If Stan had been told about it, he would have thought it was a lie. If it had been an image, he would have accredited it to Photoshop. If it had been a painting, he would have likened it to the work of Claude Monet; it would certainly fit well in his repertoire, comfortably placed between Water Lily Pond and The Seine near Giverny.
It was so picturesque that he wondered if his eyes were deceiving him, perhaps his concussion had altered his perception of the world. Stark's Pond had seemingly captured the moon, the stars, and the entirety of the universe in its small reflection, casting a mesmerizing, ethereal glow upon the surrounding trees, flowers, and benches. It was in situations like these, the ones where he stood idly and looked at the docile, tame little pond when he found himself most confused about the mysteries surrounding it.
Only one year ago, Max Kentwood, an elite swimmer, was found dead in the pond. The whole case, aptly named 'Pond Boy', had sent several shock waves echoing through the town. One was when he was discovered. One was when his body showed no signs of inebriation or external injuries that could've caused him to drown. Another was when the police force showed next to no interest in the case. However, like echoes do, the shock waves faded away. Now, the only memory of Max was the 400 extra steps Stan had to walk around the pond every time he was at work.
Stan positioned himself on one such bench, waiting for his friends to arrive. It was already well past 8 pm, although that was not unusual nor frustrating; they had agreed that 8 pm was too early, so it was changed to 11 pm. He would rather do anything other than night swimming, but it was Saturday, and the others couldn't go without him.
Behind him, he could hear the tranquil sound of an owl hooting, scaring others away from its precious territory. He could hear crickets chirping, luring others towards them. Several more insects buzzed and flew over the pond, dancing in the air and reveling in the humid summer atmosphere. The frogs croaked, putting on a show as they tried to catch as many insects as possible.
He took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the scents of moss, petrichor, and a faint hint of chlorine from the nearby indoor pool. He allowed his eyelids to droop and his head to sink down between his legs. Breathing deeply through his nose, he let the surroundings calm his mind, relieve his nausea and alleviate his headache. With his head almost below the bench, he noticed another scent—a sweet and mellow fragrance that caused him to open his eyes once again.
Embracing the metal legs of the bench were an assortment of flowers: delicate blue forget-me-nots, flaming red cardinal flowers, and another type of flower that Stan couldn't identify. Although it bore a striking resemblance to a rose, its black color indicated otherwise.
Stan's eyes lingered on the alluring black roses, as he tried to determine what they were. It was as though he couldn't peel his eyes away from them; as if he were forced to look, forced to justify the existence of these flowers. The endeavor only served to intensify his headache once again.
His attention was only pulled from the black roses when the sounds of the owl's hoot, the cricket's song, the buzzing of insects, and the croaking of frogs merged with a new sound: heavy, approaching footsteps. The surrounding aromas mingled with something new as well; the acrid stench of cigarette smoke. He knew precisely who it was; someone he wished would have shown himself last.
"Hey, Trent," Stan's voice was cautious and small. His hands grew sweaty, and his jaw tensed. "You're here early, huh?"
Trent stood a few meters away from Stan, leaning against a lonely streetlight—the last one between where the town ended and the forest began. Several vines sneaked their way up the streetlight, encasing it in green leaves, eroding it away. The lonely streetlight was working tirelessly to bathe Trent in its cold, fluorescent light, painting his blond hair in unnatural bleach. The light looked so small next to Trent's imposing figure.
He held a cigarette in his hand, letting the cirri of smoke float on the breeze. A bag hung lazily from his other hand, presumably carrying his swimming things.
Trent looked at him with bored, unimpressed eyes that seemingly bore through him, finding any and every weakness. "Keen observation." His voice was dripping with mocking sarcasm. Then he changed his tone to one of slight admiration as he looked at the pond. "So, this is the Stark's Pond?"
Stan nodded, smiling a bit. Trent didn't seem to want to pick on him over anything, so it probably wasn't a big deal that they were alone together. "The one and only."
Trent tilted his head to the side. "I thought it'd be bigger."
"Why would it be bigger?"
"I dunno," Trent shrugged, "I just thought it would be more imposing or something."
"Why should it be imposing?" Stan asked, genuinely perplexed.
Trent shrugged again. "'cause I've only been back in town for a month and a half, and someone has already threatened to drown me in it." He took a drag from his cigarette and watched the smoke make pirouettes in the air. "So, I thought it'd be bigger."
Stan didn't have a good response to that. Nothing. It was crazy to think about, but Trent had been back in town for a month and a half, and he had not once tried to go after them. He just nodded and watched Trent's eyes move elsewhere.
The next to arrive would probably be Cartman. Usually, Stan would expect Kyle would be the first to arrive. But he was likely slowed down by having to pick Kenny up. And Stan could think of a million reasons why Kenny would be late. Maybe he was running around, not knowing where he put his old, patched-up swimming trunks again. Maybe he was stopped by the police again. Maybe Rick showed up and tried to convince him to fuck again. Maybe he was fighting with Kyle, trying desperately to avoid having to spend time with Trent again.
