Consistent

BY : RandomJaz
Category: +S through Z > South Park
Dragon prints: 7345
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any of it's characters, nor do I profit from this fanfiction.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here we go, again! 😊 Welcome back! Shout out to my Archive or Own readers for the continued feedback! Always like to make sure I thank you guys.

Also: There's some harsh, offensive language in here because Cartman is a belligerently racist asshole. (You all already know that, though. Just pointing it out to cover my bases. I'm not out to offend anyone, I promise. Just keeping Cartman in character. If anyone is offended, I will gladly edit it. Just let me know.)

xxxxx

After the fiasco in the backyard, it was decided I be alleviated of my position as babysitter. My aunt and uncle went out to watch the kids, taking the next shift. The boys got their exercise, Suzy learned a new word and I got a smoke break-everybody wins.

I went around to the side of the house with Mike, out of sight, to smoke. If any of the kids saw me puffing on a cigarette, I'd get the whole "You're setting a bad example" lecture and whatever. What example was I supposed to set? I wasn't their fucking parent.

And, I wasn't the one who yelled 'Weak cunts' at the top of my lungs, either. Like a normal person, I thought it to myself. It's called having manners. Look it up, Ricky.

Weak cunt.

"I don't get Thanksgiving. Everyone gets together to sit around all day, waiting for Dinner." I made my displeasure with the Holiday gathering clear. "It would make more sense if everyone just showed up at Dinner, and left after they eat."

"Food isn't the whole holiday. The point is for people to get together."

"Don't care for it. There's too much shit going on."

My parent's ruckus at home was enough. Adding close to fifteen people in my house for the whole day made it feel like a circus inside.

Little clowns running amuck. One sad, raggedy, out of place clown sulking about to the discomfort of the entire troupe.

Trapeze artists, ever so carefully, walking the fine line between conversations that serve no purpose but to pry. Contortionists twisting and bending, evading said prying.

Jugglers tossing unsolicited advice back and forth. Acrobats soaring to conclusions. The Ring Master, coordinating it all with grandiose, facing the audience in hopes the chaos passes for entertainment.

Then, last but not least, the magician. He disappears without a trace in the midst of the chaos. And, with all else that surrounds him, no one even notices.

That's the show. Don't come, again. Happy Thanksgiving.

"My mom's side is Italian, you should see my house right now." Mike suggested. "This is tame."

"Big, loud family?"

He had a high tolerance for people. An innate instinct to socialize-the charm, the charisma. But, Mike's family, in mass numbers, drained his battery.

"Oh, yeah. They're loud." he confirmed, grateful to not be in the center of it currently. "It's constant, too. From the minute they arrive, until the minute they leave. They don't have indoor voices."

"Yikes. Must be bad if you're hiding over here."

"I'm here for you. Getting a breather is a bonus."

With every drag, I was careful to blow it away from Mike. I stood a good five feet, or so, away from him. The wind helped billow the secondhand smoke, blowing it in the opposite direction.

"When my family's here, I prefer to lock myself up in my room. I don't have to watch the little shits, anymore. If you're not heading back for a while, you can come with me."

The décor to my room was typical to what one would expect. It wasn't this elaborate, darkly beautiful setting how Mike's room was. The stuff in his room all matched and was deliberately arranged for presentation.

My room's general theme was black, with band posters, incense burners, and a select collection of gothic trinkets and decorations. I had an old bookshelf and some antique trunk. My desk, my beanbag chair and bed. T.V, game system etc. My room was mostly function-orientated, with dark aesthetic being more an afterthought.

"Your room is clean, wow. That's a pleasant surprise."

"Not all goths are grungy." If I didn't know my own kind's reputation, that comment would have bristled me up. "I'm easily grossed out. Filth gives me high blood pressure, I swear."

Mike's immaculate, neat ways co-existed with my anal-retentive need for cleanliness very well. He understood. He approved, but he cringed the faintest bit when the potent, burning smell of bleach hit him.

