Disclaimer: I don't own South Park, the character, or idea's associated with it. I alos do not own the music mentioned.
The next day I woke up at five thirty to the alarm Michael had set on my phone. I shut it off and got out of bed to take a shower. When I got to the bathroom, I found that my mom had replaced the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash with new ones that smelled like a fucking girl. The body wash was fucking sparkly. I mean what the hell? And it smelled like "Frosted sugar plum," whatever the hell that is. And the conditioner and shampoo smelled of vanilla and blackberries. I'd certainly hear Michael's snared comments about this again.
After I showered, I walked to my room and got dressed—pulling on a black undershirt, black jeans, and my purple, buckled, Winkle-Picker shoes. As I grabbed my dark red and black dress shirt, Michael walked in. He grabbed my bolo tie off my bureau, walked over to me and started to unbutton my buttons only to button them again; apparently somewhere along the line I had messed up. He faceted the bolo tie around my neck and looked closely at my eyes. "Pete, you're not leaving the house looking like this. Where is your eyeliner?" Michael asked, turning my head back and forth.
"It's in the bathroom. Why?"
Michael let go of my face and walked into the bathroom. I heard the water running and the cabinet open, and then he remerged in front of me. He scrubbed around my eyes with a face cloth and applied eyeliner to my eyes without saying a word. After he was done, he put the things back in the bathroom and looked me over once more. "You're good now. Come on then, we have to get going."
Michael ushered me out of the house, down the stairs, and into his car; Michael's car had benched seats which I didn't much care for. As I slid into the car, Michael was already sitting and turning it on. I attempted to sit next to window, but Michael grabbed my arm and fucking dragged me across the seat to right next to him and buckled me in. "Michael what the hell? I know how to buckle myself in; I know how to do things on my own; I'm not a fucking child, stop it," I moaned.
He looked at me and glared. "Sorry I freaking care about you." He began to drive slowly.
I looked at him, "Michael, I didn't mean it that way. Come on Michael, I'm just tired, it's early and I haven't had any coffee or even a cigarette, yet. Please forgive me."
Michael, being a much better driver than Henrietta, had no problem doing what he did next: he reached into his coat pocket and handed me his cigarette packet, then he leaned over and sniffed me and my hair. "You smell so sweet, like candy. I like it much better than yesterday. I like it very much," he chuckled.
I would have flipped him off, but he did just hand me his cigarette pack, so instead I chose to be grateful and light one. I slipped the pack back in his pocket and took a long drag from the cigarette before I handed it to him. The rest of the ride was vaguely quiet, Michael still had something on his mind, and it was taxing him greatly.
When we finally arrived inside the building, there were a few people I greatly despised seeing: Mike Murkowski, Leopold "butters" Stotch, Kenny McCormick, and fucking Eric Cartman. I'm glad Stan the poser, and Kyle weren't here. Mike, who was not with the others, saw us and began to walk over. This upset Michael, him not at all liking Mike, and I personally hated the little bitchy vamp kid.
Michael looked over at an older lady and she waved him over; she's the women who set up the fucking recital. Michael was obviously relieved for the way to avoid Mike, despite the fact that he had to go deal with the old fucking conformist teacher. Mike stopped in front of me and looked me up and down. "So…Pete, what are you two doing here…together?" he asked suspiciously.
I rolled my eyes. "Michael's parents are making him play the Moonlight sonnet for tonight's recital," I said.
He leaned in close to me, "Oh, I didn't know he could play, but he mustn't be that good if he's only playing that."
I couldn't help but chuckle at this, he obviously did not know how talented Michael was if he thought his skill stopped at that, but Mike thought I was chuckling in amusement. He moved closer to me and looked deep in my eyes. "So you wanna ditch him and spend some time with me instead?"
I rolled my eyes. "What are you saying, like seriously, what? That almost sounded like a pick-up line."
Mike breathed in deeply, and then exhaled, "Pete, you're ever so naive. It was a pick-up line. Now are you going to come with me or not?" he asked.
I scoffed at him. "I think not," I said, walking away.
Mike stood there for a second then called after me. "Just watch, one day you'll be changing your mind."
I walked past Kenny, and then Butters, but as I went to walk past fat-ass Cartman, he tripped me. I landed wrong and twisted my ankle and he burst out in obnoxious laughter. "Look, the pussy-ass Goth hurt himself!" he mocked through laughs. Butters mouthed the word sorry in my direction. I got up and managed to make my way off in another direction.
In a moment I was joined again by Michael. "Nazi conformist. Is your ankle ok?" he asked.
"I guess its fine; I'll have to wrap it later, but it's cool for now," I said. As I finished, Henrietta and Firkle arrived.
Henrietta looked at Michael. "It's about time for you to start doing things Michael. Go on get going. Why aren't you gone yet?" she half asked, half told.
"Well you see, that fat Nazi tripped Pete and hurt his ankle, so I came to check on him. Got a problem with that?" Michael said apathetically. Henrietta grinned at him and he stalked way. Firkle was already several steps ahead of us and had found seats. We joined him, and several minutes later the recital started.
We sat through several boring acts before Michael was up. When he began to play we instantly noticed it was not Beethoven's Moonlight sonnet. I recognized it after a second; it was La Fragile Mort by Proyecto Oniric. We heard it on the internet while searching for gothic piano music; I commented how I liked it, but Michael could never find sheet music for it. He must have listened to it enough times to figure out how to play it.
The looks on the faces of his conformist teacher and fascist step-mother when they heard it instead of what he was supposed to play were priceless. When Michael finished, he found us and ushered us out to his car. Henrietta and Firkle were brought here by her mother so they got in Michael's car with us. As we got in, Henrietta suddenly started in, "So Michal, why'd you play that song?" she asked an edge to her voice.
Michael's eyes suddenly shifted to her as he went to buckle me in, "No reason, really, I just happen to like that song." He shifted to start the car.
Henrietta sighed. "You're a fucking liar. By the by, I think Pete knows how to buckle himself in."
Michael sighed and started the car. "You're also a liar, I thought you we're going to be late?"
"I'll admit to my lie, though. I just didn't want to be any earlier than I had to be, and you had to be fifteen minutes early. Fifteen minutes is fifteen minutes, and I used it wisely. I admitted my lie, now you admit yours. Or are you too freaking scared to?" she prodded.
Michael looked at her through the rearview mirror and flipped her off. "If we must play this game, then so be it. I lied, I didn't play it because I liked it; I played it because Pete liked it. You happy now?" he sighed heavily.
As Michael drove back to town, Henrietta and Firkle took a nap and I fiddled with the radio, knowing Michael wasn't in the mood to talk. As Michael parked the car in the parking lot of Benny's, I began to wake Henrietta and Firkle. We sat at the booth closest to the door and soon a waitress came to serve us coffee.
Henrietta yawned, still half asleep, "So Michael, you said you'd read your poem today, so let's finally hear it."
Michael groaned, pulling his journal out of his pocket. He looked at me and opened to a marked page:
He looks with ignorance
A wall keeping me out
His smile, it pains me
Acts as though he knows, tempting, but oblivious.
He could heal my soul
Make me complete
But he doesn't know.
Fear of action coincides frustration,
Moves needed aren't made
Words needed aren't said.
Time moves, progress stands
Longing and Love mean pain
Romantic feelings kill,
The fear to act causes my unavoidable death.
As Michael finished reading I realized he had been looking at me the entire fucking time, and Henrietta and Firkle had the biggest grins on their faces, but I didn't understand what any of them were thinking. So I just fucking sat there, pouring sugar into my coffee, feeling that everyone else at the table knew something I didn't.