"Hey," Trent's deep voice cut through the surrounding ambiance. "What were you looking at? Under the bench."
He had finished his cigarette and was rubbing it into the grass beneath his feet, leaving a reminder for any future guest that someone had been there before them.
Trent looked back at Stan; the usual, cold apathy in his eyes having been replaced by a gleam of curiosity. Stan had hoped that Trent hadn't noticed him looking at the flowers, that they would remain his secret, his mysterious discovery. But now, he had no choice but to acknowledge their existence.
Stan straightened his posture, trying to regain his composure. "I, uh, I was just looking at those," he said, his voice a little too nonchalant. "I've never seen these kinds of flowers before. They're very different, huh?"
Trent raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from Stan to the black roses and back again. "Yes, very," he mused. Trent looked at the black roses, his expression unreadable. He took a step closer, causing Stan to brace himself, but then he stopped, still several meters away from the bench. The prospect of being able to examine the flowers was futile from that distance.
"You won't get a good look from that far away," Stan said, still trying to sound nonchalant. "Why'd you stop moving?"
Trent let out a small chuckle, accompanied by a slightly mocking smile. His voice had an unexpected scorn to its tone. He put his hands in his pockets and started fidgeting with his feet, kicking small rocks and such. "I'd rather not trigger the fatty's FOMO," he admitted. "Believe it or not, I don't wanna get yelled at or sit through another one of his stupid performances. So, I'll keep my distance."
He laughed a bit more, as if the idea of being intimidated by Cartman was completely foreign to him, a concept he couldn't comprehend. He could also hardly label Cartman's compulsion as FOMO; his unwavering insistence on his own presence bore more semblance to a God complex or a possessive idea of protecting them from Trent. Of course, Stan wouldn't dare tell Trent that.
Despite his previous statement, Trent came closer nonetheless, continuing his mocking laughter at the idea of Cartman's intimidation. He stopped when he was just a foot away from Stan, letting his bag plop on the ground. He crouched down and started examining the black flowers. "They're kind of cool, actually. I think I've seen them before, but I don't remember where."
Stan internally scoffed at the statement. It was such an obvious lie; if there was anything Trent did not remember, he certainly wouldn't let Stan know about that gap in his memory. He did not mistrust that Trent had seen the flowers before, but why would he lie about where?
Trent was evidently uninterested in Stan, focusing solely on the obsidian sight before him. He extended his hand, cupping one of the ebony blossoms. His fingers coiled around the stem, attempting to pluck it.
The moment seemed to freeze as Trent applied pressure around the stem. His face twisted with pain, and he let out a sharp gasp, startling Stan beyond all belief. In an instant, his hand recoiled, releasing the rose as if it had burned him. "Shit, fuck. The bitch has thorns." He hissed out.
Stan stood up and turned his attention to Trent's hand. There was a small spot on his index finger, from which an unreasonable amount of blood spilled out. It coated his palm in crimson, some trickled down his wrist and forearms, some dripped further and painted the grass a deep maroon. The blood appeared remarkably thin, as if it had been diluted with hirudin. The adulteration of the blood certainly served to increase its amount.
The sight alone was enough to make Stan feel nauseated, and the smell only served to intensify his queasiness. He had thought the cigarette smoke on Trent's clothing smelled bad, but he couldn't possibly have prepared himself for the almost meaty metallic odor that now filled the air.
Hastily covering his mouth and nose with his hands, Stan observed Trent's fingers starting to spasm uncontrollably, as if he had lost control over them. The muscles in his arm flexed and cramped involuntarily, causing him visible pain. "What the fuck! It was just a fucking thorn," Trent hissed angrily. It was difficult to decipher whether his anger was directed at Stan or the flower itself. Probably both.
Trent's entire body tensed and his breathing quickened into a restrained hyperventilation. He shook his hand like he had some bug on it, getting his gross blood all over the place.
Stan was at a loss for words, he could barely hear his thoughts over the sound of his heartbeat. Perhaps if he kept his mouth shut, Trent would forget he was even there and not be mad at him. However, it seemed that his potential response was unnecessary anyway, as he heard another voice call out, "Congratulations, numb nuts. You just pricked yourself on the Reginae Adiutor; a very poisonous beauty."
Stan recognized the voice, but he still turned his head to confirm his suspicion. Emerging from among the trees was Henrietta Biggle, adorned in her gothic attire. As she approached them, she continued speaking, "Don't worry, you won't die. Consider yourself lucky that you only pricked yourself once. You probably won't even need to go to the hospital."
Upon reaching them, Henrietta retrieved a silky black handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and used it to wipe the watery blood from Trent's arm, actively calming both boys down in the process. "The Reginae Adiutor is truly fascinating. It's my favorite flower," she stated in her monotone voice, indicating her deeper knowledge of this enigmatic plant.
