I have a good feeling about this one.
Thanks to my beta Lady Nightspike and my bestest friend, kyleisgod.
Standard Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.
It's disgusting.
Stan sits there, Kyle on his left, Wendy on his right, and he's smiling. His body is easy, shoulders loose and feet planted at a graceful distance apart—like he's sitting on a fucking throne, admiring his kingdom with that benevolent look on his face. Every inch of him is just radiating contentment. Meeting his eye, I wonder with a touch of bitterness what kind of perfect thoughts he's thinking.
Maybe he's thinking of Wendy, and how they're going to have a huge white wedding (with Wendy? What else?), honeymoon in Tahiti, make a bunch of kids (they'll have Stan's eyes and Wendy's smile), and be together when they're eighty years old, sitting on rocking chairs and still holding hands like lovestruck teenagers. Maybe Stan's smiling because he's dreaming about a future with Wendy, with no reason to believe those dreams won't come true. She places a chaste, affectionate kiss on his temple, and he gently tucks a strand of her hand behind her ear. It's quick and tender, like they are trying to sneak it in when no one's looking. Kyle notices however, and snorts at them, but he's just playing. Stan's happiness re-radiates off Kyle like the fricking greenhouse effect.
Or maybe, Stan's thinking of his loyal best friend. How in rain, shine, snow, sleet, hail or buffaloes from the sky, Kyle Broflovski will always be right at his side, ready to listen when Stan needs a sympathetic ear, always willing to at least try to understand. Maybe Stan's smiling because he knows he has a wingman no matter what he wants to do.
How fucking wonderful it must be, to be Stan Marsh. To live in those thoughts that make his blue eyes glow calmly, like the slight heat from a candle. Like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he has everything he could possibly want.
I have to wonder if it's because he actually…does. I am tired of my sick guessing game, trying to put faces on Stan's thoughts. It's not fair. It isn't Stan's fault I'm not above this…pettiness, though it isn't my fault either. I still feel guilty with my poisonous thoughts. I don't have to like it, but I don't want to ruin it for him.
Cartman yells in German at some kid on his Xbox live, and I don't want to watch anymore, so I move to the kitchen. "Water," I mumble as an explanation; no one is listening.
Cartman's house is warm, even in the middle of January. Any other day, I'd just be grateful to be out of the snow. Even with jealousy pushing hotly under my collar, I don't want to disturb my friends. I yank open a cabinet and the glasses clink mildly as I take one down and grip it. White knuckled as I clench my fist around the cool cylinder, I wonder why I can't just be happy with what I have. Why Stan's contented smile, filling the other room with enough happy vibes to choke on, makes me so sick. Wendy's laughter tinkles over the countertops, Stan's reply rumbles in tow, and the sounds churn in my gut. Staring at the crack along the ceiling, I trace over the veiny imperfection with my eyes and try to focus on nothing at all.
It occurs to me that I am being unreasonable. I wonder if I were sitting where Stan is, in Cartman's green easy chair, pretty Wendy with her velvet voice and smooth curves perched on the armrest, steadfast Kyle with his clever witticism and infinite overbearingness on the floor, cross-legged at my feet…if I'd even look the way Stan does. Because I doubt it. It's probably an inner peace thing. Some kind of zen. Another secret Stan knows that I can't hope to.
Then (irony hates me), Stan comes into the kitchen. He calls back to Kyle ("Your mom, dude! You know I ain't good at basketball! Doesn't make me less of a man! No YOU are! Pussy!"), and I push my empty cup under the faucet, fill it with water, clench my teeth. I don't want to snap at him. I just want to be alone with my thoughts.
"Sup, Kenny?" He yanks open the fridge and shifts around inside it, searching the shelves. I force my mouth into a relaxed grin and take a long drink before answering.
"Not much," I slip my tongue lazily around the words. The implication left for him that there's nothing to say here.
"Cool," he answers anyway, oblivious. Coming up with a half-eaten bowl of red Jello, he bumps the fridge closed with his hip. I watch him over the rim of my glass, and he transfers his weight awkwardly to his other foot.
"So," he begins, and the lump in my stomach lurches. He's not letting me off the hook. "What's going on?" his tone is friendly and interested, "you look kind of…bent, dude." I shrug, trying to skirt the weight of his question.
"Same old," I say. None of it has any meaning. I'm dodging, and he's trying to reach through because he doesn't know he doesn't want to know. The pitfalls of being a nice guy like Stan; he can't understand you can't fix everything by caring.
"Okay," he nods, and I'm relieved, but also disappointed. Now that he's giving up, I almost wish he'd—
"You sure?"
"Yeah," I tell him. Stubborn because I don't have a better answer.
"Cool," he stops pushing. I glance over at him, and he meets my gaze with probing eyes. I boldly let him. My thoughts are indecipherable; he won't find anything there.
"You okay about Bebe?" he's guessing, but I'm surprised. Bebe and I broke up a month ago, and even though I hadn't been thinking about that, I didn't expect him to bring it up.
"Yeah," I repeat, and reassure him with a smile.
"Good. She was a bitch anyways," Stan's voice is good natured, brotherly. I chuckle and nod.
"A hot bitch," I joke, and he smiles as he sticks a spoonful of Jello into his mouth. I feel my resentment begin to dissipate in his presence. Stan cares, and he doesn't mean any harm. I know I should be a better friend.
"Stan?" Kyle comes into the kitchen and nods to me in greeting without really looking over. I suppress the urge to scowl, immediately remembering why I didn't want to be around this. Stan can't leave a room for five minutes without a search party coming after him.
I wonder if I died for good, how long it would be before someone even noticed.
