title: marlboros
character(s) or pairing(s):
cursing, implied sex and prostitution, all that jazz~
he was like a single full pack of a dozen cigarettes: wrong, cheap, frowned upon, and oh so addicting.

A/N: i.. really don't know where this came from. short, quick one-shot, not the best. no smut, sorry. it came out bit angstier than i was going for, but. i really do enjoy writing this pairing, it's a shame it's not more popular. :s

(and maybe i'll be brave enough to write smut someday.. and actual third person.)

/oh, and also disclaimer. do not own south park.

do hope you enjoy~ c:

Stan watches long, swift, milky-pale fingers leave trails in the air as they pluck the first cigarette out of the box and ignite. The flame flickers for a single moment, and the irish boy holding it takes a deep, long drag, exhaling in a puff of smoke that Stan finds disgusting. Because when did he start to smoke, the favorite pasttime and hobby of only the most delinquent few: Craig Tucker, the Goth Kids, and now, Kenny McCormick.

"Dude, that's nasty." he hears himself saying.

"Yeah, I know." the blonde's laugh turns into a cough and sputter.

Blue eyes meet blue, two disapproving and two full of false cheer. Stan does his best to stare his best friend, and lover, down, hoping he would see what a mistake he was making with this.

"Aw, come on, Marsh, it's not like it's drugs."

"But they're cigarettes." he says stubbornly.

Kenny detects the hidden whine to his tone, and just raises an eyebrow, staring back just cockily, large easy smile with the small pipe hanging out of the corner.

Stan is the first to back off, sulkily looking away. They sit in silence for a while, the one in the orange parka content to smoke in peace, the raven busying himself with studying the walls of Kenny's bedroom where they were hanging out. His bed, which they were sitting on, was old and moldy and the sheets looked as if they hadn't been washed in a while. The paint was cracked and peeling and a dusty shade of off-white, the walls covered in old posters of Terrance and Phillip. Stan himself had thrown his away, and was surprised Kenny'd kept them; the local seventeen year old player didn't seem like he was still a fan.

Oh, yes, he'd definitely been around the block quite a few times; there'd been rumors recently that he'd started charging for them, too. When Stan had confronted him about it, he'd simply waggled his brows a bit and said, "Well, special discount for you, Stan, just because you're my friend."

"Kenny, this is serious," he'd said, "that's prostitution,"

And then Kenny had smiled and winked and made that face that made Stan's stomach go all fluttery and reminded him again of the reason he could get away with charging, and why people still kept coming.

"So what am I then? Just a toy?" his voice had been bitter. "What're you doing with me, of all people, then?"

So Kenny had laughed and kissed him and only afterward did he say, "Do I seem like I'm playing around?"

And Stan had wanted to believe him.

But when did he turn from perverted little boy to school stud to probable crack addict? Stan was truly worried for his future, and maybe he was just insecure and overly worrying, because every time he'd tried to tell Kenny about this he'd simply waved him off and distracted him again.

"That's your problem," Kenny had once said, "you're always too anxious,"

"I don't want you to become your father."

There hadn't been an answer.

But another click brings Stan back into the present, and he shifts his body towards Kenny again, who was already on his third cigarette. The two abandoned cigarette butts sit on the floor, of which it would be insulting to even call hardwood. It is ashy and black, and Stan feels his lip curl up just a tiny bit. Kenny is staring off into the distance again, avoiding an icy blue gaze, and Stan wishes he would look at him.

Instead, after a few moments in which it is clear the blonde isn't planning on moving anytime soon, Stan sighs and contents himself with staring at long yellow locks, unaffected by dirt and grime, unlike the rest of him. He holds in the urge to reach his hand out and just touch them, stroke through it and take comfort in at least one part of him was soft and sweet and honest.

God, he was so stupid.

Because as much as he wants to leave, pick himself up and run out the door, as much as that one part is telling, hissing, that Kyle was probably right and Kenny was no more than trailer trash, to go back to his former super-best friend and tell him that his mother was telling the truth all along, but there is always another part. Another part of him that thinks, no, knows, that this isn't the Kenny he knows, that he grew up with, this was a different one, but the honest-to-god overly-wise, overly seasoned little kid that has seen too much is in there somewhere.

But then sometimes things like this happen, he takes up smoking, he gets high with the Tucker kid in the school parking lot, and then Stan wonders why he gave up everything in the world, his best friend, for him. Because they'd always known that Mrs. Broflovski did not approve of the McCormicks, and it had only been a matter of time before she'd been proven correct and her son had followed suit. And then sometimes Stan wonders that with the why, that maybe, sometimes, that he could go back, just maybe.

"See, I told you so," he could see her shaking her head and tut-tutting, "And Kyle knows how to listen to a voice of reason, doesn't he?"

And then maybe Kyle, who is standing next to his mother, would act disapproving but the next moment, they'd be jumping into each others arms and sobbing and be super best friends forever again.

But then Stan realizes and knows that that's not going to happen, not now, not anymore.

Because his life with Kyle is over, for now, and now it's Chapter 2: Kenny McCormick, and they're sitting on his old bed not speaking with each other and Stan has so much to say but he can't get the words out and Kenny is so silent and Stan wonders, bitterly, if Kyle is sitting with his new super best friend, someone new, in the exact same position, only they're talking and his new super best friend is someone his mother actually approves of.

So Stan opens his mouth and out comes a strangled whimper,

"Kenny," he says, "Kenny."

And Kenny finally looks at him with dull sky eyes and with his fourth deathstick again and Stan suddenly has this strange revelation that he, Kenny McCormick, is so much like the cigarette, but he starts to say something but suddenly Kenny's eyes are refocusing and his hands yank Stan closer and suddenly they're kissing, full on.

"I'm sorry," he whispers in Stan's ears in a way that makes him shiver and huddle closer, and then Kenny is hugging him and saying things and suddenly, both of them are crying and kissing, desperate and hungry and of two teenage boys that have nothing else, nobody else.

But through it all, Stan can still taste the fourth and final cigarette, smoky and tainted with past sins and words unspoken.