River Teeth: "...these are hard, cross-grained whorls of human experience that remain inexplicably lodged in us, long after the straight-grained narrative material that housed them has washed away. Most of these whorls are not stories, exactly: more often they're self-contained images of shock or of in ordinate empathy; moments of violence, uncaught dishonesty, tomfoolery; of mystical terror; lust; joy. These are our "river teeth"- the knots of experience that once tapped into our heartwood, and now defy the passing of time." -David James Duncan
Sometime in late 2013
Kyle watched, mouth agape, as the thick, black marker dragged across the skin of his left hand, top left to bottom right, then top right to bottom left. The woman doing this seemed distant, perhaps numbed by the loud music that swelled against the dark walls and neon beer signs. She had a silver septum piercing that gave an edge to her already cute face. Kyle wanted one. The ink seeped and spread like tiny black veins across the tops of his knuckles. X marks the spot. X shows that you can't legally handle alcohol. X shows that you're 14 and have come out to your parents with your new(ish) boyfriend just a few hours before, then left to a concert with said new(ish) boyfriend because they didn't want to sit around and hear what their parents thought of them. It was all planned anyway. Dump the news on the families and split before they can protest.
A beer can flew past Kyle's face and landed by the bar.
Stan was next. He frowned, watching the marker drag over his skin to form a jagged, sober X. He looked up at Kyle and gave him a smile, a polite smile. The one that you copy and paste to yourself when there are strangers about.
"Enjoy the show."
"Thank you," Stan squeaked, then grimaced. Both of them still suffered from a voice crack now and then. With each other, it was okay to tease about it, but in public, it could be painful.
Kyle couldn't remember the band they were seeing; he glanced at his ticket- Strawberry Migraine. Stan was always hung up on indie or local bands- Local Natives, Speedy Ortiz, Butcher Babies, Sparklehorse, Phantogram- dear lord, he never shut up about Phantogram. He put the ticket in his back pocket.
"I didn't think there would be this many people," shouted Stan. R & B pushed itself out of the stage speakers. The bass throbbed and rattled in both of their chests. He grabbed onto Kyle's hand so they wouldn't lose each other in the seedy venue. People of all shapes and sizes dodged past the two boys as they made their way to the stage. Some of them stole a glance at their intertwined hands.
"It's Friday," Kyle shouted. Stan shook his head and shrugged his shoulder. He couldn't hear. Kyle leaned down slightly and repeated himself into Stan's ear: "It's Friday. People are off of work now."
"Oh," said Stan, "Yeah, true."
Really, Kyle? He thought, you just came out to your parents and ran off with your boyfriend and now you're giving the most mundane responses as if nothing happened today?
"I'm glad you're here," Stan said and squeezed Kyle's hand. Kyle blushed. Stan's gaze was serene but somehow steely; the way his eyes narrowed in on Kyle gave him chills. Stan never expressed one singular emotion at a time. It was always mixed. Kyle could never tell what he was thinking, and as a result, became accustomed to being terrified of what was going through his mind. Stan would always be Stan, but lately, he had started saying and doing some alarming things. One day Stan would say things like "I fucking suck," to radiating soaring confidence that same afternoon. One time he said "I can't picture my future, it's just black. Why can't I picture myself being older?" One time Kyle caught him digging his fingernails into his wrists in a frustrated yet absent-minded stupor.
(why are you doing this Stan)
(i don't know. i can't feel anything)
(did i do something
can i do something)
(no. never.
i can't talk about this)
"Do you want something to drink?"
"No, thanks," Kyle leaned into Stan's shoulder. The music changed to a subdued surfer-rock bop. Their boots picked up the stickiness of the floor whenever they shifted their weight. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything for me."
Stan turned and kissed Kyle on the highest point of his cheekbone. "But it's a date! I want to take care of you," he insisted.
You've always taken care of me… Kyle thought back to all the weird shit that has happened in South Park over past several years. Stan seemed to understand what Kyle was thinking of by the way he turned his face and planted a firm kiss on his small mouth. What bogus is that, Kyle mused, I can't know what he's thinking but he can read me like a fucking book. But his thoughts about what is fair and unfair faded away and the kiss took over. Stan's thoughts entombed a cesspool of intensity, passion, mania, bleakness, love and intrusion, but he wouldn't know the clinical label for it for quite some time. Kyle just knew that Stan was Stan, and he was himself, and he is the way he is because Stan is the way he was.
The two parted when a few musicians- the opening band, judging by the banner being pinned up on the back wall of the stage- started doing their soundchecks. The deep beat of the bass drum excited Kyle; it vibrated through his whole body. He squeezed Stan's hand, interlaced his fingers. He wanted him. He could take him right there on the floor, amongst the sticky tiles and empty bottles. He could imagine grabbing Stan's sweat-soaked hair and pushing his face into his neck and crying hurt me, I want you to hurt me.
The guitarist strummed a few rushed chords and the audience clapped.