Damn, that was strong wasn't it? The smell seeped out from the bathroom. I cleaned late the night before. I couldn't go to bed before I cleaned it, and in my tired state I overestimated how much bleach I needed.

"I'll open the window and let this out." I apologized, dragging the window up to circulate some fresh air.

"Did your friends have grungy rooms?" A knowing tone bubbled up in Mike's voice. "I doubt their rooms smelled like cleaning product."

"I've never been to Georgie's room, he's always trying to get away from his house. Henrietta leaves clothes all over the place, but her room isn't necessarily dirty. It was a clusterfuck. There was too much stuff in it."

I listed off my 'friends' and their living arrangements. Describing Henrietta's room gave me the willies. I could overlook the cramped setting. Even bras with cups the size of army helmets strewn about here and there.

It was heaps of random pillows and cushions, dressers and shelves crammed with random shit, and piles of clothes left on her desk chair that broke the camel's back. It was too much to take in with so little room. Whatever void Henrietta was trying to fill, she was doing it with thrift shopping.

"And, Michael?" Was Mike's greater curiosity.

"Ash trays filled to the rim. Coffee mugs left to sit around for a week before he brings them down to the dishwasher. His room reeks of stale coffee and pure cigarettes." The phantom smell flooded my nose, burning worse than the bleach. "He chain smokes, doesn't bother to open the window half the time. It would aggravate my asthma."

I emptied my pockets of cigarettes, lighter and phone, on to my desk to get comfortable. Inspecting the humble workspace, Mike found fascination with the black blown-glass pumpkin there. It fit in the palm of his hand and matched those long, glossy nails of his.

"You have asthma and smoke?" He put it back where he found it, more concerned with what I just said.

Here we go. Whoops.

"It's more common than you think." I defended my stupid choices. "It's like lactose intolerance. People know they can get away it so they do it, regardless of the consequences."

I sat my weight down in my spinning desk chair.

"Not much of a difference." My conclusion did nothing to comfort the health-conscious man before me.

"There's a grave difference between shitting yourself for a milkshake, and dying for a cigarette. A bad asthma attack could kill you."

It wasn't until Mike flicked me on the nose that I realized I rolled my eyes at him.

"Don't be stupid."

"Ow?" I rubbed my nose. "I have an emergency inhaler. It's not a big deal."

"Its a huge deal."

Gracefully straddling me, Mike swung a long leg over my lap. He held the carton of cigarettes to my face.

"What's it going to take for these to go away?"

The glossy print of the carton didn't make my mouth water the same way my newest vice did.

"A few days. I use two packs a week."

"Don't be a wise ass." Mike used the carton to bop me on the forehead. "I'm serious. These need to go away."

"I don't currently have plans to quit smoking."

Changing his approach, Mike put the cigarettes back amongst my other possessions. Unconcerned, and confident that he could get his way, he batted his shiny hazel eyes at me. Those were darkest, fullest lashes I'd ever seen on a dude. No Mascara.

"I'll make it worth your while..." Mike trailed off suggestively. "Throw those away, for me."

"If it were that simple, I'd consider it."

"It is simple. The word you're looking for is 'easy'."

Conceptually, quitting smoking was simple. Stop smoking, that's it. Following through, and executing that, wasn't easy. Mike didn't know what he was asking.

"Nicotine withdrawal is a bitch. Bribing me with sex isn't going to make it any less miserable. Once you see how crabby I get, you won't be interested."

"I can handle you."

With the peace of mind knowing I'd locked the door when we came in, Mike guided me to kiss him. His spidery fingers slid up either side of my neck until they were in the ends of my hairs at the base of my head. His tongue lashed out to meet mine as I felt him in my hair.

The wet appendage was serpent-like, expertly coiling and slithering along the cavern of my mouth. Mike gave me sensual, closed mouth kisses, lashing out with the erotic, salacious attacks of his tongue in between. I was running out of air because instead of taking it in where I could, I was losing myself in that sexy way he kissed.

Head lolling back, my oxygen gradually depleted, dwindling down without alarm until I was down to my last reserves. Making out was so heated, that the breathless feeling didn't become a problem until, in an instant, I desperately needed air.

