Chapter Text
Your wrist stings from how firm he’s holding you.
Not in a painful or hurting way, you’re physically okay, but enough that it makes your gut wrench that someone you barely know is holding you. Grabbing you. It locks your mind, gatekeeping you away from the other sounds and arguments that surround you at the table. You recognize Julia’s concerned voice, Stan and Broflovski interjecting with some nasally ass voice of Mr. Piggy. Yet their words sound muffled, like the speaking trombone of those cartoons you used to watch.
Their eyes are on you. Everyone’s. From the weirder kids seated within the booths, to the other varsity athletes staring with cursed eyes. Not a face that you recognize from classes, or hallways, or even when you used to ride your bike in the neighborhood.
The pin label of “outsider” and “stranger” is piercing your limbs, and worse of all, there’s still this random guy, ginger curls and all, tethering you here. Your skin begins to prickle and burn, heat rising to the surface that makes your stomach want to pour its contents.
Someone is clicking their tongue, a more relaxed voice speaking out and bringing your mind back to the present. “Dude, shut up. You almost cost us the game tonight. Don’t go and make more trouble for us.” When your eyes flicker up, you notice the red puff ball atop his head.
But the burning is still there.
“What? Look, I’m not causing trouble if Kahl’ can’t figure out sexual harassment versus actual rizz–”
“What the fuck are you on, Fat Ass?!”
“Kyle, he’s just bothering you again. Let it go.”
Let it go? They’re telling him to let go of the conversation but not of you? You haven’t felt this sick since moving away from home. You hear the argument of fuckass bickering continue, but his anger pouring into your wrist despite not being his opponent. Where did you sign up for this screaming match? Your thumb is twitching, fingers throbbing from the pressure on your single arm.
You didn’t ask to be here.
Through the screaming match, your voice croaks out eerily through the Coloradan dialects of the people around you.
“-- Don’t touch me.”
The red-head beside you finally snaps out of whatever rage-fueled spiral he was in, head jerking toward you fast enough to make your stomach lurch. His green eyes almost look inhuman, the way they glare coldly like you’re not better than Tubby Tubman telling him he had Jewties. You watch his lips get ready to spill open, inserting some other excuse or argument about your situation, but he’s cut off again by this irritating, grating voice…
“UH OH, Kahl! Looks like you need to leash your bitch-chick! Wow– she barks just like you!”
After that point, you’re not sure if it was you or Brovflovski who moved first.
You remember seeing the plate of mash potatoes land against the Fat Ass’s face, but your perspective didn’t match with the fallen over table as you were clawing over to reach him. It suddenly reeked of lemonade, a splash of piss yellow liquid claiming a spot on your shoulder… and darkening the green wool of Stan’s varsity jacket. The lettering of his name was no longer an embroidered white, but a sticky sour smell.
Stan’s face contorts in the same way, his canines growling at the Linebacker who decided it was time to stand up.
“DUDE– WHAT THE FUCK?!”
“Oh- fuck, that was supposed to be for the bitch!”
Your brain only processes the crude name once more before another plate slaps against the side of his face, ketchup splattering to match the red of his jacket.
It was a war.
You barely process the next thirty seconds. A dinner roll flies past your ear. Someone screams. Someone else is laughing. You watch the jovial environment of high schoolers morph into a smeared mess of smells that makes you gag and barely able to keep your stomach contents of pancakes. Everyone in the dining room gained some collateral damage from the flying sauces of gravy and soup.
Julia is squealing, trying to hide behind your frame after getting a bowl of mac and cheese poured into her hair. Broflovski’s curls are dull and crusted with remnants of whipped cream, tightly gripping the collar of Fat Ass’s shirt to shove fries down his mouthhole. Stan is trying to apologize to the staff who rush onto the scene, his varsity jacket smeared further with the lipids of someone’s hamburger… and there’s a boy in an orange hood on the floor in a pool of what you pray is cranberry juice bleeding into the carpet. Your hands are looking for anything to be the next thing you throw, even grabbing the mustard bottle as your ammo to spray onto another student.
