Stan raised the shotgun, the stock burrowing in the crook of his neck as he pressed his cheek against the cold metal. His azure eyes narrowed, looking out at the lit open field of his uncle's range, fixating on a spot in the velvet sky. He bit his lip, pushing all other pestering thoughts aside so he could concentrate.
"PULL!" He shouted.
With that command, a neon orange disc soared through the air, steadily gliding up and over the field.
The ebon waited, watching the clay pigeon fly, waiting until it hid behind the barrel of his gun before pulling the trigger.
BANGKKKKKK!
The bullet blew out, sparks of scarlet flashing, shell discarding to the boy's side. It only took a few more seconds before the bullet collided with the pigeon, nailing its centre, shattering it into little bits of orange that rained down on the snow littered with tangerine discs and chunks.
Stan let out a breath, lowering the gun. His warm breath formed a frosty cloud in front of his face; threatening to fog his protective glasses the way he wished it could fog his mind.
Unlike his father, who got rid of his worries by drinking, or his friends, who chose a myriad of drugs to appease pleasure urges, Stan got in a more constructive habit; whenever he had to think he'd go out to visit Uncle Jimbo, grab an automatic and a pack of fifty, and shoot to his heart's content.
He wasn't entirely alone-Jimbo and Ned were just up in their little master control station raised with a full view of the range and all the controls-but he had enough privacy to find a peaceful sense of solitude.
And not do anything stupid like try and blast his head away instead of just his thoughts.
He reached into his apron pocket, rolling his fingers over the plastic shells before scooping up a single bullet. One at a time was easier for him, kept him at pace, kept his mind from going off on a single tangent.
Loading was always a hassle, the automatic loading a maximum of two at a time. He went one by one, which wasn't much of a problem until his thoughts started up again, using this time of silence to chatter before being silenced by yet another bang.
Tonight's thoughts were worse than the rest, worsened by the thought of that person who'd managed to screw with his entire world without even lifting a finger.
Kyle.
An intimate friendship really was the best way to describe them, even if Stan and Kyle had differing meanings of the 'intimate' part. They'd always been close and personal with each other, in most cases more than their families, yet Stan was the only one who felt something more. The platonic feelings morphed, sparks of romance sparking, fuelling itself with just the image of the redhead, soon growing almost out of control.
So many times he wanted to say something, but at first he assumed Kyle would just back away or not understand. For a boy with an intelligence level far surpassing that of a majority of the townsfolk, romance was an enigma to Kyle.
That was, until Kenny added himself into the equation.
Stan dropped the bullet into the ejector port, closing it up with a clink. He grumbled softly as he raised the gun, aiming at the same section he had before. His weight shifted to the front, staring intently at the treetops, mountains' silhouettes, and diamond-studded sky. The tantalising reminders of his best friend's affection poked at his brain like rusted nails driving into a chunk of chalk; leaving a mark and each impression pressing deeper.
He remembered that day, that day when things were supposed to turn right. In a perfect world, it would've been some cheesy gay high school drama, complete with all the happy endings. Maybe if Kyle came out to him first things would've turned out differently. But instead the boy put it off, telling him a bit later, and a bit too late for him to seize the lifetime opportunity of having Kyle Broflovski as his own.
But life's a bitch... He reminded himself, fingertip caressing the trigger.
If things were fair, maybe Kenny wouldn't have dropped his love for huge knockers for sweet asses. Maybe Kyle would've just come out to him first and avoided everything. Hell, maybe Kyle would even like Stan back instead of falling for a greasy white trash bad boy.
Somewhere in there, there was a violation of the bro code. Somewhere.
Like it fucking matters... Doesn't change a damn thing...
"PULL!"
Another skeet shot out, following the same path as the other one. The ebon's hand twitched, pulling the trigger too early.
BANGKKKK!
Just a hair too high and the bullet skated right over it, the orange disc descending without a scratch.
A lot like how another orange target slipped out of trouble without a problem.