"See? Smoking hasn't done you any good." Mike chortled at the urgent way I'd torn myself away from his kisses. "Your poor lungs."

"I remember to come up for air with cigarettes...if anything's dangerous, its you."

"You don't know the half of it, baby bat."

Making out in a desk chair hindered a lot of potential. Climbing off, Mike put his feet back on the ground. Retreating to the edge of my bed, he sat, beckoning me in with a curled finger.

"No, thanks...I choose air."

"Baby bat~" Those perfect lips pouted, shrouding his devious intent with deceptively sweet, charming allure.

Typical vampire- Charming, seductive and fucking gay as hell. There you have it, that's Mike.

"If you really choose air, throw those away." Mike pointed past me, over my shoulder to the carton he was determined to get rid of. "It'd make me so happy."

"You'd hate me without nicotine. I hate me without nicotine."

"We'll talk about that, later. For now, come here~"

Giving in, I went to Mike. This wasn't a bribe, at the moment. It was a warm invitation. Though, it was that "I'm having naughty thoughts" smolder that got me over there.

Sexy, persuasive, asshole.

Sitting with our outer thighs and hips touching, we peeled off our top layers, leaving my blazer and Mike's vest on the dresser. He loosened the tie under the collar of my shirt, unweaving it carefully to not wrinkle the material.

"My family is downstairs." I broached the unfortunate circumstance.

"We won't make any noise...well, the bedsprings won't." Decidedly perverse, his next words gave me a chill. "It's a shame."

He could have been inferring to the fact that I owned no actual lube to get things going. Or, he was rightfully apprehensive of full-blown fucking with a full house a floor below us. Asking wasn't my top priority.

The first three top buttons to my shirt surrendering under Mike's nimble fingers. He parted the fabric, pecking my exposed collarbone and softly kissing the divots.

Kissing my neck now, he liberated the rest of my shirt buttons, baring my chest out for his enjoyment. Unlike Mike, my shirt wasn't tucked in to my pants with a belt. He'd maneuvered his way to what he wanted, all tucked away and buttoned up so neatly that I couldn't bring myself to try and undress him.

"You're wearing too much clothes." My hands strayed to his waist where the hem of his shirt was all tucked away, hinting to what it was I wanted him to do.

"Don't worry about it."

Pushing one side of my shirt down to get to my shoulder, he looked for his next canvas of skin to sample. I was still holding on to him by the waist, fixated with that belt which was ruining my life right now. Grinning in to my skin, Mike brushed away my lingering hands.

"Ah-ah." He chided, pushing down the other side of my shirt to suckle hot, wet kisses to my other shoulder.

"You're such a freaking tease."

"You love it."

We were back to a heated make-out session in an instant, pouring gasoline over a fire we weren't supposed to be feeding. If I were to be so lucky that Mike caved, that bottle of lotion wasn't going to fly with him. I didn't blame him.

Mike got on top of me, friskily. My back hit the bedcovers and his hands skimmed every inch of taunt skin he could touch along my exposed torso. I should have taken my shirt off all the way beforehand. Having it opened like that, I looked like some present with the wrapping paper hastily torn half off.

"Why is it you get to keep your clothes on?"

"It turns me on how much it bothers you, that's all."

He really was getting off on it.

"You're in for it when this holiday's over." he promised between feverish sucks and kisses to my chest and shoulders. "I'm coming back for you."

There was thigh on thigh, the material of our dress pants sliding over each other. Mike's shirt on my bare chest served as a barrier between us. An unforgiving reminder that I was not getting what I wanted until well later in the evening. Way, way later.

Mike's body language was coy and taunting. The fact that I couldn't have him right now only made me want him more. We were grinding, trying to find some rhythm in the midst of our carnal game of keep away.

Our debauchery came to a screeching halt when a thud resonated across the room. A thud that came from roughly one hundred eighty pounds of jock climbing through the open window.

