Disclaimer: South Park and all characters in it are copyright Matt Stone and Trey Parker, not me.

A/N:

Next chapter, and in a pretty short time, as well. A little shorter than the previous one, but as always I prefer to end in a place where I feel the story needs the chapter to end, rather than reaching a certain word count.

This was not a chapter that wanted to get over-worked. It fought against being over-worked valiantly

Also, my ferret slept on my lap for probably a good 60% of the chapter, so now I smell like ferret, and can't feel my legs because I haven't moved them in over and hour and a half.

Food for thought: Not everything we do is done consciously. Not everything we think, we think consciously. The things we say without thinking of them, consciously, we can hear when we speak, and we know we've said them. The thoughts we think sub-consciously, without focusing on them, don't always let us remember them, and so we can end up being surprised when they suddenly burst, full fledged, into our consciousness. The actions we do without thinking about them consciously are somewhere in the middle; we should be able to know we've done them, because they are physical actions that have physical consequences, but we don't always recognize the fact that we are doing them, even if we do have those physical consequences set before us as evidence.

Sometimes that feeling that we get rising up in us, without seemingly any reason behind it, is a product of our sub-conscious thoughts working behind the scenes. Sometimes it is our subconscious that knows what is really going on. The problem is when our sub-conscious remains the only part of us that knows what is going on.

Thank you to:

Hot Monkey Brain

thequillofdestiny


Title: Pink

Author: Zoshi the Confused
Rating: Ranging, mostly PG-PG13

Category: South Park

Genre: Angst/eventual tragedy

May contain: Shounen-Ai/Boy Love, Violence, Adult Situations, Swearing


He never scarred.

He didn't understand why he couldn't scar.

He was mortal, wasn't he? He could die.

So why couldn't he scar?

****

I stood at the edge of the field, staring out over the trampled grass and yard lines. The sun was just starting to set in front of me, tinting the clouds hovering above the horizons a pinkish-orange. There were shouts and laughs coming from the parking lot behind me, but they seemed distant; everything around me seemed silenced. Hollow. I leaned against the side of the bleachers heavily, sighing.

"It was a good game."

I looked up Red where he sat smoking on the bleachers. His bag was at his feet, and he was looking out over the field as well. I laughed, no, almost laughed but not quite, and grinned wearily. He turned to me; I couldn't read his expression, which wasn't anything new. Sighing again, I tossed my helmet to the ground and walked up the bleachers to sit down on the same bench he sat on.

"Don't you need that for the next game?" Red asked, and I shrugged, rubbing my hands together. The wind blew past me, bringing with it the scent of smoke and cloves.

"Dunno," I answered. Truthfully, maybe. I dropped my head into my hands, rubbed at my eyes with my palms. I was probably smearing my eye black but I could care less. Even if I did end up as a raccoon. I grimaced, and stopped rubbing my eyes. "Dammit."

I looked up, chin still in my hands, to look at the field again. A few streamers from the cheerleaders' pom-poms were fluttering around on the grass. I could see a few patches where the turf had been torn up during an especially hard tackle, the soil black against the rich green of the grass. I looked over at Red, surprised to find him watching me, cigarette held in his fingers. There was a strange look in his eyes, and he was frowning just slightly.

"What?" I asked, or maybe groaned was more like it.

"You made good decisions." He said, with a certainty I wish I had. He sounded so damn certain I almost believed him.

"Sure," I answered with a laugh. I could hear the bus engine idling in the background. There were more shouts, and calls, but they were fading even more as time went by. As I stared out over the field, the sun dipping lower on the horizon, I could hear the bus engine begin to grow quieter.

"There they go," I muttered, unable to even try to lift my head. Red shifted slightly on the bleacher bench, I could feel him move, but he stayed silent. I sighed again; I was replaying everything that had happened on the field in my head. There were so many things I could have done; I should've sent the runner that way, flanked their main offense. I should have played for longer throws, they wouldn't have been able to block them. I should've, should've, should've…

"You're only human," Red said, although I just barely heard him. I covered my face again, closing my eyes. I didn't want to look at him; I had the feeling that he was keeping his gaze on me all this time, and it was a little… I don't know what it was, but I wished he'd look away, just for a moment.

"That's off the field," I replied, running my fingers through my hair and opening my eyes to see that trampled field again. "On the field, I'm supposed to be something more."

Red stayed silent, and I was grateful for that at least. Darkness was starting to creep in, and I was starting to realize that just because we were there didn't mean that the field lights would be coming on. Still, I couldn't find the will to move.

"You missed the bus," I spoke before I realized it, not really thinking. All I knew was that I couldn't hear any motors anymore; the lot must be empty already.

"Was I supposed to be on it?" Red asked, and it was the slight, barely-there, note of surprise which had snaked itself into his words that made me look at him. His cigarette was gone, probably tossed away already, and his eyes were on me. I couldn't help but think how funny it was that a hat that looked stupid on half the kids in school looked perfect on him. Maybe because it matched his whole color scheme. Maybe because it was him.