Kyle glanced down at their hands. Neither of them had gotten that far yet- they had been close after a couple of heated make-out sessions, but the truth was that neither of them knew what to do, or even how to start. There's plenty of time. When the right moment comes… that's just it. It'll feel right.
The opening band filed onstage to applause and raised pointer and pinky fingers.
"Yay!" Stan whooped. He grinned at Kyle.
"Wait, do you know them too?"
"Yeah! I think I've told you about October Hands before."
"Oh."
"I was trying to hold my excitement in so I wouldn't look so dorky."
"But-"
An older man in a black tank top, who had been watching them for some time, clapped his hairy hands on the boys' shoulders, causing them to jolt.
"So, you two came together huh?"
Kyle turned to look at him. He was eye-level with the guy. One day soon, Kyle would be taller. Stan looked up at him.
"Yes. Yes we did," Stan unleashed their fingers, then gripped his hand into a defensive fist.
The man clapped his hands on their shoulders again. October Hands introduced themselves, then slammed into their first song.
"Stay right there. Don't go anywhere."
The man disappeared behind them, blending with the mass of bodies. Stan and Kyle looked at each other.
"Should we leave?" Stan shouted. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern, but Kyle didn't want him to miss his bands because of some bigot.
"No, fuck him!" Kyle slid his arm around a beaming Stan's waist. "By the way, I love your dorkiness."
Stan nuzzled into Kyle's neck, pressed his lips into his soft skin. He felt Stan's eyelashes brush lightly on his jawline. He shuddered a bit. Stan kissed his cheek again and looked out at the stage. Kyle suppressed the urge to pull Stan into the bathroom and lick every part of his body. He forced himself to look at the stage too. Kyle was never really into metal, nevertheless indie metal, but it was entertaining.
The man from before returned suddenly, holding three beer cans above his head. "For you!" he gestured them to Stan and Kyle.
"I don't think we should-" Kyle began.
"It's just Guinness, it's good for you."
Stan wasn't apprehensive at all. He took two cans and opened them both, then thrust one at Kyle's chest. He took it with a bone-white hand. The foam gushed at the small opening, begging to be licked up.
The man grinned at Stan, "good kid," he remarked. He put a hand on the back of Kyle's neck of Kyle's neck. Not creepily, but in a father-type way.
"Don't ever let anyone tell you how to live your fucking life," he said. Kyle smelled his breath. It was safe to assume that he had been already drinking and was feeling sentimental. Great. "Does he make you happy?" the man asked Kyle, pointing at Stan with his own can.
"Yes," Kyle said. He smiled weakly at Stan. He tried not to make eye contact with the stranger. He looked at Stan and asked him the same thing: "does he make you happy?"
"Very much so," Stan never sounded so sure of anything in his life.
The man seemed satisfied with this answer. "Cheers!" he said. He gave them one last nod and then disappeared into the people again.
"Thank you!" Stan called after him. October Hands transitioned into a new song. A few people towards the front of the stage tried to start a mosh pit. Kyle dove and started sucking the foam off the top of his Guinness like a crane diving for small fish in a lake. "I wish I was that can," said Stan with a teasing smile. Kyle blushed.
"I pretended it was," he shot back. Then it was Stan's turn to blush. They continued watching the band, bopping along, drinking, brushing their hands together, trying to avoid getting sucked into the pit. When October Hands threw their last guitar pick into the crowd and walked off. The venue's music played again. Trevor Something. Interesting choice.
"What did you think?" Stan was done with his Guinness now. Kyle noticed small streaks of sweat piling on Stan's forehead, just under the cloth of his hat. Kyle put his free arm around Stan's shoulders and pulled him into a deep, slightly buzzed, sloppy kiss. His tongue pushed it way into the warm, wet opening, tasting everything Stan had said that day, especially to his parents: "I care about Kyle," he tasted, "I love him" he tasted that too, "you can't stop us from loving each other," he savored that the most.
A few crew members for Strawberry Migraine began their soundcheck. Kyle pulled away but kept his arm around Stan's shoulders.
"I'm in love with you," he rasped.
Stan smiled up at him, eyes half-lidded, "I'm in love with you too."
The sound of the drums being tested thundered in Kyle's body again. "I'm proud of what we did today."
"Me too." Stan suddenly hugged Kyle, "I don't know what I would have done," he said into his ear.
"What?"
Stan tensed around Kyle's body: "I don't know what I would have done if you had died that one day."
October 2, 2010
Eric Cartman entered his backyard with a cup of hot cocoa that his mom had just made, and one of his books for school. He slid the glass door behind him. They had started reading The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton as a class. He liked it fine, but he had a hard time taking any character named Ponyboy or Sodapop seriously.
The air was crisp and smelled of spruce. It was that first assault of an oncoming winter, but anyone that had grown up in South Park had thick enough skin to just regard it as another day. Cartman didn't even wear gloves.
5th grade was four weeks in now and it felt like the world was backward. The school had separated his class into two groups, two separate classrooms- one group would study English and social studies with one teacher, and the second group would have a science and math lab with a different teacher. After lunch, the groups would switch off.
