AN: Aw, man, I’m just posting this because I’m a little bummed out for some reason. I write fluff when I’m sad, and angst when I’m happy. It makes me feel more accomplished or something. I’ve actually been reading over a lot of fanfiction that I haven’t reviewed, trying to write feedback and make lists so I can get them all properly favorited, and I think it was just too much sitting and not enough productivity. Umph. Really sorry about the even longer delay to all the amazing reviewers and authors I haven’t gotten back to yet!

This story was almost a satire of the democratic primaries, but, fortunately, I quickly realized that I’m nowhere near informed enough to pull off anything remotely political. So it’s pretty shallow, because shallow is waaaay easier. Also, speaking as a Prom Queen runner-up, please forgive all the royalty bashing. I got stabbed in the back so many times that I am completely jaded. Know that modesty does not exist in Prom court. I think I was the only Queen nominee who actually knew she wasn’t the best thing since sliced bread. I founded the school’s Harry Potter Club, for god’s sake. I’m writing South Park fanfiction. C’mon, how cool am I??

Warnings: too-long opening chapter, language, accidental gropage, oblivious/stalker Stan, Kenny with a microphone. I might not update this very soon, because I want to get my other fics updated first. This is the last chaptered story I’ll start, and I think it’ll be a lot of fun!

Blah, blah, blah. Please enjoy!

- - - - - - - -

King Me

- - - - - - - -

Dear Stanley,

It is over. It is so, SO over. Please don’t think I’m being coy--I mean this with three hundred percent of who I am, with every despairingly miserable fiber of my being. I live in terror of our time together. Last night, I sobbed myself to sleep, praying and praying for the courage to overcome my fear of your obsessively neurotic tendencies. And God gave me strength. God being Bebe, naturally. Strength in the form of bourbon, which I am currently chugging. Forgive the fumes. I may be drunk, but I am like sotally tincere.

I would’ve talked to you in person, but I was afraid you’d ask for locks of my hair to complete that voodoo doll I found in your dresser last fall. Goodbye, Stanley. Goodbye forever. Please have a wonderful life that does not involve me.

Please. Pleeeease.

Wendy.

P.S. The ficus caught on fire when you burned my name into the lawn a week ago. My dad was furious until he realized you got all the crabgrass, too. So, thanks. I guess.

- - - - - - - -

“What do you think she means by this?” Stan asked.

They were sitting on the foldout bleachers in the school gymnasium. Kyle looked around desperately for something hard to beat his head against, but the seats were already filling up in preparation for the Prom assembly. Christ, it was early May. It was early May, and Stan was already waving his forty-seventh breakup note of the year in Kyle’s face. With no potential escape routes, Kyle was forced to examine the whiskey-doused letter with the proper expression of shock and dismay. “She…she what? Oh my god, Wendy’s breaking up with you? That stupid bitch!”

Years of practice had made him too credible. Sally Turner gasped behind him and kicked him soundly between the shoulder blades.

“Ow!”

“But things were going so well,” Stan said numbly. “She dropped the restraining order. She read the last poem I gave her before she threw it away. Last Wednesday, she even let me help her up when she fell under the wheels of that garbage truck, remember? God, it was so fucking magical. There must be some sort of mistake!”

“Yeah, I saw the spelling errors in her first paragraph, too. But c’mon, dude. She was kind of wasted.”

“We’ve always had a love-hate relationship!”

“Right, that’s what’s so charming about it!” Kyle agreed quickly, trying to cheer him up. “You love her, she hates you!”

Maybe that hadn’t been the best thing to say. Stan dropped his head into his hands and curled slowly into the fetal position, already quivering with the onset of irrepressible emo dramatica. Kyle could practically see his hair getting greasier. He tentatively began to rub soothing circles across his back, shushing him pathetically, anything at all to allay that pussy bleeding heart Raven. Raven’s poetry was even worse than Stan’s. If that was possible.

“Stan, please, this isn’t the time or place. The whole class is going to be here in a minute. Remember, Prom?”

“I don’t care about Prom,” said Raven. “Just another excuse for you Happily-Ever-After conformists to celebrate the banalities of your pitiful, plastic lives.”

