Chapter Text
Birds of a feather flock together.
It was an English proverb, meaning that beings (typically humans) of similar type, interest, personality, character, or other distinctive attributes tend to mutually associate. If you look around, you’ll find that you subconsciously surround yourself with people who have similar interests or personality traits. Humans are like birds when they flock together.
Bebe wouldn’t go as far as to say that Cartman had any remotely remarkable or positive traits about him. She wouldn’t say she liked his personality or had similar interests as him, but there was one thing she had to admit. The boy had some pretty useful characteristics. A silver tongue to talk his way out of trouble, a, frankly, disconcerting sort of abundance of intelligence, and other features that made him the perfect partner for what she had planned.
Would she say she was evil ? No. She was just a bit spiteful, and willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted, even taking from others. That wasn’t called being evil, it was called taking the opportunity that was given to you. Shit, if she didn’t step in now, there would grow to be a major power imbalance in South Park, the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer and all that. Honestly, by taking what she wanted when she wanted how she wanted, she would probably end up saving everybody and becoming a national hero. Did that make her sound delusional? It did, didn’t it? God, maybe spending time with Cartman was rubbing off on her. Bebe needed somebody twisted, heartless, and unsympathetic, to help her carry out her plans. He seemed to be the only person suitable.
What do you do when you’re low on money and need to buy your beautiful girlfriend a super amazing present for your upcoming anniversary? You don’t ask your parents for some, because that meant you were spoiled. You don’t get a job, because that meant you were bound to a tight schedule that inconvenienced you frequently, and had to push through being constantly yelled at by your boss. You don’t start your own business and be your own boss, because that was too much work, and you definitely don’t do anything that required dedication and endurance.
It was simple. What do you do when you’re low on money? You steal it, obviously. Technically, if things went the way Bebe and Cartman had been planning, they wouldn’t be stealing money. They’d be selling personal objects of value and receiving money in return.
Dragging his finger across the whiteboard and pointing at the second of the three drawings he drew on it, Cartman explained the plan.
“The Blacks have an estimated worth of…a million dollars..in their house in objects.” He said, tapping on the circled scribble of a vase. Bebe oo ed from her spot on the edge of his bed.
“Yes. The plan is simple, I’ve mapped out just what we have to do.” He paused, stomping over to his nightstand and rummaging through the bottom drawer before tossing a large, flat book over to Bebe, “Right in that notebook.”
Nodding, she flipped the cover over and was repulsed by the first page.
“What the fuck is this?” she snarled, holding it out so he could see the drawing on the page. It was a tiny scribble that vaguely looked like Kyle sucking his own dick. Eric scoffed and snatched the notebook from her hands.
“God damn, you nosy bitch. If you don’t want to see something, then maybe you shouldn’t go looking.”
“You gave it to me! Maybe go to the fucking page you want me to see next time!”
He ignored her and flipped to the correct page. He handed the journal back to her to review.
One, get Kenny to scope out Tolkien’s house for valuables and what room they’re in. Remind him to draw a map of the house starting from the entrance to make it easier for us and mark where the valuables are. Two, convince Tolkien to throw a party for the entire grade. Three, steal valuables while at the party.
“Wait, why do we need Kenny to do anything? I told you, I don’t need people finding out about this, Cartman.” Bebe frowned.
“Calm your tits, girl. He’s chill with everyone, we just need somebody close enough to the guy to go to his house and not fuck this up. That poor bastard would do anything to make money. Trust me. ”
She rolled her eyes, “And why the hell can’t I do it?”
“Never said you couldn’t.” the fat boy retorted listlessly. “Listen, we don’t need to get into the semantics, okay? Is the plan good for you, princess?”
Bebe hummed as she glanced down at the steps, “It’s foolproof. How are we going to convince Tolkien to throw a party, though?”
Cartman shrugged as he flopped on top of his bed next to her, “Should be easy enough. His parents are out of town ‘til Sunday.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just know that I know what you know and more .” He replied with a smirk.
Bebe huffed and crossed her arms, “Is that supposed to intimidate me?”
He dropped the smirk and replaced it with a genuinely-seeming smile, “Why would I be trying to intimidate you, babe? We’re partners!”
“Gross, don’t call me babe. And don’t call us partners.”
“ You asked if I wanted to team up to help you get money, retard.”
“Yeah, but I never said we were… partners. ”
“You can actually get the fuck out of my house.”
Ignoring his comment, Bebe flipped the notebook closed and handed it back to him on the bed. Cartman was still the same asshole he had always been, the only difference now was that he wasn’t a psychotic asshole. Apparently, freshman year had been the worst for him. He went to therapy once every week for the entire year , and how he wasn’t sent to a mental institute was a major shock to Bebe. Now, she didn’t know a whole lot about the whole South Park system or how well the therapists treated their patients since she wasn’t insane and never had to go to one before, but she can’t imagine that it was the easiest thing. Especially not for Cartman, but it has definitely proved to be beneficial. Maybe that and the maybe.. ten bottles of pills she saw in his bottom drawer when he opened it to take out the notebook. It made her wonder whether he had actually been taking all of those, or was he just dumping one out every day to make it seem like he’s been taking them? Maybe his mom doesn’t even check whether or not he’s doing what he’s supposed to, it wouldn’t exactly surprise Bebe. While Liane was a kindhearted, warm person, she didn’t seem like the best mother. Or a good one..at all.