Cartman was placed in the first group, the English and social studies group, while Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Butters were in the group that did math and science in the morning. He never saw them except for at lunch or that transitional march down the hallway, where the two groups would pass each other on the way to their consequential classrooms. The other boys took this as an opportunity to distance themselves from Cartman, as they had tried and failed to do so many times before. Cartman noticed, and immediately began inserting himself into moments of their lives where he obviously wasn't welcome. He watched one afternoon as all of them engaged in a game of kickball.
No one asked him if he wanted to join.
No one even looked over to him.
He kicked up a spray of dirt and gravel in Stan and Kyle's direction and sulked off.
Cartman sat down on one of the chairs and thought about the day before. It was Friday, and he wanted to see if he could get even the tiniest reaction out of Kyle. I'm still in your life you little fuck, you can't ignore me forever.
It happened during the switching of the classrooms.
All of them shuffled down the hallway with their textbooks and folders, past rows of lockers. When he saw Stan and Kyle listening to Kenny who was walking backward and mumbling things (about 'big titties' presumably). He pointed at Kyle's foot:
"Mmph Mmph, mmmph mmmph mph, mmmphh (Hey Kyle, your boot is untied)."
"Gimme your books so you can tie it," said Stan, even though Kenny was already holding out his arms to offer the same thing.
"Thanks, Stan." Kyle deposited his supplies on top of Stan's pile of books then bent down on one knee. The other students parted into two streams and walked around them until it was the three of them behind the line.
Cartman seized his chance. He dropped his books and relished in the echoing thunder that violated the halls, causing everyone to look up at him. Except for Kyle. He knew who it was. He saw Cartman's face for just a moment a few seconds earlier. He knew him too well and he didn't want to anymore. He just wanted attention. And what do you do when a child is having a tantrum? You don't give them what they want. Kyle didn't even want to breathe when he was near.
Cartman charged.
Kenny turned towards him and stuck out a hand to stop him, but it wasn't far or fast enough.
Cartman lunged down, crashed into Kyle, and they both slid across the marble floor. Cartman hit the top of his head on the locker, but with the force of his hand under Kyle's chin, made sure that Kyle hit his head even harder. Much harder. Kyle instantly blacked out. His foot, wearing the still untied boot, twitched sporadically.
"Kyle!" Stan and Kenny screamed in unison. Cartman, wide-eyed, released his grip around Kyle's neck and stared at the pale boy crumpled on the floor like an unstrung puppet. His head stung.
"Eric! What were you thinking?!" Mr. Garrison ran over. He got down and lifted Kyle's wrist, checking for a pulse. Stan was holding onto Kyle's knee, absolutely flushed. "He's okay, he's just knocked out, children," he turned to Stan, "He's okay, Stan."
Kyle's eyes fluttered open. They were almost completely bloodshot. One pupil was severely dilated.
"Kyle!" Stan tried to hug his friend, Kenny grabbed his shoulder and shook his head.
"Give him some space, Stan. Kenny, run down to the office and have them call an ambulance," Garrison commanded. Kenny dashed away. Garrison put his hands on Kyle's shoulders, "Well, congratulations Kyle, you got the first concussion of the school year. Can you stand up?"
Kyle blinked a few times before answering in a tiny voice: "I think."
"Okay, I'll go slow."
"That's what she said," Cartman quipped. He wanted so badly to squirrel away this moment, to remember Kyle on the floor, a twisted skeleton, in pain, because of him.
He was met with burning glares from everyone, Stan stood up and pointed at Cartman, "Fuck you, dude! You almost killed Kyle!"
"But I didn't though. Your little Jew cumrag will live to see another oven."
"Shut the fuck up, Cartman!" Stan stormed over, raised his fist, ready to strike. The students and Garrison clamored and yipped, the students' enthusiasm amidst Garrison's warnings to stop.
"Stan!" A strangled voice cried out, "Stop!"
Everyone stopped and looked to the voice. It was Kyle's. He was standing now. A little wobbly, but he was up. His eyes were wide and wild. His hat had fallen off, and his red ringlets clung to the sides of his face and forehead.
"Oh, shit!" Butters cried, "He's got the Jersey face on again… you're fucked, Eric!"
"You don't scare me," Cartman replied, zeroing in on Kyle's mouth. He was almost foaming like a rabid dog.
"I wanna fucking punch him," Kyle said to no one in particular. Everyone, including Stan, backed up a little. Mr. Garrison kept a grip on Kyle's shoulder, but Kyle drudged over close to Cartman, taking Garrison with him.
"Kyle, don't you dare! We're ending this now!" Garrison warned.
Kyle ignored him. "My fist is going down your fucking throat, lardfuck! I'm going to pull out your insides and throw them somewheres in the ocean!" He spat in Cartman's face.
Cartman wiped it off with a flick of his wrist and stood there calmly; arms at his sides. He was basking in the spotlight again. Kyle was leaned forward over Garrison's arm across his chest. "Why did you fucking do that you absolute dipfuck!"
