A/N: I hope to heck that this next chapter's a little better than last time. It's certainly longer.

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or any of the characters. I do, however, own all spelling mistakes made hereon out.

Junk of the Hearts

1

ran to ground for a while there

Kyle stirred briefly at the sound of feet stomping up the stairs. Tried to ignore the click and crash of his door being thrown open and rebounding off the wall.

For a moment there was a blessed breath of quiet. Willing to take anything he could get, he stretch, eyes still closed. As his body clock rather unhappily informed him that it was the asscrack of dawn, he figured it must've just been Ike barging in to borrow his basketball.

Wishful thinking.

The metallic rasp of curtains being torn open preluded to an ungodly bright light shining straight across his face.

"Ugh…" Kyle groaned and, eyes scrunched up, rolled over to try and bury himself under his pillow. Death by suffocation was preferable to being subjected to this kind of wake up call.

Before he could make any real progress, however, the bed dipped on either side of his shoulders and a hand gripped him, shaking firmly. The familiar tang of cool aftershave and peppermint shampoo he'd come to associate with Stan washed over him. Had any of his other friends barged into his room to wake him up, he would have decked them, rolled over and gone back to sleep. Luckily, Stan wasn't just anyone.

He still received a weak, half-hearted smack to the shoulder, though.

"Jesus, Stan… what the fuck?" Tired green eyes squinted up at the intruder; upon seeing just how close Stan's face was to his, Kyle's heart performed its usual flopping palpitations. It was hard not to notice the flush cast across Stan's cheeks, or the heaving of his chest that suggested he'd run there.

Kyle's sleep addled mind could only really make the connection between Stan, Bed, Blush, Close, and he shifted against the mattress, stuck somewhere between horny and confused.

"Kyle, dude, she said yes!"

Kyle blinked. Scrubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Stan's grin widened at his friend's baffled expression.

The heart palpitations slowed. He shoved at Stan's chest with one hand, suddenly needing space. The dark haired boy took an easy step back, and Kyle pulled himself upright against the headboard. "What? What're you talking about?"

Stan looked down at his feet, grin softening into goofy smile. "I… know it's lame, and don't tease me or anything but I… kinda maybe asked her if... y'know. I mean, I wasn't planning to ask her until after college or anything, but then last night we were together and, yeah," he rubbed at the back of his head, blush intensifying, "it just sort of felt like the right time."

Kyle could feel the blood draining out of his face. His fingers curled into the blanket. He swallowed hard. "Whoa, slow down. What... what'd you ask her?"

He was certain that he didn't want to hear whatever this was; morbid curiosity kept him pinned there, eyes wide and throat aching.

"I asked her to marry me."

Nothing.

For a long moment, there was nothing.

And then that moment was over, and reality crashed into him like a UFO into the South Park Mall.

His stomach lurched – his eyes stung.

All he could do was shove Stan out of the way, stagger to his feet, and rush out the door towards the bathroom.

...

Kyle stared blankly at his reflection in the glass of the bus window. It stared right back at him.

His eyes were heavy lidded and badly bruised in the corners, like he'd gone two rounds in the ring before breakfast, and his lips were red raw where he'd been chewing on them all night.

Fuck Mondays, he thought with a surprising lack of venom. They always came around too soon.

Kyle sighed and passed a hand over his face, refocusing on the moving landscape beyond his zombified reflection. White lawns, white rooftops, white hills, white sky. White, white, white. Goddamn, South Park was boring to look at. It didn't help that this was the only view they got almost all year round.

His thoughts were cut off when the person who'd sat down beside him after the last stop knocked into him with their arm. With what felt like colossal effort, Kyle tore his aching eyes away from bus window and turned slightly in his seat.

All to be met with wildly gesticulating hands and the back of a head. Or, more accurately, the back of a hood.

The occupant of said hood was apparently engaging in a deep and meaningful conversation with the person directly across the aisle. Tuning in, Kyle caught what sounded suspiciously like, "...The most rocking hot tits, dude. Had to be at least a G cup."

And then, "Oh, really? Gee whiz, well that's... That's mighty fine, I guess."

Kenny and Butters. How the fuck hadn't he realised it was them when they got on?

