Okay so for those of you waiting for updates, I'm sorry, I'm getting to those. Just to let you guys know, I'm not going to be updating until April, see my profile for more. I really am sorry, guys! Here's a quick one-shot I've been meaning to write for a while. ;-; Sorry about the ending, I couldn't think of how to stop it and it's kind of rushed as a result. Sob.
Also sorry if there are any typos, I was trying to get this up before tomorrow. And I don't know if I should up the rating for themes...? Input, please. ;-;
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Kenny McCormick was not exactly what one would call the average teen his age. He smoked, drank, did drugs, went to parties- all the kinds of things a low-life citizen with no morals would do (and Kenny had less than no morals). His family was poor and he hardly ever got fed by his parents, and when he did it was usually nothing much. He slacked in school and had the worst grades imaginable. All his teachers hated him- not that he was ever around for them to see him, however.
Above all this, though, Kenny was a sex addict. No one really knew when he had actually started doing it, but it was a known fact that ever since the third grade he had carried at least one pornographic magazine in his backpack at all times. By the time he was in high school, he had gained the nickname "Kenny McWhoremick." He had gotten practically the whole town to have sex with him, including the guys. No one ever actually talked about it, but everyone knew. If it bothered him, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed to take the slightest bit of pride in it. A bit sad, really.
So that was Kenny. The epitome of the thing raspy old women are always blatantly informing young children they'll amount to if they continue doing this or that or whatever they're doing wrong (or right, those nasty, messed up old crows).
It made me feel kind of sorry for him.
My name is Stan Marsh. I've known Kenny my whole life, and it somehow doesn't surprise me that he's turned out like this. It can't be healthy for him, what he's doing, either physically or mentally. When he's around people he'll socialize and bounce around from group to group until his heart gives out, but when it's just us plus a few other long-time friends, he tones down. He sucks himself into this little world of his, completely detaching himself from his surroundings. Because it's us. It's his friends. We're close enough to him that he can act however he wants , because he knows we're not going to judge him. He won't try to get us into bed with him, so he can let his guard down. It's not that constant sultry voice of his, or that flirtatious composure, or anything of that sort, no. He's just Kenny when he's around us. And Kenny is not a very happy person.
When I see him when he's himself, I get this feeling in my stomach. It's an uncomfortable kind of twisting, churning sensation that starts at the bottom and works its way up until it's got my whole insides in its grasp, wringing them and squishing them around as it pleases. It's a feeling that hurts.
He didn't use to be like this when he was being himself. He used to be fun, bubbly, and great to be around. But now he has problems. Now he has worries. Now his childish ignorance is gone. He has emotions. When the social world has left and I see him taking a cigarette pack out of his pocket, I know. When he sits down and holds his head in his hands and massages his temples, I know. When he calls and asks if I want to go to some party with him to get as drunk as we can be, I know. Kenny McCormick is not happy.
I don't know when it started, but I at one point realized I felt for Kenny. It wasn't pity, no. Those gut wrenching feelings from before had evolved into something else. The sensations had worked their way up to my heart and squeezed it tightly, forcing some emotion to trickle out. The trickle slowly grew to an unbridled torrent and it didn't take me long to interpret the meaning of this torrent.
I felt for Kenny.
It was the emotional attachment, not the physical one everyone else seemed to have. I wasn't all, "Oh, would you just look at his hair," or, "Damn, that kid has got to have the most incredible ass I've seen in my life."
No.
It was that little chip stuck in your heart's data base with his name printed clearly on its surface. It was plugged in with glue smothered around the perimeter, ensuring that it wasn't taken clear out by a random passer-by. And it was there to stay.
Deep regret and dread rooted inside me. It wasn't connected to the feelings I had now discovered I had for him. It was because of the heartbreak those feelings would inevitably produce. Because if there's one thing everybody- and I mean everybody- knows about Kenny McCormick, it's that he never, never gets into relationships. Sure, he has sex with everyone, but he never gets attached to them. It's nothing more than, "Okay, I banged you, alright, get out." It's routine for him, and he never breaks schedule. As an observer, I have never seen Kenny show anything even remotely close to that kind of attraction toward anybody. So my first thought when I realized what that tightening feeling in the middle of my ribcage was, was "fuck."