Goddamn it. Distraction was the key, here. All Stan needed was a little distraction. Kyle glanced down at the program in his hands and thrust it haphazardly at Stan’s balled-up form, shaking the green flyer in his face until he finally looked up at it.

“Here. Get your mind off of it. Check out this drivel.”

Listlessly, Stan sat up halfway to read. Kyle followed the obnoxious cursive over his shoulder:

PC High upperclassmen, take a deep breath: finally, you can forget about the Homecoming taffeta and accidental pregnancies! We’re talking LIMOS. We’re talking TUXES and TIARAS. We’re talking elbow-length gloves, virginal girdles, thirty-dollar corsages and ABSOLUTLEY NO SNEAKERS ALLOWED (BOYS). After four years of being bottom-feeders, clear your calendars for MAY 24TH, a night of absolute magic!! WE’RE TALKING PARK COUNTY PROM, 2008!!

“Accidental pregnancies and virginal girdles?” Kyle repeated in disbelief.

Stan actually felt a smile tugging at his lips. “Man, for PC High, we’re not very…PC.”

“I think you just made a fact, there.”

They read on.

For those of you joining us for the first time, brace yourself for a bloodbath. As dictated by tradition, eight nominees--four radiant Queens, four dashing Kings--will be thrown into the vicious public eye for your yay or nay!! CHOOSE WELL: PC has been holding these horse races for thirty-two years, and every single King-Queen duo has ended up at the ALTAR!! Outdated tradition or glimpse into the future? CAST THOSE BALLOTS WISELY!! If the history is any indication, your vote could MAKE OR BREAK a marriage!! The power is in your--

“Oh my Christ,” Kyle said, annoyed. He crumpled the flyer in his fist. “I should’ve known this was just a ploy to perpetuate town superstitions. This is the closest thing we have to historical literature here, I guess. Sorry for subjecting you to that.”

Silence. He turned. Stan was sitting very still beside him, realization dawning in his face.

“Stan? Hello?”

“Don’t you see what this means?” Stan whispered, slowly raising his eyes. Kyle winced at the excitement in his expression.

“Uh, that tons of retarded couples got pressured into marrying their high school sweethearts?”

“No! I’d understand three or four, maybe, but thirty-two? There has to be some stronger force at work here! I don’t care what it is; blackmail, hypnotism, power of suggestion, whatever--this is South Park, Kyle! Stranger things have happened!”

“I readily admit that,” said Kyle. “But what’s it got to do with--”

“Wendy.”

“…oh, great.”

“Wendy.” Stan’s eyes shone. “This is it, dude. This could be my last chance to prove that Wendy and I were meant to be.”

Kyle rubbed his neck and stared at the ceiling. He brought out his words with careful, forced patience. “Stan…maybe you should just…back off for a while. You love her and that’s fine, but she did seem a little pissed off in that last note, don’t you think?”

“Huh? Oh, nah. She’s just being coy.”

“Wh-what?”

“Kyle, please! Are you with me or against me?”

“Stan. Seriously. I’m with you,” Kyle said, amazed at the enormity of his own understatement. “You know I’m with you, I’m always with you, and I’ve totally got your back. I just…want you to be happy, okay?”

The bleachers were finally packed with their classmates, all of them raucous with anticipation. Vaguely, Stan was aware that there was something in Kyle’s voice that he hadn’t heard properly, but the noise of the crowd was fading steadily away, becoming something distant and uninteresting. Oh god, he thought. Not again. This happened every single time he caught a trace of her fragrance in the air.

Three rows in front of him, shining as if from under a spotlight, Wendy Testaburger sat down in her seat with her gorgeous long legs crossed daintily at the ankles. Her hair swayed in slow-motion. He watched in perfect amazement as each dark strand glittered briefly in the glow of the fluorescents before curling back along the delicate bows of her shoulders, clad in purple cashmere. Crimson rose petals fell in a soft rain above her. Gentle piano music began to play in his head. Then Wendy turned to look at him, languid and sensual, stopping his heart, leaning forward to display an enticing swell of cleavage. Her full lips were parting gently around silent words:

Stanley…oh, Stanley…

What? he whispered. What is it?