Actually, when was the last time he'd seen them – at all?

He thought back over the last few weeks, but everything was a blur, like usual. School seemed to have gone in and out of focus, and the faces that went by seemed to swim just out of sight, as if he'd only really spared them a brief glance. As always, all of his attention had been on—

Had been—

He swallowed, hard, around the lump in his throat. Oh, God, he couldn't. He couldn't think about that right now.

He didn't think he would be able to stay in one piece.

His shoulders pulled up and he quickly spun back around to the window.

Kyle tried his best to steady his breathing and blink back the traitorous sting of tears.

"Kyle, dude, she said yes!"

He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the voice away, but it just kept on replaying, like some sort of sick funeral march.

"...She said yes!"

He was insane, he had to be. There was no other explanation for his fucking stupidity. How could this have possibly surprised him? It was clear as day that Stan, at the very least, was stupidly caught up in his girlfriend. The fact that Wendy – brazenly left wing, hardcore feminist Wendy – was willing to set aside her bright future for an engagement to her highschool sweetheart (and didn't that terminology just make him want to gag?), was baffling. The only way to justify the sudden engagement was that they were both (idiots) serious about it. And anyway, you'd have to be blind to miss all the longing stares and lingering touches.

But then, he supposed that he had been blind. He'd spent so much of the last few years outright lying to himself about his relationship with Stan – his feelings for Stan – that he hadn't even realised what was going on in real life. It wasn't Stan and Kyle, super best friends against the world. It was Stan and Wendy.

"...Dude, she said yes!"

It always had been.

"Jesus, Ky, you alright?"

The redhead jolted back out of his thoughts and, fingers knotted in the hem of his jacket, peered over his hunched shoulders.

A pair of pale blue eyes stared back at him from below scruffy, straw-blond bangs and the fluffy rim of his hood. Although the expression on Kenny's face was obscured, it was still easy to make out the crease in his brow.

Kyle took a little while (longer than might be considered healthy) to process his friend's words. When they finally registered, he just gave a jerky shrug. "I'm fine, Kenny." His voice came out rougher than he'd intended – he cleared his throat.

"You look like horse shit," was the concerned reply.

"Thanks, dude. Really what I needed to hear." Kyle scowled, unable to hold his friend's gaze any longer and unwilling to chat.

"That's what I'm here for," Kenny said, spreading out his hands and tilting his face up like he was some magnanimous god, "to tell my friends when they're looking like total ass. C'mon, what's wrong?" Perceptive though Kenny might like to be, compassion was definitely not his forte.

"I'm fine."

"Huh. You don't look it."

"Y'know, he's right Kyle," Butters piped up, his round blond face poking into existence just over Kenny's shoulder. "Are you sure you're feelin' alright? You look awful pale." Kyle could practically hear Butters' knuckles grinding together.

"It's nothing." Why was it so damn hard to get people to leave him to his self-pity?

"Well, if you need to talk, we're here for you, little buddy—"

"I said I'm fine." He'd practically snarled. A brief, ruddy flush flooded his cheeks as Butters stepped back from him, looking shocked.

"Alright, dude. That's cool. No pressure." Kenny held up his hands as if to say, 'Whoa, calm down there.'

Kyle watched with narrowed eyes as both of the other boys backed off, Butters retreating to his own seat (where he was supposed to be, goddamnit, and Kyle shouldn't have to feel guilty for snapping), and Kenny having the courtesy to turn around and leave Kyle alone.

The stupid lump in his throat climbed just a little higher and, gulping, he sank deeper into his seat.

For the rest of the bus ride, the seventeen year old stared out of the bus window at the passing scenery, trying his hardest to keep all the memories of the morning before out of his mind.

...

When the bus pulled up in the parking lot of South Park High he reached down for his rucksack, slung it over one shoulder and slouched off towards the main school building.

The bus always arrived ten minutes early and so Kyle made a quick visit to his locker for his textbooks before heading to homeroom, to save him more time before next class. Once done, he slipped into the classroom and sank silently into his seat, eyes downcast and arms folded on top of the desk.