I never made any attempt to act on these feelings. I know that it'll never happen. I don't even know if he's gay or bi or what. No one does. He just screws everyone and takes a smoke and that's it. Maybe he doesn't even like anyone. Maybe he's asexual, and just likes sex. I don't know.
But I've been trying my best to suppress my feelings, and I thought I was doing a pretty good job. Until now, I guess.
Kenny's over for some help with homework. I haven't the slightest clue why, because one, he doesn't give half a shit about school, and two, if he really was concerned, he would be better off asking Kyle. But here we are, in my bedroom, him sitting on my bed, watching expectantly as I stare cluelessly back at him, standing uselessly in the middle of the hardwood floor, next to the doorway. He's cross-legged, hands folded in his lap, hair swooping in all directions yet looking so perfect. His deep blue eyes are wide and trained on me, waiting, breathtaking and startling. I know I said my new feelings were solely emotional, but that's not to say that before that I didn't think he was physically attractive. Because I did. Just not enough to get close to him like I want to now.
Finally I realize just how lost in my thoughts I am when Kenny pulls me out, the thick waters of my mind making a stubborn sucking, squelching sound as I escape from their grasp.
"Stan, come on. I don't have all day." He says the last with a slight, crooked smile, the imperfection of it just bringing out his amazing stability even more. I wish I could look like that without even trying.
I nod dumbly and approach him, backpack in tow, swinging it up onto the bed at his feet to gain better access to its contents. I dig through the somewhat disorganized inside in hopes of retrieving what I need. Kenny suddenly takes my arm in his fingers, momentarily stopping me, trailing them lightly up the skin with feather-light touches. Needless to say, I freeze, going completely rigid, suddenly unable to remember what I was doing for the life of me. My head somehow slowly snaps up and my eyes lock with his, my body shivering at the discovery of his blues still focused on my face. I chew on the inside of my bottom lip.
"Kenny, what are you doing?"
I'm rather proud I didn't stutter on that. His eyes retain a solemn seriousness that has me swallowing nervously.
"Nothing," he replies quietly, innocently, the ghost of that old crooked smile still gripping the corner of his mouth. He runs his fingers back down my forearm to my wrist, curling them slightly in a loose grasp. Chills run down my spine.
"W-well stop doing nothing and get your homework out. You..." I trail off, again left with an impaired memory regarding what I was about to say. He continues to stare at me, something gently sparking in his eye.
"I don't want to do my homework," he states softly, fingers slipping down to lace subtly with mine. I halt the gasp attempting to enter my lips and glace down at our entwined fingers for a split second. As my gaze flickers back to meet his, I see his lips already moving. "I want..." He trails off almost helplessly, as if he can't or is reluctant to finish his thought aloud. His hand squeezes mine softly and I glance down again. Suddenly I feel his other hand at the back of my neck, fingers placed delicately, gently massaging the skin there. I almost tilt my head back and close my eyes, but then catch myself and stop my eyelids from fluttering weakly. Now I know what this is all about. Now I know why Kenny wanted to come over. I realize with a shiver than neither my parents nor my sister are home.
"Kenny," I breathe voicelessly, powerlessly. His eyes stop trailing over my body and flicker back up to meet mine. "Kenny, that's not fair."
It's not fair that I like him that way, and that he obviously knows that, and that he's taking advantage of it. It's not fair that he can use that as a weapon against me to get what he wants. It's not fair that he has the power to make me give in.
"But I want..." he whispers enticingly, again voicing that incomplete thought. It makes my knees weak, and suddenly I don't feel as if I have the ability to stand up anymore. Kenny seems to sense this, as he brushes his hand down from my neck to my back and pushes me forward, so that I crawl onto the bed with him. I can see he's biting his lip now. I've returned to chewing my own.
"Y-you can't.. do that..." I try to explain helplessly, but he's still moving, slowly, softly, edging me further into the veil of, "Sorry, no refunds." I don't want to go there, do this, because Kenny McCormick doesn't get into relationships. He screws who he wants, and leaves it at that. I don't want to be a part of that. I don't want to turn around and cry because it wasn't real. I don't want to get hurt.
But Kenny still has the "screws who he wants" policy, and apparently I'm next on his list. I don't want to be next. I don't want to even be on that list. I want to be on the other one. The one that doesn't exist. The one titled, "People Who Kenny McCormick Wants to Become Involved With."
