South Park © Matt and Trey.

General Warning:

This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support sources.

Sorry for the long wait everyone! The winter holidays are always a crazy time for me. I literally just stayed up all night long writing this chapter, what the heck is wrong with me.

Clyde's POV:

Craig is sweet.

I don't give a damn what he or anyone else says – that boy is sweet down to the fucking core. He's just prickly on the outside. A big, stupid pineapple.

I'm not going to trick myself into believing that he's okay, because I know he's not. I've spent too much time pretending that nothing was going on and that everything was alright. That didn't get either of us very far.

I'm having a hard time admitting to myself just how much it shook me when Craig told me he wanted to die. That's not something that anyone would let happen, and that's exactly what I kept telling myself as I tucked us both into the couch and we skipped our afternoon classes.

He didn't mean it. He wouldn't do that. I repeat to myself as I dart through the cold night air from the car to my front door.

The whole situation is so unfair. Craig is a good kid, even if he is a little rough around the edges. He shouldn't have to walk through fucking fire and I shouldn't have to quench the flames.

I stayed at the Tucker's watching old movies until it was well after dark. Laura came home late and asked us how the rest of our day had gone. I lied through my teeth and said that we had been a little late back to class so she might still get an absence call from the school office.

Digging in my coat pocket, I find my house key and clumsily jam it into the door lock. My dad isn't home. He isn't usually because we run our own the shoe shop down on Main Street, and if my dad isn't there, we aren't making money. When he's not selling shoes, he's usually over spending his evenings with Mr. and Ms. Tweak.

It isn't until I pull out my cellphone to give him a call and find out where he is that I notice I have several missed calls from Stan. There's no message, so I hit the "call back" button as I fumble for the light switch in my house's breezeway.

"Hello?" The receiver on the other end picks up as I'm making my way up the stairs.

"Hey man," I say warmly, "Sorry I missed you; I had a full afternoon. What's going on?"

"Hey! I noticed you weren't around for 5th period, and I wanted to check in and see how things went for you today, but there's actually a party over at Bebe's tonight that I'm about to head out the door for! You want to tag along?" he replies enthusiastically.

"Uh—" frankly, I'm a little taken aback by the invitation. It's a Monday night, and most parents aren't up for their kids hosting a kickback in the middle of the week, "At Bebe's?"

"Yeah," Stan repeats, "Her dad's on a business trip and her mom's visiting her aunt down in California or something. She has the whole house to herself, so she invited a bunch of people over at school today."

For a brief moment I'm concerned what my dad would think, before I remember that he's most likely out with Mr. Tweak downing coffee and Bailey's.

"You should come man; it'll be more fun with you there."

With that, I'm sold. There's nothing like someone being honest about appreciating your company. It gets me every time.

Stan tells me that he'll pick me up in the next twenty minutes. I take the break to call and invite Craig, but he doesn't pick up and I don't bother calling twice. Craig is hard enough to get out of the house for parties at Token's, and Token is one of our best friends.

I never make it up to my room, and trudge back down the stairs, slipping into my sneakers that I kicked off in the hallway. I haven't had time for dinner, but I pull a piece of bread from the pantry and smother it in honey just in time to hear two loud, impatient honks from out on the street.

I shove the food in my mouth and almost forget to lock the front door on the way out. Maybe I should be more cautious with how I spend my weeknights, but I can't help it. I love parties.

Sliding easily into the front passenger's seat of Stan's car, I take in the feel of the new seats. I've seen his Camaro in the school parking lot, with Kyle waiting around for a ride home after classes, but I haven't yet had the chance to admire the interior.

When I finally look over to Stan, I can tell through the dim street light that he's smirking.

"You like my ride?" He says sarcastically, slapping his hand down on the black leather armrest, "I call her Kiss Ass, you know, to remind me of why my dad bought her for me."

I chuckle uncomfortably, but I know I shouldn't. Stan's situation with his dad is really sad. He makes me feel lucky, actually, even if my dad is usually busy. I don't know what either of us would have done if we hadn't had each other for support when my mom passed away.

"At least you get something sweet out of it, right?" I offer.

"Totally." He says tartly, "He gave me this beauty right after he got so drunk one night that he told me I was a mistake. What a loser. I really get a sweet deal."