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
Miss after miss after motherfucking miss, orange discs escaping the fate of the bullet time after time.
"Fuck," Stan muttered, nearly smashing the barrel on the ground. He wasn't a short fuse, but shooting the skeets to smithereens turned into a necessity. Just to picture for a moment that the orange was the back of a parka hood instead of a disc of clay...
...The fuck am I even thinking...?
Blowing Kenny's head off seemed excessive, but imagining it felt damn good. It wasn't right. It wasn't nice. But it was fucking good.
Just some payback for all he did. All that he put Stan through. All the mental turmoil. All the pain, anguish, and torment.
...All because he got a boner for the wrong guy...
Stan saw the holes in his logic, the holes which in turn blew through him. He tried to ignore it, tried not to care just to keep himself on track with anger, but the reasoning didn't justify half the charges the ebon held against the blond.
If he didn't start liking Kyle, the grudge would fade. If Kyle didn't like Kenny back, it would vanish all together.
Because then I'd still have a chance...
The selfish thought of stealing Kyle from Kenny-or from anyone else who might get in his way for that matter-mocked him, so tempting yet so unrealistic. He wanted to be the one to hold him tight, the one to run his fingers through the mob of crimson curls, the one to tenderly kiss his lips and gaze into his green eyes, spark a loving and lustful gaze. He yearned to be the one Kyle ran to for love, the one to bring him up the way no mere friend could, the one to caress his body, claim his lips, and fuck him.
All those dreams were dashed long ago, those rights given to Kenny, of all people. Stan knew he should've been happy that Kyle was happy; but it just wasn't that simple.
I wish it was...
He reached in his apron, the pocket empty save for a single bullet. Judging from the time, getting a refill would be a waste, especially when his mother had a curfew, so this would be his last time.
His last chance.
That one more chance to hit the target, one more chance to blow off his anger, and one more chance to keep himself together.
He loaded the gun, tentatively raising his weapon and aiming. Thoughts of all his moments with Kyle fluttered through his mind as he rested his cheek on the stock, locking the butt of the gun in place.
If they were together, all this angst wouldn't exist. If things just worked out he wouldn't need to fake a smile everyday as he watched the boy he loved walk and in hand with someone else, overhear their conversations dripping with innuendo, cringing over the idea of Kyle screaming for him. Super best friend meant nothing, the rift already formed, and it was tearing Stan to shreds without Kyle even noticing.
Maybe it's better that way...
The bitter thought sent chills down his spine.
"...PULL!" He shouted at last.
The disc appeared, floating over the white and orange field, steadily nearing Stan's firing zone.
Just one more shot, one more and then he'd go home and hope he felt better.
Hope he'd learn to get over it.
BANGKKKKK!
Stan watched the skeet explode before him, his final shot making up for all the sloppy, badly timed, off ones.
Still, watching the bits of orange pepper the earth didn't satisfy him.
He was still alone.
He was still unhappy.
He still didn't have Kyle.
Maybe if Stan admitted beforehand...
Maybe if Kyle wasn't so fucking arousing to him...
Maybe if life worked like a cheesy Disney movie...
Maybe if...
A/N: Angsty one-sided Style is angsty and one-sided. Now I know I don't write Style-mostly because I have trouble seeing it amd the farthest I typically go is one-sided-but I tried. And I know there's K2 in it, but this is a story about Stan liking Kyle, so please don't rave about that. My friend wrote a story with a similar theme (course hers had smut) and this really isn't focused on the K2 at all; this is Style. One-sided, angsty, and bitter; but still Style.
With that, I thank you for reading! Leave a review if you wish, that'd be nice. Guns and angst are always cool (and I went shooting on a range just the other day which is how I got the idea for this!) so I hope you found it interesting at the very least.
Uh, yeah. Thanks again. I guess I'll retreat off Style domain and hide in my lair working on updates and all that jazz again. Yup! ~CQO