Ack, I'm really, really sorry for how long this took! Basically, I was trying to get some art done, first, and it ended up taking a while. But I'm pretty sure that now I've found a balance between my art and my writing, so things should be going much more smoothly, now, I hope. But all the time off has given me time to think up some new ideas, and I have some more specifics lined up and ready to go, so I'm excited for that.

Since this is where the slash officially beings (yaay!), I'd just like to pop in with another friendly reminder that there's more than one het pairing in this, and more than one slash pairing, and no, not all of them involve Kyle, because I just love background characters that much, so be sure to keep reading, please!

Oh, and want some irony? I got sick partway through this chapter, went to school because I didn't want to miss anything, and then took the next day off because I felt too horrible and ended up working on this on my day off. That amused me, to say the least, eehee.

The end to this chapter was really, really fun to write. Expect more things like that later on, now. Yay, I'm finally picking up the pace!

Have you ever run in snow before? I mean, no shit, it's cold, and it's wet, and it seeps into your boots and your socks and if you're that kind of person pisses you off immensely, but when you're running barefoot, and when you probably shouldn't be running, damn, it feels really cold.

You know when you torture yourself with the sole promise of "when this is done, it will feel so fucking good"? Yeah, that's me right now. When my feet are nice and warm and dry it will feel even better than normal, but still, it brings me back to the whole "is anything worth anything" deal when I was feeling particularly angsty.

Sometimes I try to motivate myself to excel by saying things like, "It's just a lot of pain for a little while, think of how good it will feel afterwards," but that tends to flop as soon as I realize that I can't make myself do all that and I'm just not capable of it. But all around me it's only snow now, so I have no where else to run to.

It's had to have been at least half an hour now, and I've slowed my pace because I'm getting tired, the method mentioned above having failed yet again, and Henrietta is still running. She's made tons of twists and turns, and we're somewhere in a forest now, I know, but I don't think she knows where she is. I don't think she knows that I've been trailing her this whole time. But I'm pretty sure that she's in some kind of panic or hysteria, I don't know how.

Since it's still winter – December, after all – the days are really, really short, so it's still pitch black outside, and since she's so pale it's like she almost blends in with the snow, and since above it's dark out, and her hair is a thick, thick black, the kind that you could lose yourself in without a light, that blends in, too. It's been hard to keep her in my sight, but I don't want her to die, so I'm going to continue chasing after her.

I don't think I could live with myself if someone was deliberately out to murder themselves and I did nothing to stop it.

Snow is white and cold, it sparkles every time you move your line of sight, and it's one of the most beautiful things ever when falling… which it has started to do just now. My lungs are burning and it hurts to breathe, and I want nothing more than to collapse, but if I do I'll probably be buried and die from frostbite or something, so I've got myself in a fucked situation, too.

Shit, I think I lost sight of her. I continue running in the same direction that I was, though, and if it digs me deeper into the uncivilized mountainous areas, I'm screwed. I'm not one for athletics, I'm one for academics. If it leads me out of these trees, though, I'll probably have a good chance.

And lo and behold, it's just as I think this that I break through and run straight through a bunch of branches that are all tangled together, thus earning myself several small cuts all over my body but miraculously keeping my left arm intact, but the important thing is that I'm in an open space. It never looked so good before.

But if I know she's in there and if don't find her… I… I don't care if she hates life and sounds like a pathetic whiny bitch; I can't let her die in there, even if she wants to.

So I turn back and think to myself, I've probably made the biggest mistake of my life just now.

I don't run very far until I stop for breath, bending over and placing my hands on my knees. I'm going to end up killing myself by doing this, I just know it. Both common sense and instinct are telling me to turn the hell back but I refuse to listen to them.

In fact, it downright shocks me when she runs straight by me, not noticing me at all, her hair flying out and whipping me in the face as she keeps going, and going, and going. This girl is amazing. Underweight, skinny as hell, weak, and she's still going. I caught a glance at her profile when she flashed by me, though: her eyes were shut and tears were up against her lashes, hell, I think they were freezing.

But I can't feel cold, I'm too tired to really feel – or do – anything. But I follow her with my eyes and—

Oh.

Ouch.

At least I've got her now. I jog up to the base of the tree she just ran into, and flop down beside her sprawled out body, happy that at the least I managed to get her.

Still, running into a tree at full-speed has got to be one of the most painful things out there.

She landed on her back, and her chest is moving up and down rapidly now, gasping for air. Her eyes open slowly… and stare directly into mine.

Instant recognition comes to her, and those eyes that were wide and panicked just a moment before instantly narrow. "What are you doing here?" she demands icily.