I wince at the harshness in his voice, and realize immediately that I made a mistake. As Stan turns to give me a very obviously forced smile, I take it as my leave to drop the subject entirely.

"So – Bebe's?" I shrug awkwardly, averting my eyes.

"Yeah." He turns the key in the ignition, pulling away from the curb, and after a moment seems back to his regular self as he asks me how my day has been.

"It's been alright. I don't know." I say shakily, "Everything that's been going with Craig really stresses me out to be totally frank, but we talked, and I think we made up, so that's good I guess."

"That is good. It's progress at least. Did you talk about why he's been having such a rough time?"

"Only a little." I admit, "I don't think he really knows to be honest."

"I guess that's not surprising, I doubt most people know why they use one coping method or another."

"Probably not." I sigh, leaning my head against the car window, "I wish that you could just talk to him. You're so much more eloquent than me. I barely know what I'm talking about."

Stan lets out a short laugh, "Is Craig even aware that I know what's going on?"

"No." I say weakly, "And he shouldn't know. It would freak him out that I've been talking to you about his personal issues."

"I kind of figured, but I'm sure what you told him was fine." He takes his right hand off the steering wheel, giving my thigh a few comforting pats.

"I really just said that I knew he was hurting, and that I knew it wasn't fair, but that I also knew he'd be okay and I would make sure to stick through it with him."

Stan nods, but gives me a skeptical look.

"That sounds fine, but make sure you're not promising him that you'll be the one fixing him, because you won't be. He can only fix himself."

"I know that." I say, scowling back at him.

"I'm just saying. Take care of yourself too, you know?"

We pull to a stop in front of the Stevens' home, and Stan brings our conversation to an end with a stern look, a squeeze of my thigh, and popping out the car door.

It frustrates me that Stan treats me like he knows so much more than me about helping people who are struggling.

It frustrates me even more that he probably does.

When we reach the door, I let Stan do the knocking. I hope that Bebe isn't the one who answers. I don't want to nor do I plan on dealing with her directly. I haven't been to a party she's thrown since last New Year's, because of a string of somewhat unfortunate misunderstandings.

December 31st, half an hour past midnight, Bebe god damn Stevens led me up the stairs to her bedroom. We were going to fuck. We were supposed to fuck. Bebe, in all her New Year's excitement, had sprawled herself out so nicely on her red satin sheets and I tried so hard to focus on the task at hand. I couldn't do it though.

Not even an hour prior I had helped a plastered, vomiting Craig up the stairs and into bed in the next room. I had tried to crawl under the sheets with him those thirty minutes before the ball dropped, but Bebe and the rest of the party had insisted I come back down and finish the night with them. I spent the next hour drinking to forget that I was worried, and in the end, instead of losing my virginity I cried drunkenly and confused into Bebe's arms. I told her it was because I couldn't stop thinking about Craig.

The next morning, I woke up next to Bebe with all my clothes still on. When she heard footsteps in the hallway, she quickly stripped her own top off and feigned embarrassment as Token cracked the door to ask where he could find some Ibuprofen. She told me that if we kept spending time together people would wonder why we weren't going steady, and told everyone else that I had fucked her silly. I nodded plainly, too hung over to process, and she never asked me about Craig, who woke up two hours later, heard about me and Bebe, and had stormed home almost immediately.

I still don't know what that whole night was about.

Just my luck, Bebe is the one who opens the door.

"Come in!" She cheers, clearly a little drunk already.

I slink past her, but she catches me with a light tap on the back and mouths a silent hello with a twirl of her fingers. I offer an awkward smile in return, before rushing to follow Stan.

Stan heads straight to the kitchen to pour us both a drink, and I wonder briefly if he ever worries about becoming an alcoholic himself. I've heard that the addiction can be genetic.

I imagine that he must police himself pretty strictly.

He hands me a rum and coke, which he warns might be a little stronger than usual, and I'm happy to see that he seems more relaxed now than when he was with Wendy. The two have been broken up for nearly three weeks now, and that's longer than it's ever been.

Not wanting to reopen the wound, I don't mention her, but as if almost on cue Stan blurts out, "She called me today."

"Who? Wendy?" I ask.

"Yeah," Stan smiles, downing a hefty portion of his drink, "She wanted to get back together. Not now, but when she gets back. You know what I said?"

"What?" I humor him, expecting the usual answer.

"I said no! I told her I was fucking done!"

