a curious chaser. And give them, contemptuously to Kenny—who accepted them with such sympathy that something inside him yowled every time, as though he had effectively proclaimed his shameful, stupid feelings to the dirt-eater.

"Fuck you, fatass!" The three boys exchanged their usual look—"why are we friends with him, again?"—but Cartman remained smug. He knew that look well; it had matured over the years but not mutated, and its scorn was a type of resigned affection.

"What? You saw it too! Wendy's head was moving up and down like she was giving the mic a bj!" He had seen her then, triumphant in her opportunity, and longed to bring her down, even a notch or two, to steal her from the podium and have her in his arms (but then again, that would never happen. It was her integrity that assured it, that brave gutsy quality that led to playground fights rather than romantic encounters).

Kenny meh'd in agreement, and even Kyle had a look of begrudging admission on his face. It was just Stan who would resist, Stan who was dating this girl despite never having gotten over his childhood puke problem (and what did that say about the girl involved, that she would actually involve herself in such a relationship?)—Stan who was married to Wendy in his mind. Cartman kept waiting for the day when she would wise up, or at least when she would realize that Stan was always going to be in South Park and that she was better, bigger than this place…

Kenny veered off to his class, leaving the trio at the door to their own. Cartman sighed. History made him angry—maybe it was his tendency to sympathize with the losers—

He sat down. What else could he do? It wasn't as if he could change his life. Not in any way that mattered. Unless he could get in a time machine and then blatantly lie about his personality for years, there was no way he would ever be with Wendy. Her hate for him was too intense—why look at her, over next to Stan, cozying up in the scant seconds before the bell rang as if human companionship mattered more than anything else (and sick, his stomach was sick—no more pizza as dessert). The instant he had entered the room, her gaze had centered on him momentarily; nauseatingly it had hit him again, like a recurrent illness, that she would never be his. He wouldn't live a lie for her and she wouldn't for him—especially not the lie that she loved or even liked him, not when her stomach churned with bile at the very sight of him. The way that it should have when she looked at Stan, who had hurled vomit into her face countless times…but it didn't. Cartman's shoulders slumped. The only defeat he would admit.

The teacher was droning on and on…his interest was only caught when he heard the word 'project'.

"Take five minutes to discuss who you'd like your partner to be," Mrs. Garrison said, looking pretty bored by the whole idea of 'teaching a class'.

Cartman ran The List through his head. He glanced uncertainly around the class, as though seeing its denizens for the first time. Who could he possibly work with? Butters, whom he could always bully if necessary, was in a remedial class. Kenny was AWOL at the moment, undoubtedly hanging around the buffet table in Hell, and Stan would work with Kyle. (They had to keep the romance alive somehow.) Then he heard something that sounded like early Bach and set his mind into motion the way that that composer's mechanistic music did.

"That's just not fair!" Wendy said. "I'm your girlfriend!"

"But I promised Kyle I'd be his partner!" Stan said. Wendy looked furious. It was like seeing the last cookie out on a platter—the taking-ness became its own pleasure.

"Ooh, how romantic," he said. "Having a lover's spat?"

"Shut up!" she said, turning a delightful shade of red that reminded him of...things he didn't want to be reminded of in class. Grinning, he turned back around.

By mocking her he brought her down to his level. Down to him. That was the only way he could degrade her with those surges of lust that he hardly understood were his. He had always been lusty, in his different ways: but schemes for money, cravings for food, if those things didn't pan out, it didn't feel like someone had ripped out one of his fingernails. (It didn't confront him, again and again, mutilating his composure). The sex that he had with her, giving in the way a runner collapses after a marathon, was filled with rage, and its aftereffect was a plaintive anguish-an anguish which, given attention, would unman him yet again. The relationship that they had, imaginary notwithstanding, was one of abuse. She abused him.

"Now," Mr. Garrison said, "I'm going to hand out numbers. Whoever gets number one can pick their partner first, and so on..."

How stupid and useless. The straining he felt was his contempt for high school and all its redundant and idiotic procedures. He glared at the teacher for good measure, but it was Mr. Garrison, long immune to his silent criticism.

He looked down. He had gotten first pick. Stan would work with Kyle (who looked triumphant whenever Wendy wasn't glaring at him) and no one else had approached him. There were an even number of people in the class, and doubtless Wendy and Stan's argument had kept others from approaching her. Slowly, a smile erupted on his face.

"Number one," Mr. Garrison said. "Come to the front of the class, turn in your slip, and pick your partner."

This was his triumph. Kyle didn't have anything on this. He rose dramatically, letting his bulk draw all eyes. It was good for that, at least. He walked to the front of the class, watched Mrs. Garrison inspect the slip like an agent inspects counterfeit bills, and let his gaze rest on Wendy. He didn't care that his smile was a bit creepy. His audience had to think that he was doing it to fuck with her. Which of course, he was. But they couldn't know why. "I wanna work with Wendy," he said after the moment had hung for a little bit, the way a feather doesn't drop immediately to the ground. He went back to his seat, preparing to watch the rest of the scramble.

He had a special smile for Stan. See what happens when you leave your girlfriend out in the cold to be with your gay lover? He himself wasn't even sure how a smile could convey that much information, but both he and Stan understood it very well.

The rest of class was reserved for discussion with one's partner. With Wendy. Deliciously he relished the hatred and the fiery feeling, a type of event indigestion, that he knew she felt. He was understanding himself as she did, watching her unwilling movements as she came closer to him. Stan and Kyle had partnered up more quickly than the only two young people at a Square Dance—not that he'd know anything about that, fuck you Mom—but Wendy had dragged her feet like a child that knew it was going to be in trouble.

He savored the fact that he could make her feel so strongly, such antipathy, which echoed his own feelings for her. Almost. They had to share a workspace, yet she was sitting so far from him there was no way they could have a discussion. He reached out, pulling her chair closer by the arm. Her head snapped up, eyes popping and mouth slack. He concluded that he would never digest her. She just had too much substance; it would never be used up. Like now. If he had a camera, he wouldn't capture the cheesy-ass mushy moments—it would be now that he would record, the fire in her eyes exacerbated by his prodding. Her jaw set in that half-open position that accentuated her full lips. "What do you want?" (A lot of his fantasies had started…come on now, it's no time for that).

"Wendy Wendy Wendy," he said in his best soothing voice. "I just want to work with you on this beautiful project. Together. Especially since your boyfriend is an asshole. I'm just trying to be compassionate, Wendy, can't you see that?"

Wendy's teeth ground against one another futilely. "No."

"Well, we have to work together on this Wendy. What about tomorrow after school? I'll bring Oreos."

Cartman loved the opera unfolding on her face. Irritation and hatred warred with anger at Stan and just the barest hint of amusement. "Fine," she said. "But don't think that I'll be doing all the work on this project. It's ours, and if you don't pull your weight, I'll ask Mr. Garrison if I can work alone." She gave Cartman her best stern look, daring him to disagree.

He grinned. {Wendy's authority is different than his, though just as forceful in its own way. And that's why they fit together—because she's strong and aggressive and some of the girls don't like that but that's also why they're apart. But how else could he have it, when it's all of her that he wants, even the bossy, opinionated parts? Especially those. And that's why a secret part of him is waiting for her to wise up about Stan, to move on to someone else, anyone else really, even if it'll never be him}.

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