A Tale [SOUTH PARK OC X MICHAEL]

chapter 14, Suspension nunber 2 and a promise

Of course, Morris was suspended for the second time, and Michael being ever the goth pretended to not care until the other goths cared. They condescendingly asked where his conformist was. He absolutely didn't get goosebumps or a tight throat at that. Micheal shook it off and pulled out his phone, texting his conformist.

  ¤ the hell are you?

Instant response- or as instant of a response you could get from a fucking flip phone.

▪︎wallowing in shame

Michael didn't believe it.

  ¤ suspended.

▪︎yes, u no me so well <3

  ¤ cigarettes.

▪︎btiab

Micheal looked up from his phone, tone utterly uninterested, "He's suspended."

"Again?" Henrietta puffed a cloud, "He hasn't even been here for a year yet."

Pete flipped his hair, "Maniac."

They were skipping classes, sitting out by the garbage bins and adding smog to the sky. Morris opened the fence, a dumb conformist smile on his face as he wore the long black parka. The hood was down, the fur framing his bedhead like it was a masterpiece. Michael seethed at it, ears turning pink.

"Go away," Firkle droned, blowing smoke at the standing 5th grader.

"Missed you too, buddy." said an unaffected Morris who was unzipping his jacket a little ways. He pulled out a little travel bag that made noise when he shook it, tossing it at Michael. "Should be enough."

Michael peered into the bag, his cigarette already stomped under his shoe. There was a pack of false cigarettes, the rose petal ones that actors use, as well as a pack of real cigarettes. They were a weird brand though, Ashford. Under that was a few boxes of Dots gummies and a pair of black whooly gloves. He looked back up at his patient peer, whose brown eyes were staring at him with so much warmth.

"I hate you," lied Michael. "So, so much."

Morris paused, looking to the other goths. They were amused. Morris never saw them be amused before. It would be nice if it didn't look so weird. He spiraled for a bit, absentmindedly zipping his jacket back up as he did.

What part about the gift did he hate? Was it the Dots? The fags? Maybe it was the gloves. Maybe I insulted him? There's got to be something he likes. Was I wrong to give him a gift at all?

A gust of particularly cold wind got him out of it, pulling up his hood. Morris caught the glance of Michael blowing into his gloved hands for warmth. Morris swears his hands weren't gloved- oh. The tan 5th grader turned and walked away, absent from the moment from the utter elation that Michael gave him. It made his stomach all weird and fluttery.

The goths, excluding Micheal, shunned any amount of amusement from their bodies and started subtlety shit talking all these hipster playwrite wannabes. They thought that Micheal would join in sooner than he did, but no. He had to make goo-goo eyes at the fucking manic Justin reject until said reject quietly left the garbage alcove.

...

Morris got a text late at night near the end of his suspension from Micheal. Asking for his address.  Not thinking much of it, Morris sent it and continued to doze off on his carpet. But behold, twenty minutes later and his phone rang. The ringtone was a sample of a song from a 1988 jpop album. Just a sax solo, but it got him up all the same. He picked up.

"Open the door, you damn conformist."

And the phone hung up.

Morris was baffled, but treaded through the house quietly. The front door had nobody there, even when he opened it. Morris frowned and shuffled to the kitchen, seeing a bunch of dark leering forms on the simple elevated porch. One of them was looking in through the glass.

Morris unlocked the glass door and budged it open the tiniest bit. He went to the fridge as the goths scooted into the house, Michael closing the sliding door silently. Yes, they oiled the door track every so often, is that a crime? No. Neither is taking the bag of almost expired shredded cheese from the fridge and eating it raw, shoving it into your mouth like a toddler does with sand.

The goths and Morris were in this stand off of sorts, the goths keeping frivolous eye contact with the resident, waiting for him to get done with his cheese. Then the small square screen in his pocket went off again, the sax solo ringing through the air, the boy cutting it off as the singer belts out a "Stay with me, Mayonaka no doa o tataki," and hits speaker.

"Go to bed, you little rat. You're buying a new bag tomorrow with your disgusting hands."

"My friends are over," was said through mouthful of disgusting chewed cheese. "They're staying."

"I don't care, just keep the actual rats outside."

"Cool," Morris said, spitting the wad that was in his mouth into the trash. "I hate rats anyways."

"Dont-"

Morris hung up, putting the cheese bag back into the fridge.

"You're revolting," said Henrietta.

"Thanks," Morris said, flipping on the lights and fucking off to the single recliner in the living room, "Make yourselves at home."

The goths felt awkward standing in this relatively fancy kitchen, with it's white cabinets and countertops. The silver fridge stared at them, the magnets holding poetry of a flight attendant. They went into the grey living room, the L shaped couch wrapping around a yellow and grey rug. The bookshelves that scattered the walls were full of knickknacks instead of book, the very few that were present just books on other languages and places. The pictures on the wall didn't hold any of the house members, just pictures of places from all the same angle.

Morris looked off at the rug, cuddled up into himself. He looked small, balled up on the ashen grey chair as he dozed off.

"We came for candles. The store is closed." Pete said all of a sudden.

"Basement, in a large box labeled candles. Have at it." Morris said, giving a yawn and closing his eyes. "Don't open the box labeled toys, don't fuck with the boiler."

Pete and Henrietta went down into the basement to rifle through the maze of stuff down there. Firkle and Michael sat on the couch, opening up a new pack of cigarettes, the Ashfords. Morris opened his eyes to the smell of his mother. It wafted through the air as they flicked their ashes into the potted plant on the coffee table. It didn't make a difference to the dirt that had already gone grey.

Michael caught Morris staring. Oh, how the fuck was he staring. Wild sandy hair, lided brown eyes, shirtless, and leaning into one big hand. A destructive hand, says the second hospitalization. Yet, he looked tired and interested, the freckles on body were adding to the charm. Michael hated how he swooned over it all.

"Therapy is tomorrow," says Morris.

Michael crossed his legs as he reeled it in, "Like I care."

Morris hummed noncommittally. "How long do you have left?"

"A week."

"I'll talk tomorrow."

Michael knew the group therapist would be over the moon, and his jaw relaxed at the prospect of being free from being forced to talk to a group of adults.

Firkle almost vomited in his mouth at the show of nonconformist love to a conformist.