Now this comes as a surprise to me, and I'm happy to see Stan feel so proud of himself.

"Wow, way to go man! That's great!"

"God I know, it was the first time I've ever called the shots like that since she left. I felt so empowered. Like I could do anything I wanted."

"You probably could."

To this Stan gives me a toothy grin and maybe even blushes lightly before grabbing a bottle of rum off the table and saying "Celebratory shots to standing up for myself?"

I laugh and nod. Anything to get me through a night of awkward glances and catty whispers from Bebe's friends who are all wondering "how on earth I could sleep with Bebe and then just ditch her like that, and how tough I must think I am to show up at her party and rub it in her face."

After four shots each in quick succession, plus our original drinks, Stan and I are pretty far gone. I cut myself off, and Stan makes himself another mixer, before we finally head out to the living room to socialize.

Now in competition with a Subwoofer speaker that someone has brought to the party, I dance sloppily for a few measures, while Stan does the typical "I can't dance" move of bobbing his head and holding his drink up. We realize quickly as we shout to each other over the music that we made the wrong decision and that really what we want to be doing is talking.

We push our way past Heidi and a few other girls from class I recognize, who all give me dirty looks, into the much less crowded stairwell.

"Dude," Stan stops me halfway up the stairs, placing his hand against my chest and, "I want—I want to apologize for earlier—in the car."

"What?" I grin stupidly, having no idea what he's talking about.

"No—no I mean it." He closes his eyes, as if he's trying hard to focus, "I totally snapped at you about my car, and—and that's really not fair. How should you know how I got it or why it makes me so mad? I—I didn't even tell you!"

"Oh that? Th—that's okay!" I place my hand on his shoulder comfortingly, "I was lame about it—really insensitive! I sh—should know better."

"No way." Stan still hasn't opened his eyes, "I act like it's no big deal, like, all the time, but really—really it sucks so much."

"I know man, shit, I know."

"I mean, I feel like my dad doesn't fucking ap—appreciate me at all, you know? He acts like he's sorry and then he just treats me like worthless garbage."

"I th—I think he loves you," I smile, "He just has a problem and he doesn't know how to show that he loves you because of th—that problem. He's like Craig, Craig doesn't know how to show me that he loves me."

"You think Craig loves you?" Stan shrugs his shoulder questioningly, and I feel my chest tighten. We're getting into dangerous territory, by my inhibitions are too low to put a stop to it.

"Yeah—I mean—I think so?" I admit, "I hope so, because I—I love him a lot."

There's a pause in our conversation, and I'm too drunk to know why, but I feel like I should be nervous.

"Do you 'love him' love him?" Stan asks suddenly.

I don't know what to say to that, so instead I say something worse.

"I didn't sleep with Bebe you know."

"Really?" Stan's eyes shoot open.

"Uh—" I stammer, regretting saying anything almost immediately.

"Why did you guys tell everyone you did?"

"I didn't," I correct him, "That was her. I've never—ever actually said a word about it."

"Why would you do that? Why didn't you sleep with her? Do you not like her?" The look in Stan's eyes now is so prying I want to get up and run back to the living room and the crowd of people.

"No!" I whisper defensively, "I just couldn't. It wasn't her. It's none of that, it's j—just—"

"It's okay." Stan cuts me off, "I get it."

"You do?" I eye him warily.

"Yeah. I really—actually—completely do. Thank you for sharing that with me."

I look down at my shoes uncomfortably. I want to go home.

"I didn't tell you all of what I told Wendy." Stan says in what I assume is an attempt to distract me from our drunken conversation that I don't understand.

"What did you tell her?" I ask.

"I told her that I think I might like someone new." He mutters shyly.

"Really? Who's—" I begin, but I don't get to finish the thought.

Because Stan has pressed his lips firmly against mine. Stan fucking Marsh. Quarterback of the football team Stan Marsh. Dated the same girl on and off for eight fucking years Stan Marsh. Hangs out with the school's biggest homophobe Stan Marsh.

Kissing me on the god damn staircase of the house of the girl I lied about sleeping with Stan Marsh.

I don't know if this is what I want.

I don't know if this is what I meant.

He tastes like alcohol, and the thought of more rum makes me feel ill.

I think this is what I meant.

But I don't think this is right.

Still, this is the closest I've felt in a long time.

So I kiss him back.