Disclaimer: I do not own South Park; it is the property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker.


All of the shit in the world seemed to melt away as Stan walked and drank. By the time he reached his destination, Stan was certain that nothing could really bug him anymore.

He pushed through the door that announced his entry with a quiet little ding ding, and made his way through the Denny's toward a table in the corner.

"'Sup," he said, smoothly sliding into the booth next to Pete, the goth boy he'd been texting earlier.

"Raven," Pete said in acknowledgement, taking a drag from his cigarette. "So what made your preppy little ass skip school today?"

Smirking, Stan replied, "What, a guy can't take the day off to hang out with his asshole goth friends?"

"Ugh, don't say we're friends. That's what Timberlake-wannabes have," Michael said, eyeing Stan. "At least you decided to dress properly for once."

Stan glanced down at his Type O t-shirt, just barely visible from beneath his jacket. "Figured you wouldn't let me sit down if I had some other shitty shirt on."

Henrietta drummed her fingers against the side of her coffee cup. "Is that why you came by, Raven? Depression dig its long black talons back into your brain?"

"I've got it under control," Stan replied, flagging down the waitress.

"Oh great, another little goth punk," she said, walking over with notepad in hand. "Let me guess, you want a coffee?"

Putting on his best angsty don't-give-a-fuck voice, Stan replied, "Wow, the preppy old hag actually gets something right for a change. What do you want, a freaking medal?"

Snorting, the waitress rolled her eyes and turned away to grab Stan's coffee.

"Mocking us isn't a way to get us on your side, you know," Firkle said, surprising Stan. The youngest goth didn't usually talk to Stan.

"I don't need you on my side, Firkle. I just need to hang out with people who won't jump down my throat every time I comment on how much everything sucks."

The waitress returned and set a steaming mug in front of Stan, then left without another word. Stan was grateful for that; he wasn't in the mood to pretend to be friendly, despite his buzz.

Michael held out a hand, "Cigarette?"

Stan waved him off, "You know I don't smoke."

"One of your many pussy prep flaws," Michael retorted, packing the offered cigarette back into its box.

"We all have our vices," Stan said.

The four goth kids began lamenting to each other about how much the world sucks, and Stan began to tune out. When he'd first approached Pete a couple years ago—about two months after his drinking habit had picked up—to hang out again, the red-headed goth boy had been understandably suspicious. It took a bit of convincing on Stan's part, but Pete had finally relented and agreed, on the condition that Stan didn't try to be around them if he was going to dress as a "Bieber Boy", which Stan was more than happy to oblige. The others hadn't exactly liked the arrangement at first, but as time went on and Stan didn't ever try to really put on a cheerful front for them, they begrudgingly accepted him as an occasional member of their clique.

His other friends knew that Stan sometimes still hung out with the goths. Kenny and Cartman had ribbed him for it a bit at first, but when Stan didn't really react one way or another they backed off. Kyle disapproved. It had taken Stan admitting that it helped to sometimes bitch about how awful things were, so that he could be more tolerable the rest of the time, for Kyle to really give in and stop pestering him about it.

And it really did help. There were times when it was too hard to be around Kyle, as memories of the jewish boy telling him he was a bummer and to go somewhere else really hit him. Pete and the others told everyone to fuck off, so it didn't really bother Stan if they said the same to him.

A finger snapped in front of his face, and Stan blinked, shaken out of his thoughts. "What?"

"Contemplating the darkness of the universe?" Michael said, cocking a brow at Stan.

"Something like that," Stan muttered.

Henrietta slid out of the booth, followed by Firkle and Michael. "We're heading over to my room. Are you going to come, Raven?" she asked.

Stan looked at them, then at Pete, who was waiting for him to get out of the booth. He really ought to head home before his parents got there, but Stan still didn't want to be alone. "Yea, sure," he replied, hopping down next to them.


Henrietta's room was as dreary as ever. Stan sat leaning up against her door, watching the other three as they recited their goth poetry and smoked.

"Through the graveyard, the lost ones walk.
Their empty sockets, turned to the sky.
They seek salvation as blood drips, forming rose petals.
Only oblivion rains upon them.
Killing all hope for the soul of man.
Death reclaims us."

"A bit more abstract than your usual poetry," Stan remarked.

She shrugged, "Lately it's felt like we are all abstractions." Henrietta looked up from her book of poems and sucked ash through her cigarette.

With a grin, Stan replied, "Well, there's a line for your next poem."

"Douchebag," she said, rolling her eyes at him. Catching sight of his backpack, she asked, "What's with the bag, if you're ditching?"

Stan frowned. "It's nothing."

"If you're going to continue to hang out with us even though you're not goth, then we need full disclosure, Stan," Michael said.