I want you, Stan…I need you…please, you’re…you’re…

“You’re groping my ass, dude,” said Kyle.

Stan jerked out of his reverie. Sometime in the last few seconds, Kyle had leaned out of his seat to talk to Butters, and, being the most sizeable object within arm’s reach, Stan had apparently taken the liberty of steadying himself with twin handfuls of his best friend’s rear. He stared awkwardly at his fingers, which were starting to form indents around the jean pockets.

“Oh. Um…I didn’t mean…”

“You can let go now, Stan,” Kyle said patiently.

“Just. You know. Checking for swelling.” Stan let go with as much dignity as he could muster. “There’s a lot of it.”

Kyle plopped back into his chair, staring at him with one eyebrow quirked. “You were doing that American Pie thing again in your head, weren’t y--”

“Maybe.”

“I could see the special effects going off in your eyes,” was all Kyle said. He had a patient, I-could-be-teasing-you-worse-but-you’ve-had-a-shitty-day look on his face. “As you were mentally skipping off to Wendy World, I’ve discovered that there may be a problem with your plan. Wanna hear it? Or would you rather continue seeking tactile stimulation from my sizeable assets?”

There had to be an uproariously witty response to that, but it was evading him at the moment. All things considered, Stan didn’t actually see much comedic value in accidentally groping his best friend. Maybe it would funnier ten years from now. He sighed. “I’m listening, reary I am.”

“Oh, aren’t you cute. Well, Butters is on student council, and he says that the ballots have already been tallied. I wish I’d remembered to ask Kenny what the results were, damn. Still, I figure your odds excellent. Token’s a given, and he’s the only person who’d really be a threat to you, even though he hates big crowds. Everyone already knows you’re on. But Wendy only may have made it. I mean, she’s really pretty and everyone likes her, but she’s pretty smart…and, as you know, that automatically decreases her Prom Court credibility.”

“And what the hell does that say about me?”

“Um, that you’re a narcissistic, middling student who plays quarterback on the football team?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Mmhmm, just the way of the world. That being said, I’m thinking it’ll be Bebe, Rebecca, and that one chick from our English comp class. Lila. Lola. The D-cup.”

“That’s only three,” said Stan.

“I know. Joke candidates, remember?”

That was right, shit. Another charming South Park tradition; their class regularly elected six real nominees and two underdogs to laugh at. There was an unusually high concentration of asshole seniors graduating that year. “And even the brainless jock narcissist sees a problem with that,” Stan said. “That is so fucking cruel.”

Kyle looked suddenly embarrassed. “Well--yeah. Yeah, no, you’re right.”

“What’s that look for?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

Stan gave him a very pointed stare.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Kyle blurted, holding out for maybe half a second. “I know that it’s a really nasty practice, and I swear I’m normally miles above all of that stupid second-grade drama, I mean you know me, man, but you’ve got to understand that he’s been giving me shit about being a Jew since, like, before we could talk and I thought that just this one time I could totally stoop to his level because we’ve always had this horrible rivalry and I want him to see what it’s like being treated like a huge joke and my god I do mean huge, have you seen the size of his ass lately? He deserves it! He brought it upon himself and far be it from me to stand in the way of the fate he forged with every piece of anti-Semitic shit that came out of his stupid fucking mouth!”

He said this all very fast. Stan took a moment to digest the implications, then broke into a sly smile. Maybe this wasn’t such a useless tradition, after all. “You dick. Did you really?”

Kyle smiled sheepishly. “May have had a hand in it.”

“You. Kyle Broflovski. You got Cartman on the ballot?”

“Well, what can I say? I just figured I owed him one after he stapled my underwear to the principal’s door last week.” Kyle had finally dropped the embarrassed pretenses. His grin grew wickedly unashamed, and he slowly rubbed his hands together. “Don’t you see the brilliance of my plan? There is no possible way he can one-up me on this one! After years of competing with that fat asshole, I’ve finally found the ultimate retaliation. This is the most socially-damaging thing that can happen to a senior.”

“High-five.”

“God, I can’t wait to see the look on his face!”

