Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Beware of hidden satanic messages. This fan fiction is a product of watching too many episodes in the span of three days and suffers "AU" slaughter. It should not be read by anyone who does not understand the term "AU". Voltaire is God. Voltaire, also, has nothing to do with this disclaimer. PS. Reviews Welcome.

Let's begin, shall we?

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When South Park's very own football team had an away game the boys would share hotel rooms—two per bed. Often, due to quantity, two members on the team had the privilege of having a single rather than sharing a room with four people. The privileges were traditionally granted to the team captain and top athlete, but after the first few away games, Token requested to stay with the others claiming that "inability to compromise with Stanley Marsh." Not feeling the need to question the sacrifice, the coach agreed, deciding to be fair by having a rotation of players.

Stan didn't mind one way or the other.

He was different than the rest of the team. When the other boys would laugh, tossing Playboys across the locker room while having sprayed-deodorant fights, Stan found himself watching, lips pursed together, eyes calm and tranquil.

Watching was a favorite hobby, and watching the team brought a new reason to play.

He played it for the boys.

It was maybe by the second away game that he made his move on Token, cautiously turning on his side as an arm traveled over his side. The boy stiffened and called him a faggot but not before Stan's hand encircled the other's hard on. It was by the next game that the room request changed.

The following game, Stan lay in bed next to Craig. He was relatively close to Token, the runaway captain. Broad shouldered and angry, he easily became the next challenge. Stan placed a hand on Craig's chest as they laughed about again now breaking a 60-point lead, then slid it lower. The boy pulled back but Stan whispered a promise of silence, a promise to give him affection, a simple blow job that would spin his mind. Craig groaned, releasing hard into the condom Stan had rolled on him not minutes before.

"You tell anyone, I'll kill you," Craig whispered, threat clear as they wrapped their arms around each other and fell asleep.

The next game came and the same ordeal passed with Clyde. A similar line with Tweek. Stan had grown so accustomed to the program that when his hand moved to close around Butter's length he was caught off guard by the hand encircling his wrist and holding him back.

"The others do it too," Stan said quickly. "Token, Craig, Clyde—I've felt half the team. They're not as straight as you think." A second hand moved, again to get stopped by a hand.

"N-n-now Stan, I-I don't think I'm interested in this and I-I think it's rotten that you would do this to yourself," he stumbled, sitting upright. "And d-don't you have a girlfriend? That Wendy is pretty nice-"

"I'm not looking for a girlfriend-"

"Oh. Well maybe you should ask Kyle then. Or talk with your buddies—they seem pretty nice."

"Look, can we not talk about my friends right now?" Stan interjected.

"Oh, ah, alright. You probably want to get to sleep anyway since it's late." Without so much another word, Butters fell into the realm of sleep. Burned by his first rejection, Stan had trouble falling asleep that night.

The next game came and went—Stan didn't press his luck. Another game passed and the same tradition pursued. It was the second to last game when Craig requested that he share a room with the quarterback. Lifted spirits, the boys wasted no time crawling into bed, arms and legs flailing and entangling around one another. Craig kissed rough—everything about him was rough from the way his teeth closed around the other's lower lip and to the way he straddled Stan's waist, to the way his hands found the other's throat, encircling tightly. The air seeped from his lungs as Stan's flailed, hands gripping onto Craig's in an attempt to loosen the other's hold.

"I told you I'd kill you if you told anyone," he hissed, allowing his hands enough slack for the other to take a short breath.

"C-craig, I'm sorry dude!"

"Don't you know what you did?" his hands closed tighter again. "Butters ratted out to everyone. Cartman's posting about it on Myspace. Everyone knows." His hands released a fraction again and Stan wheezed for breath.

"Craig! I-"

"You don't fuck with me," he squeezed tighter. "And you don't fuck with my friends." Craig's hands slid from Stan's neck to his hips as he coughed, inhaling as deeply as he could.

"Roll over," Craig growled.

"What?" Stan choked, perplexed for only a moment as Craig lifted himself off the other's stomach. "You're not suggesting-"

"Roll over," the boy reiterated.

Stan's eyes closed and he reluctantly obeyed, fingers gripping the bed as his boxers were yanked off. The corner of a pillow was shoved into his mouth. Craig's right hand pressed hard in between the quarterback's shoulder blades holding him flat against the mattress; his left hand tore a wrapper open. After a moment, he leg go, hands gripping onto the boy's hips, slamming an endowed length inside without so much a simple preparation. Stan screamed, muted by the thickness of the pillow as the slams came harder and faster, skin slapping against skin. He felt something tear, a wet heat, before Craig groaned and pulled out. The condom was unpeeled and thrown in the trash can.

"Get a shower and sleep on the floor," Craig grunted, crawling underneath the covers before turning on his side. Stan limped to the bathroom, crying only once the door was locked and the cold water hit the back of his blood-caked thighs.

"I don't want to room with Stan; he's such a faggot," Craig complained the next morning to the laughter of his fellow teammates.

"Shut up, Craig," Stan retorted, eyes narrowed. Cartman cackled, shaking his head as he sank to his knees.

"Oh, thank you God. Thank you so much for making Stan's life hell!" he declared. "Now if you'll only get rid of the Jew-"

"Shut up, fat ass!" Kyle retorted, swinging a punch at the boy. For the moment, Stan felt safe from the wrath of rumors—a part of him wondered if the jab at Kyle was Cartman's way of drawing attention away from himself or whether it was incidental.

For the next game, Stan was demoted to a quad. He wasn't sure if it was luck or misfortune that paired him with Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny, but he decided it beat rooming with Pip, Butters, and Jimmy.

Behind closed doors, conversation strayed from blatant sexuality jokes, at least no more than a typical banter. Stan shared a bed with Kyle; Cartman and Kenny shared the other double though Kenny complained that Cartman's ass took up three quarters of the bed. Stan said nothing but moved to the far end of his bed, arms wrapped around his chest with his back toward Kyle.

"You know-" Kyle whispered, confident Cartman and Kenny were asleep by their silence, "-you can tell me anything, right? It's not like I'm going to judge you differently just because you're… you know."

"Gay?"

"Yeah. Gay."

Silence. Stan rolled onto his back, shoulder brushing against Kyle's. They lay in silence, staring at the shadow patterns on the ceiling.

"Could you love me?" Stan asked. Kyle shifted.

"If I weren't straight, I would," he replied, turning on his side. A hand was lifted, brushing the mop of black bangs away from Stan's forehead. Stan said nothing though he flinched.

"What the hell happened to you, Stan?" he mused out loud.

Stan couldn't answer.

He soon was greeted by the silence that accompanied sleep. It was only in this sleep that Stan was able to lean over his friend's body and press his lips to the other's forehead.

"Love shouldn't matter if you're a girl or guy," he whispered then shifted onto his side, greeted by the warmth behind him as he beckoned sleep to come.