A few minutes later, other people started filing in. By the time that Kenny slouched down at the desk beside Kyle, Bebe Stevens and Heidi Turner had already flanked the redhead. Kyle thanked God for this brief reprieve, as Kenny's fickle attention was diverted to the girls. As usual, Kyle's blond friend put on the charm. And by charm, he meant Kenny waggling his eyebrows suggestively and saying things like, "Bebe, y'know what? I'd like to use your thighs as earmuffs," and "Heidi, babe, do you wash your panties with Windex? Because I can really see myself in them."

When Bebe began returning the dirty pickup lines with surprisingly detailed death threats, Kyle buried his head in his arms, grateful that their escalating confrontation blocked out the sound of everyone else coming into the room.

The bell rang, and Mr Garrison arrived bang on time, bursting through the door in a raging fury (like most Monday mornings). His greeting was, "Sit down and shut the fuck up, you little bastards! Kenny, get your hands out of your pants. Bill, Fosse, if you boys try just one more time to flip Red's skirt, I swear to God, I will hand your asses to the principal. You boys disgust me, only ever thinking with your dicks!"

Despite Mr Garrison's impressive entrance and his following rant, the morning announcements were as bland as ever. Kyle wasn't sure exactly how the school system operated, but somehow Mr Garrison, who'd had a job transfer to South Park High around five years ago, had once again become their homeroom teacher. He didn't know what the chances of that were, but he figured that they were pretty slim. As was evident by the continued swearing of their long-time teacher and the utterances of relief as homeroom came to a (painfully slow) close, no one was particularly happy with this arrangement. Mr Garrison was an asshat. (But then, Kyle thought with a small curl of his upper lip as two tables along, Fosse reached forward and pinged Red's bra strap, so're most of my classmates.)

As everyone started standing up and milling between the desks, Kyle gathered his text books into his arms, scrambled to his feet and practically bolted past Stan's desk. It wasn't that he was avoiding his best friend, it was just that he didn't want to be anywhere fucking near him.

After escaping homeroom unscathed (and putting a reasonable distance between himself and the rest of the class) he made his way towards the Chemistry lab. For most subjects, the classrooms were unlocked in the mornings so that the students could enter when they arrived and get their books and notepads ready, but this wasn't the case with the science rooms. The door remained locked until second bell rang. Lots of people thought Mr Vanders was a paranoid junkie, but Kyle could hardly blame the guy. Who wanted a bunch of South Park teens around a load of potentially volatile chemicals for any longer than was necessary? Considering the amount of times he and his year mates had blown up the elementary school with nothing more than a filched lighter and a series of well aimed farts back in the day (and what were the logistics of that?), he could hardly blame the guy. Not like the school getting burnt to the ground would have put much of a damper on his mood – in fact, it might have given him something to smile about.

To pass the time until the bell rang again, Kyle stared vacantly at the locker opposite him and contemplated the angsty misery that was his life. All he could say was that he was grateful for the fact that none of his close friends shared first period with him on Mondays. From what he knew, Stan was in Shop class along with Craig, Clyde and Cartman, while Kenny, Butters and Jimmy had Drama.

Eventually, after the rest of his class had showed up, the lock on the door clicked and Mr Vanders poked his head out just far enough to yell, "First class, get in— now, you little shits!"

The students shared baleful glances and trailed inside.

Kyle sat down at his group table towards the back of the room and opened his textbook to the page number already up on the board. Sally Turner and Annie Faulk sat down to his right, with Kevin Stoley and Leroy Jenkins to his left. Kyle didn't offer them so much as a glance, and they extended him the same courtesy.

Monday morning was always a pathetic affair in South Park High, as both teachers and students suffered the aftereffects of weekend partying and dragged themselves back into the debilitating dullness of school routine.

As it was, all Mr Vanders could get from his students were grunts of affirmatives for roll call and half assed excuses as to why around ninety percent of the class had yet to hand in their Chemistry homework. Pissed off as always by his students' general uselessness, Mr Vanders cancelled the class practical and instead assigned them a buttload of complex theory. This punishment, generally considered dickheaded, was met by a round of groans and complaints. Mr Vanders just cussed them out until the class fell into a reasonably compliant state.