That would be inappropriate to ask, right? Bebe always had a stable household growing up, while he clearly did not. She had kind parents and was never endangered or hurt, while he was a whole different story. She wasn’t nearly as much of an emotional wreck as he was. Bebe would say she was pretty emotionally intelligent and stable, thanks to her upbringing. She didn’t want to invade the boy’s privacy more than she evidently already had. But, shit. She couldn’t help herself. She was, as her mother called it, a Natural Nosy . When she saw something that made her curious, she just had to know everything about it. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to have so many things wrong with you. How your mental illness would destroy your relationships and image of yourself and the world around you. All she wanted was a first-hand experience.
She turned her head to glance at the boy next to her, “So..That medication..” she started.
Cartman gazed over at her and hummed, “Huh?”
“I saw all those pill bottles in your drawer. What are they for?”
He scoffed incredulously, “Hm, I wonder why someone would take medication. Maybe to help them with their problems .”
“ Do they help?”
“Why are you being so damn nosy? I didn’t call you over to talk about my personal life, I called you over because you’re broke and needed a way to make money quickly.”
She shrugged, “Yeah, but...We don’t just have to talk about making money and stuff. We can talk about other things too, Cartman..”
The boy sat up and scooted away from her on his bed, “Gross, we’re not friends.”
“We could be, though.”
“You just want to get in my business.”
“Not true! This plan will take at least a week. It’s only Tuesday. I don’t want to be over at your house every day and constantly talking to you if you feel like you can’t trust me.” Bebe paused to think of a way to say what she wanted without sounding too brusque, “I’m not asking you about every aspect of your personal life, I’m just curious about your progress, is all.”
His gaze on her shifted from annoyed to confused, “My progress?”
“Yeah. Therapy, medication, that stuff. Have they been helping you?”
“Why is that any of your concern? How has the conversation drifted to this?”
“It’s not. But, anybody I talk to, I like to know something about them.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, “You mean you like to have dirt on them that you can use if you need to blackmail them?”
She crossed her arms and glared at him, “I mean..that’s what it sounds like to me.” he shrugged.
“No! Not everybody is out to get you, Cartman!”
“Well, how am I supposed to know that when you start digging around and questioning me? Two minutes ago we were talking about stealing from Tolkien, and now you’re asking me how therapy is going and about my pills! Don’t fucking blame me for not trusting you!”
“Okay, okay. Maybe it was a little weird of me to ask that, I’m sorry.”
He scoffed, “Yeah, and ignorant too.”
It was the natural fire that burned in her that made Bebe want to fire back, but she didn’t. She didn’t want Cartman sitting up in her face and acting as if he never did anything ignorant or bad, but she knew she was in the wrong in this particular situation, and comparing him to other cases where he’s been malicious wouldn’t serve to help her right now.
“You’re right.” She told him just what she knew he wanted to hear, “Can you at least tell me why you take them?”
“I-”
“I mean what you take them for.”
He blinked at her, “..Isn’t that way more personal than just saying if they help or not?”
“Maybe.” Bebe shrugged.
For a long moment, she stared at the boy waiting for him to say something. He glared at her for a while before his face dropped and he huffed. “I have a couple of mental disorders.”
“Well yeah, no shit. What, BPD? Schizophrenia?”
“As I said earlier, we don’t need to get into the semantics. Just know, I’m way better off taking them than not. It’s better for everybody if I do.”
Bebe nodded and tried to give him the most genuine-looking sincere expression she could muster up, “Well, I’m proud of you. I think it’s really good you’ve been taking them, Cartman. Whether they help or not. You really have been getting better, but that doesn’t excuse all of the fucked up shit you’ve done in the past. And it doesn’t excuse your asshole tendencies today.”
“Oh my god!” He huffed loudly, “I don’t need you to give me the same lecture I’ve been hearing since I was fucking eight, holy shit.”
The curly-haired girl decided it might be the best time to drop the subject. Silently, the two sat on Cartman’s bed. If you had told the girl last week that she’d be not only speaking to the fat boy, but also in his house , in his room , laying on his bed , laying on his bed with him, and enjoying his company, she would probably throw up. However, he wasn’t as bad as she thought he was. Under all of the psychotic shit he used to say and do, he actually wasn’t that horrible to hang out with. Maybe Bebe could get used to the new medicated and in-therapy Eric Cartman.
“Thank you,” he mumbled next to her. She glanced over at him, but his eyes were glued to the ceiling above them. “You’re like..the only person who’s told me that. Besides Kyle, I guess.”
“Hah, I can’t imagine Kyle being nice to you.” she chuckled. He smirked and met her gaze.
“You’d be surprised how nice he is to me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Cartman didn’t say anything, instead, he turned his head back up to the ceiling. That left Bebe with thousands of questions to run around in her head. She sat up on one of her elbows and cried, “What the hell does that mean, Cartman?!”
He quietly snickered as she shoved his shoulder, still not opening his mouth. “Tell me what you mean! Why are you always so cryptic with everything you say?”
The quiet snickering turned to full-blown laughter as she continued to thrash him around, shouting and complaining.
Wendy leaned in closely to her bathroom mirror and closed her right eye. Using the vision of her left, she carefully applied the liquid to her top and bottom lash line, tongue poking out in concentration as she did so. She leaned away from the glass to survey her face. It burned a bit, which she was pretty sure wasn’t supposed to happen, but ignored it for the time being. She opened her right eye and closed her left one before leaning back in to repeat the action. Suddenly, her phone was buzzing from the counter under her and the loud song of her ringtone played, causing her to flinch and the lash serum dropping into her eye and burning it.