As if on cue, the bleachers began to thunder as Eric Cartman bounded belatedly up the stairs. Everyone watched raptly as he jiggled with pudding-like consistency, swinging himself cheerfully into a seat and displacing three students into the aisle. He was smiling widely. Stan and Kyle exchanged one final grin, then turned to address him.

“Hey, fatass.”

“Hey, fag,” Cartman said breezily. “Jew.”

It was sad that that was enough to arouse Kyle’s suspicions. “What, no ‘stupid homo daywalker Jew?’ What the hell are you so happy about?”

“Don’t concern yourself. All will be revealed.”

“Damn straight, it will,” Kyle said darkly.

There was an abrupt screech of feedback from the floor. Everyone shrieked and covered their ears. A few seconds later, the gym filled with a low buzz as someone cranked up the amps, and Kenny McCormick’s unmistakable voice spilled out over the speakers.

“Hey, PCH, we’re ready to get started. Welcome to the Pre-Prom Rally of two thousand and eight!” he announced from the floor, exponentially raising the noise of the crowd with a simple come-on gesture. The cheerleaders began squealing and vigorously shook their poms, and the band played a few stumbling bars of the school song (which bore a suspicious resemblance to “I’m My Own Grandpa” by Latham and Jaffe). Kyle and Stan shouted and stomped their approval. Even Cartman clapped a little. Kenny was no class president or debate team leader, but there was no denying he had some serious stage presence--the natural result of liveliness, tactlessness, and a big, filthy mouth. “Hey, thanks guys, thanks!” he said cheerfully, drinking in the attention. “Shut the hell up now! Thanks!”

The faculty winced at his language. Kenny waited until everyone had quieted, then mowed right along, unabashed.

“Technical stuff out of the way first. The Buckle Up or Beware Assembly will be held on Friday the 23rd. Seatbelts save lives! Use your heads, and your harnesses! You’ll need to get your tickets stamped there if you plan to use the event parking. That brings us to another great factoid, location, location, location. This year, Prom will be held at INVESCO Field in downtown Denver.”

Everyone burst into applause again. This time, cries of “Go Broncos!” and “Orange and blue!” joined the school song.

“The Mile-High stadium,” Cartman said, smirking. “God bless you, Colorado, we don’t even need planes to get into the club.”

Kyle made a face. “Cartman, sick!”

Kenny paced the gym floor, expertly flicking the mic’s cord out of the way as he walked. “Sorry about this next part. There were some last minute bitch-fights about the theme song, so we’ll have a booth open at the dance for people to vote. Britney got nixed, although Aerosmith is still in the running. The student council is pushing for, ‘I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing,’ but I sure wanna miss that song. Enough of the clichés. Vote for The Cure, guys, c’mon! Prom colors this year are green and gold.”

After the final round of bitching and cheering died out in the crowd, Kenny gave a nod to the tech crew behind him. Carefully, the team rolled the Prom podium, which had been festooned with banners and balloons for the occasion. Kenny pulled out the royalty ribbons with a flourish.

“Now here’s the fun part! You guys know the drill--four girls, four guys, we throw them all into a rink and whoever survives gets the crown! Incidentally, this is also how tribe leaders are selected in third-world countries. No, just kidding. About South Park’s procedure, at least. Actually, we’ll set up a stupid royalty booth next to the stupid music booth at the dance. Vote for your favorite candidate. This is a democratic monarchy, people! Popularity contest, yes, but fear not--shit like this won’t matter a bit ten years from now. Except to the lucky King and Queen. You’ve all heard the rumors, haven’t you--?”

The amps went dead. All the teachers were making hasty cutoff gestures, apparently not wanting to perpetuate the superstitions despite the scattered flyers, but the gym was already buzzing with excitement. Kyle patted Stan’s leg in good luck. Stan cast one final look towards Wendy, who glanced up at the same time. She flushed and turned away.

Kenny, who had not spoken without some sort of amplification since he was twelve, waited pointedly for the sound tech to turn on his microphone again. Another roar of static, another collective wail from the crowd. Kenny shuffled quickly through his note cards and cued the band. An erratic drum roll started somewhere from the percussion section.

