Bubbly: Hello, all! This is my own little cliché "Stan cuts because he loves Kyle" fic. Yay! I just felt like fitting in!!!!

Okay!!

Disclaimed.

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Chapter 1: Windsor Place

There's something wrong with me. With us. But Kyle can't see it, yet.

Sometimes I think the part of the problem relates to religion. For example, stereotypical Jews do not have a concept of unconditional love. (see: Sheila Broflovski) The God of the Old Testament is judgmental, jealous and unyielding. He gets mad and He gets even.

The notion of turning the other cheek, the idea that faith is more important than deeds, these are distinctly, and supposedly, Christian concepts.

Some say that the difference between Catholic guilt and Jewish guilt is that the former emanates from the knowledge that we are all born already fallen, that there is nothing we can ever do to overcome the original sin; the latter hails from a sense that every one of us was created in God's image, and thus has the potential for perfection. So Catholic guilt is about impossibility, while Jewish guilt is about an abundance of possibility.

Figures. No wonder he's so...faultless.

Biting back a few distraught whines, I nip at the two silver studs in my lower lip, casting my distorted gaze to the acerbic, bullet gray of the sky above. The clouds balloon across the heavens in baleful platoons. The rain's about to start up, again.

I sift my pale fingers up into a sodden, black, system of tousled knots atop my head, tugging at it in slight frustration. 'Where the fuck is Kyle?'

Igniting a damp, swollen cigarette, and sitting cross-legged upon a candy red, rain-lacquered park bench, I wait. He'll come for me, I know he will. I liberate a strained laugh. Because who leaves his best friend waiting out in the rain?

Who...?

I choke back a sigh.

Kyle will.

Because he loves Wendy. So, so much, he will say to me. He'll smile at me, and I'll cringe. And she'll be there, cradled in his arms, because they're a fit so ideal that it had to be made in heaven, they'll all say.

Yeah, that's what they'll all say.

I tip the cigarette upwards in my mouth, taking in a train of biting drags, and pulling up the arm of my yellow long-sleeve.

I know what I'm about to do, and it disgusts me. When did I get so fucking pathetic?

Fine, iced up belts of rain soak through my shirt, and my brow is furrows in concentration.

Here we go.

I pull the damp cigarette from my lips, and delicately set the glittery, smoldering head onto new territory. Its flowering, ruby tip hisses as it meets with my pale wrist, and I grimace.

I've never tried burns, before. My penknife is where my loyalties will lie. A network of incisions embroiders my forearm in a disorderly display, all pink and spidery and systematic in placement.

"Christ..."

I hastily pull the cigarette from its raw and angry wound and toss it away onto the pavement, tugging fitfully on hem of my sleeve.

I'm trembling, and my fingers pulse in light, transient spasms.

I sink down onto the park bench, liberating pearls of disconcerting whimpers. "C-Christ, Kyle..."

It's 1:34 in the morning, and it's raining. He's chosen Wendy, again.

Glitzy torrents of streetlight bathe the pavement in silvery ribbons, and the moon sleeps bright and sober in the stratosphere. Thick, cold, yellow carpets of dead leaves lay along the curbs, and the April sap clots in my veins.

I love him so much. So, so much, I will say to him. I will smile at him, and he will cringe.

"Stan?"

My head snaps up, and I meet a pair of brilliant, watery blue eyes, wide with heartache and panic.

Oh, Jesus.

TBC...

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Bubbly: Mehhhhh!!! I know, I haven't been here for a while, now! And, YESH!!! I am still working on LfAF!!!!

Thank you reviewers, by the way! I've been reading Les Misérables for a while now (Because the first is like my BIBLE and I just found the second volume!!!) and so I haven't had much time to crunch.

But, I know this story isn't very thought of much, and I didn't really plan it out as much as I should of, I know...

Oh well, please review!!