Stan gazed at her expectantly, silently urging her to share more information. Trent would probably not mind hearing more either, although he was currently preoccupied with taking deep breaths. Henrietta proceeded, "Well, since you haven't stopped me, I'll continue. These rose-like flowers have two names: Tenuior Aqua and the aforementioned Reginae Adiutor." She carefully folded the handkerchief around Trent's index finger to staunch the bleeding, she then retrieved a juice box from her pocket and handed it to him. "Cranberry juice is a natural muscle relaxer and it keeps your blood sugar high."
A confused expression involuntarily appeared on Stan's face. Why did she have cranberry juice? Was she specifically seeking out individuals in need to discuss her peculiar interests? Or perhaps she simply had a fondness for cranberry juice. The goth appeared completely unfazed by his visible confusion as she took a seat on the bench and lit a cigarette, continuing her information-filled monologue.
"The two names correspond to the two ways its poison works," she explained, turning to look at Trent, who had joined her on the bench. His hands were still a little shaky. "The Tenuior Aqua is when it's injected into the body. It coats the thorns. Sound familiar?"
Trent rolled his eyes slightly and nodded, clearly annoyed by Henrietta's condescending tone. "Good, so your brain is still somewhat functioning," she remarked. "Anyway, the poison causes local cramping, muscle spasms, and it dilutes the blood. All those things happened to you." Henrietta took a long drag from her cigarette. "Tenuior Aqua is Latin for 'thinner than water.' You can probably guess why it's named that."
She took another drag from her cigarette and looked at Trent with an impressed look. "Tenuior Aqua can be easily extracted from the power by boiling the petals and thorns, so medieval executioners used it as a torture device. I'm actually surprised you're so composed. It's kinda goth."
As if on cue, they heard Cartman's voice bellow behind them. "Aye! I told you to keep 10 feet distance, motherfucker!" Henrietta stood back up, finished her cigarette and turned to leave, without finishing her informative monologue.
Quickly, Trent stood up and walked back to the streetlight, letting the artificial light bathe him again. "What's it look like, asshat? I am 10 feet away!" He yelled, gesturing to his position by the streetlight, as if Cartman hadn't just seen him on the bench. He had started calmly sipping his juice.
Cartman was approaching quickly. He looked like a giant from where Stan was sitting. "Don't pretend I didn't see you there. What did you do?!" He was clearly trying to puff himself up; there was no way he would actually fight Trent.
Trent rolled his eyes in a very exaggerated manner. "Ugh, God! Not this shit again! I didn't do anything, so you can quit squealing, piggy!"
Cartman picked up the pace, getting close to Trent and poking his chest. "Miss me with that bullshit, Trent! I heard you yelling and…"
Stan started tuning them out. The aggressive yelling was making his headache even worse, and he still needed to know about the other way the poison works. He stood up and ran after Henrietta, grabbing her wrist. "Wait, Henri, you still haven't told us about the other way it works."
Henrietta looked down at his hand around her wrist with a small look of disgust on her face. "The other function, Reginae Adiutor, is when you eat the petals. It means 'The Queen's helper'. But I'd rather not tell men about its effects. Just don't eat it." She wriggled out of his grip and walked away.
Stan stood there for a few seconds, watching her leave. "That sexist bitch," he muttered to himself.
He turned around and walked back to where Cartman and Trent were still exchanging insults. Cartman had a harsh grip on the collar of Trent's shirt, holding his face mere inches away from his own. Still, the expression on Trent's face sent shivers down Stan's spine. He was smiling, his eyes gleaming with intensity as Cartman continued to hurl insults at him.
In the past two days, Trent had done several things that Stan couldn't have predicted, such as setting that deadline, threatening Kenny, giving Stan a concussion, sending Kyle to get snacks, and so on. But in this particular situation, Trent's next move seemed surprisingly predictable: he was going to call Cartman's bluff, then break every bone in his body.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Trent did no such thing. Instead, he turned his head to Stan and said, "Well, Marsh, tell him what happened." Stan's mind short-circuited for a minute. That was certainly not what he had expected. How silly of him, he had genuinely thought he could simply predict Trent.
Stan shifted his gaze to Cartman, who was looking at him expectantly. "He, uh, pricked his finger on one of those," Stan gestured to the Reginae Adiutor, then he gestured to Trent's hand, still wrapped in the soft black handkerchief, "they're apparently super poisonous." Trent was looking at him, his lips pressed into a scowl, and his eyes were communicating a clear message, an instruction. "And, uh, I was the one who told him to break the 10-feet rule." Stan started scratching the back of his neck. He had effectively taken the blame, so Trent had no reason to be mad at him.
Cartman immediately backed off, all too eager to not fight Trent. But the damage was already done. Trent looked at him, with a sadistic smile on his lips and said: "Well, then, what do you have to say for yourself, lardass?"