"No," I said finally, managing a soft grin. "No."

****

The dry erase board was covered with the type of notations and equations you'd expect to find in a scientist's lab. I smirked slightly at the comparison, looking over the red, green, and blue scrawls, and picked up one of the markers resting on the board's edge. Grinning to myself, I popped the marker's cap off, and looked for a place that wouldn't be obvious. I pressed the tip of the marker to a spot right at the end of a particularly long equation and started to add my own random numbers to the mix.

"Stan! What the fuck are you doing?"

Cartman's voice, booming out of nowhere, nearly made me drop the marker. It was snatched out of my hand soon enough, and my additions to the board were being erased.

"Aw, come on," I sighed loudly, "I didn't do anything…"

"You were adding almost two mahls to the trajectoreh, douche," Cartman growled, capping the marker and tossing it onto the little edge at the bottom of the board. He glared at me, crossing his arms. "Two mahls."

"That's a problem?" I asked innocently, leaning back against the brunette's desk. I grinned, and Cartman rolled his eyes. The larger brunette turned a critical eye to the board again, looking for any other additions I might have added.

"Whaddya want?" Cartman asked finally, satisfied that there weren't any other changes made.

"Nothing. Just wanted to stop by and say hey, I guess," I shrugged, looking around the room. Nothing much was different since last time; the dry erase board stood against the wall as it had always stood, and the wall opposite was covered in schematics and designs for various objects. "Planning anything new?"

"Eh, you know, usual stuff…" Cartman shrugged, walking over to the wall of blueprints, "This one? It's an undetectable personnel carrier, but it's five times as efficient at being undetected by radar than the best stealth planes they have now, even though it's large enough to carry around sixty people."

"Personnel carrier? That sounds… tame…" I said, and Cartman snorted, turning a smirk my way.

"I was planning a bomber with the abiliteh to transport a high amount of dumb bombes deep inside enemy territoreh and leave without being detected." Cartman looked back at the schematic. "Dad said it'd be easier to get funding for a more ambiguous design, at least on the level of contests now. He said I should keep the bomber idea for later."

I grinned, nodding slightly. The guy had a great way of keeping Cartman interested, and in line at the same time. I looked up at the model plane hanging from the ceiling; it was some sort of wedge-shaped deal with flared wing ends. I had no idea what it did, or was supposed to do. All I knew was that it was what won Cartman an award in some Midwest designers convention for high school students, or whatever it was. He'd put a lot of work into that , he put in a lot of work on all of his designs.

"Did you ever get lost?" I asked, still looking up at the plane. It was shifting slightly in the air currents of the room.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Cartman muttered. I sighed, looking over at him. He was running his hand over the designs, fingers pressing the corners firmly just in case any of them wanted to loosen their hold on the wall.

"Nothing." I bit my lip, hopped back onto the desktop. Cartman turned to give me a strange look, and I shrugged, grinning. He rolled his eyes and moved over to sit on his bed.

"Then why the hell are you asking meh?" Cartman stared at me, hard. I looked away, but I knew he wasn't going to let me off the hook. "Are you being a pusseh again Stan? You are, aren't you?"

"Nooo…" I kept myself from looking at him, but I was having a hard time not giving in and admitting he was right. I didn't want to, because then I would really look like a total fag. Of course, I'd already made myself look like a total fag in front of Cartman numerous times, so I didn't know why it mattered.

"It's just… I was…" I rocked my feet, kicking lightly against the desk, and looked over at him. He was looking painfully condescending. I was most likely taking away time he could be spending on plans or designs, or maybe just good old fashioned plotting. "I was just thinking about Craig, you know…"

"God damn, Stan," Cartman groaned, "It's been two fucking years! Stop being such a whineh fag, will you?"

I dropped my head, bit my lip. I knew he was right, but it wasn't an easy thing to do. It wasn't easy at all.

"We bareleh knew him, I don't know why it's bothering you so much…" Cartman continued to grumble under his breath. I tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in my throat. I put a hand to my face, rubbed my eyes.

"What got you thinking about him?" Cartman asked, or snapped was more like it..

"I dunno, I was just thinking…" I sighed, dropping my hand. Cartman was giving me a strange look. I grinned, but he grimaced, and shook his head.

"You know what your problem is? You think too much." Cartman sighed, standing up off of the bed. I nodded, laughing.

"Yeah, you're right." I let out the breath and looked over at him. He nodded his head towards the door, and I stood up, following him out the door.

"You need to work on that, jocks aren't supposed to have brains, you're totalleh ruining your image," Cartman smirked at me as we headed down the hallway. I gave him a good-natured shove, grinning, and followed him down the stairs.

****

Fine arts class was a pretty new addition to the high school curriculum, and because of that we had nothing more than a glorified scrapbooking retiree teaching us the names of colors and showing us what a color wheel was for. Most of what she showed us I remembered from grade school, so it was no wonder that most of the class was coasting by with easy A's. I yawned, laying my head on my arms. I didn't know what the teacher was going to have us do, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't need more than a few minutes to finish whatever it was she thought up for us.