"Because I…" Cartman was suddenly caught off-guard by a worm-like stream of blood flowing from Kyle's nose. It hit the top of his lips and fanned out over the corners of his mouth. Cartman had never seen anything so beautiful before. I did that, he thought, I made Kyle bleed… "Because I wanted to see what would happen." He managed to say.
Kyle opened his mouth to deliver a nasty retort, but a wave of vomit rose and gushed from him, spilling all over the floor, earning a collective groan from all of the students. Kyle slumped over Garrison's arm. The force of the upheaval caused him to pass out again.
Cartman smiled to himself as the memory played again in his mind. Truthfully, he had felt a little guilt up until Kyle's parents showed up and Sheila Broflovski got in Liane Cartman's face and told her she was raising a psychopath.
He got suspended for two weeks.
Cartman sipped the hot chocolate Liane had so lovingly made for him.
Psychopath.
The word sounded sensual to him. It teased him to come closer. He wanted to put his fingers inside it and wiggle them around. He wanted to make Kyle bleed again. Might as well be what they think I am. But what to do, what to do…
He set down the pale blue mug and The Outsiders on the plastic footrest and stood up. Put his hands on his hips. He could sneak into Kyle's room, he knew how. He could crawl in very early in the morning and press a blade to his flesh. Not in such a way that it would kill him, but enough to see the crimson wash over him in beads. It would be direct. Fast. Unexpected, but traditional.
A crash came from the shed where he and his mom kept their bikes. The door was ajar. Cartman cursed himself for not remembering to lock it before. It may be some asshole from his class, snooping around.
Agitated as hell, Cartman walked over to the shed, flung the door open, expecting to see Clyde or Craig rummaging around, but instead of a classmate, there stood a large, hissing raccoon. Its beady black eyes glowered at Cartman as it prepared to lunge. Cartman gasped and immediately slammed the door. Hastily he closed the silver lock. The raccoon continued hissing and scratching on the inside.
Eric Cartman thought of something just then.
…
Cartman knocked on the Broflovski's door. He mentally ran through what he would depending on who answered the door- Ike: push him out of the way and go upstairs, Mr. Broflovski: explain that he wants to apologize to Kyle and ask to be let in, Mrs. Broflovski: drop trou, piss on the steps, and run away. If it was Kyle…
Kyle answered the door. He was still in his pajamas and looked dazed. His pupils were back to normal, but the whites of his eyes were still bloodshot, and when he looked on Cartman, he sneered.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"And good morning to you Kyel, how's your little head?"
"Go away," Kyle went to close the door. Cartman put his foot forward to stop him. "I said go away, Cartman! I don't want to see you."
"I understand that, and I'll leave as soon as I say what I need to say."
Kyle's grip loosened on the door. He opened it again, "What?"
"Can I come inside?"
"Uh, I guess," Kyle hesitantly stepped aside and let Cartman walk in. He closed the door. "Okay, say what you need to say. I want to go back to bed."
"I thought that it's dangerous to sleep after a concussion. Where is everyone?"
"They went to Whole Foods. And that's actually a myth. I've already been treated, sleeping will help me recover."
Maybe I should have hit you harder.
Cartman walked past Kyle and sat on the couch. He patted the seat next to him. Kyle rolled his eyes, but he slid onto the cushion by him anyway.
"Kyel, I want to apologize for slamming your head into the lockers. You see, you guys have been dickheads to me ever since the school year started-"
"And you wanted us to notice you-"
"You make me sound needy when you put it like that, Kahl."
"Well, you are. You always want attention-"
"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, Kyle! God damn, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted to see what would happen."
Kyle scoffed, "You obviously did mean to hurt me! What the fuck kind of apology was that?"
"It's not a good one, I know."
"You could have killed me! If I had hit my head any harder…"
Cartman turned away, smiled to himself, then turned back to Kyle with a straight face, "I know that now. I don't know if I could have lived with myself if I had killed my best friend."
"You're not my best friend," Kyle said flatly.
"No, but you're mine."
"You've called Kenny your best friend before."
"That's… different. I've always felt that you and I understood each other better than most."
"I've always felt like I'm Clarice Starling and you're Hannibal Lecter, to be honest."
"See? That's exactly what I mean! That's my favorite movie."
"Figures," Kyle looked down at his feet. He didn't want to admit that Cartman was slightly right. "I guess I kind of accept your shit apology."
"I wasn't looking for acceptance. Just wanted to say my piece. So I'm gonna go now." Cartman slid off the couch and started towards the door.
"Are you going home?"
"No, I think I'll go for a walk."
"I'll come too. I need air. Mostly because of your breath." Kyle went for his coat and shoes. Cartman grimaced but inside, he couldn't be happier. Kyle had reacted the exact way he wanted him to.
"Oh, shouldn't you go back to bed?" Cartman suggested in an empty, insincere voice.
Kyle pulled on his staple orange jacket and his (now washed) green hat. "We're going to the corner store and you're getting me a slice of pizza because you fucking owe me."
