South Park © Matt & Trey.
I never imagined I'd ever write this pairing, but here we go. This whole fic is pretty warped. Also, I started writing this before Lorraine became Lisa Burger and started dating Clyde, so let's pretend she's still uncool.
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
Gary Jules
1.
Suicide is a common thing here in South Park. I think there's a general feeling of hopelessness that comes with living in a small town. If you don't get out as soon as you can, you're going to get used to the idea that you'll be going nowhere fast.
When I was thirteen, I went to have a smoke. I saw Lorraine outside in the back of the school crying. She was known throughout the school for being fat and ugly. Nonetheless, I sat down beside her and asked her why she was upset. She just told me she wanted to die. I wasn't shocked. I didn't try to convince her life was worth living, because it was something I had a difficult time believing in and I knew I wasn't the right person to be saying those kinds of things. So, instead I simply said, "Death isn't so bad." I told her it could hurt, but it could be nice. I told her it was easy once the pain stopped.
That night, I met her back at the school. We snuck inside and I tied two nooses. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked her. She nodded and we both got up on chairs, preparing to commit joint suicide. One, two, three, and then we kicked the chairs. That was that. She wanted everyone who taunted her over the years to see this, and sure, people might think that meant she lost and they won… but it is something that will stay with them for the rest of their lives. It's something they will all have to deal with. I think that means Lorraine won.
We entered hell together and it proved to be wonderfully unceremonious. That was an important moment in my life. It was when I realized that I could be a comfort to people who truly wanted to die. So, I made it my job.
It's a cycle – a secret no one knows about. Kind of like Mysterion was before my identity got revealed. I'm sixteen now. It's been three years since the first death. I think people would hate me if they knew what I did. I always get an out, because once I return my deaths are forgotten. No one remembers I had a part in it. I think it's unforgiving, but if they could see what I see, then maybe they would understand. Unfortunately, it's impossible. I can't make people understand that sometimes death is better than life. You can rid yourself of things weighing you down and enter a world where such things don't matter. These days, it isn't just familiar faces travel to hell with – it's perfect strangers, too. Sometimes they're young, sometimes they're old. I find them. I don't know how, but I always do. Maybe this is my purpose. Maybe, after years of wondering why I am the way I am, I've finally discovered the answer.
Every time I die, I make it my responsibility to visit everyone I've died with. They all seem lighter. Knowing that gives me the strength to keep doing this. I guess it is sick and sad and awful, but I'm not going to stop.
"Kenny," Kyle sings the following day of school. "Is your homework done?"
"Sure is!" I lie.
"No, it's not," he deadpans, reading me like one of his favourite books.
I smile sheepishly. "I had other things to do," I admit and it's true. These secret things are far more important than academics.
"I'm sure," Kyle murmurs, not believing me. To him, there is little that overshadows the importance of school and getting straight A's. It's his passion. I guess if it makes him happy, then that's fine. It's a shame everyone can't find their passion. I think if people have something they are intensely passionate about, it helps them.
Stan never found his passion. That's why I told him I'd come over later on. He laughed somewhat angrily and then punched me in the face when I mentioned dying together, but I wasn't swayed. I suppose I should have been more tactful and not mentioned it like a boring after school activity, but I know I can make him understand. I can be quite persuasive. See, everyone knows I die. It's just one of those strange things that happen here in South Park. People know about it, but not one has questioned it. Hearing about what happens after is often a comfort to those wanting to die. It might be a comfort to Stan, too. In the end, that's all I want. I want to help him.
2.
After class, I make my way over to the Marsh residence. Stan rarely goes to school anymore and his parents have stopped trying to get him out of bed on his bad days. When I get there, I let myself in and go straight upstairs. Stan is lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't look at me, but he says, "Hey, Kenny." He's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair is limp, his face is stubbly and he has bags under those tragic, blue eyes.
"Hey, Stan," I greet him in return. "Sorry I haven't been bringing Kyle around." He says it's fine even though we both know it's not. "I want to talk to you about something," I add, sitting on the edge of his mattress.