Cartman had completely deflated, muttering little apologies, and smoothing out Trent's shirt collar, as if it would appease his rage. "Say, Trent, have you ever heard about the hit musical Hamilton?" Cartman's voice was small and apologetic.
Trent's smile faded a little bit. "I don't wanna sit through another one of your fucking musicals, blubber!"
Cartman's face broke out into a wide, painted smile. "Too late!" He announced before he quickly began singing. "How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot-" Trent pushed him onto the ground in what was likely his first predictable move yet.
As Cartman hit the ground, Trent towered over him with a mix of anger and amusement in his eyes. The streetlight cast ominous shadows on his face, intensifying the atmosphere. Stan watched from the sidelines, unsure of what would unfold next.
Trent's fists clenched tightly at his sides, the knuckles on his uninjured hand turning white. It was obvious that he was about to unleash his every little bit of rage on Cartman. But just as tension reached its peak, a voice cut through the air, breaking the standoff.
"Hey guys, sorry we're late!" It was Kyle's voice; he was a few meters away and approaching. Stan's relief was palpable as Kyle's presence broke the tense standoff. He couldn't help but feel incredibly happy that his best friend had shown up, bringing a sense of comfort and support in the midst of chaos. He could see Kenny following behind him, almost as if he was using the redhead as a shield. He was not wearing his parka, for some reason. Kyle's eyes quickly surveyed the scene: Cartman on the ground, Stan looking nervous, Trent hovering over Cartman, with one hand wrapped in a black handkerchief, which seemed soaking wet and was dripping with something red. "What the fuck is going on?"
Trent's gaze reverted back to being cold and unresponsive but with a small hint of glee. He looked at Kyle, then at Kenny. "Nothing that your arrival hasn't already fixed. Either of you got a tissue or something? I pricked myself on some poison flower."
He started approaching the pair, holding his injured hand out and observing their reactions to it, with Stan following not far behind him. Kenny emerged from his inefficient hiding spot behind Kyle and looked at Trent's hand. He carefully took hold of the hand and removed the soaked handkerchief, revealing a sickening bloody mess beneath it. His hand was absolutely caked in blood, invading the creases in his palm and making his skin appear pale. The fingers were still twitching, and the muscles running up his arm were visibly cramping. Despite being the one with the injury, Trent was the least bothered of them all. His nonchalance was far too great; it appeared fake.
Kenny pulled a small elastic hair band out of his pocket and wrapped it around the bleeding finger, effectively cutting off the blood flow—a makeshift tourniquet. Smart. The bleeding gradually subsided. However, the cramping persisted.
The shorter blonde went back to his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, which he tried to wipe the blood away with. Stan observed this futile endeavor, watching as Kenny's shaky fingers meticulously and gently wiped away the remaining wet liquid. However, something caught his eye—Kyle was staring directly at him. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his brows were furrowed. As their eyes met, the redhead began hesitantly gesturing toward Trent's face. Following Kyle's instruction, Stan shifted his gaze, discreetly peeping at Trent.
Trent's eyes were wide and gleaming, locked onto Kenny's face, specifically his mouth. No, not his mouth, but the bruise next to it. He was smiling ever so slightly. The intense look remained unnoticed by Kenny, who continued naively wiping the tall man's hand. Or maybe Kenny had noticed it, maybe he was purposefully avoiding Trent's prying gaze.
"All done," Kenny eventually said, after wrapping a Band-Aid with sharks on it around the injured finger. He looked back up at Trent, who had somehow made it look like hadn't been staring a hole through the other's face. "Does it hurt a lot?"
"No," Trent's response was far too quick. He was without a doubt just trying to save face. It hurt way more than a lot. "Maybe a little bit, but I can still swim."
Kenny looked a little skeptical, although it was quite well-hidden behind a cautious layer of concern. Stan found himself unable to decipher whether this concern was real or fake. "Are you sure? I've heard it's really painful." His voice was so small, Stan barely heard it.
Trent chuckled and smile, smoothly pulling his hand back from the other's hold. "If you really wanna know, why don't you just go prick yourself on one. It's really not that bad." He paused for a moment as if he was considering whether to continue or not. "In fact, I might just consider pricking myself more often just to have you nurse me back to health again."
Okay, that might not have been verbatim of what he said, but it was what Stan heard. In reality, his response was probably more intimidating than that. Either way, Stan could not bring himself to care or continue listening; his head was pounding so hard, he felt like it might split into two. He just wanted to get this whole night over with and go home to sleep. Besides, Kyle had already interjected and started talking about how self-harm is bad and stuff.
He went back to Cartman, who was still laying on the ground, attempting to calm his breathing. "Are you okay?" He asked.
Cartman took a deep breath, causing Stan to brace himself for another long monologue. "I almost met Jesus... I saw the light, man... I saw my grandma... I didn't even know she was dead!" Cartman placed a hand on his chest, right over his heart. "My heart is beating so fucking fast, man. It might just give out." He took several more deep breaths, propping himself up on his elbows and smiling at Stan, giving him a thumbs-up. "But it's all good, because Jesus has once again saved me from Trent's clutches!"
