You Don't Mean It ||Staig||

||Part Fourteen||

TW: Cursing, Alcohol, Drinking, Razors, Abuse, Smoking, Cigarettes, Drugs, Mention of Rape, Fluff, 

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With a shaky hand, Stan gripped against the handle of the truck door. It was late at night. Too late to be walking into an abusive household unarmed. 

"Wait, Stan... are you sure we need to stay... here?" Craig asked. As his speech neared to an end he glanced over at the home with a doubtful look plastered against his face. 

Stan paused but kept his hand against the handle. He peered over to his house again, thinking about all the hell he had been put through. Though they weren't bitter memories. Some people's minds play tricks on them, to keep them safe. 

"I need to... I'll meet you somewhere, if you want." Stan explained to him slowly. His blue eyes were still glued to the house, not focusing to where they should be. Stan pulled the handle out and watched as the door casually drifted open. 

"My house?" Craig asked him hesitantly. He was getting a little worried. Seeing Stan in such a nonchalant state made him feel uneasy. Stan turned to him finally. With a blank face and no hint of kind emotion, Stan responded. 

"Sure, if I haven't drank myself to death..." Stan whispered the last part. No one really knew he drank. Not that it was expected or wanted. He had only started the god awful habit earlier that day. 

Craig furrowed his eyebrows, concerned about Stan's well being. He piped up again, trying to persuade Stan to think about his decision. 

"You don't have to go... you don't have to tell me. Just let m-" 

"I have to go." Stan cut his rambling off gently and slipped out of the front seat. Craig watched him pull the duffel bag from the back seat quietly. It was almost like he was in a trance. Like he had no permission nor right to stop Stan. 

Stan shut the back door and pulled the duffel bag up over his shoulder. He went to turn towards the house door before he stopped himself. Something told him the moment wouldn't be right without a bitter-sweet gesture. 

Stan padded around to the other side of the truck and slowly opened the door. Craig peered down at him, not sure what to do. He leaned forward as Stan leaned up. Comforting arms wrapped themselves around Craig's body. 

"Go home, I'll be okay. I promise." Stan mumbled to him. Quietly he sighed as Craig gently returned the hug. Stan pulled away again, for the last time. 

"If you die... I'll fucking kill you." Craig warned him. His tone came out in a lighthearted way, but that wasn't how he felt on the inside. Stan felt himself smiling lightly as he stood back. 

"I wouldn't want to die any other way." He said. Craig felt his face heat up a little bit as Stan gazed up to him with blue eyes of wonder. Stan's perfect smile soon faded as he went to close the truck door. 

Craig kept quiet even though he wanted to yell out. Stan gave him a gentle wave goodbye before he headed off towards his home. Craig slowly shifted the truck into drive and waited until Stan had fully disappeared into the gloomily painted house. 

A great feeling of guilt washed over Craig as he slowly began to drive away. Though he had done nothing wrong to cause the feeling. 

Maybe he was just nervous and scared because the one person he had finally made a connection with was... well, was leaving him. Stan wasn't leaving, but he was heading off into a place most people struggled to climb out of. But Craig was too preoccupied with his own teenage problems and dilemmas to notice what Stan was really going through.