"Yeah," he sighs. "You mentioned something stupid the other day. Are you here to say sorry?"
"No." I shake my head and then I give him the same speech I've given tons of other people in the past. I tell him about hell because I know that's where he'll be going. I tell him about Satan and the torture that he'll only have to endure if he gets on the devil's bad side.
His eyes are closed, but I know he's listening, soaking up each word with tired kind of ease. "I don't want to die a virgin," he murmurs when I've finished speaking.
"You're a virgin?" I ask quietly, my interest peaking even further.
"Yeah." He opens his eyes. "Me and Wendy broke up before anything like that happened…" He was always shy about that sort of thing. Girls are a mystery to him and his anxiety about girls often makes him physically sick. "And fuck, I haven't even been able to touch myself lately. I haven't jerked off in like a month."
That doesn't surprise me. I read somewhere that depression affects the libido. "Oh," I say. "Well… do you want to do it now?"
"Jerk off?" he asks dumbly.
"No," I chuckle, "Do you want to lose it now?"
"What do you mean?" His eyes narrow at me, and I can tell he knows precisely what I mean. He just wants me to say it.
"Oh, you know…" I trail off. "I'll let you fuck me."
He sits up and stares at me. "You're a boy. You're… uh, not a girl."
"Yeah, I know," I laugh. "Does it really matter? Don't you want to do it with someone who cares about you?" Plus, I'm sure I'm pretty enough. I don't mind giving him this much of myself. Stan is tall and handsome with the kindest eyes and I know I won't regret it. In fact, I want it.
His brows draw together and he looks unsure for a moment, as if he's considering it. He leans forward and touches his lips to mine briefly before drawing back. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Can I, uh… Can I take your clothes off?"
I smile softly. "Yeah."
He unbuttons my plaid shirt and lets it fall to the floor before doing the same with my jeans. Once I'm standing bare in front of him, he removes his own clothing much faster. I don't make him use a condom, because I know he probably doesn't have one handy and even if I had an STI, it wouldn't make even the slightest difference because we're both going to die soon enough… but for the record, I don't have any STIs. I'm nice and clean.
I lie down and he's slow and careful as he moves above me, like he's afraid to hurt me but I don't mind if he does. "You can go faster," I tell him quietly.
"You've done this before, huh?" he asks knowingly.
"Yeah," I say softly. This ain't my first rodeo and it definitely ain't my first ride. I've been fucked by friends and I've been fucked by strangers. Hell, I've even let Craig stick it up my ass a few times in the past for drunken kicks, but I've never offered to sleep with someone I was going to die with. Stan is different. I've never died with a friend before. This really is a night full of first times. How fucked up. "If you want, you can close your eyes and pretend I'm a beautiful girl."
"No," Stan says. "I don't want to do that." He quickens his pace while touching me the way he'd touch himself. It's pleasant and he's gentle – much gentler than anyone else I've been with. Wendy would have been lucky to have such a generous lover.
3.
When it's over, he kisses me one last time and then we lie down side by side for many minutes. There are likely many thoughts racing through his mind right now, but he's silent. "How do you feel?" I ask him.
"Good," he admits. "Calm…"
"That's good," I say softly. "You're sure you want to die?"
"Yeah, it's decided," he whispers. "I've wanted to for a while now. I just didn't think I would have the courage to actually do it."
"What about Kyle?" I muse. "He's going to be heartbroken."
"He'll be fine," Stan says surely. "I mean… our friendship is strained. I'm always a dick to him."
"Because you're sad and he doesn't understand," I point out.
"I haven't seen him in over a month," he adds.
"You're still best friends, though," I say.
"I don't want to be a bother."
"You wouldn't be," I assure him. "He loves you."