Cartman spoke with such sincerity that it was hard for Stan to laugh at him. Even if he was trying to be funny, he probably wouldn't laugh. His head hurt too much, and his eyelids were too droopy. God, he was already eager to leave, and they hadn't even started what they came for. He bent down, reached a hand out, and helped Cartman up. "Come on, let's just get this stupid night over with. You're driving me home later, right?"
"Yup," Cartman responded. "The whole way this time. I won't suddenly turn around again." Stan simply smiled and nodded, watching as Cartman went over to the other three. "Alright, ladies, let's get going!"
He grabbed Kenny's arm and started walking toward the indoor pool, making sure to keep himself between Kenny and Trent the whole time.
When Stan tried to think back to this night later, he would find himself unable to properly remember a significant portion of the following events. It must not have been particularly relevant if he couldn't even recall it. Or perhaps his concussion had caused his mind to erase a chunk of his memory.
He seemed to only remember the highlights.
He remembered blinking and suddenly being dressed in his swimming clothes, telling Trent about the lifeguard test, quizzing him on first aid and CPR, and having him do the exercises like retrieving the rescue doll from the deep pool or doing the slope dive.
He remembered noticing Trent sneaking glances at Kenny.
He remembered Kyle giving Cartman a piece of paper. He said something about not giving him the invite yesterday. Then he questioned what was on the piece he had given him previously. Cartman's response had been weird; he had looked at the ground, avoiding eye contact, and said, "Nothing, it was just blank.". But his entire body language had conveyed the exact opposite.
He also remembered not being able to go through all of the lifeguard exercises with Trent because Trent started getting agitated and refused to continue. Stan had been confused at the time, but looking back on it, Trent was probably just in pain and tired, having lost so much blood. Henrietta did say that Tenuior Aqua was used in literal torture.
Eventually, he... woke up? Or something like that. Although, he didn't remember falling asleep. He quickly discerned his surroundings without even opening his eyes; he was sitting on the bench in the hot water pool, based on the warm wet sensation surrounding his body. His head was resting on someone's shoulder. That same someone had their arm snaked around his waist, extending up his upper body and holding onto his chin to keep his head above the water.
It took him a little more time to figure out who the person was, but it eventually came to him; it was Kyle. He knew this because he could hear Kyle's voice quietly speaking to someone. "I don't know, I just don't really want to go if Stan's not invited, you know?"
"What a dumb excuse," Trent's voice responded dismissively. He was positioned diagonally to his left. Stan could practically hear Trent rolling his eyes. "There's obviously a reason he wasn't invited."
Stan opted to feign sleep, thinking it would be awkward to let them know he was awake.
Kyle started speaking again. "Yeah, I know that. But it'll be really boring without him; I'll have no one to talk to."
Another voice chimed in, a female one, diagonally to the right. "Well, it doesn't really matter if he's invited. No one's going to kick him out either way." Stan eventually realized who the voice belonged to. It was Bebe. He couldn't exactly be surprised; she was a lifeguard too, just so she could take Clyde on swimming dates almost every day. Although, he wasn't sure if Clyde was even present; he certainly could not tell. "Besides, parties are a great way to talk to new people. Like, for example, last time we had a party at Tolkien's house, I spent the entire night talking with Henrietta about flowers and stuff."
Kyle snorted a little bit, causing his shoulder with Stan's head on it to shake. "You talked about flowers?"
"It's not funny. It was actually kind of cool." Bebe responded, her voice was a slightly higher pitch than before, and she spoke a little louder. "She told me about this poisonous flower that grows out here by Stark's Pond."
"A black one?" Trent inquired; he also spoke a little louder than before. Faster too. "That looks like a rose?"
"Yeah," Bebe responded, "how did you know?"
"Well, uh," Trent sounded a little unsure. "I pricked myself on one earlier, and she showed up and started talking about it. But the fatty scared her off before she could finish." From straight ahead of himself, Stan could hear Cartman let out an offended huff, evidently not a fan of being fat-shamed. His presence had startled Stan a little; he hadn't sensed him at all until now. It had him wondering if there were others around, quietly listening to the conversation.
As Stan continued to listen, he strained his senses to see if there were indeed others around, but he couldn't pick up any additional presence or sound. It seemed like Cartman was the only one who had reacted to Trent's comment. Kenny was likely present as well, listening quietly. The conversation continued, and Stan focused on gathering as much information as he could.
Bebe spoke again, her voice no longer carrying a slightly higher pitch. "Haha, that's so like her. Only Henrietta would hang around waiting for people to prick themselves on a poison flower. I think she said it was called 'Reginae Adiutor' or something like that." She paused for a little moment, possibly to think of what to say. "Well, I can see why she's interested in it, it's got a really cool backstory."
