Kyle's hand is shaking. Small, barely-there tremors that course through the length of his fingertips and travel down to his wrist, only stopping because they become invisible underneath the folds of material covering both of his arms. Stan notices this, like he always does – like he always has – and puts his fork down, deciding that the questionable macaroni and cheese on his tray will have to wait.
"Kyle."
His voice is low, murmuring, so that the two boys on the other side of the table will not notice the change. He's right – they do not, and carry on their own conversation uninterrupted. Stan isn't sure what they're discussing, but judging from the amount of wild hand gestures and vivid facial expressions coming from that direction he decides he'd like to keep it this way.
The smaller boy looks up, instantly catching his name.
"Yeah?" his eyes are wide, searching. What do you want? Or more specifically, what did I do?
Stan sweeps a hand toward the untouched tray of food that sits atop the table, making a face.
"You need to eat, dude."
Kyle grimaces, nose crinkling and eyes screwing themselves closed for a fraction of a second before re-opening, gaze intent upon the tabletop.
"M'not hungry," he begins, and the sigh that escapes Stan's lips sets things in motion for the ensuing conversation. They both know how this is going to end, but they'll go through it anyway. Because there's nothing else they can do, and even if there was, they don't know how to do it.
"Please?" Stan looks at him, eyes pleading – they match his tone perfectly, and this is a skill honed from experience he would rather not have.
They are silent for a few moments, breathing slow and steady, unheard over the general din of South Park High's cafeteria. Over to the side Wendy and Bebe sit gossiping, long hair swaying together rhythmically over the table, and Stan looks at them almost longingly. How often he's wished that simple ease of communication and lack of barriers could flow between him and Kyle. How often he's wished for the school cafeteria to be less like a battle ground and more like a meeting place.
Around them, life goes on – people smile, people laugh, and people sweat out stress over exams they have forgotten to study for. Kyle doesn't seem to notice. Like always, he stares hard at the hard plastic of the table, as if searching it for answers – and Stan thinks maybe that is what he's doing, and has to wonder if he's been searching anywhere else.
"I can't…" Kyle's voice is quiet, and he doesn't look up. Stan sighs.
"Just a bite, dude. C'mon, it can't be that hard."
He has said the wrong thing, and regrets it immediately. Kyle's head whips up, green eyes flashing with anger that Stan hasn't seen in months. The stark contrast between the over-brightness of his irises and the chalky-white pallor of his skin almost makes Stan gasp. The trembling in his hands gets worse so that he is actually shaking – with effort or rage, the brunet isn't sure.
"Not that hard?" he hisses, and swings his legs around the table, standing up before Stan can stop him. "You have no idea, Stan! No idea."
He walks away, sneakers smacking against the floor with haste, leaving in his wake a still untouched tray of food. From the other side of the table, Cartman looks up, momentarily distracted from his conversation with Kenny, smirking at Kyle's temper.
"Aww, did you break up with your jew-fag, Stan?" he smiles maliciously, knowing after so many years exactly which buttons to push. Kenny watches on, eyes flickering between his two friends, but knowing from experience not to intervene. "Looks like he didn't take it so well – maybe he'll go home and eat his feelings."
Stan lunges across the table and punches him. Hard. As he walks out of the cafeteria he spares no thought for the larger boy's indigent spluttering, intent on finding his best friend.
oOo
Kyle sits with his knees drawn up against his chest, cool air brushing against his cheeks as tired eyes look blearily out across the school's oval. It isn't much – a patch of grass, really, but nevertheless a group of boys are sprawled out across the expanse of green, tossing a football around in an attempt to get it through one of the two rusty goalposts at either end. He follows their movements rhythmically, ignoring the feel of wet snow steadily melting into his jeans, swiping at his face every few seconds in an attempt to staunch the flow of icy tears trickling down it.
He tries to avoid reflecting on the scene in the cafeteria, but cannot help it. He shouldn't have reacted so badly, shouldn't have drawn such attention to himself – or Stan. Usually, he is able to keep his temper in check, but lately Kyle has the constant feeling of walking a tightrope; one wrong step, one loose cord and he'll fall off, tumbling into the kind of blackness he only sees when he closes his eyes.
After dwelling on his thoughts for what seems like hours, the redhead is distracted by an approaching figure. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the person draw closer, making a beeline for his spot on the grass. Eventually they are beside him, stripping off their thick winter coat and spreading it on the ground, just as Kyle should have done, to avoid the icy water.
After a few minutes of silence in which Kyle stares determinedly down at the grass, Stan speaks, clearing his throat, breath misting in the air.
"I'm sorry, dude – really," his voice is hoarse, and Kyle knows the words are genuine. "I just… I dunno, man, I guess sometimes it's hard to imagine what's going on in your head, especially when I'm watching you disappear."
Kyle is silent, churning the words over in his mind until the only thing he can do is mutter quietly, "I'm not disappearing."
Stan shifts his position and Kyle looks up quickly, catching the wide, worried look of his eyes and the way his fists remain clenched by his sides.
"You are, though, Kyle – and I don't know which is scarier; that you can't see it, or that you don't care."
I do not own South Park, nor the characters involved.
What do you think? A one-word review is still a review! ;)
My apologies in advance, I know I'm horrible in regards to updating; sometimes I just need a kick up the backside to get me moving.