“Alright, guys this is it! And your first nominee for Prom King is…”

“Token Black,” Kyle and Stan said together, along with most of their classmates.

“Hey, bitches, don’t demolish the anticipation! Sorry for the lack of build-up--get up here, Token!”

Surprise, surprise. Really, who the fuck didn’t like Token? Everyone whistled and stomped their feet as Token stood up, mortified, and headed down the aisle to the sound of fervent applause. Even from the podium, the reddening spots in his cheeks were clearly visible. He managed an embarrassed wave, sitting down in one of the chairs as quickly as he could.

Kenny switched his cards. “Next up, again, no surprise--Stan ‘The Man’ Marsh!”

Cartman just rolled his eyes, but Kyle gasped and screamed in his ear as if the whole school hadn’t seen it coming from a mile away. Stan quickly pasted a smile on his face. The class cheered for him the entire way down the bleachers and across the gym floor, clapping and yelling until finally he got settled on the podium. The whole thing was apparently designed to be as awkward as possible. One of the cheerleaders draped a blue ribbon around his neck and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Feeling a little rush of excitement despite his anxiety, Stan grinned, sharing a brief, sympathetic look with Token. Token was still shaking a little.

Kenny winked at him, then put the mic back to his lips. “Next, here’s one we haven’t heard. Give it up for your lacrosse team champ, Captain Craig!”

The volume in the auditorium redoubled again, thanks in large part to Craig’s own shouts of indignation. There was a long pause before he expelled himself irritably from the crowd, whipping around and treating them to both middle fingers. “Wake up, you tools, it’s just a fucking suck-up contest!” he yelled. “No way I’m helping with fund-raisers or doing all that parade shit! Hear that? I will not serve!”

The principal rubbed her forehead. “Craig, my office, please.”

“Gladly. Christ, what a joke.” Craig stalked out of the gym to wild applause, but not before Kenny chased after him and tossed a ribbon over his head, spoiling his exit a bit. The goth kids sat up in attention and gave him one-finger salutes for his departure. A high honor from the non-conformists, indeed.

“Last, but not least…oh, whoa. I think I mean feast, but not fast. Please welcome Eric Cartman to the stand, if it will accommodate him!”

Cartman wheeled around in the bleachers, flushing, but Kyle had wisely relocated to the opposite side of the bench. He was yelling louder than all of the cheerleaders combined, easily audible even over the ripple of laughter that surged through the gym. “Hooray, Cartman!” he prattled, waving happily across the distance. “Bigger is better! You’re my favorite three candidates! I’d so vote for you if I had an appropriately-sized ballot!”

Stan tried valiantly to muster up some sympathy as Cartman plodded grudgingly down the bleachers to the clamor of sarcastic applause, an effort that he quickly resigned when the fatass stomped on Kenny’s foot on his way to the platform. Kenny wailed histrionically into the microphone, still laughing.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Stan, as Cartman sulkily joined him. Good thing Craig had left. It gave Cartman two open chairs.

“Just wait,” Cartman said, his eyes narrowing. “Just you fucking wait.”

Stan was getting ready to ask him what the hell that meant when Kenny resumed announcing the Prom Queen nominees. Bebe and Rebecca were givens--they were received much like Token, with cheerful predictability, but their applause was significantly more catcall-ridden. Kenny eyed them appreciatively as they passed on their way to the podium, tearfully accepting their ribbons and carnations. Cartman took a shameless peek down Bebe’s shirt when she leaned over to fix her shoe. Stan could’ve cared less about Bebe’s boobs. A bead of sweat rolled down his face as Kenny turned over his next card, pausing for effect.

“Oh, good. Our royalty panel finally has a positive IQ. Give it up for…Miss Wendy Testaburger!”

Stan felt his breath whoosh out of him in relief and excitement. This was totally happening! Wendy stood up after a shocked pause, breaking into a wide, startled smile. Her reception was the loudest yet. She made her way onto the floor, giving modest little waves, her hair bouncing jauntily on her shoulders. The purple ribbon brought out the subtle violet in her eyes. She was so beautiful, so perfect, admirably poised because she was already used to such open affection. Stan suddenly felt sorrier about the ficus. She sure had loved that stupid thing.