Stan opened his eyes; there wasn't exactly a point in feigning sleep if everyone was just talking about flowers. He looked around, seeing that they had turned all the ceiling lights off, thus leaving only the blue hue of the underwater pool lights and the moon to illuminate them. To Stan's surprise, Kenny was not present after all, and neither was Clyde.
Kyle was seemingly the only one to notice his sudden awakening. Trent and Cartman were both intently looking at Bebe. "So, uh" Cartman started, "Are you gonna tell us the backstory or was that just a teaser?"
Bebe's face lit up, the blue light of the pool reflecting in her eyes. "Absolutely, I will," she started. "Okay, it's more of a legend than a backstory. It's about this young woman who was deeply in love with a king. She was so in love that one day, she managed to get into his castle, where she confessed her feelings to him. Now, the king was obviously not impressed, but for some reason, he said that he would marry her and make her his queen if she could make him submit to her. He clearly thought this was an impossible task since you can't make a king submit to you and stuff. But our female lead had a plan. She went home and picked out the Reginae Adiutor and made some tea with its petals. Then she served that tea to the king, and after a few hours, he became paralyzed by the poison. They got married, and that's why it's called Reginae Adiutor, which means queen's helper. The end."
Trent scoffed, "Wow, that story had so many plot holes." Then he hesitated and looked down at his injured hand. Kenny's Band-Aid was still wrapped around his finger, but the tourniquet was long gone. "But how does that work? He drank the tea, and poof, paralyzed! Or what?"
"Well, you probably already know that the poison works in two ways, since you're clearly familiar with one," Bebe responded. "But the other one is, like, when someone eats the petals. It takes a while to work, and then it paralyzes the victim while they're still conscious. It's pretty brutal too because even though the muscles are paralyzed, they cramp like crazy, and it's super painful. It also messes with the victim's memory and makes it hard for them to recall what happened while they were paralyzed."
Stan felt his blood run cold. This was the information that Henrietta didn't want to tell them. No matter how much he had wanted to know, he evidently wasn't supposed to. But now he knew, and something bad was bound to happen. He could feel it in his blood. It almost felt like a premonition of sorts.
Even worse, Trent knew. He turned to look at him. He was smiling. His eyes were far from bored and unresponsive; no, this new expression was worse. They were wide and shone with pure, wicked delight. At least, that's what he looked like for a few seconds until he quickly reverted back to his previous bored look and said, "Huh, that's kinda cool."
Stan could feel himself struggling to breathe; he needed to get away. Just for a few minutes. He needed to process this bad omen. He mustered all the strength he had and managed to speak, his voice trembling, "Hey, guys, I think I need to take a break. I'll be right back." Without waiting for a response, he untangled himself from Kyle's arm and hurriedly left the pool area.
He went through the personnel entrance and entered the building's entrance hall, where he was hit with a blast of cool air. Water dripped from his clothes, creating puddles on the stone floor, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His primary concern was calming his accelerated heartbeat. He started humming the same little melody Trent had hummed earlier, taking deep breaths and focusing on positive thoughts. It didn't take long before he had regained his composure. It was probably nothing; there was no bad omen. Hopefully.
As he walked further down the entrance hall, his gaze fell upon a vending machine tucked into a corner, hidden behind several round tables, which belonged to the pool-café. To his surprise, he noticed Clyde and Kenny engaged in a hushed conversation next to the machine. They were both dressed in their swimming trunks, snacking on treats they had just acquired.
Stan sat on the cold floor behind a nearby table, ensuring that Clyde and Kenny wouldn't notice him. He could see a look of concern etched onto Clyde's face as he towered over Kenny, who seemed to be shrinking in on himself. Straining his ears, Stan caught snippets of their conversation. Kenny's voice was hushed as he tried to sound convincing, "I swear Trent hasn't done anything to me. You don't need to worry."
Clyde let out a huff, disbelief evident in his voice. "Dude, why are you lying? I can see the weird and creepy dynamic between you two. I have eyes in my head, Kenny."
Kenny chuckled stiffly. "You see a lot of things, don't you? Even when they're not there." Stan found it interesting that Kenny wasn't as skilled at acting as he had thought.
Clyde moved forward and grabbed Kenny's shoulders, a bit too aggressively, causing the blonde to drop his chips onto the floor. "Don't lie to me, Kenny!" Clyde's voice carried an undercurrent of anger that definitely wouldn't help Kenny open up. "He's a creep! I saw the way he kept looking at you, and don't think I haven't noticed that bruise on your face. 'Cus he has; he's fixated on it. He probably even caused it!"
Stan couldn't help but be impressed. Clyde had only spent an hour at most with Kenny and Trent, yet he had already picked up on every bad vibe between them. Despite his stupidity, Clyde was surprisingly perceptive in social situations.