"Buy you a pizza just to watch you pick off all the pepperoni?" Cartman twisted the knob and opened the door. He let Kyle out first.
"I'll give you the pepperoni."
"Oh, what a deal."
They walked in silence for a minute before Kyle spoke: "Cartman, I'm sorry that we've been ignoring you, but I know that you know why."
"Yeah, I know."
Kyle stopped walking. Cartman continued for a moment before he realized Kyle wasn't at his side. He looked behind him. Kyle stood with his hands in his jacket pockets. One of the buttons on his pajama top was missing. The late morning sun glowed over his face, making his dark green eyes a bit brighter. From a distance, you couldn't see how tired he looked. "Do you really, Cartman?"
"What do you mean?"
"Things are changing, Cartman. We're changing too… but you, you keep doing the same shit over and over again. You're too much effort to be around anymore. It's draining."
Cartman looked down at the concrete. He still had time. He could go back. Take the suspension and move on. Deal with more years of only God knows what. He looked up at Kyle's sunken face. "What I mean to say is, if you want to be a part of our friend group again, you have to cut that shit out."
Cartman nodded slightly. He knew what he wanted to do. He approached Kyle and took his hand, "I want to show you something that I found this morning."
…
Cartman led Kyle into his backyard with a clammy hand. A few bangs and rustles echoed from the shed.
"What the hell?"
"Look look look," Cartman let go of him when they reached the door. He undid the lock and pulled Kyle in a little closer.
"What the hell is in there?" Kyle squirmed at Cartman's arm around his waist.
"We got a dog," Cartman replied with a smirk.
"Why is it in the shed?!"
"You'll see," Cartman moved his arm back and opened his palm over Kyle's spine. With one swift motion, he opened the door with his other hand and pushed Kyle inside. The raccoon glided across the floor and pounced.
"WAIT!" Kyle cried. Cartman slammed the door and latched the lock. Kyle pounded on the door. "LET ME OUT! CART-" Kyle screamed. Cartman heard his body thump against the heavy wooden door. "HELP ME! PLEASE! IT'S BITING ME!"
Cartman backed away slowly, away from the sounds of the raccoon's hissing and Kyle's screaming and crying.
…
Stan and Kenny sat on the couch, a bowl of pretzels in between them. Stan was on his third attempt at trying to survive Dead Rising 2.
"You still need to get Zombrex for Katey," commented Kenny before his hand dove into the bowl. He had let his hood fall back. He hadn't had a haircut in months, and the blond tendrils covered his shoulders.
Stan shook his head while cutting a zombie in half with a chainsaw, "Fuck Katey."
"You're going to feel bad if she dies."
"No, I won't."
"You cried that one time you found a dead bee in my driveway. You will."
Stan continued thumbing the controller. He had called the Broflovski house earlier to see if Kyle wanted to stay over, but his mom said he was still sleeping. One of the zombies glomped him, and soon he was drowning in a mass of them. The screen faded and the game restarted. "God damn it! I guess it's your turn, Kenny." He turned to hand the controller over.
Kenny was unresponsive. His eyes were rolled in the back of his head. Stan dropped the controller and grabbed his shoulder, "Kenny?" Stan knew that Kenny was prone to seizures, but he had never seen him completely still like this. Kenny's mouth was open and drooling, a bit of pretzel dust puffed out when he exhaled. "Kenny?" Stan repeated. He shoved Kenny and he fell over like a tree stump. "Ken?!" Stan grabbed a glass of water and splashed it on Kenny's face. Kenny jolted.
"Where's Kyle?" Kenny sat up, rubbed his eyes, and scanned the room.
"Huh? Kyle's at home sleeping, dude," Stan gripped the glass, staring at his friend's red, distorted face, "are you okay?"
"No. Yes. Kyle's not home."
"Uh, what?"
"Something is wrong… I think Kyle needs our help."
…
Cartman stood numbly in the wet grass, listening to Kyle's screams for help. Keenly, he sensed the presence of someone behind him. Stan and Kenny were running towards him. Cartman lunged at Stan and grabbed his wrist, gripping so tightly that he could feel the little bones grinding together.
"Ow! Cartman, let go!"
Kenny darted towards Kyle's screams. Cartman kicked him in the ankle, causing Kenny to drop. Stan twisted his arm in an effort to release himself Cartman raised his other elbow and plunged it into the bridge of Stan's nose. Stan went down, covering his face with his hands. Cartman delivered a swift kick to his ribs to make sure he stayed there.
"Stan!" Kenny screeched. Cartman towered over him. Kenny kicked upwards, his foot plummeted into Cartman's stomach, pushing him back. Kenny rolled over and went for the shed again. Cartman started after him, but a wheezing Stan grabbed onto his pant leg. He fell down onto his stomach.
"Fucking let go, Stan!"
Stan said nothing because he couldn't, he just held on to Cartman's ankles as tightly as he could. He breathed hard and shakily.
Kenny yanked the locked off the door. It was still set on the correct combination, he was relieved to see. He swung the door open and the raccoon emerged into broad daylight. It gave one last hiss at the boys before scampering away.