Kyle is going to scream when I tell him about Stan. I can see it now: his mother will rush into the room and tell me to leave, thinking I've done something weird to upset her sweet little angel. I will tell her I'm not leaving and I will tell Kyle one more time that Stan is dead. Sheila will hear and she will be shocked. She will cover her mouth with her hand and Kyle will continue screaming until his screams turn into sobs and his sobs turn into miserable whimpers. "No, no, no…" he will keep repeating because the truth of it will be far too painful. I don't know what Eric will do. He hasn't come to visit Stan in a while either. Last time he was here, Stan was having one of his worse days. It was over a month ago. Eric just rolled his eyes and said, "The lights are on, but nobody's home." He left shortly after, saying it didn't want to hang around Stan because he was sucking all the life out of the room. It sucks and it's unfair, but none of it is Stan's fault.
"Maybe." Stan sits up and begins to put his clothing back on. "No one is going to be surprised. They'll see it as something that was inevitable. Even Kyle will see it like this. My parents have no hope for me. The teachers all think I'm an idiot. Even most of my friends are getting sick of me. If afterlife means I can leave all this stupid shit behind, I'll gladly welcome it."
"I wish I could help you," I say honestly.
"That's okay," he forces a smile. "It's not your job to help me live; it's your job to help me die, right?"
"Right," I whisper. A few moments later, I stand up, clean off and get dressed as well. "Do you know how you want to do it?"
He opens his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of prescription pills. "These," he says, giving the bottle a shake. "I just got the prescription filled. There's enough."
"Oh," I murmur quietly, suddenly feeling guilty and wondering if I'm not taking things too far. Maybe there's another way to deal with this…
Nonetheless, we wash the pills down with rum and then sit on the floor together. "Tell Kyle I'm happy," he says, though we both know it's a bit of a lie.
"I will," I promise weakly, taking his hand and giving it a light squeeze. I can't believe I'm about to do this. I hate myself for it. Stan's cheeks are wet and I start sobbing and apologizing because I know how wrong this is. Suddenly, I realize something. I can't follow through with it. I can't let Stan Marsh die. "Don't hate me for this," I say. I turn and stick my hands down his throat and force him to throw up the pills. He yells for me to stop and he gags before spitting the pills out onto the floor. This time I go to hell alone.
Hell isn't good, but hell isn't bad either, like many might think.
The parties are great.
4.
I go to hell and I return to earth. No big deal. The following day, I'm surprised to see Stan at school for the first time in a while. He's wearing sweatpants and a sweater, looking like he just rolled out of bed and came here. They're the same clothing he was wearing the night I went to see him. He doesn't remember that he almost died. He doesn't remember me saving him last minute. He doesn't remember watching me die. He was probably sobbing angrily at the mess I forced him to puke up. He probably started crying even harder after I died. I'm just really fucking glad that memory was wiped out of his mind. Though he forgot all the bad stuff, he does remember the only good part about last night. We had sex.
"Uh, Kenny," he whispers awkwardly. "Why… Why did we sleep together? I feel like we had a reason, but I can't remember. I just know that it happened after we stopped talking."
"Yeah," I say softly. "Look… you know I die a lot, right?"
"Right…" he mutters.
"Well," I start, licking my chapped lips and trying to gently explain what happened. "You told me you wanted to die and I agreed I do it with you." I tell him about afterlife and add, "You said you didn't want to die a virgin, so I told you I'd sleep with you and that was that… but once we swallowed the pills, I couldn't go through with knowing I was helping you die. I stuck my hands down your throat and you threw up the pills and I died by myself."
His lips part and he looks surprised. He's staring at me as if he isn't sure whether he should be angry or accuse me of lying. "Kenny," he starts, but I cut him off because I know what he is going to say by the tone of voice he's using.
"I'm not lying," I promise evenly. "I swear."
He closes his eyes and when he opens them they're glassy and he refuses to meet my gaze. "I almost died?" he asks quietly. His tone is meek and small.
"Yeah," I say and my voice breaks.
He swallows audibly and lets out a shaky breath. "Jesus Christ," he says in disbelief. He lets out a cut laugh, but it sounds like a sob. "Fuck…" He turns around a moment later and walks away in a daze. I follow him into the boy's washroom, where he leans against the wall and sinks to the floor.
