Looking at the Marsh residence is surreal. Craig thinks this as he pulls up, parking on the side of the road. He has not come here since elementary school. Has not wanted to come, really. Craig really doesn't want to be here now.
Maybe it's boredom. Maybe it's because Craig doesn't pull out of things he says he'll do. It's rare that you'll find Craig skipping work, rare that you won't see him do a task that he promised. Though, realistically Craig doesn't make promises unless it's professional.
This is not professional. Craig writes it off as just not wanting to hear Clyde play his video games nor smell the sickly sweet of Butters baking. Butters is always baking, he's a pastry chef and always is trying to come up with new, hip things for his instagram. While Clyde does streams, almost daily. Has quite a name for himself. It's odd, as he was the one who backed out of the whole world of Warcraft scenario. Once Clyde found out about professional gaming, he sat himself down in front of a tv and let it consume his time. It's contradicting to his younger self. People change, though. They always do.
With a sigh, Craig unbuckles himself and steps out of his car. It's bright in July, the sun beams down on him. Warming Craig, a contrast from the iciness of his car, where he had the AC blasting,
It's almost nice. South Park is always freezing. July is the exception.
Craig crosses the distance from his car to Stans front door. Raises a hand to knock, but as he does so, the door swings open. And there stands Stan, clad in Superman pajama pants and a T-shirt. The logo for a band called "hot mulligan" stands out to Craig, it's one of his favorites. But he remains quiet about it.
He doesn't look sick. At least not in a feverish way. It's more in the head, more in the heart. Craig can feel it vibrating off of Stan, can smell it. Quite literally. Maybe it's because they don't interact much at work, but besides the scent of booze thick ad heavy—like Stan sprayed it as a perfume, walked into the cloud of it. His hygiene is lacking.
"Come in," Stan says easily. Craig blinks, follows Stan into the living room of his parents house. Eyes roaming his surroundings. The once orderly and neat downstairs is a mess of clothes, a blanket with pillows on the couch. An ashtray placed on the coffee table that looks a mess of cigarettes, nicotine and ashes.
Stan throws the pillows to the floor and lifts the blanket, sitting down and putting it over his frame. He's left a spot open for Craig, who hesitates before taking a seat next to him.
It's silent, and Craig looks ahead at the tv screen. Displayed on it is the movie poster for Iron Man, and it's information.
"Drink?" Stan questions, he holds out a bottle of bud light. Craig looks at the others fingers curled around the can, the condensation that is rolling down the tin. Stans hand is wet from it. Craig shakes his head, no. Picks up the pack of cigarettes on the table instead.
Craig lights as Stan puts on the movie. Tries to pull his long legs up onto the couch. They bump against the others. There is little distance between them physically.
But a big gap otherwise.
They sit, squished together while the movie begins. Robert Downey Jr. being escorted, and then being in captivity.
It's when that the antagonists of the movie demands Downey's character build weapons for him when Stan puts his arm around Craig. Pulling the other close to him. Craig assumes it's liquid courage, must be. Stan has always been more of a pussy when it comes to romance, to girls and physical touch. But here he is, pulling Craig onto his lap.
Somehow they end up with Craig in between Stans legs, limbs tangled and body pressed together on the couch. It doesn't mean anything at all, really. The couch is small. Stan knows just as much as everyone else that Craig doesn't do romance. Dating. Nada. He made it very clear when he broke up with Tweek, rather publically.
"Romance is dead." While pouring his cup of chilled coffee on Tweeks trembling head. Craig ended up with a black eye and busted lip. Tweek was a fighter.
Anyways, while Craig doesn't know what it going on in Stans life to a T. He does know he broke up with Wendy non too long ago. Lost most of his friends, except Kenny. Like the the internal emo kid Craig knows Stan to be, he's sulking. He's grieving. Craig will let him have that. It's not like Stans cynical outlook on life is exactly wrong.
He does know that Stan isn't interested, though. It's not a matter of him being straight more as it is him being stuck in his bubble of pity.