"Are you fucking serious, right now?" I barked at him. "What the freaking hell are you doing?"

"What are you doing?" Stan demanded back, eyes wide as saucers.

"It's my room, dumb ass."

I was livid with this retard's audacity. Mike's voice splashed me with a cold, brash, reality check.

"I think he's referring to me, Pete."

I was in bed, under him. Shirt splayed open, cheeks filled with color, hair tousled, and lips slightly puffy from a hormonally-driven onslaught of sucking face. Unknown to me, there was a light quarter-sized blemish at the base of my neck. One on my collar bone. And, at the junction of my shoulder.

"I WAS having a good time before some idiot climbed through my window UNINVITED." I emphasized, still under Mike because he made no effort to move and I didn't make him. "Normal people typically call or something before they show up!"

"It wasn't like you would have picked up, anyways!"

"Get out of my room, Stan."

With a dumb, helpless face, Stan took in the scene a moment longer before getting mad. Him. He was mad. HIM.

"What happened to: 'I don't talk to Mike'." He accused like I was the asshole here, brows furrowed, with an exacerbated hand motion to said person. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since you rubbed your dick all over that blonde bimbo and ran like a coward when I saw Wendy chewing you out for it."

Legitimately trying to defend himself, Stan insisted he wasn't cowering away from his actions.

"Three weeks go by and all I hear from you is a drunk phone call." I snapped. "At One in the morning."

"I knew better than to stick around while you're pissed! I was giving you time to cool down."

"Three weeks." I growled.

"See?!"

Switching the focus of the erupting argument, Stan brought it back to Mike.

"If this was to get back at me, fine. You got me, we're even. He can go now."

Anyone else in Mike's position would have flippantly told Stan to go lie on some train tracks, or excused themselves to wait out the lover's dispute. But, because he was Mike, he shoo'd Stan towards the window.

"I can go? No, you silly, naive fool. I'm not going anywhere." he patronized, laughing.

LAUGHING. He was laughing, right at Stan. I never liked him more than I did right then.

"You can go. Careful on your climb back down." Mike continued "And, don't worry. Your secret's safe with me, Mr. Football captain. Bye~"

Stan didn't have any reason to think that Mike knew about our arrangement before just now. With what decency Mike had, he didn't see anything to gain from spreading around Stan's secret. Stan cared more that Mike had me, rather than the fact Mike knew he wanted me, too.

"Pete." Stan looked at me like I was supposed to kick Mike out.

Nope. Not a chance.

"Bye." I parroted Mike's dismissal. "If you fall, I honestly don't give a shit. Have at it."

Xxxxx

The only thing colder than December was my attitude towards Stan. I made Winter look like a tropic paradise.

Football season was over. The Cows had their winning streak. Stan didn't carry himself like a winner. He couldn't, not with my time and attention going to Mike.

Wasn't karma, sweet? I thought so.

Football and Wendy were the duo he and I were constantly bumping heads on. Now, he had neither. All that free time he was waiting for, he couldn't spend it messing around with me behind closed doors.

The image of Mike in my bed haunted him. I know it did. My body covered in love bites especially chapped his ass. I never let him give me hickies. Even letting him near my neck, at all, was rare.

That scar I covered up from everybody, I blamed it on him. He knew I was crumbling under so much...yet, he let more crush me. I had a moment of weakness.

Because of that, Stan made his mark on me. That sad day, I decided it would be the first, and last one he'd make on me.

Seeing me with Mike as the days went on, right at his side and openly accepting his affections, brought out a side of Stan that I didn't know existed. He was jealous. Jealous that Mike had what he felt was his, and that I was letting Mike have it.

Mike had fun with it, waving it around his face in discreet, petty ways. If he didn't have my hand in his, he'd take it when Stan passed us in the halls or parking lot. Mike and I's relationship wasn't a secret.

It was those basic perks and mannerisms that went along with dating were what bothered him the most. Because they were something he couldn't give me. He couldn't complete with Mike.