"Kenny," I begin to plead again. "I don't want to do this.. Please, it isn't fair..."
He sweeps his gaze over my body again, stopping it momentarily at my abdomen, where the shirt is riding up slightly. I want to move it back down, but I can't get my body to function. Kenny reaches down with the hand that was on my back and takes it in between his fingers, lifting it and pulling it up. I shiver involuntarily and suppress the desire rising up within me.
"Why do you say that?" he speaks quietly, musingly, as if paying half attention.
"You know why," I answer just as softly. "It's not fair."
Kenny pauses for a second, glancing up at my face. I stare back at him painfully, silently willing him to stop. His face tells me that he wants to bite back with something like, "Life isn't fair," but he doesn't, because even though he has his policy to go by, he's not going to be a jerk about it. We continue to watch each other like that for a while, both debating what to say, both anticipating what the other might say. Finally I break the tense silence.
"Why do you do it?" My voice is barely above a whisper. "Why do you do it, if it breaks you so much?"
His eyebrows crease together as if he has absolutely no idea what to say to that. Pain files across the plains of his face and he opens his mouth, almost reluctantly, yet meaningfully.
"It doesn't break me," he corrects softly. "It... It helps." He swallows thickly. I'm surprised that he's actually going to talk to me about this. It seems so incredibly personal, or at least it would be to me, and I feel somehow privileged to be hearing this. "It helps me to forget, kind of like a temporary escape. Like...." He strains for an answer. "Like a tour escape pod. One that takes me around the world, shows me things. But it's going at a hundred miles an hour, and the ride is over before I know it. Then it's reality again..." He stops. I feel intrusive. Awkward. As if that were an entry to Kenny's diary. I wasn't supposed to hear that.
"But..." I strain, voice slightly crooked. "But why me?" He has plenty others he can "relieve his stress" on. Why, out of practically everyone else in the world, does he have to pick me, the one whose emotions stubbornly remain attached to him?
He gives a half smile, ironic and grim. "Because you're easy prey."
Something stings inside of me, deep in my center. That hurt. He sees this and knows this, and the smile fades. He casts his eyes downward, as if ashamed. He speaks softly, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," I breathe, whisper, whatever. Something quiet that doesn't intentionally give of any of my feelings at the moment. Because I don't want him to know how hurt I am, because I don't want anything to become ruined. If it doesn't matter, it can be like it never happened, and then I won't have to give away one of the most important people in my life.
But then, I think of what he's just told me. Stress. His life. How sex is a way to put things off, to forget about them- like sleep. Except for Kenny, there's no just "sleeping it off." By the way Kenny always has dark rings hanging beneath his eyes I can tell that he doesn't get much sleep.
Is sex really that important to him? Is it really that personal? It's personal, yet it's something that requires nothing personal. No feelings, no attachments.
And now that's what Kenny wants from me. An easy way to forget things.
Friends help each other out.
I take a deep breath.
And let it out.
"Okay."
He looks surprised, completely taken off guard. Like I just offered to cut off my leg for him. "Excuse me?"
"I..." I close my eyes and inhale again. "It's fine. I don't.. It's fine with me. I'll do it." I squeeze my eyes shut as if doing it hard enough will make everything disappear. I really don't want to do this, but if Kenny needs help, I'll do anything. And if anything means hurting myself for him, then... then by all means, I'll do it. For him.
He doesn't seem to be agreeing with my inner thoughts, however. When he doesn't immediately reply, I open my eyes and see him shaking his head seriously, eyes wide. "No, Stan, I can't... I can't put you through that. I don't want to put you through that."
"But I..." I trail off and start up again. "Really, I don't care. I'm fine with it, I'll help you."
"No." Kenny's firm. "I was wrong. If it's going to hurt you, I don't want to do it."
It appears that Kenny very much has the same logic as me. I'm willing to do anything for him at all costs, and he's willing to do anything for me at all costs. Same policy. But...
Doesn't that mean he cares about me?
Suddenly, without my consent, the words come spurting forth before I can quell them, blurting my thoughts.
"Do you care about me?" I seriously wish I could take that back above all else, because that was the last thing Kenny needs right now. More problems. Things are flashing past the rims of his eyes, too fast for me to grasp anything.
"Yes," he answers, but he doesn't sound to solid on that. Despite my regret and guilt, I ask again, my mouth clearly feeling defiant today.