"I—" That's it. That's all I can think of to say. "I—" I try again, and think to myself, I've got butterflies in my stomach, that's what "I—" is. Damnit.

"You what?" she asks, and gives an out-of-breath laugh. "You're going to die if you stay out here much longer. Go home, kid. You'll be happier amongst people who think like you and enjoy their picture-perfect world. You can't shape up to the real thing."

Cartman said something like that earlier, didn't he?

He did.

And I don't see Henrietta in front of me anymore, but rather Cartman as her features twist and turn in my exhausted and now enraged mind's eye, and I slap fatass' fat, smirking, grinning, contempt-filled face. The loud, sharp smack (one that would have made Kenny proud) jerks me back into the real world and I see Henrietta, back to herself, gawking up at me, her hand gingerly touching her cheek where there's a stinging bright red mark.

Yeah, that's what you get if you mess with me, bitch, and I repeat this, only out loud. "Don't fucking toy with me," I add, and in the most serious tone I can come up with, too. Suddenly the pale girl in front of me looks ready to take me seriously.

Funny for one who seems to love pain so much to learn her lesson from it. Maybe it's because I don't seem like the type, or maybe it's just because somebody hurt her, actually hurt her, and this time, it wasn't her. But I don't care what the case is; she's ready to take me seriously.

It's silent for a bit, and the two of us breathe heavily, catching our breaths. I manage to repeat myself between my gasps for air, "Don't… fucking… toy… with me," and I've never been more serious in my life. I don't need more shit happening to me, Cartman is bad enough as it is, and frankly, if anybody else is going to cross over that line, I'll tear their fucking organs out.

Funny how I was just thinking I could never forgive myself if I left someone behind to die.

She stares up at me. "What?" she finally breathes out, breaking the silence.

And I actually don't know how to answer. My mind has gone blank. A second, more demanding, "what?" escapes from her lips again, and that's when I find my voice again.

"Don't do this to yourself."

"Huh?"

"This… don't… don't do it. There's no reason to," I fumble around with the words. Why can't I make a solid point?

She blinks. "Do what?"

"…This," I say, gesturing wildly with my hands. "Hurting yourself. Trying to kill yourself. Don't do it."

She's probably like me right now, extremely sleep-fogged and tired, so our conversation isn't exactly going along very coherently or fluidly. "But… why not?"

I wish I had a hot bath right now. Maybe some hot chocolate too. But there's this first. "Because… there are people out there who don't want you to die."

"If you're talking about those psychologists or whatever, fuck them. I don't see anybody out here with me right now," she retorts.

Wow, she must really be out of it. Sitting up, I say, "I'm not a hallucination, you know. I'm a real, live person, right here, trying to keep you alive and risking my own life in the process."

"… Why?"

"I… I don't know," I respond, only partially telling the truth. If she's a chick, she should be able to figure out I've got a crush on her on her own, or maybe she's just not used to this sort of thing. But there's no reason to go blurting things out that will probably make her laugh. "I guess I just… I don't want to see you die."

When I get warm again, it is going to feel so good.

"…Oh," the skinny girls says simply. Her guard must be down when she's exhausted, because she sits up, too. I hope that it'll leave an impression on her when she gets back to her senses. But for now, I think it's worked, because her tone had no signs of sarcastic implications. I stand up and reach a hand out to her, and she takes it and pulls herself up, too.

I know I'm blushing. Goddamnit, Kyle, you're being a dork, I tell myself, Stop it!

She looks at me curiously, before saying, "You should get inside… and… so should I."

I feel hopeful now.

I glance over to the digital clock that's sitting on the night stand next to my bed right after I flop down onto it. 4:06 a.m., its blinking red lights tell me. That's great; I can probably get in about three hours of sleep.

Falling asleep isn't hard when you're exhausted. Waking up after not much sleep, though, is. And getting a face full of worried-yet-also-pissed-and-also-over-protective-as-well-as-bitchy Jewish mother isn't the best way to come back to the conscious world.

"Kyle, bubbie, what are you doing here?"

"AAAAAAAH! MOM! WHAT ARE—HOW— …eh?"

I jump up as I scream this, terrified out of my mind. Quickly regaining my senses, I scramble back under my blanket and curl up into a ball. The cover is pulled off immediately, and I'm left to cower with no sort of defence. At all.

"Kyle," she says sternly to me, "what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be back at the hospital?"

"I… uh… I…"

She gives me a stern look. "Where have you been?"

I fall backwards off of my bed, so at least there's some sort of sturdy, stable structure between us. Peeking over the edge of the mattress, only far enough so that I can barely see her, I mutter, "Outside hey shouldn't I go be getting readyforschool?" increasing the volume, as well as the speed, of my voice as I go on.

