I wrote this just for fun, and actually has little to do with South Park except for the names. Imagine that Craig and Clyde went to the same college together, but completely forgot who they were from elementary school, then it'll make some sense. It's really just a quick story with a lot of dialogue and basically no plot. It may warrant a continuation, but not likely.

Enjoy!

Plan E

(Based on a true story, but embellished to the point of being unrecognizable to the actual account.)

Craig grabbed his carton of apple juice and sauntered to the counter, paying with his meal plan. Through the corner of his eye, he witnessed the boy that had been popping in and out of said peripheral for weeks now, and every time Craig could feel his dopamine receptors flare. His name was Clyde, and he was his secret obsession, the object that ravaged Craig's wet dreams.

Clyde was busy making the crucial decision of whether to choose the yellow Gatorade or the red Gatorade. The way he shifted his weight from hip to hip caused Craig's gaze to linger; long enough that the cashier behind the counter got tired of waiting for him to retrieve his ID card and let it fall from her finger tips. The light clatter broke Craig from the trance and he scrambled to regain control of his faculties, clumsily slipping the card back into his wallet.

In a haze of blushing cheeks, Craig stumbled out to the elevator and pressed the up button. As he waited, holding a bottle of red Gatorade (Good choice, Craig thought, else it would look like drinking urine.) Clyde materialized beside him – indifferent expression, mentally occupied, call it what you will, but the look on his face made Craig feel like he was intentionally ignoring that they were only three feet apart. And that. Would. Not. Stand.

The elevator beeped, the doors creaked open, and the two boys swept themselves inside. Clyde pressed 10. Craig didn't press anything. Clyde glanced at him, finally giving Craig the eye contact he so desired, as if to nonverbally ask if he was going to press any buttons.

Craig squinted mischievously before slowly lifting his hand and swiping his palm, lighting up every button from 2 to 10. The doors closed.

"What did you do that for?" Clyde mumbled, aggravatingly apathetic.

"I wanted to maximize this time with you," Craig said honestly, with a smirk. "Besides, all my life I've been the passive guy. I wanted to know what it was like to be the asshole. You pissed off yet?"

"You know," Clyde grinned, "all I have to do is get off the elevator."

"Ah, but then you'd never get your revenge."

"Revenge?"

"Yep."

The doors slid open, the second story beckoning, but Clyde didn't get off.

"How about I kick you in the balls?"

"Ouch. I've got to warn you, though: I'm a masochist. I think I'd enjoy it just as much as you. Besides, shouldn't the punishment fit the crime?"

"And what would I do to make that happen?"

"Well, I am a masochist. I thrive off of depriving myself of what I want. And I want you, Clyde. So the best punishment you could ever give me is simply spend as much time with me as possible."

"That logic doesn't make any sense."

"So you mustn't be a masochist. A masochist would be able to sympathize with me. That means you're a sadist."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

The elevator let out a muffle ping, like giving off a succinct chuckle.

"And a sadist would want to cause his subject the most pain, wouldn't he?"

"I'm not a sadist."

Craig rested his shoulder against the wall, glaring passionately up at Clyde, inches away from each other.

"But you like me, don't you?"

"I don't like you."

"Ugh!" Craig clutched at his heart melodramatically. "You're a soulless bastard! But I liked that. If you really want to get me depressed, you'd say you liked me."

Clyde pondered this for a second, his face spreading into a bemused smile.

"I like you."

"If you really wanted to hurt me, you'd say you wanted to see more of me."

"I'd like to see more of you."

"If you wanted to cause me physical harm, you'd say you'd go out with me."

"I want to go out with you."

"If you wanted to make my life a living hell, you'd go on a date with me… this Saturday."

Clyde nodded.

"Sure."

Craig pulled out a pen from his pocket and took hold of Clyde's hand, jotting down his cell phone number across that delightfully smooth skin. The elevator jerked to a halt and the doors opened up to the tenth floor.

"That's your stop."

"Yeah."

"Thank god. If I had to spend any more time with you in such a confined space, I think I'd have to slit my wrists."

Clyde laughed, but quickly stifled it, meandering reluctantly into the hallway. He glanced back over his shoulder with a soft grin dancing over his lips, the beginnings of a blush creeping into his cheeks. The doors slid shut again, enveloping Craig behind their blue painted husks.

"What the hell just happened?"

Clyde stood there for another minute, shifting his weight from hip to hip, trying to make a decision. He looked down towards his hand and read the chicken scratch over and over.

"I think I've got a date this Saturday."

(And there was much rejoicing.)