Wendy was halfway up the stairs when she met Stan’s gaze. Her mouth hardened unmistakably, and her cheer became forced. After a brief pause that felt like an eternity to Stan, she strode past him and took her seat next to Rebecca, her smile frozen almost angrily on her face. Unconsciously, Stan leaned into the faint trail of her perfume. Something sharp and painful rose in his throat, and he had to swallow to keep from sighing. She loved him, damn it. She just didn’t know it yet.

Kenny was just flipping to his final note card. He laughed for a long moment, his snorts reverberating through the gym. “Oh, god, what a day. And now your final nominee, a charming, excellent pick! Good going, guys!”

Stan sank a little lower in his seat, dreading the impending name. At least Cartman had deserved his humiliation. This type of call-out could shatter a girl.

Kenny turned to the podium and waved a quick salute. “Eric, sir, I have clearly underestimated the single-mindedness of your sadism,” he said, beaming. “She’s perky, she’s cute, and she’s got South Park’s greatest butt--that is, the butt of the joke. Friends and neighbors, please give your congrats to Prom Queen candidate number four…Kyle Broflovski!”

Even from the floor, Stan saw the shit-eating grin disappear abruptly from Kyle’s face. He’d still been doing a stupid little victory dance over Cartman’s walk of shame, stopping in mid-shimmy. All the color drained from his cheeks.

“What?” he screamed. “No! Goddamnit, no!”

Cartman rolled off his chair in hysterics, kicking his feet and howling. The applause was earsplitting, thunderous. Stan watched with a mixture of horror and irrepressible amusement as Kyle was slowly buffeted to the floor, first by his classmates, then by the cheerleaders, and finally by Kenny himself, who smacked him cheerfully on the ass as he shoved him towards the platform. The girls had to fight him to get the magenta ribbon around his neck. Weak from laughter, Cartman gallantly pulled out Kyle’s chair for him, and Kyle responded by shoving him backwards off the platform. The sound equipment shook as Cartman thudded to the ground. Still sporting his Prom Queen banner, Kyle let out a roar and flung himself down on top of him.

Kenny raised the microphone again. “Royalty fiiiiiiight!” he yelled spectacularly, deep in the throes of broadcasting ecstasy.

That did it. The tenuous agenda finally dissolved into chaos. The teachers threw down their clipboards and raced to diffuse the fight, which was pretty much a lost cause, as the entire school had taken Kenny’s battle cry as a declaration of war and was currently stampeding towards the floor. The Prom podium swarmed with insurgents. Balloons popped like gunshots. The distraught socialites of the decoration committee wept from the sidelines, bemoaning the death of a thousand brave banners.

Kenny was narrating the skirmish as if were part of a glorious wrestling tournament, not Cartman and Kyle’s daily schoolyard brawl. PCH, WWE…same fucking thing. All in all, not a bad assembly, Stan thought idly, and, after one final look at his Almost-Queen Wendy, he heaved himself cheerfully into the heart of the fight.

- - - - - - - -

For whatever reason, voting had always been a huge thing for South Park residents. They voted on their mascots, their dinners, whether or not they should vote about taking votes--so Stan was not exactly surprised when a new printout went out exactly thirty minutes after the disastrous assembly, before the swelling in his knuckles had even gone down. He was waiting in the nurse’s office with Kyle as Butters slipped the paper under the door and scurried along down the hall, as if in fear for his life. Kyle reached it first and unfolded it. He had to cover his unfocused black eye to read.

“First-response polling has you with a considerable lead!” he exclaimed. “Stanley Marsh, fifty-one percent. Token’s got forty, Craig has the other nine--you think those goth kids are pulling for him?--and, of course, Cartman’s got nothing.” His expression darkened, and he tossed some aspirin in his mouth and began chewing viciously. “Zero. A big fat zero for his big fat ass. That sneaky fucker!”

His heart beating rapidly in his chest, Stan grabbed the flyer and scanned it quickly for the Queen results. They were listed at the bottom of the page, in pink font. Flower bullet points, too. Very feministic.

