Black Tie

By AllzStar

A/N: I highly suggest you guys listen to the songs I will be posting at the beginning of each chapter. Also, apologies for the butt-fuck-load of exposition in these first couple of chapters. Cartman is depressed and reminiscing, okay?! Give him some tiiiiime...

Cover photo by JeyDS on DeviantArt.

Chapter Two: How'd I Get So Faded

I got sinning on my mind

Sipping on red wine

I've been sitting here for ages

Ripping out the pages

How'd I get so faded?

(Bloodstream, Ed Sheeran)

The next morning, I find it more difficult to get out of bed than usual. I hit snooze about ten times, until I literally have twenty-two minutes until class starts. In the morning rush-hour traffic, it will take me at least twenty-one minutes to get to school. I quickly brush my teeth and pull on a pair of jeans, then grab my backpack and head it.

As I pull out of our neighbourood and onto the highway, I light a cigarette. I started smoking during the summer after graduating. I like it. It reminds me that I am in control of my own impending death. Depression won't take me as long as I have cigarettes.

I remember my mother's face on the day I moved out: tears welling in the corners of her eyes and her mouth pressed in a thin line. She had begged me to write to her. I'd said, "No way in hell, Mom. Sorry. I love you."

I remember Stan's face as I told him what was on my mind that night at Stark's Pond: free of judgement, his hooded eyes dark with concern, his mouth wrapping around his third cigarette. That was when he had unofficially become my best friend.

I remember Kyle's face as I left him on the doorstep of his house: hands slack in his jeans pockets, his mouth slightly open, eyebrows knitted together on his forehead, blood-red curls softly framing his cherubic face.

Shortly after that, the unfairness of it all had hit me like a tonne of bricks. I had realized I needed to stop blaming Kyle for all my troubles, all my heartache. He had loved me, in his own way. He had tried to at least maintain a friendship with me. I had been the one to ultimately push him away because the jealousy I felt about everything was crushing me. Not just he jealousy, but the fear. I was afraid of getting hurt again, afraid of my sexuality, afraid of my future. Kyle had simply been riding through a patch of turbulence on his flight through youth, asking for love in all the wrong places. And I'd been the thid person to break his heart that year.

At that point, it had been too late for me to turn around and apologize. So I left town.

I sigh as I pull into one of the massive parking lots at the University of Denver, choosing a spot furthest away from the doors. I need the few extra minutes to walk across the parking lot to finish my second cigarette and swallow the rising dread in my chest. The Facebook image of drunk Kyle with that guy seems to be imprinted onto the inside of my eyelids. I don't want to see it anymore but it won't go away. Who knows what else has been posted there in the past six months since I unfriended him for good. He could be famous. He might be seeing someone.

No matter how much he had hurt me, I still can't bear that thought.

OOO

Kenny and Craig are having sex when I get home. I can hear Craig whining and screeching from outside. I can even hear Kenny's shitty bed squeaking.

God fucking damn it.

To my utter dismay, I feel my pants tighten at the sound of it. Ashamedly, this is not the first time I've been turned on by the sound of my rommates fucking. Part of me wants to stick around and listen to them, maybe even get myself off to it. The other part of me, the bigger part, wants to chop my own dick off for even considering such a thing.

It's Kenny grunting that really sets me off. God damn, but that is one sexy noise.

I decide to meet my parts halfway. I enter the house, making a beeline for my room. The Assholes are in the kitchen, seemingly unphased by the sound of buttsex happening ten feet away from them. I shut the door to my room behind me and yank my headphones on, blasting shitty scream-o music into my ears until Craig's screams seem to blend in with the track.

I guess I should have always known Craig Tucker would be a bottom. Figures.

I lounge on my bed, headphones still on, and prop my laptop open in my lap. Sign on to Facebook. Wendy Testaburger has posted an ultrasound still. Eighty-nine people have liked it. Sixty of those eighty-nine people have written various versions of "ZOMG CONGRATULATIONS YOU'RE GONNA BE SUCH A GOOD MOM OMG WE HAVE TO GET OUR KIDS TOGETHER FOR PLAYDATES SOMETIME LA LA LA LAAAA!"

I think I throw up in my mouth a little. I wonder, briefly, if Stan knows about this. They broke up almost two years ago, but the kid tends to be sensitive about all things Wendy, especially since she married the guy she started seeing a month after dumping Stan's ass.