"Stan…?" I say his name as I approach him.
"Fuck!" He starts hyperventilating and crying. "I think I'm having a panic attack…!" he chokes.
I drop down in front of him and take his hands in mine. "Okay, Stan," I say calmly, "Look at me." Once he does, I add, "Now take a deep breath." He does as I instruct. "That's it, breathe… breathe…" He continues to do so, repeating for several minutes until he's calmed down.
He leans his head against the wall and lets out a long, heavy sigh. His cheeks are damp by now and his eyes are bloodshot. "God, I'm a fucking mess…" he says, wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt.
I smile sympathetically. "I don't mind."
"Why didn't you just let me die?" he asks warily. "It would have been for the best."
"Because I care about you," I say. I care too much and I've never felt this way before.
"But if what you say is true… then you would have still been able to see me, even if I was dead."
"I know," I start. "Maybe I was being selfish. I didn't want to watch you die… But maybe I was being altruistic. The people I die with are lonely. They don't have friends and they don't have family. For them, death is easier, but you have all those things. You have the things these people long for. Someday you might be happy and you might be relieved that you survived. I… I want more for you, Stan."
"Why?" he asks. "Do you love me?" The question is terse and a little cold, but I answer it with ease nonetheless.
"Of course," I tell him. "Of course I love you."
"No," he pauses. "I mean… Are you in love with me?"
"Yes," I admit for the first time in my life. It's something I've tried hard to deny, but I suppose it would be pointless to continue pretending I don't feel the way I do. "And knowing that you want to die… Well, it fucking hurts."
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
I force a smile even though I feel like crying. "Don't say sorry, Stan. You have no reason to apologize to me."
"You saved my life, but I can't even say thank you."
I just shake my head. "You can't help the way you feel." And it pains me knowing that if he chooses to, he can kill himself and I might not be there to save him. He might choose to throw his life away along with all the things he has the chance to get back.
As if he knows what I'm thinking, he simply says, "Don't worry about it too much."
I tell him I won't, but we both know it's all I'll be thinking about until it finally happens. Suddenly he stands and offers me a hand, helping me up. The two of us leave the locker room. Stan attends one class, but leaves halfway through. I force myself to sit through the rest of the lesson and then I find Kyle.
"Hey," I greet him.
"What's up, dude?" he asks offhandedly, getting a textbook for next class from his locker.
"Look," I start, taking the textbook from him and putting it back in his locker. "Skip the rest of today."
"Uh, what?" he asks, looking scandalized. "I can't skip class. My parents would flay me."
"This is more important," I promise. "Trust me." I shut his locker and drag him out of the school building.
"Can you at least tell me where we're going?" he demands, sounding irritated.
"We're going to see Stan," I say.
"Stan? Why?"
"He's having a hard time," I vaguely explain.
"With what?" Kyle asks.
"Living," I whisper.
"With what?" Kyle asks again. "What do you mean by that?"
"He wants to die, Kyle," I say. "He almost did last night, but I stopped it from happening." I don't tell him that I was the one helping him die, because it wouldn't make a damn difference.
"What?" he repeats, frowning. "No… Stan wouldn't do that."
"Kyle," I sigh. "Some things are hard to face and I get that, but Stan isn't exactly getting better. He's fucking miserable. We can't keep pretending it's not true because we both know it is and we need to stop being so stupid."
5.
When we arrive to the Marsh house, I ring the doorbell three times. When there is no answer, I ring it about ten times and finally, Stan shows up at the door. Kyle takes in his sloppy appearance and then throws his arm around his tired best friend. "Please don't die," I hear him say in a wet voice. It's a childish plea and Stan doesn't reply so Kyle repeats it. "Please… please…" They hug for a good five minutes until Kyle lets go of him and we all go inside.
"Kenny told you…" Stan finally states once we settle in his room. He sits on the edge of his bed, staring down at the floor.
"Yeah," Kyle whispers, sitting next to him. "Kenny told me… I'm really sorry I've been so absent."