“Fuck..” she hissed to herself, quickly grabbing her phone and pressing the volume down button which immediately muted the song. She glanced at the contact ID.
Craig . She frowned. God, why did he always have to fucking call her when she was doing important shit?
She pressed the green answer button, shutting and locking the bathroom door next to her before putting the phone on speaker and placing it back down on the counter. “What do you want?”
“I’m coming to pick you up in five minutes.” his nasally voice poured from the phone speakers.
Wendy finished applying the lash serum to her left eye before gasping, “What the hell? Why? It’s like ten at night.”
“Tweek’s worried about Butters again.” her cousin explained, although that wasn’t really explaining anything.
“And what’s that got to do with me? I don’t like Butters.”
Craig sighed quietly before responding, “Don’t be an asshole, Wendy.”
“Seriously, what am I going to do about it? I’m in my pajamas for fucks sake.”
“Change.” he scoffed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And, it sort of was.
“I don’t want to go again, Craig. It was boring enough the first fucking time, and I have to call Bebe. Our anniversary is next week , and we haven’t gotten much time alone recently–”
“You can call Bebe anytime you want to. I’m turning onto your street now. Also, Tweek’s been here the whole time, and you're on Bluetooth.”
Wendy froze up, suddenly regretting answering the phone call at all. God, Craig was such a fucking asshole. If she had known she would be talking shit about Butters while his fucking cousin was listening, she wouldn’t have said anything in the first place!
“Hey, Tweek.” she muttered.
“Hi.” the boy replied and said nothing more.
“Um, I would love to come and help out, and stuff...But I got grounded a week ago, so.”
Her cousin scoffed, “What, don’t tell me you’re still grounded. Why the hell do you have your phone?”
“My parents go to sleep at like...Eight PM. They leave my phone in the hallway at night so I’ll hear my alarm from my bedroom. They’re retarded.”
“Well, too bad. You’re coming with us, I’m pulling into your driveway right now.”
Wendy quickly picked up her phone and the lash serum, unlocked the bathroom door, and stepped out into the quiet hall. She looked back and forth before tip-toeing into her bedroom and looking out of the window at the front of the house. Sure enough, a small black car was pulling into her family’s driveway, bright headlights casting a bright light over her window as the car bounced up onto the slant.
“God, I hate you.” she whispered.
“Hey, don’t talk about the lord like that. God’s never done anything to you.” Craig teased and ended the call instantly.
Wendy sighed, deciding that trying to argue with Craig was an impasse, and there was no point in even trying. She made her way to her dresser and unwillingly pulled out a plain white hoodie and a skirt that went grazed just above her knees. To her, it was important to look at least presentable no matter where you were, which is why she wore actual pajamas even at home during the night instead of sleeping in her underwear and a shirt. Especially when people just loved making sporadic plans.
She quickly got dressed, shoving some lip gloss in her skirt pocket before grabbing her phone and putting it on DND, her shoes, and closing her bedroom door shut. She snuck past her parents’ bedroom and down the steps to the front door, slowly inching it open before she stepped out into the warm fall night air and shut it.
As she made her way to the car, she held up her middle finger at the driver's window, a habit she had picked up from the driver. She jumped a little as Craig beeped the horn, which made her move quicker and get into the backseat.
“Hey.” her cousin smirked at her as she pulled on her seatbelt.
“Hey, Fucker. What’s going on?” she asked, and Tweek was the one to respond. She cringed at the familiar high and reedy voice. Craig slowly backed out of the driveway and onto the street.
“Butters– ngh , called me crying!”
This spiked something in Wendy, causing her to sit up and lean in, “What, you think it’s that again?” She paused, “I mean– because if it is, that’s like..really serious, and if I knew I wouldn’t have complained about it, I swear.”
Tweek shrugged, “I know you wouldn’t, Wendy. And I– ngh , don’t think so. I think it’s about Kenny again, but he does want to spend the night at my house just in c-case.”
“Oh god, thank goodness. I didn’t want to seem like a bitch.”
“You are a bitch, though.” Craig blanked.
“Yeah, but not to people I care about.” The three sat in silence for a moment before she spoke up again, “So…what happens when it does happen again?”
“The only thing we can do. The same thing we always do.” Tweek mumbled, more to himself. Wendy watched as Craig shot his boyfriend a concerned glance. He ran his hand down Tweek’s thigh, and Wendy’s never felt happier for her cousin as she watched him seemingly melt in his touch. God, Craig was an undeserving ass, but she’s glad her cousin found somebody who actually loved him throughout his asshole-ery.
“I’m sure everything will be better for him by the time college starts. I can’t imagine how badly he wants to get out of that house.”
“Y-Yeah, you have no idea.”
Wendy sat back in her seat and stared out of the car window into the dark night. She didn’t want to get either Tweek or his cousin’s hopes up, nor promise anything that might not happen, but she was almost certain that things would get better for Butters, everyone in fact, after Senior year. Wendy and Craig had been working with Kenny since the end of the first semester, working both pretty much overtime to help teach the boy all the shit he never studied or paid attention to. Kenny was a sweetheart, and very obviously in love with the blonde. It physically hurt Wendy to see Butters crying almost every week over him, and going on rants about how much he loves him, and how he’ll never even look at him in that way. It especially hurt her when her cousin called her at night and made her sneak out with him and his boyfriend just to listen to those rants. Because in reality, Mccormick was just as much of a pussy in love as he was. It was no secret that the two both came from abusive households, and Kenny asking the cousins for help in hopes of getting a higher GPA for on-campus living colleges was enough for them to agree to help him, however, it was another entirely different thing when he asked for help not only to be able to leave South Park, but to take Butters with him.