Blood swelled over the concrete floor. Kenny saw his friend's body sprawled out, dirty, cut open like a cadaver. Kyle groaned softly. His eyes were glazed over. Kenny sucked in his breath and reached for Kyle's top half. He dragged him out into the yard.
Liane opened the sliding glass door, "Eric, I bought you a- Oh my God!"
Stan let go of Cartman and crawled over to Kyle and Kenny. Kyle's head was in Kenny's lap. Most of his clothing had been torn- there were several cuts and scrapes on his chest and arms. There was a gushing bite wound under his ear.
Liane flipped open her phone and dialed 911. Cartman sat up.
"Don't fucking come over here!" Kenny screamed at him.
"Kyle?" Stan whispered. He put his arms around his best friend's torso, rested his head just lightly on him. A twinge of blood transferred to Stan's cheek. "Kyle… please hang on… don't go… I love you."
The unmistakable warble of sirens was heard down the street. Kyle looked up, tried to breathe in small, steady breaths. He felt himself going, going until the sky turned black.
April 29, 2017
He was dreaming about walking in the dark again. In these dreams, he can't see anything but he can feel the black surroundings close in on him. His heartbeat thickly pounds in his chest until it bursts and coats the inside of his ribcage with clotted blood.
He chokes.
Tries to reach inside himself.
The stomach turns.
They always end up like this, and he wakes up alone, vulnerable to the dark bedroom and whatever can take shape in the dark. This time, however, someone was watching him.
Someone was there for him when he woke up.
"Hey," he was squeezing his hand, "Hey, Kyle, are you okay?"
Kyle Broflovski, 17 years old and in love, weakly looked up into his boyfriend's face. His neck was stiff. His other arm was locked at a backward angle. "Yeah, I think so." They had been studying in Stan's room all Saturday morning until Kyle passed out in the middle of writing an essay on Othello , which he tactfully titled, "White Ewe Tuppin'." A couple of empty paper cups from Tweek Bros. lay about him like knocked over chess pieces. Caffeine can't always replace sleep.
"You were all twitchy and shit, dude. And you're sweating. Were you having that dream again?" Stan Marsh asked. He watched as Kyle moved onto his back and stared at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes. The fluorescent lighting made Kyle look paler than he already was.
"Yes," he replied, "but it gets darker every time I dream it. I can't tell if my subconscious wants me to be Lara Croft and explore caves, or if there's some faction of my subconscious that's revealing itself to me now that I'm on the brink of adulthood…"
"Kyle-"
"Or maybe I'm going to die-"
"-don't you dare say that." Stan was holding both of Kyle's hands now.
"What if in the afterlife, coffins are like… infinite? But you're just doomed to walk platforms of darkness?"
"Platforms of Darkness sounds like a gay metal band."
"Stan. Why do you keep referring to things as gay when you've had my dick in your mouth. Several times. I lost count after the first twenty times."
Stan turned a special shade of coral-pink, "Fair enough." He bit his bottom lip, then smiled. "But I think you're being a little dramatic. You probably just have anxiety about graduating."
"I hope that's all it is. It's been happening for months now. I just want it to stop."
"It has to be," said Stan. His eyes were sure. "I'm a little uneasy too. All we've ever known up until this point is school. But you tend to take these things to heart. It'll be okay." Kyle sat up and pulled Stan closer to him. "You have carpet imprints on your face," Stan grazed his thumb across Kyle's cheek.
"Yeah, why the hell did you let me sleep on the floor?" Kyle asked. His neck was still stiff. "Why didn't you take me to your bed?"
"Dude, you're like, a foot taller than me and you're all muscle. How would you expect me to do that?"
"I don't know… the power of love?" Kyle smiled.
"Oh, that's just nice and cheesy." Stan said. Still, he pulled Kyle in closer and kissed him. He felt Kyle's hands instantly trailed up under his shirt, along his shoulder blades. Stan pulled away, his hands buried in Kyles auburn, slightly damp hair. "Let's go for a walk."
"What? Right now?" Kyle asked weakly. It never took him long to get lost in the heat of the moment.
"Yeah," Stan stood up and ran to his dresser to get socks, "It's a nice day and Sparky needs the exercise."
"I thought we were going to do an exercise…" Kyle grumbled
Stan laughed. "My parents are home. Also, you're loud."
"I'm trying to be quieter…"
"No, don't. I like to know when I'm doing a good job."
Now it was Kyle's turn to blush. It was true that Kyle had a tendency to be the vocal one, whereas Stan breathed heavily and whispered Kyle's name in breathy coos. After another few seconds, Kyle turned over and pulled on his green Converse. The early evening sun spilled golden light all over the room and Kyle agreed, it was probably best to be outside for awhile. It would be a nice distraction, to be out in the world instead of stuck in his own mind. The thoughts of all these new chapters- graduation, college, entering the workforce- all of it chilled him. He knew he would be okay in the end, and they still had a month of high school left, but it was nerve-racking all the same. " One day at a time, Broflovski. Kenny told him once, you think so far ahead that you forget to be here in the present." Kyle finished tying his shoes and turned back to his lover of almost five years. Stan was usually much more dramatic, but lately, he seemed happier. Ecstatic even.