"Firkle's emo, what about him?"

The youngest boy straightened, "Oh fuck off Stan, I'm not emo."

"Well you sure were eager to jump ship when—"

Pulling out his switchblade, Firkle snarled, "You better watch your mouth, Stan, or I'll gut you."

Pete stood at that, "Woah woah, easy." The red-head might've usually been all for killing some preppy wannabes, but he actually liked Stan. Looking toward his classmate, he said, "Lay off Firkle. That's been dealt with, and it's in the past."

Stan, alarmed at having a knife pulled on him, eyed the younger boy warily and nodded. "Yea… sorry."

Firkle backed off and put his blade away, but the air in the room was still tense.

Hoping to alleviate the situation a bit, Stan unzipped his backpack. He hadn't planned on telling anyone about his vice, but at least these four wouldn't go blabbing about it. Stan frowned; it hurt to think that his sort-of friends were more trustworthy than Kyle.

He pulled out the bottle of whiskey and showed it to them. "Jameson's."

They all looked at him with surprised expressions, not having expected that. "You… drink?" Pete asked cautiously.

Tensing, Stan said, "Yea. What of it?"

Arching an eyebrow, Michael said, "So, you'll drink, but cigarettes are off the table?"

"I drink because I have to." Stan hesitated a moment, then asked, "Do... Do you guys drink at all?"

They shook their heads. "Never really felt the need to," Pete said.

"Oh." Stan looked at Pete, "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

Henrietta scoffed, "Why would we, so those poser adults can once again butt their noses into our business? Yea right, I'd rather go kill myself."

Relief washed over Stan, and he relaxed his shoulders. "Cool." He eyed them once more, then shrugged and unscrewed the cap and took two big gulps of whiskey. He held the bottle out, "Want some?"

No one budged. Just when he was about to take the bottle back, Pete reached out and grabbed it. Stan paused, surprised. He hadn't expected any of them to accept his offer.

Everyone watched the red-head as he slowly lifted the bottle. Licking his lips, he hesitated, then tipped it back and drank about a shot's worth. Pete coughed and gagged, handing the bottle back to Stan, who was grinning like a maniac.

Henrietta wrinkled her nose at the spit flying from Pete's lips. "If you barf in my room, I'll kill you Pete."

He shook his head and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Ugh, okay, wasn't expecting that."

"Dude, I can't believe you actually did that!" Stan cheered, causing everyone to give him a flat look. He grinned sheepishly, then forced himself to calm down. "I mean, wow, way to choke. Can't even handle a bit of whiskey?"

A door slammed downstairs, and Stan hurriedly shoved the bottle back in his bag. "Shit, what time is it?" he muttered, looking at his phone. 3:35. "Fuck, my mom's gonna be home soon."

"Worried about what your mom thinks?" Michael muttered, frowning at Stan.

Giving the older boy an annoyed look, Stan shouldered his bag. "Yea, I am. Everyone else in this town might be a fucking piece of shit, but my mom isn't." The intensity and anger in his voice made the other boy back off, and no one else said anything.

Stan reached for the doorknob, then paused when Pete spoke. "Hang on. My house is just across the street. I'll give you a ride home."

The other three chose not to comment as Pete and Stan left. They passed by Henrietta's mother on the way out, and Stan ducked his head to keep her from getting too close of a look. Once they were outside, Stan shoved his hands in his pockets and asked, "What gives?"

Pete shrugged. "I don't know."

"Come on, there must be some reason," Stan pushed, watching the other boy.

Pete didn't reply, so Stan let it go. They crunched their way through the snow and crossed the street. Once they reached the goth kid's house, he pulled out some keys from his back pocket.

"You good to drive?" Stan asked.

Pete scoffed, "It was one drink Stan, now get in before I change my mind." Stan did so without further protest. The first time Pete or Henrietta had driven him somewhere, he'd been nervous as hell. Now, Stan new they were better drivers than his Dad, so he didn't mind.

As they drove, Stan turned toward Pete, "Really, why did you offer to give me a ride?"

"Can't you just let it go?"

"C'mon Pete, you can tell me."

Groaning, Pete looked over at Stan, then back at the road. "Because I actually like you, Stan, and I like hanging out with you. You don't come by often, and I see those other three all the time." He gritted his teeth, "But if you ever tell anyone I said that, I'll deny all of it and then never hang out with you ever again. Got it?"

Grinning, Stan said, "Sure Pete." He was silent for a few minutes, then, "For a faggy goth kid, you're not so bad yourself."

Pete rolled his eyes, but Stan could tell he wasn't offended. "So, why'd you take up drinking?" He didn't sound accusatory, just curious.