A knock on my door. I don't know how I hear it over the screaming in my ears and the screaming down the hall. Brazenly, I glance at my watch. It's been a fucking half hour and they are still going at it.

Stan comes in. I yank off my headphones. Huh. It seems they actually have stopped fucking. I guess my music just sounds like Craig Tucker in heat. Never listening to that song again.

"Dude," Stan says, stradling my desk chair. He looks like hell and a half. "Did you see Wendy's post?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, man. Crazy."

He grimaces, taking a big swig of his monster bottle of Gatorade. His sweatpants are riding up in the crotch. I try not to notice the way the fabric has started to shape around his renoundedly big dick.

I swallow roughly. "I'm sorry, man."

He shrugs, but I see the mournful look in his eyes. "Whatever. I wouldn't want a fucking kid at this age, man. What a waste. She had so much potential."

I try and hold his gaze but he won't look at me. "Are you okay?"

"Meh." He stands and stretches, his shirt lifting up, revealing his flat, toned stomach, the ripple of his lower abdomen muscles, the sparse dusting of dark hair on his navel...

Calm down, I don't have a crush on my best friend. I just think he's fucking sexy as hell.

"Fuck I'm hungover." Stan rubs his stomach.

I raise my eyebrow at him. "You were a mess last night, dude. I'm, like, actually getting worried about you."

He shrugs. "I'm fine." Something about how he says it makes me think that he is not, in fact, fine. But then he says, "I'm actually worried about you."

I purse my lips. "What? Why?"

Stan's eyes wander around my room, avoiding my gaze. "You're depressed as fuck, man. Don't deny it. Everyone knows."

I make a grumpy "hmm" noise and fold my arms across my expansive chest.

Stan continues, "Kenny and I have been thinking about taking a trip over Christmas break. We want you to come."

"Where?"

"Uh..." Stan rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. "New York."

I snort out a bark of laughter. "Yeah. Not happening."

"Kyle got into that play," Stan says. "He wants us to come see it. He's the lead role, dude. And apparently the plays there are really good."

"Since when do you give a fuck about theatre?" I stand and walk past Stan and out of my room, padding towards the kitchen. The raven-haired fuck follows me, so I toss over my shoulder, "I'm not going."

"You are," Stand says, walking around the island to face me as I grab a beer from the fridge, "because I already bought your plane ticket."

I slam the fridge door shut. "Give it to Craig, then."

"Craig's going to the Dominican for the holidays."

"Well, someone else then!" I shout, twisting the bottle cap off with a dish towel. "I'm not going. I don't want to see some stupid play and I sure as shit don't want to see—" I stop, taking a long swig of beer.

I hate the sympathetic look Stan is giving me. "Come on, Cartman."

"Since when do you even care about the little Jew rat anyway?" I demand. "It's not like you guys are best butt buddies anymore."

Stan holds his hands out in front of him. "Don't lash out at me, man. I'm just trying to help you."

"You think seeing Kyle will help me?" I roar. I've had enough. "If you really wanna help me, you won't say his name again!"

Stan sighs. "You know what? Fine, whatever. Don't go to the show, don't see Kyle. But come to New York with us, man. We'll be there for New Years. Times Square. It'll be awesome. Kyle-free."

I think about it. For a long, drawn-out moment, I really think about it. It would be nice to get out of Colorado for a bit. It's what I've been itching to do for awhile. It would get to hang out with my friends in a huge, strange city and drink till I can't remember what pain feels like. But even if I don't go see the show, how do I know I won't see Kyle at any other point in time while we're there? The risk just seems too great.

"I don't know, man," I say, suddenly weary as the anger leaves my body. "I'll have to think about it."

Stan looks relieved. "You can't avoid him forever, dude. You know that, right?"

I finish my beer. "Yes. I can."

Stan shakes his head. "Sometimes I forget how fucking stubborn you are. Then you remind me."

"It's like I always say. People don't change."

Stan is quiet for a moment. I get another beer from the fridge.

"It would be the four of us," he says quietly.

"Huh?"

"If you come to New York. If you see the show. After. It would be the four of us again. Together."

I roll my eyes. "Jesus. Sometimes I really wonder if you're a fag, too."

Stan's blue eyes are hard as ice when he looks at me. He says nothing, but I know he's dead serious. He wants this. God damn it. A little part of me wants it, too. Back when the four of us were thick as thieves, things seemed a lot simpler. But it has been years since then. It's not the same anymore. And, despite what I always say, despite the fact that people never really do change—it never will be the same for us ever again.