You Don't Mean It ||Staig||

||Part Fifteen||

TW: Cursing, Mention of Drugs, Fluff  

___________ 

With a burning face, Stan laid wide awake. Something heavy was passed out beside him. Though he couldn't really turn to see, he knew all too well who it was. Craig was snoring his problems away, his arm practically draped across Stan's torso. 

Stan could feel his heart hammering franticly against his chest. He glanced up at the ceiling, swallowing down the rising lump in his throat. The ceiling fan spun freely, seeming to mock him. 

Jesus he's going to kill me. I'm so fucking dead. Stan thought to himself anxiously. 

Another long moment passed before Craig began to shift. Shutting his eyes tightly, Stan braced himself. In his head he thought that poorly pretending to sleep would get him off the hook. Sadly Stan wasn't much of an actor.

With a quiet groan, Craig slowly began to pick himself up. Quickly he withdrew his arm as he noticed it was lying against the person next to himself. 

"Jesus, Stan...?" He mumbled, seeming to forget the events of last night. His face burned bright red in embarrassment. Craig quickly got up and away from the mattress. He stared intensely, watching as Stan flinched slightly from the sudden movement. 

His eyes were still screwed shut, but that wouldn't fool Craig for very much longer. Craig glanced down at himself and sighed heavily in relief as he realized his clothes were still intact. As Craig pinched the bridge of his nose, he spoke up. 

"Get up dipshit, I know you're not sleeping." Craig groaned. Stan quickly bolted up from the mattress. Craig stared at him intently with his cat-like green eyes. Stan felt his face flushing a darker shade of embarrassment as he tried to act like he had just woken up. 

"Ah... w-what time is it?" Stan asked him slowly as he rubbed at his eyes. Craig narrowed his eyes and shoved his hands into the pockets of the plaid pajama pants he wore. He thanked the lord he hadn't fallen asleep in jeans. That would have been pure hell. 

"I swear to god if we have school, I'm going to kill myself." Craig mumbled, ignoring Stan's bad acting skills. Stan blinked and rubbed at his arm absentmindedly. 

"It's Saturday, I think." He observed as he glanced over at Craig. 

"Great, then I can go back to sleep." Craig said in a quiet tone. He went to go hide back under the covers before Stan gently caught ahold of his arm. Just as soon as Stan had reached out, he pulled away just as fast, feeling sheepish. 

"Sorry... I-I just was thinking... maybe we could do something?" Stan whispered as he apologized. He took his hand back and let it dangle by his side. Craig stood back, away from the bed and kicked at the carpet. 

"What? Do you want to kiss me again?" He mumbled out. With wide eyes Stan cupped a hand over his mouth. 

"No! No, I'm so sorry. I was so fucking drunk, Craig." Stan waved his hands around like a mad man as he franticly made up excuses. The truth was, he hadn't been that drunk at all. Definitely  not drunk enough to kiss a guy who hated him. Or to kiss a guy period. 

Stan had only drank around three bottles. A normal amount for someone who's not a light weight. And he was straight. Straight as a pole. So it didn't make any sense as to why he would lose his mind and kiss a man. 

Craig stared at him, his lips pulling up into a smirk. 

"Okay Stan, whatever you have to tell yourself." He said gently. Stan could feel his face flushing again and he ran his hands against it. Craig turned away and started to pull on some different clothes. Between his fingers Stan watched wide eyed as Craig began to slip his shirt off.