The details didn’t really make sense to her, but it was something about Butters needing a roommate for college, and Kenny needing not only to leave home but to be said roommate. Plus get into college at all. It was his last hope if he ever wanted to escape the clutches of his drunkard parents. Wendy nor Craig would ever stand in the way of that.
Wendy snapped out of her daze, hearing small whispers and murmurs from the two upfront. Craig continued to drive through the streets, making their way to Butters’ neighborhood while consoling his boyfriend. It made Wendy miss Bebe, thinking about how pissed her girlfriend probably was that she seemingly blew her off.
She lifted her phone from her lap and watched as the screen lit up, displaying Bebe’s messages. Wendy sighed quietly to herself before opening them. They hadn’t gotten to spend much time together for the past two weeks because of student council and volunteer work. Which both happened to be the fault of Wendy and her poor schedule management.
Wends? Where are you, babe? :p
We still on for the facetime? I miss u
Call me
Sorry, something came up. Asshole Craig nd Tweek nd Butters
Yk how it is babe
I’ll see you at school tomorrow<3
Ughhh fine I understand
Can you at least text?
For like a min, almost at Butters’
And they did text for a minute. But as soon as they started getting into a real conversation, as always, something interrupted them.
The car slowly stopped, and Wendy looked up from her the text from Bebe that she was giggling at. She surveyed the outside from what little she could see and concluded that they were parked on the street in front of the boy’s house. She shot her girlfriend a quick message goodbye before turning her phone off and laying it back down in her lap and glancing up.
“Are we getting out, orrrr…?”
“Butters is getting in and we’re dropping him and Tweek off at Tweek’s.” Craig answered while turning the car off. Wendy held off on her snarky comment for later.
The three sat in patient silence, waiting for the blonde boy to turn up. “Can you at least turn the air back on?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It drains unnecessary car battery power and gas, Wendy. Maybe if you pass your fucking driving test and get a car you’d understand.” Tweek’s phone lit up the car from the cupholder with a notification.
She scoffed, “You just got this fucking car, stop acting like a diva-”
“Quiet! He’s coming.” Tweek hushed the two hurriedly.
“How the hell do you know? Craig has like..an illegal tint on his windows, plus it’s dark as fuck, how can you see anything-”
“Because he just fucking texted me, now shut up!”
Just then, the back door opened next to Wendy, catching the eyes of all three of the people in the car. The first thing that emerged from the darkness was the familiar extra black backpack he always had when they did this, hitting the middle seat right next to Wendy, and then came the blonde haired plopping down on the seat behind Tweek’s and gently shutting the door.
“Hey, Butters.” Wendy greeted him, and he mumbled a greeting back to her.
Tweek turned around to peer at his mess of a cousin while Craig began pulling out of the parking spot and drove out of the neighborhood. Butters was breathing heavily, and his clothes were in a mess, the same as his hair. He looked sticky with sweat and upset. His backpack looked as if it was packed so full that it would burst sometime soon.
“W-What happened?” he asked.
Butters shook his head, “I-...Nothin’. I-I just don’t..think I should go back for a while..If that’s okay.” he frowned.
“No, yeah! Stay as long as you w-want– ngh , man! If you run out of clothes, you can borrow some of Craig’s.” Tweek exclaimed, to which his boyfriend didn’t dare to protest.
His cousin nodded, “Thanks.”
There was an awkward silence in the car, only going unnoticed by Butters. Craig was successfully able to ignore the tension by focusing on his driving.
“Soo…How’re things with you and Kenny, Butters?” Wendy asked. Tweek quietly huffed to himself, wondering why she’d get him started on that topic.
The boy’s expression turned sour, “K-Kenny? Oh…fuck him.” he mumbled. Wendy’s face twisted into confusion, “What? What happened?”
“Kenny has no respect for himself! It’s like one moment, he’s chanting Bros before hoes and telling me how I’m the most important person to him, but then the next he sticks his tongue down Red’s throat! I mean, he’s the most confusing guy I’ve ever met!” Butters cried.
Tweek groaned, “Well it’s not like you’re going to do anything about it.”
“Wha? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe if you opened your eyes, you’d see how desperately– ngh , i-in love with you he is, and you’d be the one he makes out with.”
“No! I don’t think he likes me, Tweek. If he did, he wouldn’t w-w…whore himself out to people no matter how desperate he is! He doesn’t like me, he just wants me to be another one of his flings, I know it!”
Butters wiped his face with his sleeve, wiping off the sweat and pushing his messy hair out of his face. He sighed dramatically when he received no response to his statement, “Cartman is better at comforting me than you guys.”
Tweek whipped his head back to stare incredulously at his cousin, “ Cartman comforts you?”
“Yeah, all the time! He’s not as much of a dick as he u-used to be. He tells me a lot of stuff, and I tell him a lot of stuff. He’s my closest friend. Aside from that backstabbing whore.”
The blonde in the passenger seat slowly turned back around and leaned back, taking note of that. He'd have to thank the big boy sometime later.
The four in the car continued to make conversation as Craig drove them to Tweek’s house.
It was a Wednesday morning, and Stan was hungover out of his mind. Thinking back on it, yesterday, even if he knew this would be probably the worst hangover he’s ever had in his entire life, he’d definitely still drink the full bottle. He bought it with his own money, so why not? And by his own money, he meant the money he stole from his grandpa a few weeks ago. That was his number one rule when it came to guap, if you steal it and it’s in your possession for at least two weeks straight, it’s legally your hard-earned cash.