1st Place: Wendy Testaburger, 37 percent.

“Yes, she’s winning with thirty-seven!” Stan yelled, pumping a fist into the air and scattering Band-Aids like confetti. “We’re leading! We’ve reached the first step in what I’m sure precedes our imminent marriage! How do you think this thing works, Kyle? She just falls back in love with me on Prom night or what?”

“I’m pretty sure you have to put some effort into it, too,” said Kyle. “And don’t get too excited. Split four ways, thirty-seven percent isn’t a very strong lead.”

“I don’t think it will be a problem. Wendy’s way more popular than that bitch…” he paused to fill in the blank with the proper name, consulting the list. His mouth stayed open, but no sound came out.

Kyle lowered his icepack. “Which bitch is it?”

Stan licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Oh. Well. It’s…it’s just the…”

“Bebe or Rebecca? Bebe? I don’t know, Stan, Bebe’s really popular. You’d better start campaigning for Wendy now.”

“Oh, it’s not Bebe.”

“Really? Red? No sweat, then, Wendy’s got it.”

“It’s Red. But…it’s not the Red you’re thinking of,” Stan said. He picked up his backpack and slowly began to make his way towards the door, hoping that Kyle wouldn’t notice him. Stupid plan, as Kyle was watching him the entire time, his expression growing steadily with suspicion and horror.

“Hey, give me the paper.”

“Do you have a concussion? I think you have a concussion. You shouldn’t be reading when you have--”

“Give me the fucking paper, Stanley.”

It wasn’t that Stan was afraid of Kyle, per se, he was just very interested in keeping his hearing for the next seventy years or so. His best friend had become distinctly Sheilaesque in his post-pubertal years. Stan bolted for the door just as Kyle lunged up from his cot, dropping his icepack and aspirin and brutally charging him from behind. Showing off his outstanding quarterback athleticism, Stan managed to make it a full three steps before Kyle caught him in a flying tackle, driving him heavily to the floor. His chin cracked soundly against the carpet. The two of them tussled briefly in the hallway, Stan struggling to hold the paper out of reach.

“You’re better off not knowing!” Stan yelled. “Trust me! There are some things that men were never meant to--mmggh!”

Shoving his knee in Stan’s mouth, Kyle finally succeeded in ripping the printout from his hands and let out a wail of despair. “Thirty-fucking-five percent? But how? Do that many people really want to see me humiliated?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Cartman, leaning above them.

Immediately, Kyle dropped the flyer. “You!” he raged, thrashing to his feet. He grabbed Cartman’s collar, ineffectually trying to shake him. Cartman outweighed him by a good hundred pounds. “I am going to fucking kill you, you fat piece of shit! This has gone far enough!”

“Hey, you started it. I even made buttons for your cause. Want one?”

Kyle looked blankly at the STANxKYLE FOR THE WIN badge for a few confused seconds before snatching it off Cartman’s palm and heaving it down the hallway with all his might. The pin-side caught Kenny in the side of his head just as he was straightening from the drinking fountain. “How the hell do you have the power to sway the masses?” Kyle exploded. “You, Eric Fatass Cartman, with your huge fucking vote of nothing?”

“Jew, you will be proud to know that I have procured a partner in crime.”

“Oh? And which son of a bitch is that?”

Cartman’s following reply was not necessary. Stan felt her before he even saw her, smelled the dark, warm scent of her lavender perfume.

Everyone in the hall stopped to whisper as Wendy rounded the corner, holding a huge, glittering picket sign. STAN AND KYLE FOR KING AND QUEEN! it declared, in letters roughly big enough to see from space. VOTE FOR TRUTH! VOTE FOR LOVE! The whole thing was accompanied by a border of hearts and two crudely sketched pictures of Stan and Kyle holding hands. They were both wearing crowns, smiling happily down from their thrones. Stan’s stick-figure counterpart was gripping a burning ficus instead of a scepter.

“Wendy?” Stan managed, a shockwave of grief moving steadily through his body. “W-why? Why would you do this to us?”

