southpark is a close knit community, in which y/n's family has woven their selves into. for better or for worse? depends on the day. a chance to get away from the cold, mountainous, town arises from an invite to tolkien blacks's very own private isl...
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"hey, this kind of burns." he itches at the back of his neck, finger tips grazing his hair. "don't touch it." i warn stan, who keeps nearing his bleach-coated hair. his hair stands in wide strands, slick with the thick substance.
we are in his bathroom at hawthorn hill. it's early in the morning (per his request), which normally i would contest, but the beach sunrise was gorgeous. he surveys his reflection in the giant mirror above the sink, moving his head around to see every angle. he squints his eyes as he does this, mostly in contempt. "this was a bad idea." he mumbles. "anyone could have told you that." i respond smiling. no one reasonable was ever going to support this, especially considering his natural hair colour.
"this isn't funny! why didn't you talk me out of this?" he makes eye contact with me through the mirror but only for a moment before returning to his mournful gaze and intense studying of his hair. "well, i tried. don't worry, it's going to look great." i tell him. my words of encouragement obviously don't meet the mark and his attitude doesn't falter.
"very punk rock!" i support hesitantly, and mostly satirically. he glares at me. he bows his head in defeat to the future, accepting that he can't go back. "what's done is done." he turns around and rests his waist against the counter, not bearing to study his appearance anymore. "what's done is done." i reiterate, nodding my head as i take off my gloves.
stan has a towel wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, protecting his old band t-shirt from the harshness of the corrosive matter. i don't know why he wants to protect the shirt honestly. it's graphic is mostly worn away and what is there is peeling. i can't even tell who the shirts supposed to depict.
he has flannel pajama shorts on which act as little more than boxers despite their slightly longer length. they reach about midway down his thigh. definetly not fingertip test approved.
"can we rinse yet?" he asks impatiently. he's only had the bleach in his hair for a fraction of the time required. "no. you have another twenty minutes." i pick at the old nail polish on my nails now that they're visible.
"why did you kiss kyle if you don't like him?"
where is this coming from? my eyes widen in shock. "umm.." i think. should i even answer this? do i even know? i think it was just kind of a heat of the moment thing but that's not entirely true. "i don't know." i shrug. i truly don't know. we should have waited; im not one to rush into things. "oh come on." he prods, tilting his head in an attempt to get me to reveal further information.
"i am genuinely not sure. i wouldn't say i don't like him, i just think it's all too fast." i respond genuinely. he nods his head in understanding, still leaning against the counter. his eyes focus on the white tiles of the floor.
"he likes you. a lot." he says. i know this. if he knows kyle likes me, why didn't kyle tell him about our morning on the beach? i don't say anything after stan says this.