"Cartman's being a dick," Kyle grumbles, swiping Stan's spoon and raising it menacingly. He spears the Jello and jams an aggressive mouthful between his lips. I swirl the water around in my glass, silently waiting for a chance to slip away unnoticed. With Kyle's entry, I can't hope to hold Stan's attention anyway. I'm just an extra presence in the room now, uncomfortable and unwanted.
"Cartman's always a dick," Stan shrugs agreeably. Even though it's not exactly the most astute or comforting insight in the world, Kyle noticeably relaxes and nods, good mood restored. I'm watching them at this point; no longer a part of the action. Just two eyes, given audience to The Super Bests and the super exclusive Kyle and Stan show. But Kyle is blocking the path to the doorway, and leaving might draw their attention and pity. I don't want their fucking pity. So I listen to their conversation and hope whatever they are going to talk about leaves me space to disappear into.
"So," Kyle's voice becomes serious; there's definitely something way heavy hiding in his tone, "did you ask her?" Stan steps closer and strains his eyes, re-checking the atmosphere to make sure no unwanted presences are privy to what he's about to say. I nod when he finds me again, reassuring him I'll keep my trap shut. He replies in kind, shaky and grateful, before turning back to Kyle.
"No, dude," he says in a hushed voice, "I don't….I just don't know how to do it. What if she—"
"She what? You've been going out seriously for almost five years now. She already practically lives at your house. Just yesterday I found tampons in your desk drawer, for God's sake. Is it that big a deal asking her if she wants to move in for real? It's not like there's any chance she's going to say no, anyway." Stan glances back over the living room like it pains him to do so.
"Shh, dude, she'll hear you," Stan's voice is an octave higher, pitched with nervousness. Kyle just rolls his eyes, but Stan continues, "And it is too a big deal! What if she— "
"She won't," Kyle assures him, clapping a hand on Stan's shoulder and meeting his nervous gaze with huge confidence. Stan falters, searches Kyle's face for a few moments. Apparently having found what he needed, Stan drops his shoulders, and he's agreeing.
"Okay," he answers like he's steeling himself, "I'll ask her tonight."
"You're asking Wendy to move in with you?" I interrupt stupidly, something aching in my chest. Stan and Kyle both turn to me with identical surprised expressions. They'd quite obviously forgotten I was there.
"Yeah," Stan recovers first, "I love her, dude." He's so sure of it, and he clearly means every word. It's in his nervous voice, quick and low like it's a big secret, but the edges all soft with feeling.
"Sex is killer then, eh? Wanna make sure she's in your bed every night?" I tease reflexively. Stan gives me an odd look and bites his lip.
"It's more than that," he says quietly, and I instantly feel like a dick. Kyle subtly shakes he head at me in reproach, adding his disapproval to my already stinging conscience. Why do I always wreck good things?
"Sorry," I mutter, and search for a better way to apologize, "no, I know. You guys seem really happy." I offer Stan this sentiment with a thumbs-up and a crooked smile. He responds with brightness that isn't at all artificial.
"Yeah?" he asks, "you think she'll want to?"
"Definitely," I tell him, smooth and quick. Kyle's arm goes around Stan's shoulder instantly.
"'Course, dude," he adds like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "you know that. It's Wendy we're talking about. You guys are already practically engaged. You'll see." I can practically feel Stan's relief; Kyle's faith is all the reassurance he needs. Kyle continues to encourage him and I can think only one thing:
I want that.
I want a girlfriend to worry over, to wonder about just because it's such a good thing I'm scared of any chance of losing it.
I want to be able to believe everything someone says, because he's my best friend and he'd never lie to me, and he knows just what I need to hear.
I want what Stan has. I want to wear that contented smile that says he's got everything in the world and he knows it. I want those precious things he's spent a lifetime building, and will probably spend a lifetime enjoying. I want someone to crawl in bed with and tuck the covers around because it matters to me whether she's cold, a best friend who comes over so often he's comfortable talking about my girlfriend's tampons.
I want a reason to wake up every morning, a reason to be glad I can't seem to die forever. Something to hold onto, something to depend on. Just one thing, even. Stan has TWO. What did Stan do to deserve everything I want?
I shuffle back into the living room after them, sit on the lumpy couch next to Cartman. He turns to me and furrows his eyebrow and pushes his headset off his ears.
"When did you get here, asshole?" he asks. I laugh; Cartman unknowingly acknowledges the thoughts that have been lodged in my throat all day.
"I've been here all day, dude," I tell him. My voice is casual, even though my lungs feel like they are being squeezed together. My own voice betrays me. I'm invisible.
"Like I give a crap," Cartman goes back to his game. Wendy's eyes cut through me from across the room; she never misses a thing, and I turn to face her penetrating expression. After a few seconds, I wink at her, just to throw her off.
Her eyebrow raises, and I know she isn't fooled. I feel my heart speed up, because just maybe, she'll say something, that magical something, that'll make me feel like someone's been paying attention, and I'm not so fucking alone it's like being trapped in a lead jar.
But Stan and Kyle sit back down, Stan's hand touches hers with quiet intention, and she turns away. Stan looks to Kyle one more time, and Kyle makes a "shooing gesture." Stan squares his shoulders, dips his head in Kyle's direction. He then takes Wendy by the hand and leads her out.
The one boy in South Park who was pussy enough to get Vaginitis has been brave where it matters. Wendy's overjoyed "Yes!" and Kyle's proud "Told you!" prove that Stan's been the smart one. He's invested his heart in the right places, and most of all, had the courage to pursue what he cares about, and now he has something so good I'm jealous enough that I can't see straight.
What he has matters probably more than he knows. No wonder he's smiling.