But fuck , everything hurt. It was the best drunk he’s ever experienced, but hell did it come with a price. His head was pounding, and every sound around him was too loud. Even his own breathing, and his thinking too, which didn’t really make sense because you can’t actually hear yourself thinking. The boy felt more out of it and dazed than when he was drinking yesterday. He kept his head down on his desk and lazily blinked, vision blurry and drool slowly sliding down his lip. Maybe he was still a little drunk. Stan had nobody to blame for this but one person. That person being his stupid fucking dad.
As always, he was drunk and had passed out on the couch by the time Stan returned home. He was always so fucking angry at the world for no reason and took it out on not only his son and daughter but his wife too. Shelly was lucky she got to move out with Kevin, Stan didn’t blame her. Randy Marsh fucking sucked . He enjoyed the quiet he got to himself for the first two hours of being at home while his dad was knocked out until he woke up in the evening. It was like a routine by now. Stan got home, painted, maybe smoked some weed, then his dad woke up and started arguments with him. It rarely got physical , rarely but not never, and it stressed him out so badly. His dad had no fucking idea how embarrassing it was to have an alcoholic parent showing up to sports games or parent-teacher meets. And while nobody openly said anything about it, Stan knew he was the fucking laughingstock of South Park High School. Why wouldn’t he be? His dad had no fucking self-control, and was getting arrested just about once every fucking month! That was hilarious , why wouldn’t anybody joke about that, right? God, dude.
It always ended the same way, too. Stan making his way down to the kitchen while his dad was asleep and drowning his sorrows and misery in whatever bottles he could find in the fridge. This time though, he actually had the money to sneak out to the convenience store down the street from his house and buy something he liked. (Thanks to Grandpa.) Something he hadn’t had since he was a kid, Whiskey . All his dad bought nowadays were shitty Bud Lights , which tasted fucking disgusting. He had no class or taste. Like, seriously, why did everything about the old man have to be so repulsive?
Stan wouldn’t say his life was particularly better than anyone else's, or that he was lucky. His upbringing certainly wasn’t as good as Tolkien’s, who had rich parents and was practically set for life since his birth, and he didn’t have a chill mom as Eric did, who let him do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He did have a shitty dad, but at least both parents were idiotic pieces of shit.
Stan didn’t have any more than any other teenage boy had. He didn’t have a guitar, although his dad did, he didn't have one to call his own nor was he able to use it. Some would see he was in his musician-wannabe phase, but nobody had supported him through it and bought him an instrument. He didn’t get an allowance like any of his other friends, and he definitely hadn’t gotten a new video game console like many of his other friends, even though his dad always felt the need to brag about how well off his family was and how they could afford more than everybody else. He was a drunk and a bastard.
What he did have, however, was a best friend and a friend group, which he considered to be pretty fun to be in. He was fairly popular in his grade, and he was on the football team. Really, he was probably living the American teenage boy’s dream. Besides being beaten and yelled at by his father.
He loved, valued, and respected many things and people. And while those three words were often grouped together, they had different meanings to him. You could value something but not love it, and you could love someone but not respect them. Stan Marsh loved his friends, valued his super-best friend, and he respected his mom. He valued the time he got to spend with the people he cared about, and he loved music.
He listened to all kinds of music made by all kinds of people, presented to him by all kinds of people. He listened to country because of Kenny, rap because of Cartman, classical because of Kyle, pop from Tolkien, and rock from his sister. He liked the kind of relatable music like Mccafferty or The Front Bottoms. If you asked about a specific song, he liked Trees, and Be Nice To Me.
Stan loved the song Brazil by Declan McKenna and loved the lyric from it, I'm the face of god, I'm my father's son. He felt like that a lot, like he was the luckiest kid in the world or the best, but sometimes the unluckiest or the worst. But what was love anyway? He knew the love he felt for people was different from the love he felt for objects.
For people like his friends and family, his love meant he wanted to take care of them, he wanted to look out for them and always be near them. He wanted to spend time with them and talk to them. But he couldn’t do that for things like songs or hoodies, so why did he still have favorites, and what did the love he carried for those things mean ?
Shit, if he’s contemplating that, if we’re on it, what’s the meaning of life ? Why was his sperm the one that made it to the egg first? Why was he the winner out of what, millions? If a different one reached the egg first, he could’ve been a girl, you know. But would his soul still be in that girl, or not? His birth was one in a million . And not only had he been conceived, but he was birthed, and made it about seventeen years through his life. A lot of people die as children, newborns, right before they’re born, or before they even make it to four months. What made him so special and important that he got to live past the age that thousands of other people didn’t make it to? Why was he thinking about all of this stuff anyway? He couldn’t stop the flow of thoughts occupying his head.
Stan wouldn’t call himself an artist , but he was pretty damn good with the paintbrush. He thought there was a certain point you had to reach to be able to call yourself an artist, like the word held some sort of deep meaning and was only achievable by the very best, when in reality, if you drew with a pencil on notebook paper or painted on a canvas with a brush, you were considered an artist.
His favorite paintings to make were the ones that had meaning to them. He didn’t want his art to be shallow, he wanted it to have depth to it, whereas every time you took a glance at it, something was changed or new that you never noticed before, he wanted people to double back, triple back, quadruple back, at his art. If one day, his little drawings were hung up in a museum, he wanted to catch people’s eye, not just be something somebody looked over and turned their back to, to look at something else. If there was anything he wanted people to remember him for long after his death, it would be the art he made.