During all of this, Kyle flipped his pen over and over in his hand, more than happy to tune out the routine complaints. Beside, he hated Chemistry theory. The explanations were too long, the problems stupidly convoluted and the subject just generally too dry to interest Kyle on a good day. Let alone when he'd spent the previous night tossing, turning, and trying to convince himself that he didn't give a fuck about Stan proposing to Wendy. Jesus Christ.

He supposed the tiredness explained his mood. After the way he'd snapped at Kenny and Butters on the bus earlier, Kyle had sunk into a comforting numbness. His throat still ached whenever his thoughts strayed too close to that, but otherwise a mental fog had descended on him, making it easy to ignore that he'd been upset about anything in particular at all.

He wasn't asked to do any group work or to pair off for the lesson, so he supposed he was grateful for the chance to keep his head down. As Kenny had so kindly pointed out, he looked like crap. (He was pretty sure that somewhere under the haze, he felt it too.)

After Chemistry he had Math. Again, the class passed with minimal human contact; by third period, he was enjoying throbbing temples and an easy, lulling boredom.

Spanish was less pleasant, considering the fact that he was expected to actually speak with the girl next to him. Lola was alright, he guessed, though she never actually shut up and she kept playing with her bangs. He was honestly surprised that she didn't strain a wrist from constantly flipping her hair back over her shoulders.

Straight after Spanish was lunch.

Monday lunch break was always a heated affair, featuring the hottest gossip, with replays of who'd ended up drunk and screwing at some party, or how so-and-so was arrested for hotwiring Barbrady's car.

Kyle had a sinking feeling he knew what the gossip would be, and didn't even make it all the way to his usual lunch table before his suspicions were confirmed.

He was halfway across the cafeteria, lunch tray in hand, when he looked up. His steps faltered.

It wasn't just the usual crowd gathered around. Craig's gang had crammed themselves onto the table next to them, and Wendy and her girlfriends swarmed around the group of boys like high-pitched, overly dolled-up flies.

For a long, drawn out moment Kyle just stood and watched. His view of Stan was partially blocked thanks to Wendy's ridiculous pink beret (and the fact she was latched onto him like a leech), but he caught a blinding flash of teeth and heard a warm, familiar laugh over the noisy chatter.

The lump in his throat reappeared, apparently trying to choke him.

Despite the sleepy fog he'd drifted into during morning classes, he just couldn't face Stan (or his parasitic, overly opinionated girlfriend) right now.

"Hey, ass hat, you're in my way!"

Kyle startled and looked around to see a younger student glowering up at him. On any other day might have told the kid to go fuck himself; today, he snatched up the chance to bail on the lunch crowd.

He turned, rammed the kid out of the way with a shoulder, and shoved his tray, (untouched pizza and fries) into the rack. The redhead didn't spare his friends another glance.

If he had, he would have seen a pair of dark brown eyes following him out.

...

Kyle wandered through the hallways aimlessly.

He had Phys Ed next so he might as well head towards the locker room, but...

Stan would be there. All the guys knew now too, which meant Stan'd be open game for all the usual mocking. They wouldn't shut up about this for as long as possible. They'd expect Kyle to join in. Stan would expect it.

He'd been dreading that since the moment Stan had told him yesterday.

The fog lifted, and his eyes stung.

"Kyle, dude, she said yes!"

And Jesus fucking Christ, those words hurt. There was no use lying to himself about that.

He took a short, sudden breath.

"...I asked her to marry me."

And then another.

"...She said yes!"

And another.

"...It just sort of seemed like the right time."

No use. All he could do was gasp uselessly at the air like a fish on dry land, fingers clutching at his heaving ribs.

His vision had blurred. Tears spilt over the edges, tracing warm, wet tracks down over his cheeks.

He laughed; choked a sobbing, gasping breath around the lump in his throat.

The sound echoed loudly in the empty corridor.

Ten minutes later, puffy eyed, wet faced and badly shaken, Kyle stumbled into the nurse's office and asked to be sent home.

She wasn't hard to convince.

...

A/N: Not sure how long it'll take me to wade through the next chapter, but I'll try to make it as quick as possible. In the meantime, (as always) I'd love to hear what you guys think.

(EDITED 07/07/17)