Kenny's eyes were wide and his mouth hung open a little as he looked at Clyde. "Well, you're not much better yourself, grabbing me like that! Let go!" His voice was still quiet and small, but much more assertive.
Clyde's hands jerked slightly around the other's shoulders, as he hesitantly released him. "Sorry," He muttered, looking at the floor. "I just can't shake it. I feel like something really bad is gonna happen." He looked back up, making eye contact. "Just please be careful, okay?"
Kenny's whole demeanor relaxed, as he quietly, barely above a whisper, responded: "Okay, I will."
The moment, tender as it was, was quickly shattered by the sound of the building's sliding doors opening and the familiar voices of Tweek and Tolkien. Walking alongside them was Craig, quietly following the conversation. They stopped dead in their tracks when they spotted Clyde and Kenny, surprise etched on their faces, well, Tolkien and Tweek's faces; Craig was holding his usual unemotional expression. They undoubtedly had not expected to see others around at such a late hour. Stan looked at the clock: 1 am. Fortunately, they could not see Stan from where they were standing.
The trio approached the other two, their expressions shifting from surprise to confusion. Tweek's eyes landed right on Kenny, who had busied himself with picking up the scattered chips on the floor. "K-Kenny, what're you doing here?" Tweek stammered out, his twitching causing him to stutter a bit.
Kenny immediately matched Tweek's confused expression and said, "Uh, I'm picking up chips. What else would I be doing?"
Tweek's twitching increased. "Sleeping, Kenny!" he hissed a little, although it was less angry and more frustrated. "You have the damn 4 am opening shift tomorrow, or more like today. You're supposed to sleep before working! God, why do you always do this?!"
Strange. Kenny would have surely mentioned it if he had work in the morning. He and Tweek both worked at 'Top Pot', which used to be 'Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse' until Tweek changed its name. How he managed to be a lifeguard, barista, waiter, café owner, student, and full-time boyfriend, and still go to kickboxing practice and have a social life was beyond Stan. It would frankly never cease to impress him.
Tweek's words only served to make Kenny even more confused. "Uhm, no...? You're the one on the morning shift, Tweek. I saw your name on the roster."
Tweek quickly retorted, "N-no, I saw your name on it." He pulled out his phone, ready to prove Kenny wrong. However, a look of horror and realization spread across both of their faces. The early morning shift required two people to man the café, so they both had that shift. Tweek groaned, "Shit, sorry, guys. I gotta go home and sleep before work. Sorry." He kissed Craig before leaving.
"Yeah, I should probably leave too," Kenny muttered before hurrying toward the changing rooms. Stan was approximately 87% sure that Kenny couldn't care less about being well-rested before work; he was more than likely just avoiding Clyde. And Trent too.
Stan wasn't sure how long he ended up sitting on the floor behind the table. He just wanted to make sure he wouldn't be caught eavesdropping. He turned a little, so he couldn't see the others anymore. He could hear them talking about something he later found himself unable to recall. He waited until Clyde had followed Craig and Tolkien into the men's changing room before making his way back into the pool area, where he sat back next to Kyle in the pool.
"Hey," Kyle's voice was too soft, unsettling. "Are you okay?"
Stan didn't respond, at least not verbally. Instead, he let his head fall back onto the redhead's shoulder and rested it there. His head hurt, and his mind felt fuzzy. Kyle's fingers moved up to Stan's head, rubbing against his scalp and gently massaging the headache away.
Stan's perception was getting foggy, and he could feel his eyelids becoming heavy again. He closed his eyes, but he didn't quite fall asleep; he merely leaned against Kyle, taking in the surrounding sensations.
He heard a phone ding, and Cartman saying, "Kenny texted me. He says he has work in the morning and is going home."
He heard Trent and Bebe chatting quietly. It was a little weird; Stan had always pegged Bebe as a perceptive social butterfly, but that notion was being challenged then. She had seemingly not caught onto a single bad feeling about Trent, based on her chattiness with him. In her defense, Trent did seem quite a bit more docile in her presence.
He could hear Kyle and Cartman talking as well, and soon enough, Cartman moved closer to them, sitting next to Stan.
Eventually, he heard Clyde come back, closely followed by Craig and Tolkien. The three joined everyone in the hot water pool.
Stan sat back up and opened his eyes. He couldn't afford to fall asleep. He had to stay aware, observe the conversation, and maybe even partake in it. Particularly, he had to observe Craig and Trent. He watched as Craig moved into the pool, sitting down next to Trent, and they started talking. A good start.
By all accounts, Stan could definitely see why Trent would be interested in Craig. Time and puberty had been exceedingly kind to him. He was tall, though still an inch shorter than Trent. He had green eyes, a sharp jawline, and his hair always looked silky and soft, at least when his hat was out of the picture. He had annoyingly clear skin, which no teenage boy could make himself deserving of.
Unlike most of their classmates, Craig actually looked like a young adult rather than an old child. There was no baby fat or chubby cheeks, and his entire body seemed to be the living, breathing definition of Leonardo da Vinci's harmonic proportions.