"Remember a couple years ago, when there was that big scare about school vaccinations giving kids aspergers, and they said I had it?"

Pete nodded.

"Well, some fuckers made me drink whiskey until I was hammered, and it made everything stop seeming so shitty. It was… really nice, to not hate everything so goddamn much all the time. Everyone kinda forgot that I'd been drinking, and I started to do it on the sly. Whenever I'm not at least buzzed, it all turns back to shit, so… I drink."

"Does anyone else know?" Pete asked.

Stan shook his head. "Just you guys, and I probably wouldn't have even told you, but Firkle really freaked me out when he pulled a fucking knife on me."

Pete barked out a laugh, startling Stan. He'd never heard the other boy laugh before—he rarely even smiled. "Yea, Firkle still pretty much hates you and sees you as just another poser. Which, you are."

"Do Michael and Henrietta feel that way too?" Stan asked. If Pete was the only one in the group who didn't hate him, then maybe it would be better if he stopped trying to force himself on them.

"Nah, they don't really care one way or another. Michael's pretty sure that you're still goth, but just won't admit it because it upsets your boyfriend."

Stan blinked. "Boyfriend?"

"That jewish kid you're always hanging around. Broflovski."

"Woah, hang on a minute. Kyle isn't my boyfriend… I'm not gay! I dated Wendy for years, for Christ's sake."

Pete eyed him. "Yea, but we heard you broke up with her. Figured you were finally coming to terms with it and ditching your beard."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dude, I'm not gay."

"Got a problem with gay people?"

"What? No! Dude, my dog is gay, and Big Gay Al is a good friend of mine. I don't have a problem with gay people. Hell, I even hang out with Tweek and Craig from time to time, when they aren't being fucking assholes."

"Mmm, that's good."

Stan looked at the other boy. "Why do you care? I mean, I thought you hated everyone but Michael, Firkle, and Henrietta?" …and me, he thought.

"I hate people because they're fucking posers and Justin and Britney wannabes. I don't hate people for their sexuality or gender or race. I'm not a fucking bigot, Stan." Pete actually cracked a grin and added, "Besides, if I did, then I'd have to hate myself, because I'm gay. And I'm not emo."

Not having expected the sudden confession, Stan gaped at Pete. "You are?" he asked. "I didn't know that."

Pete shrugged. "Not a lot of people do. I don't go flaunting it around like those preps Tweak and Tucker do. Henrietta knows; she was the first person, actually. Firkle and Michael know too. And my parents know, but they just chalked it up to me being a deviant, since I'm goth." He turned to look at Stan, "And now you know too. Are you planning to tell anyone else?"

Stan frowned. "I wouldn't out you like that, Pete. I'd really be an asshole if I did."

With a nod, Pete said, "Good." The car stopped, and Stan realized that they'd arrived at his place. Thankfully, neither of his parent's cars were there.

"Hey, thanks for the ride, man," Stan said, stepping out of the car.

"Don't mention it," Pete replied. Once Stan shut the door, Pete rolled down the window and said, "You know, it's too bad you aren't gay. Because if you weren't such a fucking prep, I might actually want to go out with you." Then without giving Stan a chance to respond, he pulled out of the driveway and took off down the street.

Stan watched his friend leave with a startled expression on his face. It was just as well that Pete drove off, as Stan really wasn't sure what to say to that revelation. He'd never even really thought that way about another boy. Sure, when he'd found out his dad was Lorde and his girlfriend pretended to be trans, Stan had been confused about his gender for a solid week, but that had been it. He'd realized he was cis, and then everyone got on with their lives.

He'd never really taken sexuality into account. After all, he'd always been attracted to girls. One girl, anyways. And Bebe's boobs, but that had been… well, even Craig and Tweek had been distracted then.

But now he just wasn't interested in Wendy anymore. Sure, she was pretty, and he hoped that they would still be friends after his shitty way of breaking up with her, but he didn't want to date her. Stan had never really bothered looking at other girls—or anyone else, really—besides Wendy. Thinking about his class, he didn't really want to date any of the other girls.

So… was he asexual? If he thought about it, could he see himself with a guy? Was he gay? Bisexual?

Frowning, Stan went into his house with a lot more to think about than he did when he left.


This chapter kind of took me by surprise, as it was certainly not planned when I first conceived of the story. Oh well.

Sorry about the crappy attempt at goth poetry. Also, apologies if the goths seem OoC. I'm afraid I haven't quite gotten them down yet. Hopefully some people are still enjoying the story, though.

Once again, thank you to everyone has reviewed, favorited, and followed thus far. It really means a lot to me and helps motivate me to get the chapters out faster.