"Stan, why aren't you as nervous as I am?"
Stan was sitting on the bed now, lacing up his decrepit Adidas. "Because I can't wait to get the fuck out of high school. As soon as we can, I want to move as far away as possible. The more names I forget, the better." He said this almost all in one breath. It became clear to Kyle that he had thought about this a lot. Stan stood up and grabbed Sparky's leash off the dresser.
Kyle stood up too. "Hopefully you won't forget mine." He hated when he blurted things like that. Something tugged in his chest whenever he had conversations with Stan about the future. The answers would always be obvious in Kyle's favor- neither of them could imagine a future without the other. But Kyle liked the reassurance. No one was ever as honest with him as Stan was.
Stan approached him and placed his arms around Kyle's shoulders. Kyle looked down and pressed his forehead against Stan's.
Quietly, sincerely, Stan said: "I would never forget your name. I would never forget you at all."
…
Kyle didn't blame Stan very much for wanting to forget everyone. Being forced to spend seven hours a day with the same cluster of people for years can be aggravating. The people that you think you'll be friends with forever turning into walking husks that you barely noticed anymore.
"People grow apart, bubbe," Sheila Broflovski had told her son several times, "you'll be very lucky if you and Stan even stay together after high school." That comment always left a sting in Kyle's chest. He never openly admitted that was worried that Stan would change his mind about him. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Stan was also keen to Kyle's anxiety.
Bebe Stevens fell into the druggie crowd after Wendy Testaburger moved to France with her family. Kenny McCormick dropped out at the start of junior year to help his family start their auto-repair shop after the old one burned down. It was turning their luck around, but Stuart McCormick was always too drunk to actually show up to the shop, and Kenny was always stuck working. Tweek and Craig melded into their own private bubble. Almost never apart- they breathed each other and never interacted with anyone else.
"That can't be healthy," Kyle once commented, watching the couple isolate themselves in a back corner at Token's birthday party.
"See? We're already better than them!" said Stan, "at least we're our own people!"
"It's not a competition, Stan."
"You're right, you're right," Stan was looking every which way about the room. Kyle held onto his arm, as he always did for Drunk Stan, "It's not like there's a gay competition."
"Or gay Olympics," said Kyle. He was a little buzzed himself. "Ooh, Gaylympics?"
Stan spit out the Fireball and Dr. Pepper combo he was drinking and they laughed together. All Butters overheard was "gay Olympics" and laughed too. He was still cool.
After the incident with Kyle and the rabid raccoon, Eric Cartman was sent to juvie. The concussion was brought into the jurisdiction as well. Kyle had to endure several painful shots in the arm. Most of the scars healed over, except for some tiny deep ones on his hands, a few larger ones on his chest, and the bite mark under his ear.
…
"Hey Dad, can you crack Kyle's back? We're about to go for a walk and he's been sleeping on the floor." Stan's request echoed through the house. He started putting the leash on a dancing Sparky. Kyle immediately recoiled. He did not like the idea of being held by Randy Marsh, especially now that he was emerging from the kitchen with no shirt on.
"I can crack you, Kyle! My freelance chiropractor biz is really taking off-"
"It's okay, Mr. Marsh, I"
"Though I haven't done anyone yet that's 6'1", I guess you'll be my first!"
"Please don't say it like that," Kyle said lowly. Stan was grinning, holding Sparky like a baby. "I'm really all right, Mr. Marsh."
"It'll take two seconds," and with that, Randy was behind Kyle. He crossed his arms, mummy-style, and lifted him up and up until there was a symphony of cracks that Kyle had never felt before. He didn't realize he was carrying so much tension.
"You enjoy that new spine now," Randy was beaming.
…
"He's cracked me before," said Stan as soon as he shut his front door, "You know I'd never put you in danger."
"I know… but he was shirtless, dude!"
"Oh, yeah. He was. I guess I don't notice those things much anymore."
"Lucky you."
They made their way down the street and onto the path that led to Stark's Pond, Sparky leading the way. Even though he was getting older, Sparky still acted like a puppy- charismatic and springy.
Kyle glanced at Stan to see that he was lost in thought. His face was serene, but his eyes were focused and unflinching, just staring in Sparky's direction. Stan was also very beautiful. Any time he looked in his direction, it sent Kyle's heart aflutter. His blue eyes varied between deep, royal shades to light mint depending on his mood. He a few chestnut-colored freckles on his nose and cheeks. His jawline could cut diamonds. He was letting his raven hair grow out a bit.
Kyle couldn't help himself. "I love you."
Stan looked over at him, wide-eyed. "What did I do?" he asked, even though he knew what Kyle was about to say. What Kyle would always say:
"You're just so cute."
"I'm not…"
"You really are."
Stan just shook his head and smiled. They continued, occasionally kicking rocks in their path, or letting Sparky sniff random bushes.