There was nothing Stan could do about it without drawing unwanted attention to himself. How would it look if he had a jealous fit over some openly queer couple? He had to sit back and watch me date Mike, in silence.

Brooding, envious silence.

Lunch was the worst, for him. It was twenty minutes of pure, uninterrupted, Mike and I. He could've chosen not to look. He couldn't do that. On some level, he probably didn't believe what he was seeing.

He was torturing himself.

Staring right at Stan, Mike kissed my cheek. I was mid-bite of one of those apples that Mike insisted I eat with the sandwich he packed me every day. My face was redder than both my hair and that piece of fruit. In front of the entire vampire clan.

"Aww! Pete's blushing." Annie gushed. "You two are the cutest couple EVER."

"I ship it." Bloodrayne added.

"If everyone could stop looking at me, that'd be great." I muttered with the next mouthful of fruit.

Stan blanched, never having witnessed me flustered to that degree. His didn't have as strong as an effect on me. He felt inferior to Mike.

That fat kid, Cartman, witnessed the public display of affection. Clyde asked what was up with Stan because his face was stuck in the paled, expression.

"Dude, you look like you're going to throw up."

"I might throw up with him." Cartman grumbled with disgust. "The faggy emo kids are gonna make out, or somethin'."

Clyde's gaze went straight to me, where I was innocently sitting next to Mike not about to suck face. Elbows on the tabletop and chin rested on his palms, Mike puckered his lips at him in a kiss, dragging done one eye lid flirtatiously.

Clyde was peeved, and pinking up around the ears and cheeks. It was so easy to bother him. Sheesh.

"Fags are gross." He sharply looked away. "Nobody wants to see that."

"You guys sound so ignorant." Token rolled his eyes, voicing his thoughts "They're not hurting anybody."

"Shut up, Token. Black asshole." Cartman belittled the more inclusive, open-minded member of their group. "If you like faggots so much, go sit with them."

Cartman's ignorant, bigoted ways over the years built up a lot of callous for Token. He didn't react to the fat kid's stupidity.

"You're the ones paying attention to them." He pointed out. "If you hate them so much, then don't look."

"It's pretty simple." Kyle sided with Token.

"Whatever. I don't give a shit what a nigger and jew have to say."

Kyle, like Token, didn't give Cartman the satisfaction of being bothered by his bullshit.

"We don't care what a stupid, racist, fat ass has to say. It all works out."

"Ey! I'm not fat you fuckin' jew!"

Cartman slimmed out over the years, getting down to a husky build. He wasn't obese how he'd been in childhood, but the guy was still overweight. So long as he kept prodding at Kyle the way he did, the guy was going to throw it back in his face.

Good for him.

xxxxx

Some new bookstore opened up in the mall plaza. It was one of those café lounges sort of thing. Buy drinks and books, enjoy some free-wifi and different places to sit. It had two floors.

Most drinks on the café's menu were a mess of different sugars and flavors that were all the same shit. Hipster concoctions. Ugh.

"Could I get a plain macchiato? Whole milk, no sugar."

It was just hot milk and espresso. Simple, strong. How I liked it.

That twitchy kid from school was working the counter. He put my drink together and I took it to a desolate corner of the giant store. With the help of tall bookshelves in a section that wasn't busy with many browsers, I claimed it as my hiding spot.

Half Mike's minions were in the supernatural and fantasy sections of the Fiction quadrant. The rest were shopping the various notebooks, bookmarks and other random stuff bookstores offered. I toiled away in my notebook, pen in hand.

Once, I had a dream,

Where death set me free,

And took the silence with him.

But, I woke up to this prison.

My cage.

My life.

This existence,

Which society deemed life.

Here in this world,

Where greed is a formality,

Cries for help,

They reach deaf ears.

The currency we trade is cruelty.

Dictated by rules which

We never write down, or speak of,

We don't raise the red flags.

But, instead,

Wear the white ones around our mouths.

With one hand over our eyes,

And the other behind our back.

Blind. Bound.

It cripples us.

We have no grasp on reality.

And, that, will forever be our downfall.