“Stan, listen, I don’t know what else to do,” Wendy said, lowering her sign. Her eyes were a strange jumble of emotion, sadness and indifference and outright joy. “I’ve been trying to get through to you for years, but you’ve never taken a step back to notice what’s happening right in front of you! I’m getting desperate! I don’t care if I have to rally the whole school behind me; I will show you that we weren’t meant to be. I’m only trying to make this right!”

“By setting me up with my best male friend?” Stan demanded. “You’d go to such outrageous lengths just to prove that you don’t like me?”

“God, this is getting tedious,” Cartman grumbled to Wendy. “It’s been like this since puberty.”

“I’ve learned to accept it,” Wendy said drearily.

“Sooner than he has, clearly.”

“This is about the ficus, isn’t it?” Stan moaned.

Wendy sighed. “It isn’t worth a thing if we have to explain it to you. That’s the point.” Then, as honesty compelled her, she quickly mumbled out the rest: “Well, maybe part of it is about the ficus. Jesus, Stan. I mean, what the hell did it ever do to you?” She flashed a quick, apologetic glance at Kyle before seizing Cartman unceremoniously by the ear and dragging him off down the hall. “C’mon, fatass. We have got some serious campaigning to do.”

“Ow, bitch! I can walk!”

“No, you can hobble! Pick up the pace!”

They disappeared together down the hall, chanting about blind love and “giving a vote for truth.” Stan stared after them in shock. He slowly sank to his knees as the army of red rose petals in his head abruptly imploded into a thousand charred fragments. Kyle caught him before he could curl all the way into a ball, his hands cool and steadying against Stan’s face, which felt suddenly feverishly unreal.

“Stop it right now, dude,” Kyle ordered, his voice coming from miles away. “Don’t wallow. So what, they spread some propaganda and managed to influence the first set of numbers. We’ve still got three weeks before the dance! Candidates aren’t allowed to drop out, but there’s no way even South Park would ever let a guy win Prom Queen. All we have to do is keeping pushing Wendy. People adore her, Stan, it’s not going to take much to keep her in the lead.”

“Yeah, people adore her,” Stan repeated hollowly. “They’ll do exactly what she says, even if that means voting for another nominee.”

“Whatever! You and I have got some star appeal, too. I got Cartman on the ballot, remember? And you’re dominating the polls. I told you already, I’m right behind you, no matter what it is you want.”

With Kyle’s help, Stan managed to sit up again, leaning against the lockers. He breathed slowly through his mouth, trying to calm himself and think rationally. “Okay. Okay, if we pull together, we can still work this out. Just a lot of PR and good speeches. I love Wendy so much, Kyle…she’s everything to me. I can’t lose her like this. I won’t give up.” Stan felt his resolve returning. Injured as he was, it wasn’t over yet…they still had several public appearances left to work with, including the parade and a slew of stupid commercials for the school news channel. He looked up at Kyle, dimly noticing how the magenta Queen ribbon brought out the color in his lips and cheeks. “I have no idea what I’d do without you, Kyle,” he said simply, meaning it.

“Me either,” Kyle said, sighing. He hoisted Stan up by the arm. For just one second, a flicker of something flashed in his face, something unhappy that made Stan frown. Then Kyle was grinning at him again, looking expectantly down the corridor at all their potential supporters. “Last month of high school, baby,” he said fondly. “There are going to be some major changes around here.”

“I sure hope so,” said Stan.

They linked elbows to walk to the bus stop. Immediately, the whispers started up from all sides. “Vote for love!” some girl cried grandly from the crowd, which made Kyle bristle, but Stan didn’t even turn around. After all, he thought dismissively, this act was completely unlike Wendy’s poster: they weren’t wearing tiaras, and Stan totally wasn’t carrying any of his ex-girlfriend’s flaming uprooted plant life.

Three weeks and two days, he told himself, Kyle’s arm warm and steady in his. It was time to get to work.

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End of chapter one

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Sorry, that was a whole lot of lead-in for what might be a relatively quick-paced fanfic! I didn’t know what to cut. Thank you so much for reading! I know I always say this, but this time I seriously will get back to everyone's reviews. SERIOUSLY.

Also, I'm holding a fanfic contest on my deviantArt account! The link is in my profile; please feel free to check it out!