"I love you, too," Stan said finally. Kyle didn't say anything. He smiled to himself, but he felt Stan's brief gaze against his cheek just before they reached the pond. Sparky stretched out on the ground, his back legs splayed out behind him.
"There he goes, doing that 'sploot' thing again," said Stan.
"Is that what it's called? A sploot?"
Stan laughed, "Yeah, I think it's just another way of cooling off his junk."
"Can't say that I blame him," said Kyle. He was starting to feel normal again. Stan tied Sparky to a bench.
Kyle went to sit down. "It's kind of weirdly hot outside today," he said, "it's only April-"
"Wait, Kyle!" Stan grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "Hold on a second."
"What?"
"I need to talk to you," said Stan. He took Kyle's hands in his. "I've been thinking for a long time about this," his grip tightened slightly, "and I think we should talk about some stuff."
"Like what? Is something wrong?"
Stan just shook his head. He looked like he wanted to speak- his mouth opened but no words came out. He looked worried.
"Stan, you're scaring me." Kyle almost wanted to take his hands away. He was terrified. "Just be honest… are you mad at me or something?"
Stan buried his fingers in Kyle's hair and met his mouth an intense kiss, slowly and warmly, as if he hadn't seen Kyle in years. Stan placed another soft peck on Kyle's lips before leaning back, their arms linked together at each other's torsos.
"I'm like, the opposite of mad. Why would I be mad at you?"
"I don't know. Being me, I guess."
"But you're amazing."
Kyle shook his head. "What did you want to talk about, Stan?"
Stan drew away slightly, "It was actually something I wanted to ask." He dropped down to one knee. Kyle's cheeks flushed. He felt like he was breathing through a straw. Stan pulled a simple gold band from out of his pocket. "Kyle Broflovski, will you make me the happiest fucker in Colorado and be my husband?"
…
"That's amazing…" Kyle Broflovski, eight years old and genuinely impressed, took off the earmuffs that Cartman had plopped on his head before playing the brown note on an unsuspecting mailman.
"I told you guys!" Cartman was practically jumping out of his own skin with excitement.
Stan turned to Kyle, "Dude, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That they should bring back Chicago Hope for another season, totally!" Cartman suggested.
"No!" Stan was hyped, "that we could use that brown noise to get back at those asshole New Yorker kids!"
Kyle smiled deviously, "Yeah, dude!"
…
Kyle realized that this was the first time, in a very long time, that he didn't agree with Stan.
"I wanted to wait until your birthday to do this, but the ring finally came yesterday and I just couldn't wait." He looked up at Kyle, shaking slightly, but purely adrenalize by the moment.
"I don't know." Kyle finally managed to choke out.
"Wait, what?" Stan's face looked as if someone shattered a sheet of glass all over it.
"Stan, I love you, but-" he pulled Stan back up so that they were eye level, "I think you're doing this because you're afraid. I'm afraid too, but we can't just latch on to each other because we're scared we're going to grow apart or something…"
A switch turned in the form of Stan's face. His eyes started watering. "I'm not afraid of that, Kyle. That's what you're afraid of. I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know that I want to be with you until I die."
"Stan, please it's just not the right time. Please don't be upset." He tried to hug Stan but he stepped back.
"Don't tell me to not be upset, Kyle!" Stan now had tears streaming down his cheeks. "Have the last four years meant nothing to you?"
"What the fuck? What does that have to do with anything? They've meant everything to me… Can we just go home and talk about this? You've never brought up marriage before. It feels kind of random."
"I just… I don't know if I can keep standing here," Stan started towards Sparky, who was oblivious to the matrimonial turmoil, but regarded Stan with loyal concern. Kyle's stomach dropped and his throat constricted, rendering him hoarse.
"Stan, are you actually listening to me? We can talk about this…" Kyle said weakly. He didn't like the feeling of losing control. The feeling of watching everything blow up in his face.
"I think you've said enough," said Stan, leading Sparky away.
"I have said enough. All you've done is blow up on me!"
"All I've done, all I have ever done is love you, Kyle!"
"Oh, look, now who's being dramatic?"
"Whatever!" He threw the ring down in front of Kyle, a small spout of dirt jumped at the impact. Stan walked off, leaving Kyle alone staring at his feet. "I'll call you when you can come get your stuff… but I'm sorry. I just can't." Stan had stopped at the mouth of the park to shout back at Kyle. He looked over at Stan's sulking form.
"Stan?"
"What?"
"Do you hate me?"
"I… I don't know."
"Stan…" (why are you doing this Stan)
(i don't know. i can't feel anything
i feel everything now)
"If I hated you, this wouldn't be hurting so much."
"Stan, don't leave like this. Please."
"No, Kyle. I think we're done here," Stan huffed and turned away.
Kyle wanted to run after him, but his legs felt like weights, anchoring him to the soil. He picked up the ring and studied it, turning it over in his open palm. Kyle gasped softly- "SBF" had been engraved on the inside.
That familiar darkness crept in.