When sitting next to Trent, who possessed a striking resemblance to a statue crafted by Michelangelo, their appearances complemented each other pleasantly. Were it not for Trent's threatening tattoos like 'Vengeance is mine saith the lord,' they would have looked ethereal.
The way Trent looked at Craig was uncomfortably familiar. It wasn't the same way Tweek looked at him, or even the way Bebe looked at Clyde. No, this was different. Yet it seemed familiar to Stan, like he had seen it before. He could not quite put his finger on it.
Trent was showing Craig his injured hand, pointing out how the muscles cramped all the way up his arm. This action initially confused Stan. What could Trent possibly gain from showing an injury? Then it struck him: he was inadvertently showing off his muscles, without seeming like a self-absorbed meathead.
Craig didn't seem particularly impressed, admittedly he never seemed particularly anything. "Did you prick yourself on one of those black flowers?" he asked.
Trent seemed a little taken aback by the nonchalant question. "Yeah, I tried to pluck one."
Craig's head was turned downwards, looking at Trent's hand and arm. "Hmm, you're pretty cool about pain, huh?" He held Trent's hand to get a good look at the cramping muscles and the occasional twitch of his fingers. "May I?" He reached his hand up and placed it on Trent's forearms.
"I guess so," Trent responded. He smiled a little as Craig started massaging the cramping muscles, easing the pain away. "Seems like you have experience with that flower, huh?"
Craig shrugged. "Not personally, but my sister, Tricia, did the exact same thing a few years ago. She told me it was really scary and stuff. That she thought she was gonna die and that the only reason she didn't bleed out was because Kenny showed up and helped her out." Craig paused for a moment, looking down at the shark themed Band-Aid around Trent's finger. An unusually cheeky smile spread across his lips. "Looks like he helped you too. He gave you sharks, huh? He must not like you."
Stan was just about to interject, claiming that sharks didn't mean a single thing, when Trent spoke up. "He expresses himself through Band-Aids? Cute," Trent remarked. Stan struggled to determine whether Trent's comment was sarcastic or if he genuinely found it cute.
The conversation came to a halt when Clyde interrupted, asking Craig to turn on the pool radio system so they could listen to music. Only once Craig had left the pool and walked away that Stan realized what had seemed so familiar about Trent's gaze.
Stan observed as Trent's eyes lingered on Craig, seemingly studying every aspect of him—his movements, his walk, his way of talking. It wasn't the same soft, loving gaze Tweek had for Craig, nor was it the same as Bebe's gaze toward Clyde, as if he were the sun. It was the same way Trent looked at Kenny: no love, no tenderness, just pure lust and an undeniable glint of intimidation.
Even worse, if Stan had noticed, Clyde certainly had as well. And now, Clyde was insistent on getting in between them. He had already moved to Craig's previous seat and started talking to Trent, much to Trent's dismay. Trent's disinterest was apparent, and his dislike oozed from every cell.
Stan turned his head and looked at Cartman, who had clearly come to the same realization. He leaned closer to Cartman and whispered in his ear, "You naive little bitch." He didn't receive a response. Instead, he watched as Cartman, the eternal optimist who always had a sneaky scheme to get them out of any bad situation, placed a hand over his own mouth, wearing the saddest look of defeat that Stan had ever had the displeasure of seeing.
They watched in solemn defeat as Clyde unsuccessfully tried to engage Trent; this whole thing was going to be so much harder than they thought it would be. Then they heard the high-pitched sound of a phone's ding. It was Tolkien's phone. He grabbed it and announced, "Guys, the school has finally found a date for binky-night!"
His little announcement caused everyone to quiet down, except for one person. "What the fuck is binky-night?" Trent asked, his voice sounding far too confrontational for such a harmless question.
Tolkien seemingly didn't pick up on the confrontational tone. "It's an event for all the seniors and freshmen at school. It's obligatory and stuff. Each senior gets an assigned freshman, and then they have to prepare a show about that freshman."
Stan did not care much for binky-night. His own experience had not been memorable in the slightest. However, he did recall that their first binky-night had been the night he learned that Kenny's penchant for attracting the wrong kind of romantic partners was, in fact, a genetic thing.
Kenny's older brother, Kevin, had certainly managed to attract some interesting people. One such person was his not-so-secret admirer turned borderline stalker, whom Kenny was unfortunate enough to be assigned to. The sheer amount of (verbal) abuse and humiliation Kenny had been subjected to that night was certainly not a great start to their high-school years. Karen would hopefully not undergo the same thing as him, not if Kenny had any say in the matter.
"Well?" Bebe interjected. Of course, she was excited; she had been talking about putting on a show about some freshman since she was a freshman. "When is it?"
"It's September 17th," Tolkien answered. His smile was quickly wiped from his face, replaced by a look of confusion. "Huh, that's the same date as the party."