When I write, if my environment is quiet enough, I get lost in the scratch of pen along paper. My mind purges, and I come back lighter. It's close to a trance. It took hold of me for the passing hour, or so.

I came out of it, and Mike was sitting with his back to a bookshelf four feet across from me.

"Fu-" I held back from blasting the 'F' word in the quiet space.

"Hey, you."

"How long have you been sitting there?"

Tilting his head side to side in pondering, Mike estimated about five minutes.

"You could have said something."

"I didn't want to. You looked in your element. Very focused."

"It happens when I write where it's quiet."

"You must have a lot knocking around up there."

There certainly was. It's like static constantly running in the background. Erratic, chaotic noise that I didn't always have the volume button to.

"Is it time to go?"

"If you want it to be."

"What about your friends?"

"Everyone has their own rides, remember?"

No one carpooled with us. We were free to leave whenever.

"Hang out with your friends. I'm fine here."

"You isolated yourself in a corner."

"It's my preference."

"It would be nice to change that, down the line."

Without malice, I tucked my notebook back in my backpack, giving Mike the side eye.

"No smoking and no isolation? Hm. It's almost like you've forgotten who you're dating."

"I'm asking a lot of your stubborn goth ass, I'm aware."

Back on his feet, Mike gave me his hand to pull me up.

"So long as you're aware." I accepted his hand.

Shopping bags filled with purchases, Mike's main group was trying out the café's sweet drinks and confectionary treats.

"There you are." Larry greeted me return, rifling through a paper bag of doughnut holes. "We were wondering where you were."

"Get lost?" Ryan asked, going in to bag after Larry found the flavor he wanted. "This place is really big."

I gave some generic excuse that I was just looking around on my own. Mike didn't contradict it.

"Try these, Man. The café's not bad." Larry encouraged me.

"Thanks, but I'm good."

Vlad broke the top off some sort of muffin, perturbed.

"Aren't you hungry?"

It was mid evening, dark outside. Dinner time was just on the horizon and we'd all been together since school ended. I hadn't eaten anything since Lunch.

The coffee in my stomach from the café hours before nullified any hunger pains that I would have had, otherwise.

"I had a lot of coffee earlier. I lost my appetite."

"Take it easy on the coffee." Mike chimed in, trying the treats going around since he had an appetite. "You need to eat."

Vlad sided with Mike.

"You sure you don't want anything? The girls have the cake pops on their end of the table, right now."

"Are we hogging them?" Annie asked around a pink frosted ball of cake on a stick when she heard Vlad.

Bloodrayne held up the bakery-type box lined with cake pops.

"There's birthday cake, carrot cake, red velvet, and chocolate." The selection was presented with welcoming enthusiasm. "If you like birthday cake, get to them now or else Annie's going to demolish them."

"That's so mean! You ate half the carrot cake ones!"

"Nobody else likes the carrot cake that much."

Vlad took the box, passing it up so I could take what I wanted. I wouldn't eat. In unison, they all got this worried look to them.

I was thin, I wasn't oblivious to it. No one would say it out loud, but the pregnant pause spoke volumes.

Could I go back to my corner? Too much fucking attention on me. Christ.

"He'll eat later when he's hungry." Mike reasoned to divert the conversation to something else.

They started going back and forth about what they bought, drifting away from my poor appetite. They cared. I couldn't say they didn't.

Feeling out of place left me detached from their kind efforts. It pushed Michael to the front of my mind. In a warped, unsettling way, I missed him.

If only because I was used to him and could be my sulky, distant self in his presence. There was no pressure to stay positive. I could poison myself to my heart's content.

Surrounded by decent, friendly people should've made my old group all the more unappealing. It didn't.

I could replace Stan with Mike. But, I couldn't replace Michael-the closest friend I had, all be it toxic to his core. Years committed to the group, and I thought I'd make a clean break?

Michael was right, I was always going to be one of them no matter how much I resisted it.

I didn't fit here. Our world, and Mike's world, weren't two sides to the same coin. They were two totally different currencies.

xxxxx



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