Stan runs a hand down his sullen, teary face. "I just feel so bad all the time," he weakly confesses, letting out a string of sobs, "and I don't even know why."
"It's okay," Kyle whispers, trying to sooth him. "You don't need a reason to feel things, Stan. The simple fact that you feel them is enough to make it important." Stan buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Kyle rubs circles around his back and says, "I'm sorry I've been absent. I'm sorry I've been a bad friend. I won't do it again. I'll be better. I'll be supportive." Kyle continues to desperately mumble all the things he will and won't do. He's way better at this than I am. I always say the wrong things. For fuck's sake, I was going to help him end his life.
"Kenny," Stan suddenly says, raising his head and staring at me with wet eyes. "Why did you bring Kyle here? To guilt me into choosing life?"
"To prove to you that people care about you," I whisper, standing awkwardly. "If you have people who love you, then maybe you should choose life and not death. We shouldn't have left you alone for so long." Stan's death would hurt so many people and I'm not sure whether it's okay to be selfish when it comes to dying. I don't know what I think anymore. All I know is that I don't want Stan to die.
He says nothing. He just glances over at Kyle's sad expression before taking in mine. "I'm not going to kill myself," he says and I'm not sure if he's saying it just for Kyle's sake or if he really means it. Nonetheless, Kyle offers him a faint smile.
"Do you want me to make lunch?" he offers.
"Sure," Stan says and Kyle exits the room, leaving me and Stan alone. "I know you're probably wondering whether or not I was lying just now, right?" he asks knowingly. "I wasn't lying. I'm not going to kill myself."
"What made you decide?" I whisper the question in a painfully quiet voice.
"I don't know," he admits, but I have a feeling Kyle might have had something to do with it after all. Maybe Stan would miss him. Maybe Stan would feel guilty. Maybe those are all the wrong reasons to keep living, but if this is why he's choosing life then I don't really care as long as he keeps on living. I guess that makes me horribly selfish because it doesn't really fix anything. I'm just glad he is still capable of feeling things.
"Oh," is all I can muster.
"You love me, right?" he asks.
"Right," I say.
"You want to be with me, even when I'm a tired and sad piece of shit?"
I feel myself frown. "Don't say that about yourself."
"Just answer the question," he sighs.
"Yes," I say simply. "I love you and I don't care if you're fucked up. We're all fucked up, just some more than others."
He forces a small smile. "I guess you're right about that," he says. "I can't really sleep this off, can I?"
"No," I say. "Ignoring it won't make it stop." I take a seat next to him and hold his hand.
"I haven't showered in three days," he announces.
"I don't care," I laugh quietly. "You don't smell that bad." I once went two weeks without showering, so I can't really complain. The perks of being poor.
He nudges me for the bad smell comment before speaking again. "I want to say something," he declares.
"Sure, shoot."
"If I'm going to live… I should probably try and get better, right?" he starts.
"Right," I agree.
"So," he continues slowly, "I shouldn't really be dating until I feel at least semi-okay. It wouldn't be fair to the person I'm with. They'd be forced to swallow all my negativity. It'd bring them down."
"But," I argue, "if they love you, I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
"No," Stan shakes his head. "I don't want to hurt them. I want to better myself so I can be happy for myself and for this person."
"Okay," I say quietly.
He sighs and relents, "Okay, it's probably pretty obvious I'm talking about you and I'm not asking you to wait or anything… but…"
"It's fine," I smile as he trails off. "I understand." Really, it is fine. I can wait. I've loved Stan for a long time and I doubt those feelings will go away any time soon. Even if his feelings for me disappear, I'll be content as long as he continues to breathe.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. "Thank you," he whispers. "Really, thank you."
I'm not sure why he's thanking me. He has no reason to, but nonetheless I say, "You're welcome, Stan."
He cups my face in his palms and leans forward, planting his lips on mine. This is when Kyle walks in. "Oh, wow," he says, stifling a smile as we part. "I came in to tell you that lunch is ready."