"Do you?"
He falters, and this time I catch confusion and pain flitting past the clear blues.
"I don't know," he finally responds softly, weakly. He keeps his eyes lowered to the bedsheets between us, hands folded beneath his hair, elbows propped up on his knees. My guilt increases tenfold. I've just created more problems for him. He already has a hard life, with everything he has to do for himself and everything he just can't do for himself, and just as he's trying to relieve some of it, here I come, the intended solution for him, waltzing in and just making everything worse. Now I'm obligated to fix it.
Biting my lip hard, I lean in slowly. The bed dips and groans softly with the shifting of my weight and Kenny looks up at me, eyebrows laced together. I softly place my hand on his knee for support and before he can do anything, reach up with my other and pull his face to mine.
I knew I wouldn't be prepared for the pain that would ensue when I did this, and it's just as bad as I thought. My heart screams in agony as our lips brush synthetically, as my fingers inch up his knee to clasp firmly, comfortingly, as his own fingers dart forward to grasp the hand I've placed on the side of his face. I can feel the air sucking in between his lips to form a gasp of surprise and alarm, but I won't have it, pressing forward and trying to deepen the kiss. My heart almost soars as he continues to struggle, then plummets when he finally gives in.
It's a deep throbbing pain, kissing Kenny. It strikes all the most vital places, burning in the back of my throat, pulsing behind my fingernails, twisting the middle of my stomach, stinging the corners of my eyes. I don't want this. I really don't want to do this. But I don't want Kenny to have to be going through everything because he was a little concerned about my feelings. Which are all going to bottomless trenches in Hell at the moment, because goddamn, it hurts. This must be a bit of what Hell feels like, I think. Horrible, stabbing pain.
But I try to throw a tarp over all of this and begin moving my hands, inching my fingers up his thigh, softly kneading his face, the way I want to do so badly in real life. This isn't real life, no matter how real it feels. It's not genuine. The pain, that's real. And the fact that he's responding isn't helping in the slightest.
His fingers contract on mine, squeeze gently, and then pull them away from his face, grasping firmly yet softly. He breaks away, separating our lips, bringing me gasping out of my torture, giving me sweet relief, mercy. When he opens his eyes and bores them into mine, I know he can see it all, resounding in my head, like a throbbing migraine. And his eyes harbor something, like his own kind of pain, like a detached pain, like he's watching someone else slowly die.
Like he's watching me.
"No," he murmurs, firm and decided. "No, I'm not going to do this to you. I'm not." So strong, so... caring.
I'm lost for words. I want to tell him no, it's okay, I'm okay. But I'm not. I'm the opposite of okay. I would sooner saw off my own arm than kiss him again. The pain couldn't possibly worse.
So I don't say anything, lips parted, words hanging back, forbidden from passing the threshold of my tongue. I realize I'm on the verge of tears. Kenny sees this and his pained gaze resurfaces, accompanied by a soft expression. His hand moves to gently hold the side of my face, like a mother or a girlfriend would, and he softly murmurs, "Hey."
My eyes flit up to meet his, and the tears are so close to spilling. "It's okay. I'm fine. I don't want to hurt you. We can just forget this ever happened, and life can go on. Okay?" He speaks gently, soothingly, as a harmless stranger would to a frightened child. I give an uncontrollable sniffle, long and pathetic. I feel my mouth curve unintentionally downward, my chin scrunching, the way that child's would when he was about to cry. I can't help it. So Kenny takes his arms and puts them around me, pulling me in and holding me close. That's when I lose my substantiality and everything comes crashing down, but falls like a feather, lightly and harmlessly.
The tears fall, soak into the soft material of his shirt, and I hold almost desperately onto him, returning his actions. I cry, but gently, not like sobbing pitifully. More like soft, contained sniffles that aren't contained at all. I'm overwhelmed; by that unbearable pain, by my forbidden feelings for Kenny, by everything. I want everything stop. I want it to all be gone, so that everything's back to normal and I won't have kissed Kenny or felt that horrible, striking pain. And while I let it all out Kenny just holds me close, comforting, caring. Everything I want him to be and yet he's not. And when I calm down and resort to short hiccups, the aftershocks of crying, he leans down to brush his lips softly against my ear.
"Yes, Stan, I do."