Disclaimer: Not all dicks get hard when the owner of said dick dies.
KYLE
"Kyyyyleeee," my mother's nasally voice sings from downstairs. I roll over in my bed, catching a glimpse of the clock.
"WHAT?" I shout, too lazy to get up, "Nine in the fuckin' morning, mom," I growl quietly. It is a Saturday. Today was made for sleeping in and she chooses to take the sanctity of weekends away.
She continues to yell my name, even though I know she can hear my responses. I finally manage to roll myself out of bed and stumble to the door and down the staircase.
"What?" I groan, exasperated and rubbing the back of my head.
She bustles over to me, nitpicking my appearance and altogether forgetting what she woke me up for, "Bubley, why don't you brush your hair," and, "Far too tall to be slouching like that."
I sigh deeply, "I just woke up, Mom. What did you want?"
She grumbles something about talking to your mother that way but then turns back to the counter and began shuffling around her receipts. She keeps tabs of every purchase anyone in this family makes. Cliché.
"Your job interview is today," she informs me. Shit. How could I have forgotten? The new Target is hiring. I spin and sprinted up the stairs, grabbing my slacks, button-up, and loafers. I throw everything on and attempt to tame my fro, to no avail. I look ridiculous, I think as I stop in front of my full-length mirror, like a child someone dressed up to take a picture for their customized family thank you card.
As I hop in the car and turn the keys a bloop from my phone catches my attention. A text message from Stan. I flip the phone over on the passenger car seat knowing that if I didn't I would be tempted to look while I was driving. I take off and make my way to the shopping center.
…
"And what qualifies you to be a good candidate for this job?" The man with the stooped shoulder, developing unibrow, and beer belly asks me as his beady eyes staredirectly into my soul.
"Well, Sir," I begin, "I am a hardworker and I have been my whole life. I set goals and I achieve them; I believe in honesty, integrity, and perseverance. I have worked my whole life - since I was a child I volunteered and until last year I was in band and never missed a single practice. I believe I deserve this job because I know I will contribute to the Target team and I will certainly try my hardest."
Decoded: 'Ramble, ramble, ramble, ramble, bullshit sprinkled on the top.'
"Thank you, Mr. Broflovski," The gruff man says, "We will call you within the week."
"Thank you, Sir," I shake his hand, flash a grin, and walk out of the store. Holy shit, I think I just got my first fucking job.
Oh right, I completely forgot about Stan. I grab my phone and check my messages sitting in the front seat of my sedan.
Stan (9:16 AM): Hey
Stan (9:25 AM): Kyle
Stan (9:31 AM): Dude
Stan (9:44 AM): Message me back.
Confused, I type back, "What's up?" Almost immediately I receive a response in the form of a phone call.
"Stan?" I ask, somewhat nervous, as I pick up the phone.
"Kyle," is all Stan says in return.
"What's going on, dude?" I ask.
"Can you come over?"
"I guess?"
"Okay." Click.
What the fuck? I toss my phone into my pocket and take off towards Stan's. He completely confused me with his behavior so I figure I should get over there as soon as possible and make sure everything is okay.
When I arrive, I wipe off my shoes on the doormat and ring the doorbell. As if automatically, the door opens and Stan stands in front of me. "Hey," I say. He smiles cautiously and gestures for me to follow him. I stomp up the stairs behind the raven-haired boy. Stan looks very similar to how he did when he was a child. He still has that dark head of hair but it is shaved on the sides like a mohawk. He also has gauges in his ears and a perpetual look of exhaustion in his eyes. One was on purpose, the other was not.
"Dude, seriously, what's going on?" I'm a mix between anxious and irritated. I hate when people evade my questions.
Stan fidgets and sits awkwardly in his desk's chair, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin as he picks at his arm, "Um, I have to tell you something, Kyle," he mumbles. He breathes in deeply, "Kyle. I'm. I'm gay." He looks down pointedly, refusing to meet my eyes, face cherry red and tears visibly collecting in the corners of his eyes.
"Stan." I say gently, moving forward, and resting my hand on his upper back, "You know I am totally okay with that," I tell him, knowing that he is vulnerable and scared, "I accept you no matter what."
Stan looks up, scared like a small animal, "No matter what?"
I nod. "Even if you fucked corpses, man."
Stan grinned, "That's good because I've got something else to tell you."
I hit him hard on the back and laugh, "Did you know you get a boner when you die?"
"No you don't."
"Yeah, for real. When you get all stiff so does your dick."
"Stanley!" Stan's mother scolds from outside the door. Whoops, didn't realize she was there. Stan appears to be panicking, wondering how long she had been there.
"It's okay," I mouth.
STAN
Kyle's gone now. We played video games for a few hours before he left and everything was normal. I don't know why I thought something so trivial could jeopardize our friendship. Kyle is the most level-headed guy I know. Why am I acting so ridiculous? I am embarrassed now. Of course, he doesn't know the second half of what I told him. The part I hate to admit. The one I attempt to hide even from myself. Kyle doesn't know that I am in love with him. And I have been for years. He doesn't know how I look at him or dream about him or want to be with him. He couldn't know, because it would change everything about our friendship.
I wipe a tear from my eye. Kyle is wonderful - I mean, he reacted the way you would want anyone to react of course, but what I really wanted, really hoped, was that he would light up, laugh, and shake his head like he couldn't believe it and then say, "Dude, no way. Me too."
But, Kyle didn't light up, Kyle didn't come out, and Kyle isn't my boyfriend. So here I sit in the darkness of my room, hoping to find someone else to distract me from the pain.
I bite my lip and curl up in my blankets. Maybe if I drink enough Nyquil I'll fall into a coma. I take a swig directly from the bottle and throw it back onto my nightstand. It falls on the ground and spills everywhere.
I'm sobbing.
…
The first bell of the day rings. I groan inwardly. Another beautiful day at South Park High School. I make my way to first period - all of my classes are the bare minimum to pass. I begrudgingly move towards the pod which contains the science classes. First I have chemistry. A sophomore class for this senior. And better yet, I have a D in the class. Nice one, Stan, I think to myself.
I pull out my chair and plop down next to a large mass of lard, also known as Eric Cartman.
"Hey, fag," he greets me. I grin mockingly.
The teacher passes out a test I was unaware of. I lay my head on the table and squint at Cartman's answers. Suddenly, I realize what I'm doing. I plant my face into the desk. I'm cheating off of Eric Cartman. A new low has been reached.
By lunch, I'm exhausted - I rest my head on my fist at the table.
"I understand that not all Muslims are terrorists; all I'm saying is that all terrorists are,"
"Say more one more fucking word, fat ass," Kyle hisses, stabbing his fork down into his mystery meat and glaring straight into the fat boy's eyes.
"Well, you see maybe if you hadn't interrupted me, Kahl," he begins slowly, as though explaining this in a completely friendly manner, "I would be able to have finished my sentence and tell you that all terrorists are Muslims."
Kyle shouts and his leg shoots up, aiming directly for Cartman's crotch.
But Cartman was too slow. In the next second, he was rolling over on the cafeteria floor, cussing out Kyle, and gagging. I can't help but laugh. Seeing Cartman in pain can cheer up just about anyone but himself.
Alright, so I don't want to spoil but I have a lot of ideas for this fic and I don't know exactly where I'm going with it but I can promise you a lot of angst. RnR no flames bc I'm a sensitive flower or sum bullshit of the like.