"Oh," I chuckle. "We'll be down in a minute."
Kyle simply nods before going back downstairs.
"I'll shower tonight," Stan suddenly says. "Maybe wash my sheets and clean my room. I'll force myself to do something more than sleep."
"That sounds good, Stan," I tell him and the two of us head downstairs.
6.
It's been two weeks and Stan still hasn't come back to school. He said he doesn't think there's a point anymore. His grades are unsalvageable, so he's decided to drop out and get a job instead. I told him that sounded like a fine idea. He told his parents he's really depressed and it isn't getting better so they took him to see a therapist again. This time, it will be a weekly thing and not just an evaluation so he can get a prescription. Kyle and I have been visiting him every day. Even Eric has been a little less absent.
I'm not a doctor. I don't understand things like this. I just know that some people get better and some people don't. You can't help someone who doesn't want help. Maybe you can't save someone from this sort of thing. Maybe the only person who can save Stan is Stan himself and if so, he'll do it once he's ready (if that time ever comes). It doesn't mean he's weak. In fact, it is the opposite. He's so incredibly strong to be able to move forward each day even with all kinds of bad feelings.
At school today, Wendy finally asked me where Stan has been. I told her he was dead and she screamed. Then I told her I was kidding and she slapped me. I played it off like a joke and walked away after that. I felt like a bad person, but Kyle and Eric got a good chuckle out of it. Though, I suppose it's no laughing matter because he really did almost die.
Classes just finished and I'm on my way to Stan's house again. I feel bad always checking in on him, but I'm sure he understands why I do it. When I arrive on his doorstep, I ring the bell once and he lets me in. "How's therapy?" I ask him as I remove my shoes.
"I don't know," he admits before announcing, "I jerked off last night."
"Thinkin' of me?" I ask in a joking tone.
"You know it," he chuckles and I can only hope he's serious.
We spend the hour playing video games in the living room. We don't talk about anything important, just game-play. I think this kind of normalcy is healthy. Stan cusses when he loses and then Shelley comes home. "Turds," she greets in a suspiciously civilized manner before retreating to her room.
"Shelley's been nicer to me ever since Mom and Dad told her I was mental," he says. "Less punching."
"You're not mental," I tell him.
He shrugs and adds, "Whatever… that I want to die. She likes being the only one to make me feel like shit. The fact that I feel like shit all on my own makes it less enjoyable for her, I guess."
"Yeah," I murmur. She's always been particularly sadistic when it came to her little brother. Poor Stan. "You're not mental, though. You're just going through stuff."
"I suppose," he says. "You know, it does mean something to me that you didn't let me die."
"Do you still want to?" I ask.
"Yeah… No… I don't know." He lets out a sigh, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I don't know what I want anymore."
I don't know if Stan truly wants to die. I think he just wants the bad things to stop. Maybe he wants a new beginning. A new start. A new life… but then again, I'm not sure. Life isn't supposed to be easy, but some people have it so damn hard and it fucking sucks.
I just smile. "Don't be afraid to tell me and Kyle what you want," I say. "We aren't going to judge you. When you feel like shit, talk to us. When you feel good, tell us about it. This is what friends are for. We'll stick with you through the good times and the not so good times."
"Thanks," Stan murmurs.
I don't know if me and Kyle will be able to make up for all the time we spent pretending Stan was fine. I don't really know if I'll ever get over the fact that I tried to help him kill himself. I don't know if I deserve to get over that. Because of me, he almost threw away the most precious things he has – his friends, his family, his fucking life. And maybe, because of all that, I don't deserve to have him… but as I've said before, I'm a selfish person when it comes to the people I care about.
Life is ugly and life is beautiful. It's is a mountain you have to get past and it's an inspiration waiting to be found. It's hate and it's love. It's sadness and happiness and every other god damned emotion, bad and good. Perhaps Stan will never move past the mountain in his mind. I don't know. Some people get sick and they don't get better and each day seems fucking impossible… but they keep moving. I think that makes Stan the strongest person I know.
Fin.