It’s gross and makes your skin feel disgusting, the way your coca-cola-stained shirt sticks to your body. But something about this makes you feel like… just a kid, despite how disastrous this all feels. At least in this moment you’re away from the stress of moving, knowing nobody, feeling like nobody. You’re away from the pain that sits in your head of changing your life all for a reason that’s not yours. It’s frustrating, and yet, you’re here. In a stupid food fight on a Friday Night.
You chuckle as you’re wiping a dripping scoop of ice cream away from your eyes. You’re sitting as Julia’s shield beside a toppled over table, her eyes watching you morph into an expression that screams satisfactory. All of it, the sigh, urge to jump into the food fight again, it doesn’t go unnoticed.
Broflovski and and you lock eyes for a moment, his eyes widening just a little bit at the sound of your quick laughter in the moment of chaos.
To you, he looks disgusting drowned in mustard and syrup.
To him, you look foreignly alive in this stupid, quaint, mountain town in the butt-fuck no where of Colorado
Then the manager storms into the dining room with steam practically blowing from his ears.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!”
~~
“Oh my god… My hair– eUgh!”
Julia’s hand clamps over her mouth after a brief whiff of her hair, trying to hold back from retching in the bushes. You’re sitting on the curb with her, hugging your knees to your chest… as the blue and red lights float over the asphalt and concrete in front of Denny’s…
Yeah, Denny’s called the cops on the group… But these damn small town police saw the troublemaking group’s faces and thought a slap on the wrist wasn’t enough. No one was going to jail and that ending was good enough. One of their classmates was rushed to the hospital after eating a chicken tender that was actually a fried rat with Hantavirus… How everyone was so calm about it was beyond you. Was Kenny going to live? God, you hoped so.
The cops weren't going to let anyone go home without getting names and parental contacts. Until then, you’re making sure Julia doesn’t waste her money and meal in the bushes outside of the restaurant, holding her hair back in case she does. This was stupid. The excitement from the food fight had sorta worn off, leaving you with this dull realization you’re now in massive doo-doo shit trouble with the police (not really) this damn town you basically hated.
It’s whatever, you’re trying to tell that to yourself. All you could do is wait for your mom to come pick you up. It’s a gamble if she actually will…
Even with how gross Julia’s gagging, constantly being triggered from the smell of her clothes, your mind is left bored and watching the parking lot filled with equally filthy high school students. You heard some of the JV kids managed to run away after recording footage of the Denny’s fight, quickly posting it on social media. It was whatever, again… not like you’re going to get suspended from school. How could you get suspended from home? These grumpy thoughts are bothering you more than you’d like as your eyes glanced over the illuminated lot, now paused for a moment to see those damn green eyes again.
Broflovski… hurray…
The son of a gun hadn’t apologized for the weird encounter near the bathroom. What, do people not talk to the opposite sex here? Maybe this town is too different from home. His eyes are still staring at you, and you don’t have enough energy to sneer or roll your eyes. It’s gross. The three dick-waddlers are trying to argue something with the police, not that you could hear from afat…er– a far. Fat Ass was trying to argue something, and his whining didn’t seem like he was winning.
“Has this happened before? I’ve never seen police so… unprofessional…” You ask Julia who’s managed to control her dry heaving to some degree. Her hair is still being held up by your hand despite the sticky texture. It was going to be hell to wash and brush out… you’re not even going to think about your hair right now…
Julia peeks up from her hunched over posture, holding her nose as to avoid huffing the barbeque sauce mixed with relish on her clothes. “Hah–? Ah, yah. Kind dah’? ‘Dis sa'a little tame though. We’ve ha’ ah’ school ‘chuting man-baeh-pig before. That was a laht’.”
Time to simply add that onto the list of things you rather not care about… It forces another sigh to push from your lips. Julia blinked, quiet as she observed your side profile and followed your line of sight. She’s watching the same trio of idiots who started this whole poor experience with you, but you didn’t expect her next words.
“So… like, is Kyle bothering you or something…?”
You break out of your trance, sitting up a little taller, lips flapping a little “worse.”
“What? No, I’m fine. Really.” Your hand brushes through your own dirtied hair, shaking your head at the gross assumption. It takes a little not to scoff, but it wasn’t that offending… is what you try to tell yourself. “He’s just weird. I don’t know. Like a stick up his ass.”
