Chapter Text
The sun’s beating down on us like we’re ants under a magnifying glass, and I’m sweating my balls off in this dusty-ass Spanish town. Seville, Kyle said. “It’s cultural, you guys! We’re gonna soak in the history!” Yeah, right. So far, it’s just been us wandering around like idiots, squinting at street signs we can’t read, while Cartman keeps yelling random Spanish curse words he probably learned from some shady Duolingo knockoff. “¡Pendejo!” he screams at a street vendor who’s just trying to sell us oranges. The guy flips him off, and I can’t blame him.
“Dude, Cartman, shut the fuck up,” Kyle snaps, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his green jacket. He’s got that stressed-out look he gets when he’s trying to herd us like we’re his dumbass sheep. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”
“Relax, Jew,” Cartman sneers, shoving a churro in his face. “I’m fluent. These locals love me. Watch this—"¡Chupa mi culo, amigo!” He cackles as the vendor chucks an orange at his head. Kenny catches it mid-air, peels it, and starts eating like nothing’s happening. Typical.
Butters is trailing behind, clutching a crumpled tourist map, looking like he’s about to cry. “Gosh, fellas, I think we’re lost again. This map’s all in Spanish, and I don’t know if ‘calle’ means street or, uh, castle or somethin’!”
“It means street, dumbass,” I say, but I’m not exactly Mr. Confident either. None of us know shit about Spanish, except Cartman, who’s basically just weaponizing it to piss people off. Kyle’s company hooked him up with this fancy trip—some tech firm bonus for “outstanding leadership” or whatever—and he dragged us along because, in his words, “You guys need to get out of South Park before you turn into Randy.” Fair point. But now we’re here, five 25-year-old morons bumbling through Spain, and I’m starting to think we should’ve stayed home.
“Stan, you okay, dude?” Kenny mumbles through a mouthful of orange, his parka still zipped up despite the heat. How he’s not dying in that thing, I’ll never know.
“Yeah, just… hot,” I mutter, dodging a group of tourists snapping selfies in front of some old-ass cathedral. Truth is, I’m kinda zoned out. This place is overwhelming—narrow streets, bright colors, people shouting in a language that might as well be Martian. I’m trying to keep up with Kyle’s “let’s explore!” vibe, but my brain’s on autopilot.
That’s when it happens. I’m distracted, glancing at some weird fountain with a naked statue dude, and—BAM—I slam right into someone. My beer bottle slips from my hand, hits the cobblestone, and shatters. “Shit, sorry!” I blurt, stepping back.
And then I see him.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
This guy—this gorgeous guy—is standing there, looking mildly annoyed but not, like, Cartman-level pissed. He’s got black hair sticking out from under a blue chullo hat, of all things, and these sharp, dark eyes that hit me like a goddamn freight train. His skin’s got this warm glow, like he belongs in this sun-soaked place, and his lips are… fuck, I don’t even know how to describe them. Perfect? Kissable? I’m staring like an idiot, and my brain’s screaming, Stan, you stupid asshole, say something!
“Uh, lo siento,” I mumble, because that’s the only Spanish phrase I bothered to learn, and I’m pretty sure I just butchered it. He tilts his head, and—oh God, he’s cute. Like, hot-pretty-gorgeous-cute, all at once. My heart’s doing that dumb fluttery thing, and I’m trying not to look like a total creep, but I can’t stop staring. That chullo, man. It’s like South Park followed me here, but in the best way possible.
He says something in Spanish, fast and smooth, and I don’t understand a single fucking word. His voice is low, kinda raspy, and it’s doing things to me that I’m not ready to admit in public. I just nod like a moron, hoping I don’t look as clueless as I feel. Fuck, Stan, why didn’t you learn Spanish? You could’ve been smooth, asked for his number, maybe not looked like a deer in headlights.
“Uh, English?” I try, pointing at myself like an idiot. He raises an eyebrow, and I swear there’s a tiny smirk, like he’s amused by my dumbassery. He says something else, slower this time, but it’s still gibberish to me. My face is burning, and not just from the sun.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing?” Kyle’s voice cuts through my haze. He’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking at me like I just grew a second head. Cartman’s grinning like he’s about to make this way worse.
“Stan’s tryna get laid!” Cartman hollers, loud enough for half the street to hear. “Check it out, he’s drooling over Chullo Boy!”
“Shut up, Cartman!” I hiss, but my eyes are still glued to this guy. He’s brushing off his shirt—tight, black, doing him all the favors—and I’m pretty sure I’m in love. Or at least in lust. Or both. Fuck, I don’t know.
“Stan, c’mon, we gotta find the hotel,” Kyle says, tugging at my arm. Butters is fidgeting, Kenny’s still eating that damn orange, and Cartman’s now trying to “translate” by yelling more random Spanish at the guy, who looks like he’s regretting ever crossing paths with us.
“I, uh, sorry about the beer,” I manage, pointing at the broken bottle like it explains everything. Chullo Guy just shrugs, says something else in Spanish, and holy shit, that smirk is back. I’m done for. He turns to walk away, and I’m just standing there, watching his back—okay, maybe his ass too, because damn—and I’m kicking myself. Stan, you fucking idiot. You could’ve at least gotten his name.
“Yo, loverboy, let’s go!” Cartman shoves me, and I stumble forward, still half-dazed. Kyle’s muttering about how we’re never gonna make it through this trip, Butters is apologizing to random passersby, and Kenny’s just… being Kenny, peeling another orange he swiped from God-knows-where.
As we keep walking, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder, hoping to catch one more glimpse of him. Black hair, chullo hat, that fucking smirk. I’m screwed. And I’m definitely signing up for Spanish lessons when we get back to South Park.