But honestly, what is art? What separates art and masterpieces from painting and paintings? You could paint a painting, or scribble a drawing, but it wouldn’t be art. You could make art that, however, was a painting or a drawing, though. Could he make a masterpiece? Could he make something beautiful and worth thinking about? Could he create something that invoked emotion out of people? Made them cry? Make them happy? Could Stan Marsh be somebody important in the eyes of the public?
What about writing? Writing was a pleasure point, wasn’t it? A pleasure point, something that made you feel good. Eating sugary foods gives humans pleasure, so it’s a pleasure point. Anything that relaxed you was a pleasure point. Pampering yourself with massages or pedicures, and listening to music. Those were all what he called pleasure points. Stan knew his , the ones that worked for him .
He loved to paint, loved to create music with instruments, and he loved to write. He loved to paint meaningful pieces of art that had something going for it, meaning.
Painting was just so gratifying in so many ways to him. He could imagine his problems bleeding onto the canvas from the paintbrush, and that thought and visual alone didn’t make him feel so heavy with guilt and sorrow. He loved to paint, loved to create music with instruments, and he loved to write. He loved to paint meaningful pieces of art that had something going for it, meaning. He loved to play his dad’s old guitar in his family’s basement while he was passed out, and he loved to write stories and lyrics. Doing those things brought him joy and relaxation, smoking made him feel the same. Whereas he would visualize his problems blowing away with the smoke, he imagined his worries seeping through his fingertips gripping the paintbrush, traveling to the tip, and bleeding onto the canvas with each stroke. He imagined his cares radiating from his fingers as he strummed the guitar strings, traveling on the sound waves far away from him. He imagined the pencil scraping the paper scraping his troubles along with it, or his fingers leaving behind his issues on each key they pressed on his laptop’s keyboard and melting onto the document he wrote on. Writing brought just as much happiness to him as painting did, the digital papers and the old notebook ones he wrote on were proof, something that could say he was real, that he was there, hundreds of years from now. Although, all proof of his existence, his house, his friends and family, paintings, and papers, would all be gone. No matter what he did. Whether they made it to a museum, the museum could burn down. Whether he posted his work online, the internet could be destroyed. Anything and everything could and will happen, and what could he do to stop it? Nothing.
Smoking and drinking weren’t exactly something that made him feel better about everything, so much as distracted him from his problems. It wasn’t so much about getting high or getting a nicotine rush, it was about watching and feeling the smoke escape his lips and his worries slip with the stream. It was about doing what he could to feel better, doing what he could to clear his mind of its worries and problems. Smoking was something that made him feel relaxed, and it was probably better for him than smoking cigarettes, if the damages and risks were any different. Most of the time he smoked, he ended up smoking too much and greened out, but at least the loud tambourines and drums and made-up music he heard pounding his head distracted him from it all. Drinking was the same, although he wasn’t necessarily distracted so much as unable to form thoughts in his mind. Sort of like now. He thought about the way that people viewed teenagers like him. People probably wouldn’t expect a seventeen-year-old boy to be capable of such “profound thoughts,” or any thoughts other than when the next time he would be getting his dick wet. Most adults in this ho-dunk town seemed to think that at least, they always told Stan that he didn’t know anything because he had never been on his own, never been in the real world before. But he knew things, more than adults thought he did. He’s always known since a very young age, and that’s probably what fucked him up.
Stan liked smoking over the things he did. He liked to smoke while playing his guitar, smoke while writing, and smoke while painting. But there was something he loved to do over all of those things, something that easily beat them all in the competition of making him feel good. Drinking . That was obvious by now, wasn’t it?
Would Stan say he drank often? Certainly not as often as his dad did, certainly not. Something interesting, you’re more likely to become addicted to something if you have a parent addicted to it. It’s something about hereditary stuff and genetics, but also the environment as well.
That came to the end of his mindless babble. Maybe if he was sober, he’d be able to actually function as a human being and pay attention to his surroundings.
Stan felt a hand press to his forehead as if feeling his temperature. His eyes, already open but staring at nothing, glanced up to the hand, which came back down to flip his bangs back off of his sweaty forehead.
“Stan?” the voice whispered to him. He hummed back languidly instead of widening his mouth to speak.
“Dude, you gotta get up.” the voice insisted. “Class is over, it’s time for lunch. You need to eat, man.”
“Kyle?” Stan called out to the voice quietly.
“Yeah, Stan. Come on, get up,” he responded. Fuck, Kyle really was his angel. He always saved him whenever he was falling too deep.
The boy inhaled sharply and ran a hand over his sweaty face, sitting up in his chair. He hissed quietly at the bright lights and groaned. He took a cautious once-over of the room he was in, finding an almost completely empty class.
“Shit.” he moaned, “How long was I sleeping?”
“You didn’t look like you were sleeping, dude.” Kyle humorlessly laughed. “But, you were out the entire class. And the two before it. Are you sure you’re doing alright, Stan? We’re really worried about you.”
Kyle moved out of the way as Stan stumbled out of his chair, which the boy appreciated, “We?”
“Yeah, me and Kenny. Did something happen yesterday?”
He shrugged, “The usual.” Kyle nodded in understanding, “I don’t know if I can eat. I’m just gonna hang out in the bathroom, I guess.”