"Well, class, I have something verrrry interesting for us to try today…"

I grimaced; sometimes I thought nails on the chalkboard might be less irritating than her voice. I managed to ignore most of what she said after that, and was just beginning to happily dozing off when someone shoved me from the side. I groaned, burying my face deeper into my arms, but whoever it was didn't give up, and only shoved me harder.

"Dammit, Stan, wake the fuck up will you?" Kyle's voice hissed from my side, and I raised my head slowly.

"What?" I looked at him blearily, trying to hold back a yawn, and he shook his head.

"Dude, we actually have to do something today," The redhead looked slightly worried, and he was talking quietly. "And we're supposed to be starting it now."

I looked around curiously; there was not a sound in the room, and everyone seemed to have a far off look on their faces.

"What's going on?" I asked, but it seemed I asked too loudly and Kyle shushed me quickly.

"You're supposed to be thinking of something that makes you happy," He said, smirking. "And then you have to draw it, or paint it, or something."

"What?" This time I managed to keep my voice to a whisper, but I was just a little taken aback.

"Abstract. It's not supposed to be realistic or anything. It's just supposed to represent it," Kyle explained. I nodded, feeling a little better, and looked up towards the front of the room. The teachers was giving us a curious look, and I ducked my head quickly.

"I guess it's time to start then," I said quietly, and Kyle snickered.

With a sigh, I tried to think of something I liked. A lot. Footbal was up front, of course, but it was so cliché. Of course, Mr. Jock likes football, a lot. What a surprise. Well, then, maybe a girl or something. I frowned, concentrating. A girl. Mr. Jock is supposed to like girls, right? Wait, that was another cliché. I wasn't sure how I was going to figure out something that made me happy that I could use. I mean, I'm not exactly an artsy type of person; hell, I try, but it just doesn't work for me. And drawing or painting something that makes me happy, that's just… more than a little difficult.

Except, I realized, it isn't all that difficult at all. We're supposed to do something abstract. Abstract. I grinned as I realized just how easy this whole thing was going to be, and turned to Kyle to share the good news. I would've told him right away, too, but his expression was so dreamy I just couldn't bring myself to do it. People were starting to get up all around us, moving towards the supply closet in back, but Kyle was just staring off somewhere into space, a slight, soft grin on his face. I decided to give him a few minutes; it's obvious whatever he was thinking about was pretty special to him.

Pretty special was probably right on target, I thought as I looked back at him. His eyes had gotten a certain glint to them, and his grin was turning into a leer. Grinning, I reached out and gave him a slight shove; it'd probably be better for him to wake up, considering most of the class was already working on something. It took him a little while to snap out of it, and once he did he gave me a harsh glare.

"So, thinking about something that makes you happy, eh?" I said, winking. Kyle scowled at me for a moment, but it quickly turned into a smirk as he slouched back in his chair. "What was it?"

"Fire," Kyle answered without pause, fiddling with one of his ear studs. The look in his eyes was a little secretive, but though I gave him a curious glance, eyebrow cocked, he didn't say anything more about it. I grinned, shaking my head.

"Fire? Didn't know you could get so… horny for fire…" I chuckled, and Kyle whacked me in the arm. "Seriously, fire?"

"Yes, fire," Kyle affirmed.

"I worry about you sometimes," I said jokingly, grinning at him.

"I worry about me sometimes, too," Kyle answered. Something threw me off in his answer, and I looked at him closely, but he laughed and got up. "Need anything from the supply closet?"

"I'll come with you," I said, grinning. I still needed to come up with something myself, but I could feel something tugging at the back of the mind. We headed over to the supply closet and started digging through the paper trays and racks of coloring supplies. I didn't know what to pick, and started pulling paints out at random, and putting them back at random as well. Finally, I stood back, eyeing the supplies and wondering if I was missing something.

"Black and red?" Kyle asked, looking at the paints I had grabbed. I looked down at them in surprise; I hadn't realized what I was grabbing, and I didn't know what the hell I was going to do with red and black. Reaching back among the supplies I pulled out a bottle of brown and a bottle of white paint as well.

"Football," I said, grinning at the redhead next to me.

"You're not making any sense," Kyle snickered, pulling out a pack of different colored construction paper and flipping through it.

"Oh, and you are, Mr. Pyro? Tell me, does the thought alone work, or do you actually need to light some matches to get off?" That was snarky, and I knew it, and Kyle flipped me off, rolling his eyes.

"Better than getting off to the smell of pigskin," He snapped back, and although we both laughed it sounded a little strained. I tried not to frown, turning away from the supply closet. As we headed back to our seats, I desperately tried to think of a way to make red, black, and brown turn into an abstract representation of football. This easy assignment was suddenly starting to look more and more difficult.