“Yeah, but like, I dunno… It just feels off. You’re kinda like a wall, so like, things don’t bother you this much. Maybe that’s just what homeschooling does…” Julia lets go of her nose, resting her arms on her own tucked up knees beside you. Another gag bubbles from her throat remembering the lingering stench on her, and you can only offer a lowly snort at her reaction. It leaves something of a smile on your face, but very briefly.
The two of you hear the sound of some hybrid vehicle slowly rolling up towards the curb, pulling your attention as headlines shine from what you recognize as a silver Toyota Prius… with a Hello Kitty car decal on the passenger side.
Great fucking God.
Its window makes a screech that makes everyone worry about the car’s health, but inside soft little piano music plays from the radio, revealing the silly face of your cousin. You pinch your nose bridge.
“Well, heya, cuz’. My mom said I oughta’ pick you up.”
The coming headache engulfs your brain as Julia jerks her head between you and your cousin, her face lighting up in recognition at the blonde goofy boy. She’s about to clutch her stomach to wheeze, feeling her chest tighten at the sight of her classmate
“O-oh, my God… Butters… is your…?”
“--Yeah, yeah… Butters, where’s my mom?”
You’re quick to peel yourself from the curb before Julia has enough time to cling to you and spazz out. The passenger door handle is in your hands, yet nothing happens with a small tug… and another tug. One more tug. Butters shrinks in his seat, slowly reaching over the middle console to tug open the door from the inside, leaving you both staring at one another at the poor condition of his Kitty Mobile.
“Aw hamburgers, the handle only works from one side. Sorry about that, cuz’.”
Despite the crumpled brows and expression you soured, you assure him it’s fine before asking again where your mom is.
“Well gosh, she wanted tah’ come get ya herself, but she’s still kinda stuck in bed again.” He mumbles his words near the end, rubbing his fidgeting hands to help him explain. It’s more than enough for you to understand. Another groan rolls from your lips. It’s great, really. Your mom doesn’t even have the capacity to be upset with you. It’s fine.
“Gee whiz… y’all really did a number in there, huh?” Butter slowly tries to peek his head out his window, his attention brought to Cartman who’s still shouting some plea deal with the police, or insisting he was hate-crimed for being honest. Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. Julia is still waiting for her own parents to pick her up, in which Butters offers a Capri Sun to make the wait a bit more bearable. The three of you are standing near the car as Julia gives a major recap on how it all went down, and Butters is reacting eagerly. It makes you wonder if they were cut from the same fabric. Julia tugs on your sleeve for a moment, waving a hand to urge you closer, lending her your ear to share whatever.
“...He’s still looking…!”
“God-fucking damn it.”
Before you can make your escape into the Prius, footsteps crunch over the gravel. You don’t even need to look up to know who it is, regardless if you wanted to.
“Hey.”
His voice is stern. You feel his eyes boring into you, and your eye twitches instantly. Julia pipes down, taking Butters by the arm for them to step away despite his protests of his Kitty Mobile’s engine still being eye. Your eyes narrow in direct contact with him in hopes that staring at the Ginger guy will make him disappear like a mirage… Just let you be for the evening you didn’t want. Broflovski shoves his hands into the pockets of his stained jacket, curls still crusted with dried whipped cream. Up close, he somehow smells diner grease and something insatiably sweet. His lip pulled into a line while being the first to break away from the staring contest.
“…I didn’t mean to freak you out earlier.”
Oh. WTF?
The irritation still fizzles in your chest, not disappearing, but now you’re not sure what it’s doing.
“…Okay...”
“…Okay…?”
“Okay.”
A beat passes, the two of you looking at each other expecting at least to budge and say something more, hands clenching and loosening beside your frame. The moment is quickly over. Over yonder, Cartman continues to scream something about unlawful imprisonment in the distance. The police officer in discussion is quick to detain him, trying to cuff his arms with his torso against the cop car, and Cartman is whining for his mom. Broflovski grimaces, his expression easily mimicking yours at the absurd personality
“...I better go deal with that.”
“Good luck with your problem.”
His mouth twitches like he almost smiles, before his diva anger consumes his expression while walking off, hands still in pockets. Then he’s gone... and you still can’t figure out what makes him so… irritating…