“No.” The ginger stated firmly, “You have to get something in your system, or else things are just going to be worse for you. You’re coming to lunch with us.”
“Kyle, I’ll throw up if I eat–”
“You’ll throw up either fucking way, just come on Stan. Cartman’s not even eating with us today, and I need to have somebody to rip on.”
Stan would have laughed if his head wasn’t killing him, and his stomach was beginning to cramp, too. He sighed, “Fine. I gotta clean myself up though, first.”
“Understandable.” Kyle agreed.
The two leisurely made their way out of the classroom and took a turn, opposite of the lunchroom and to the nearest restroom. A question from an earlier statement bubbled into the black-haired boy’s head, “Why’s Cartman not coming?”
His best friend shrugged, “Something about Bebe or whatever. They have something to talk about.”
Stan peered over at him, finding an unreadable expression contorted on his face. He looked sort of upset, arms crossed as the two walked down the hall. “Does that bother you?”
Kyle huffed, “Why the hell would it? It’s just Bebe, it’s not like I have anything to worry about.”
“...Why would you have anything to worry about at all ?” Stan questioned as they approached the bathroom. The two stopped right in front of the door, Kyle opting to wait for him out in the hall to give him privacy.
“I mean...I don’t. I’m not worrying about anything. I’m just saying I definitely don’t have to worry about her .”
“Oh.” was all the dark-haired boy said before turning around and disappearing into the bathroom. He tried not to think about the implications of the statement and how badly his chest ached, and how painful his head pounded and his stomach cramped. He tried not to think too much about the two and how they’ve been ostensibly growing closer to each other for the past few months. God, it all fucking sucked. Maybe Stan was a bit of a pessimist.
He splashed the water from the running faucet onto his face, rubbing his skin before turning it off and patting his skin with the thick sleeve of his gray hoodie. He stared at himself in the mirror, finding what he was staring at night completely disgusting and disturbing. He looked presentable at least. He mumbled a quiet pep-talk to himself to not only motivate him to get through the day without puking but without having a mental breakdown as well, although crying did sound really fucking good right now. He quietly sighed and opened the bathroom door, mustering up a small smile to shoot at his friend. Kyle smiled back, which made Stan instantly regret smiling at him, because now that pep-talk he gave himself in the mirror just a second ago about how he wasn’t going to let his feelings about the boy get to him and worry him, was completely useless.
“Thanks, I needed that.” Stan maffled timorously.
“Sure, no problem man. I know you’re hungry.”
“God, you have no clue.”
Cartman was half-paying attention to the conversation around him. Could you blame him? What the girls talked about was fucking boring. For lesbians, Bebe and Wendy talked about a whole bunch of schoolwork and internet trends instead of scissoring and shit. Not like he wanted to hear that stuff, though.
He silently picked at his food with an uninterested frown on his face. God, he understood that Bebe was a “good” and “caring” partner, which apparently meant listening to all the boring shit that spewed from the black-haired girl’s mouth, but they had serious business to talk about. He could be sitting with his friends right about now, but instead, he had to wait for the bitch to finish basically fucking her girlfriend right in front of him.
Wendy seemed to have noticed his expression, staring at him in confusion, “Sorry? What’s wrong with you?”
“What? Who? Me? Nothing.”
The girl frowned, “Why do you look so upset? Do you want me to leave or something?”
“I mean, I wasn’t going to say that, but I’ve been waiting to talk to Bebe for like, ever. Some people have lunch tables they’d like to be getting back to, and you gaywads can talk all lunch period.”
“God, you’re such an asshole, Cartman!” Wendy shouted and turned back to her girlfriend, “I’ll talk to you later, babe. When he’s not around.”
Bebe nodded, and Cartman gagged when Wendy leaned in and placed a kiss to her lips. She glared at him, stood up, and made her way across the cafeteria to sit with the rest of the student council members, who were working hard on something evidently very important.
Bebe gloured at the boy next to her, “What the hell was that for, Cartman?”
He scoffed at the accusation, “I literally didn’t even say anything until she asked me what was wrong! Don’t get mad at me.”
“I haven’t seen her much the past couple of weeks because she’s always so busy.” the blonde frowned.
“Well, I’m sorry for that. But that’s not really my problem. Maybe she needs to get better at managing her time to fit you in.”
Bebe rolled her eyes and sipped her milk carton. Cartman reached into his backpack on the seat next to him and pulled out the familiar notebook from yesterday. The one that had their plan written down in it. But also those disturbing, disquieting drawings. Bebe cleared her throat as he placed it on the table next to her tray.
“Um..Do you think that maybe you could flip to the page for me?” She asked. Cartman huffed and began to peel the cover back to reveal the first page, which made her quickly look away. She listened until the rustling of paper stopped before looking back.
One, get Kenny to scope out Tolkien’s house for valuables and what room they’re in. Remind him to draw a map of the house starting from the entrance to make it easier for us and mark where the valuables are. Two, convince Tolkien to throw a party for the entire grade. Three, steal valuables while at the party.
“Okay, we’re going to need to act quickly if we want to get this done before his parents’ arrival on Sunday. This should at most take two days. Today to complete steps one and two, and then tomorrow for three.”
Bebe blinked, “We’re doing it today?”
“Well, are you trying to make some motherfuckin’ money, or not? Your anniversary is next week, isn’t it?” the fat boy spat.
“Y-Yeah but...I’m having second thoughts, Cartman. Maybe stealing from Tolkien isn’t exactly the best way to go about getting the cash I need. He is a close friend, after all.”
