Chapter 2: Because I Got a Little 'thing' for You.
Butters was still holding my hand. I didn't mind it much, and still hadn't figured out why I hadn't freaked out at his touch. 'Maybe you.. like it?', the little asshat of a conscience drawled arrogantly. See, that's why people think I'm a pervert! Because of this little smartass! I momentarily willed the suggestion from my thoughts. In the balmy blue streetlight, I watched as he turned around to face me, his gaze cordial and delighted. He finally fit the key in the hole--'heh heh...'---and turned the knob, signaling me to follow him inside.
The atmosphere was pleasant and hospitable, though I knew better. I glanced up at the blonde, and caught him staring fixedly at me, his little pink tongue sticking out in concentration. I laughed quietly, and smirked a little. "Hey, Butters, see somethin' you like?"
A blush stained his once thoughtful expression, and he jolted from his thoughts. "Um, s-sorry, Kenny..." He gazed down at his socked feet in sheer embarrassment, and I suddenly had the strong urge to pounce him right there in the doorway. 'He won't mind...', my thoughts tempted again, and I shook my head vigorously.
Butters cast an amused glance at me, before seeming to remember something. "Are you h-hungry? It's n-no trouble, I-I can make some c-cookies, if ya want..." My expression involuntarily brightened at the mention of cookies. He caught this, and began to rock up and down on the balls of his feet happily.
He nodded knowingly, and slipped into the kitchen. I watched his retreating form, and hesitantly planted myself in one of the plush, blue couches. 'I'm so fucked up right now..' I heard the welcoming clatter of metallic on marble, the tearing of foil... It was oddly comforting. My head nodded steadily, the air growing thick and mild against the base of my skull. 'I really want to just... sleep.' 'With whom?', my thoughts chirped devilishly, and I pinched the bridge of my nose like I had seen Stan do so many other times. I shrugged off my jacket, and ran my hands jadedly through my blonde head.
'I really need a smoke...' I fumbled with the lighter and the couple of looseys in my pocket, before sighing exasperatingly, and shoving them farther down. "What the fuck am I thinking," I wondered aloud, and for once I thought I had really been expecting an answer. "A-are you alright?" I heard the voice drift out along the stifling haze of my mental turmoil and my head snapped up lazily, searching numbly for the source of the sound.
I stupidly watched as Butters sauntered towards me, his slight hips swaying delicately, his pouty, dewy, hot lips parted ever so sli-- 'I am SUCH a fucking psycho. Butters did NOT saunter. Damn it. ' He set a plate of what seemed like sugar cookies on the table, and tentatively handed me a glass of milk. "Y-you know, I think you should stay the night, K-Kenny. You're drunk, Mister, a-and it's not safe to b-be out there alone." He had an sweetly determined expression on his face, as if willing me to stay there with him.
I nodded, submitting to the suggestion easily. We sat in a sociable stillness for what seemed like an eternity, making small talk, him giggling, me smiling. He was so...simple. So easy to get along with, unlike the many unstable broads I had dated.
Butters was what you would call a real straight arrow, a 'Southern Belle', if he were a chick. He pretty much wanted everything to be simple and pleasant. The blood and squalor of life that keeps the majority of us intrigued and tantalized held no appeal for him.
After we saw Casualties of War at Craig's one night, a movie where Sean Penn and Michael J. Fox play soldiers whose squadron in Vietnam rapes and beats a poor peasant girl to death, Butters just kept asking me what the point was to sitting through hall that messy sordidness and 'ickyness'. Let's just say that Broadway musicals like Annie and Oklahoma! were probably invented with people like him in mind. He was positively childlike. Everything kind of slid by Butters: I honestly believe that when the rain falls down, it never lands on him.
If he weren't so cute and sociable, I'm not sure he'd exist at all, since he lacks most vital signs. But his pulchritude is almost a part of the problem: He is so faultlessly innocent that he actually seems sterile, possessed of such a pure and symmetrical attitude that is devoid of the sexual tension and perversion any boy his age would possess.
I offer him a lopsided smile, which causes his clear blue eyes to widen, and him to giggle contentedly. I yawn and ruffle my nearly shoulder length hair, blowing the golden bangs from my eyes. He eyes me curiously, before standing up and offering his hand. "C-c'mon Kenny, let's g-go to the bedroom." My brain has heard that before, and before I realize it, 'little Ken' has gotten excited over this new proposal.
"Fuck," I muttered harshly under my breath, and I follow Butter's up the stairs. There are photos on the wall, of him and his parents, and I wonder if those smiles are genuine.
I think back to my family back at 'home', and how it was just so... fucked up.
To most, there are two kinds of dysfunctional families: those who don't talk enough, and those who talk too damn much. The former always comes across as the more tragic, the more Eugene O'Neillish. These are the families in which everyone is so fearful of expressing not just their emotions, but absolutely anything, that they all drink or do drugs and get fucked up in their silence.
Then one day, one of the kids gets busted at school for smoking a joint in the stairwell, or maybe the daughter gets knocked up, and the parents see that all kinds of hell is going on while they sip their martinis and such on their green olives, and finally the whole family ends up seeing a counselor.
Complete bullshit. There's MY family, the company of fucked up hicks, the people who enjoy TV dinners and game shows, all in front of an 11 inch screen. The people who waste their money on booze and cheap booze. I snort irritably.
I break my attention from my mental debate and follow Butters into his room. The walls are a pale, cool blue , and the bed is fitted with thick, navy blue comforters. Just what I expected. There's a flat screen computer in the corner on a nice little white wood desk, and a matching dresser across the room next to the wide window. Again, simple. I like it.
Butters smiles sheepishly at me and begins to fix up the sheets. He fluffs the pillows carefully, and smoothes his hands along the comforter. "There ya g-go." He smiles again, a confident smile, one I think I'd like to remember, and points towards his bed.
I looked at him confusedly, before asking "Then where will you sleep?" There's a bit of concern in my voice. I don't really know where it came from. He smiles again, and gestures to the door. "W-well, on the couch." I shake my head and traipse across the room, pushing him gently onto the bed. "No, you're not. You're sleeping with me." His eyes widen, and he blushes furiously. I smirk amusedly.
"B-but Kenny, I c-can't, y-you're...", he trails off, as if too weak to end his sentence. I get up to flick off the light switch. The room is bathed in muted moonlight, and I sit at the edge of the bed and untie my Converse. I glance over my shoulder at him, to see him glancing back at me, his eyes studying my back questioningly. I crawl over to him, and smile, though my heart is fluttering ardently against my ribcage.
I lay down next to him, and he scuttles closer to me, almost until my chin is resting atop his tousled blonde head. I close my eyes and spoil myself, content in Butter's house, in his bed, in his presence.
He shifts a bit, just enough to be able to look at my face. "Kenny? Are we friends?", he asks quietly. I smiled against him, and reply, "I really think so." He smiles warmly against my neck, and for once I feel all right.
And that's when I realize it. We left the cookies downstairs.
Bubbly: Oh my god!!! I'm sorry that sucked, and i drabbled way too much!!! gaaaahhh!! so sorry!! Read and Review!!!