"What what WHAT!" she cries out. "What were you doing outside? For how long?" She lifts up my hat and presses her palm against my forehead immediately. "You're burning up! Oh, Kyle, you can't afford to get sick after that! It's chicken noodle soup and bed for you!"

"But I—"

"No buts, Kyle!" she cries out angrily. "You're sick and need to stay at home!"

I stare at her in disbelief. "Aw, but, come on! People are going to think I'm dead or something! Besides, I don't feel sick!" The truth is, now that she's brought up the possibility, my mind has decided to tell my body to go along with it, and I'm stuck trying to keep coughs in my throat. "Besides, what about all the work I'll miss—"

She waggles a finger in my direction. "No means no, Kyle. Do you know how many other kids would just take the opportunity to stay home?"

"But I don't want to fall behind anymore…" I try to plead.

Mom sighs in frustration. "Alright, Kyle. If you think you're so well off then you can try going today, but any more signs of sickness and—!"

"Thanks Mom gotta get ready now bye!" I interrupt her hurriedly, pushing her out of my room and shutting the door, thanking god that she didn't pursue her questions about what I was doing outside.

Realizing that I'm still in a god awful hospital gown, I shed that immediately, and scramble to clean myself up so I'm not late for the bus.

After all these years, it's still the same bus stop, and it's still the same four of us, and it's still the new bus driver ever since Ms. Crabtree was killed back when Cartman thought he had psychic powers. It's almost just routine now, to go and stand there, sometimes even at random. It's just what we've always done. The transition through different schools has done nothing.

When I get there, I see Stan only standing there, waiting, meaning that I'm rather early. I jog up and take my normal place next to him. He must have been daydreaming, because the sound of my footsteps causes a slight jerk in his otherwise still movements and his eyes fall on me. A smile lights up his face. "Hey, Kyle! You doing good now?"

I return his grin. "Better," I responded, and that was it before we took up our old positions of staring ahead blankly, waiting for either the rest of our group, or the bus, to arrive, whichever came first.

While standing there, I caught Stan glancing at my injured arm a few times. It kinda made me feel paranoid, so I grasped it with my right hand nervously, and met his gaze. His eyes flickered back to the other side of the road, like nothing had happened. But nothing really had, so, I guess that'd make sense.

Not long after, Kenny came walking up, Cartman following him at a much slower, lumbering pace. Upon seeing me, the orange hoodie-clothe blond increases his pace and takes up a spot on my other side. Cartman takes the spot next to my best friend, turning his head away from me and folding his arms in a huffy manner. Makes me wonder what's up his ass now.

Kenny, on the other hand, quickly regains my attention. "So dude, you're okay now?"

"Yeah, I think so," I reply, and cough. He raises a sceptical eyebrow at me, and I grin weakly and say, "Eh, I was outside for a while last night…"

"Why were you—never mind. Look, yesterday, with Cartman—"

"Fuck Cartman," I cut him off bitterly. "We go through that crap all the time. I know he's your best friend and all but really—"

Now it's his turn to cut me off. "Yeah, and I'm sure you wouldn't like it too much if somebody said, 'Fuck Stan,' to your face." Upon hearing his name, Stan whips around from what I assume could have been his trying to talk to Cartman, and gawks at Kenny, who quickly says, "No, not really. I'm just using you as an example." Satisfied, my best friend turns back around, and Kenny focuses on me again. "You know that he's still your friend, too."

"Define friend," I scoff.

"Well… it's…" he struggles with the right words, "It's kind of like… it's just… a different type of friendship. Yeah. I mean, you guys have hung out together for how long now? Twelve years? Thirteen?"

"And I've never known why."

He glares at me. "Look, Kyle, I know he doesn't treat you well, but different things work for different people. Give him another chance… and don't say what I know you're thinking. Okay?"

I sigh in frustration. "Fine. But only because I value you as a friend, Kenny." He doesn't look like that's good enough for him, but there's no reason to continue, since the bus pulls up. I take my usual seat next to Stan and wonder why Kenny had tried bringing up Cartman with me again. It's not like I never get over it, by the next day or week, we're usually fine again.

High school in South Park sucks. It's not bad enough that elementary school had to be horrendous, too, because of all the crazy shit that happens around here, but then when you combine that with all the girls going bitchy on each other and trying to take it out on us – the boys – and it's just worse. None of us have a quarrel with each other, but the girls just love their dramas so much that they feel the need to mimic what they see on TV.

And they're just so damn emotional.

Sure, I'm probably exaggerating, but when you compare it to us guys, who are much more simple and blunt instead of lying, cheating, and back-stabbing.