So Craig accepts Stans arms wrapped around his thin frame.
They continue on with the movie. The silence thick but growing more comfortable. Craig shifts and moves a bit in Stans lap. It's when Pepper Potts is digging her hand into Iron Man's chest when Craig feels it. The growing boner against his ass.
"Are you serious?" Craig complains, Stan has another bottle of bud light pressed to his lips where he takes a hearty gulp.
"What?" Stan slurs out. Craig squirms a little under Stans grip of him. Lets out a sigh.
"You really have a boner right now? At this scene?" Craig digs in. Stan blinks, eyelids hanging low over blue orbs. He places the drink down.
"What? Sick, dude. That's sick." Stan mumbles. He presses the pause button and the still of Pepper Potts hand buried in Iron Man's chest is there, frozen. He lets his grip of Craig go, and Craig stands, grabs the cigarettes off the table and makes way to the front door to smoke. Craig doesn't look back to Stan, even after he lets out an audible "fuck!" Followed by the sound of something hard falling on carpet.
Craig's already sitting on the Marsh's front step. Already lit one of the menthol cigarettes. Already into his second drag. Stan sits down next to him and looks at the little houses surrounding them. Each one is familiar and if Craig really wanted to, he can name who lives where.
They don't look nor touch. They are not pressed together or in a small confine. But Stan does break the silence.
"You can stay the night dude," he states. And Craig looks to him now. The dip at the bridge of his nose, the lift of the tip. Soft pink lips poked out and wrapped around his cigarette.
Craig feels something almost foreign. Something he hasn't felt in awhile. Little flutters, like moths coming out of their cocoons. It's uncomfortable. And Craig tries to crush them with his mind. Rid of them.
He doesn't have a problem with stifling this. Or hurting Stan to not feel it. Though he doubts he really would.
"No, I have better things to." he retorts. Blunt and apathetic. He doesn't. Not really. But he wants to leave. Wants the newly shed moths to go away. Craig stands and dusts himself off. Looks at the time on his phone. He hasn't even been here long. He wants to go.
"You're so fucking rude, christ. Fucking dickhole." Stan says. It's all messy, slurred a mumbled. Craig doesn't comprehend why he's even mad at him. He shrugs his shoulders.
"You're surprised by that?" Craig starts. Stan got his head buried in his hands. And Craig hears him sniffle.
"No. Just. Fuck you, ok? Go away." It's choked and sloppy. Craig blinks, and he feels his fingers tap against the pavement with anxiety. He doesn't like being told what to do. Not by anyone. Especially not by Stan marsh. Craig is his own person. He does his own thing. Who does Stan think he is?
Deep breaths. Control.
"Nope. Now I'm gonna stay." Craig spits out with more force than he intends. Stan lets out a groan, and looks to him. There is anger written across his face that Craig hasn't seen in awhile. Not when Stans drunk at parties nor sober at work.
"LEAVE." Hes yelling, standing up and yelling at Craig to get the fuck away from him. To get out of his house. To leave him alone. And Craig stands there, blank faced and quiet. His sweaty fingers curl into fists.
Control. Control.
"I'm not fucking leaving!" It comes out of Craig, loud. Louder than he's ever been in awhile. Stan stops his own yelling. Becomes completely frozen in his tracks. He blinks. And there are tears gathered on his face, snot and salt.
"Fine." Stan lets out, he goes up the steps, leaving the door open for Craig to come into his messy little home.
Craig should leave, he didn't really intend to stay. He lost control of his emotions. That's a rarity and he clenches his metal coated teeth.
He should leave, but he stomps up the steps. Closes the door and lays next to Stan on the floor. Stan is on the couch, burrowed into blankets. Hiding his face into the plush of the pillow.
Craig listens to the sound of the others sobbing. And Stan is messy, messy as hell with it.
But Craig stays anyways.
Body turned away from the other. If tears begin to gather in the corners of his eyes too, no one would know.