“Yeah! Which is why that makes the entire thing way easier! We can’t turn back now, Bebe. We’ve gotten too deep.”
She chuckled dryly, “Oh please. We've only jotted down some words, we haven’t followed through yet.”
“Oh my god, can you shut the fuck up for one moment?” He huffed, “Bebe, I ran out of medication two days ago, and I swear I can fucking kill somebody .” Cartman grinned.
Bebe sat up in urgence, “What? What did you run out of?”
He shrugged, “BPD. And the medication for my ASPD. Anyway–”
“What the hell is ASPD?”
“ Anyway , be a doll and get Kenny for me. We need him right now .”
“Cartman, what about the talk we had yesterday? About how you’ve been getting better and how I’m proud of you for taking your medication?” she insisted.
“I don’t know why you’re getting on me about it! If I ran out, then that obviously fucking means that I took them.”
“Did you tell your mom? You need to get them refilled.”
“Go get Kenny, Bebe. We don’t have much time until lunch ends–”
“Cartman–”
Abruptly, the boy stood up and stomped over to the lunch table with his three friends. Bebe studied Kyle’s expression as Cartman leaned between him and Stan to talk to Kenny, sitting across from them. Kyle smiled up at the boy when he saw him as soon as Cartman slammed his hands onto the table and interrupted their conversation. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she watched the blonde’s face slowly morph into confusion, and then satisfaction as the fat boy spoke. Kyle was no longer smiling when she looked back at him. He was frowning and his eyebrows were scrunched into an angry furrow. He reprimanded Cartman, presumably for the scheme he had just roped Kenny into. Bebe rolled her eyes, he was such a dumbass sometimes. He knew Kyle would try to stop him, why didn’t he pull Kenny off to the side to recruit him?
It was difficult to tell what was being said and where the conversation was going without being able to hear anything, but eventually, Kenny stood up and trailed behind Cartman back to their table.
“How the hell did you avoid Kyle’s rage?” she laughed as Cartman plopped down next to her, and Kenny was on the other side of her where her girlfriend once sat.
“I told you, you don’t know how nice he is to me. The jew couldn’t resist my charm.” he explained. Kenny roared with laughter at the blatant lie. Cartman definitely embarrassed himself to get out of the situation, but Bebe didn’t need to know that.
“Ah, anyways. Are we talkin’ money or what?” the dirty blonde gruffed.
“Finally, somebody with sense!” Cartman cried, “Listen. Bebe doesn’t even want you around to begin with, meaning you’re gonna have to work extra hard and not fuck up to earn her respect and trust.”
“What? I never said I didn’t want you around, I said I could do the plan alone! No offense.”
He smiled, “None taken. Fatman likes to embellish the truth.”
“ Aye! I’m not fat! I’m big-boned. Why don’t you shut your poor ass mouth so I can explain the fucking plan and get us three some fucking money?” He received no response, “What the fuck I thought.”
Cartman cleared his throat and pointed at the first step of the plan, One, get Kenny to scope out Tolkien’s house for valuables and what room they’re in. Remind him to draw a map of the house starting from the entrance to make it easier for us and mark where the valuables are.
“Okay, we only have today to do steps one and two, and tomorrow to actually get in the house. The plan is for you to hang out with Tolkien at his house and subtly wander into different rooms to search for shit that looks valuable, maybe ask him for a tour. You’re gonna take this notebook, and while you’re doing that, you have to basically make a blueprint of his house. There have to be two things when describing the rooms, okay? The name and what’s in it. Like…a room should say something like bedroom, expensive shoes . Got it?”
The boy nodded,” Seems simple enough.”
“Kewl. Two, convince Tolkien to throw a party for the entire grade. Three, steal valuables while at the party. It doesn’t matter who does step two. Probably not me, though. Tolkien fuckin’ hates me for whatever reason. Honestly, I was thinking Bebe could use her teen-girl charm to woo him over and make him throw the party, but it may not work quite as well considering everyone knows how gay she and Wendy are.”
Bebe scoffed in disdain at the proposition of her flirting with Tolkien to manipulate him into doing something for her.
“So, that leaves me for both steps, huh?”
“Guess so.” Cartman shrugged.
The boy hummed in consideration, “How much do you think we’ll make?”
“Depends on how much shit we can steal and how much everything is worth.” he shrugged.
“I get fifty percent of it, remember?” Bebe reminded him. Cartman rolled his eyes.
“Bebe, don’t be greedy.”
“We’re only doing this because I asked you to! Plus, we agreed on it. Don’t make me beat your ass, Cartman.”
“Jesus, fuck! It hurts! The tight grip you have on my ba—“
“Then can I get forty percent?” The dirty blonde-haired boy interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Cartman asked, “Of course!” Bebe smiled.
“Dude, you know I need this more than you.”
“But I—“
“I’m doing most of the work anyway, all you need to do is get him drunk and steal his shit! My job requires the brainpower you know I don’t have!”
“Oh. My. LORD. FINE! Bebe gets fifty percent of the earnings, you get forty, and I get ten! Now get fucking started or you won’t get shit!”
“What am I supposed to do now ?”
“Do I have to hold your hand throughout the entire thing? Just ask Tolkien to hang out, and take the notebook and pencil with you.” Cartman spat. He slammed the notebook shut and handed it to Bebe, who turned and handed it to Kenny.
Still, Kenny sat staring at him expectantly, which pissed the boy off even further.
“What?! Are you too poor to afford a pencil, too?”
“Yep.” he retorted, popping the p.