The worst bit is that it's not like when we were younger, and just avoided each other like the plague. There's pressures now about being in a couple, and if you just stick with your own sex's company, then you're considered gay.

I know some of the girls do think I am. I avoid the female population of freshmen simply because they're not interesting. They're boring. They're stupid. We're all just typical hick white-trash, and there's no exception for the girls. (It doesn't help with some of my dad's… tendencies, either. I know nobody else in this building really knows anything about them, but when I get called a fag, it kinda makes me squirm.)

I don't see Henrietta anywhere, but then again, I've never really noticed her in school before. The only reason I know who she is is because of Stan and some occasional really low self-esteem problems he's had before. I mean, she's the kind of person someone like me would avoid. Her values make no sense, and she's failing most of her classes simply because she just doesn't care about anything. I'm up in all the higher levelled stuff, and I don't think I've ever gone out to the back of the school, which is where she typically is, so I just don't run into her.

I shouldn't be worried about her.

I should be worried that I have an entire day's work of school to catch up on, and it's definitely not going to be fun. I head over to my locker while my friends wander off to go do who knows what, just so they can scramble when the five-minute warning bell rings to collect their stuff. People tell me I'm the one of the very few who are actually going to make it somewhere out of South Park, simply because I actually care about my grades. Cartman gives me one lingering look with an expression on his face that I can't decipher.

I cough a few times while rooting through my things, recalling from memory that English is my first class. It's the only one that I share with my main group. Somehow we all have qualities that allow us up into higher level. For me, it's just a general smartness thing, I've been told. Kenny has been told he's great at expressing emotions, which I can only assume must come from his habit of dying. It probably gives him quite a bit to think about. Cartman knows how to come up with something interesting and tell a good story, and Stan just knows what grammar and spelling are, a step up from most of the kids in here.

I feel kind of crappy, but I'm sure it's nothing. My left arm is stinging but I'm also sure that it's still just nothing. I hear a timid cough behind me and I'm sure it's nothing.

That is until I'm lightly tapped on the shoulder a few times. I spin around and see Red there, lightly blushing. I'm thankful for Red because she takes the physical qualities I'm most known for – red hair and shortness – and goes beyond me. She's the shortest freshman in South Park, and when you have a nickname like Red, well… it's just self-explanatory.

"What is it Red?"

She rubs her ankle with her foot nervously. "Uh, Kyle, I just thought… since you missed yesterday and all, we got two new projects in English, and, well… I just thought I should tell you what they are before we actually go into class, just so you're up to date… Is that okay?"

"Go for it," I answer, and she looks much more relieved, for some reason.

Red sighs before continuing. "Well, we got two new projects yesterday—"

"Two?"

"Yeah, two," she says, flustered, "The first one is… well, it's an individual project… we were each assigned an emotion, based on what our teacher thought was the perfect one for us, and we have to write a narrative on that particular emotion…" Her voice trails off, slightly nervously.

"So, which one did I get…?" I ask her, not sure if I want to know.

"Well, uh… she gave you anger, because that's the most prominent emotion she's seen from you in class."

Great. That gives me more reason to hate Cartman. At the very least, writing from an angry perspective is easy, but still… getting an assignment to write on anger because the very teacher thought it was best for me… I don't really like that part. Is that what other people see from me when I'm around that boy, or what? I don't even know if I can even follow what Kenny tried saying to me before.

I stand there, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists, imagining ways I'd really like to kill the fat slob, if it's his affects on me that get me this kind of reputation. I can just imagine what he got, probably "cockiness" or "humour" or something like that. It just makes me hate him even more. He's so carefree, and relaxed, and, well, it pisses me off. A lot.

I remember Red is still there when she coughs nervously, looking down at her shoes. "Oh, uh…" I stumble on my words, "You… you said there was another project, right?"

She blushes at my words. "Oh, uh, yeah… we're supposed to write a mini-novella sorta thing, due at the end of the year, in partners… um, you and I got paired up together…"

"'k, thanks, Red," I mutter in response, turning back to my locker to look for my English. For somebody who does so well in school, I'm not exactly very organized. I hear her skitter away from behind me.

Girls are weird.

The five minute warning bell rings, and I scramble to find all of my stuff and rush to the English room. Upon arrival, I find every eye in there, except for those who have already seen it, is on my left arm. I guess word gets around fairly quickly, but… it's kinda really, really scary.

After announcements and introductions, Red and I decide to spend our time trying to get to work on our project. I can easily do my individual project at home. It's awkward, though, trying to come up with an idea and her constant giggling, and people stopping by at every chance they get to inquire about what happened to me.

