Lilac

Whil-o-whisp

Fandom: Goth Yaoi Love (Red Goth x Curly Goth), South Park

Word Count: 1,545

A/n: LADIFREAKINGDA! I wrote this for a picture on deviantart by 131622 called "It sounded like an Accident". Go Checkitout! I'm not in a very crazy mood… so yea.

Disclaimer: I own…liscence plate :D but no car… sad.

It was only half past seven but the streets were bare, the sky dark lilac, and the air smelling of car exhaust and snow. The crisp, cold scent of snow had long since grown a normal thing in the small mountain town of South Park, Colorado, and I hate it with every fiber of my being. This town, these people, these smells, I hate them all. They're worthless. Useless and utterly conformist. I can't wait to get out of this town and away from these retards.

Though, I must admit, the one scent on the air tonight that I actually care enough to like is blood. I'm sure the rest of this shitty ass town can't smell it on the air, but I can, and I'm sure my fellow Goths could. I smell the coppery tang; shit, I can near taste it. And the fact that I brought it to the air is, I'll admit, a bit intoxicating. The fact that it's his is just so much better. The fact that it's Stanly Marsh lying at my feet makes the smell so much sweeter.

How dare he? He had no right to play with his heart like that; absolutely no right to just decide he was one of us again. He had his chance, he even had his chance with Asher once, but that was a long time ago and he blew those chances. There are no second chances. He never deserved a chance in the first place. He has his 'super best friends', his problems are just Britney and Justin drama, he has his perfect little life; he needs to but the fuck out of ours. We don't need him.

Asher doesn't need him. He doesn't need this shit coming back to haunt him. Not now, not with his old man back to his old ways. Two months. He'd been free of this shit for almost two months, and almost the very same day it starts up again, that asshole walks back into our lives.

I'd never had a real problem with Marsh. His 'Galahad' ways, as Asher puts it, were a bit aggravating at times, but2 it was fine. He mostly stayed out of our lives back in Elementary school. Though, back then there was some lasting animosity with Asher, but that was over with. A simple phase for the conformist football player. Asher dealt with the memories, dealt with the hatred, and I was always there for him. That was how it was until he got over him, got over the first crush. It was conformist to still crush on that first guy, so he got over it. Everything was back to normal.

Until that asshole decided to give it another try. After that Wendy bitch dumped him. So Asher was second pick? A replacement? Fuck that. Asher was a replacement for too many before; I'm not going to let him do that for anyone ever again. You don't fuck with a Goth's heart. There's not much left, and you better not break it, or else every other Goth he knows will fucking kill you. I believe I have proved this without a doubt.

That asshole. That conformist, dickwad of an asshole. How dare he come back after all this time and think Asher will just take him to his bed like nothing else fucking matters. He doesn't matter, not anymore, not ever. He groans as I push him over onto his side and I hope that arm is broken. He's crying and it makes my chest swell with pride. This fucker deserved to cry. He deserved an ocean of tears for the shit he put us through.

His arms and neck are bruised green and brown and a pretty shade of purple, I think it's called Lilac. He opens his mouth and one of his teeth is missing from when I backhanded him, and he's trying to speak and it's annoying. "W-…why?"

Stupid fucking question. I hate him. I hate him more than I have hated anything in this world. I hate that stupid hat and his stupid hair and I especially hate those eyes. They're the same shade as Asher's, but I hate his. Asher's are beautiful; Stanley Fucking Marsh's are disgusting. They reflect the bloody pavement. I probably cracked his skull with that last slam into the asphalt. My rings cut him, something I thought only happened in movies, well, now I know it can happen. I notice that the one on my right hand did most of it, and it makes me almost smile. Asher gave me that ring.

I ripped out his earring at some point. It's in my hand. It was the one Asher bought him when we were kids. The first fucking time that asshole joined us. He kept it all these years.

"You ever fucking touch Asher again and I swear I will kill you." He sobs and I turn away. His face is sickening. The streetlights are out where he lies, in the middle of the street. I hope some asshole without headlights runs him over, because he won't be moving for a long time. Henrietta watches from the blue sedan we took from her mom's driveway. She's smiling.

"Never seen you so brutal, Nick." I don't answer as I get in the front seat, pulling the door shut as quietly as possible. Lucas is asleep in the back seat. She reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a cylinder of Clorox wipes that I use to clean off my shoes.

She starts up the engine and puts it in gear. I have one last request, "Screech as you pass by him." She grins evilly and does just that. The asshole screams. Perfect. It'll sound like an accident. She doesn't ask why I did it. She probably knows. Henrietta's got a way of knowing what we're thinking. She offers me a cigarette. See what I mean? She knows where we're going. It's not like we don't go there every single new moon. It'd become somewhat of a ritual. Only, most times, we have Asher with us. Not today. Today he had to walk. I'll have to apologize.

I don't care how conformist he tells me I am, but he is beautiful, sitting upon a tombstone of some conformist past, dressed in reds, silvers, blacks, and blues, hair freshly dyed, silver glittering from his ears, and bobbing his head to the best music he could find. I could write a hundred books describing what's beautiful about him. Even his pockmarks have a certain… human beauty to them. A certain imperfect perfection.

Smoke puffs from his nose, curling around his eyes like some angry dragon, and I can't help but think he's beautiful. To every one else, he may be anything else, I don't care what they think, but to me, he's my perfect imperfection. I would kill for him. I maybe just did. "What the hell? Where the hell have you guys been?" He's angry, no surprise. "I nearly got mugged while you guys were on a friggen joyride through town." Even angry he only mutters.

It's rather unbelievable how stunning his voice is, despite the California valley he's retained and the years of cigarettes. He loves to talk, and, while his ramblings after too many hours spent around conformists are often somewhat irking, I love to listen. He could be speaking utter gibberish and I'd probably love to listen.

"Chill, Ash. We had to go get Luke from the doctors. Apparently his parents think he's on Pot." Henrietta tells him and throws him a pack of girls, long cigarettes, original. He scowls, but takes them. Who was he to refuse free cigarettes?

He turns to me, those beautiful, dark blue gray eyes flickering with the street lamps behind me, and he's waiting for an explanation from me. Really, I could tell him anything, he won't believe a single word. He just wants an apology. That's how we are. I like it that way. He makes an odd noise as I grab his hips. I love the noises he makes. They're intoxicating. Just like those lips. He tastes like vodka and coffee and cigarettes. "I'll tell you later." He snorts, putting his cigarette back at his lips and turns away.

"Whatever."

No way in hell I'd loose him to a conformist, football playing asshole who thinks he's entitled. I won't give up Asher to the wolves once more just because Stanley Marsh thinks he owns him. I staked my claim a long time ago and I won't dare loose it.

"Apparently Marsh wants back in. Wendy bitch dumped him." Henrietta is watching me, waiting for my reply as I settle against a tombstone, Asher settling back into my lap; his head on my shoulder and it's an assuring warmth from a cold heart. He's waiting for a reply too.

"We talked to him. He had a change of heart." I'm glad he can't see my smile and I'm sure he doesn't get what I mean, but I love his little chuckles. I wrap an arm around his chest, fiddling with the fishnet at the hem of his shirt and I press my face into his hair. He smells familiar, assuring. Pretty.

Like lilac.