I feel sick. I feel really, really sick. I wish people would stop asking me if I'm okay. I was okay before, but now, I just feel sick. I was on the way to forgetting what had happened. It was just a nagging little thought in the back of head since Henrietta came along, but now, it's just horrible.

Stop inquiring! Stop! This isn't doing me any good. My mind is clouded. I can't think straight. I'm being forced to relive the memory, in complete detail. The events that ended up landing me in a hospital. All that blood… it… it was sick… the warning… and… I'm scared. I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared, I think I'm going to throw up.

Shakily, I cut off my conversation with Red and rise from my seat, slowly and uncertainly, and then I bolt out the door. "Like a bat out of hell," and I just run, and run, and run. I'm not in school anymore, the sun isn't out anymore. It's dark out, I'm in the foothills, snow is around me, with a few trees over to the side. The shadow emerges from them and I panic again, putting on another burst of speed, trying to elude it… him… whatever it was… just, don't happen like it did before, don't catch me, don't, I didn't do anything, don't don't don't don't don't, please, don't—

"Kyle!" A hand grasps my shoulder, halting me. I try to cry out but my voice is gone. I'm whipped around and staring directly into the eyes of…

"…Stan?"

It feels like I'm being sucked back into the real world, now, and it's all just back to normal instantly, with no real transition or anything. I feel dizzy. Stan is supporting me and keeping me from falling down.

"Kyle, what the hell is wrong with you?" he asks, holding me up.

I feel so confused, wasn't I just… but… if… oh, god. "Stan, I… It… I can't take it. Their constant asking, and, it's just, shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Stop asking me about my arm, what got me into the hospital, it… it wasn't my own doing, and… oh, god!" I wail.

Stan gently lowers me to the ground, trying to calm me down. "Shh, Kyle," he says, gently and in a soothing voice, "Look, it's okay. You need to come back with me now, and it's going to be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"Yes, yes it will! Something bad is going to happen! And I didn't do anything! Stan, I didn't do anything!" Everything's a blur. I feel Stan's hand wiping across my eyes. I take a direct look into his piercing blue ones, and only see worry in there.

"Look, Kyle…" he tries, "I don't know what happened, but you're safe now. You're in the company of hundreds of other people, in broad daylight, in a public building. You're going to be okay for now. Just… come back with me, okay?"

I swallow air and nod loosely. "O…okay," I respond, and allow him to assist me up, much like I had helped Henrietta earlier. Upon reaching the room again, every eye is once again on me, and I feel even uneasier than before, now that it feels like I don't know anything once again, other than the fact that the threat is still out there…

I wish the ground would rise up and swallow me whole.

The first half of the day hasn't been easy, at all. Ever since English I've had to deal with even more inquiries, more panic attacks, although not quite as bad as the first one, and feeling more hostility towards Cartman that normal, although I'm not sure why. But by the time lunch rolls around, I'm feeling terrified.

I take a seat down at our usual table, but it's just Kenny and I there.

"Kyle, do you know where Stan is?" he questions me, taking a bite into his sandwich.

"Uh… yeah," I say, "He said he had to work on something for extra credit for science. I don't know why he just doesn't come to me; he knows I'd be willing to help him out."

I'm met with a glare from my friend. "Well, some of us try to have pride, Kyle, and not depend on others all the time," he says bitterly, and starts focussing more on his food than me. An awkward silence ensues. Is this really the kind of message I give out to people? Why am I second-guessing myself all of the time, suddenly? I finally get the courage to ask him something that's been bugging me for a while after a few minutes of questioning myself.

"Hey, Ken…" my voice trails off uncertainly, until I see him look up to see what I want, "Do you know what's up with Cartman lately… or where he is? He was all in my face yesterday, but today he won't even glance my way, and when he does, it's… odd, to put it simply."

Kenny looks uncomfortable. "Well, uh… I don't really know where he is, but, uh, I think it's more his place to tell you about… stuff than it is mine," he answers, and no conversation is continued. Not liking the silence, and feeling paranoid, I finish my lunch as quickly as I can and leave the room to get some air.

And bump straight into Cartman on my way out.

He hardly notices me, but screw air, it can wait – I'm sick of this "ignoring Kyle" attitude he's got going now. Yell at me, at least, do something! Before he can continue walking on his way, I grab his chubby arm and pull him over to the side.

"Okay, look, fatass," I start off, indignantly, "What the hell is going on with you? Tell me what's up; why you keep ignoring me and passing by me like I don't exist."

"Look, Kyle—"

I prod a finger into his gut. "Tell me!"

"I—"

This isn't the Cartman I know. "The Cartman I know never beats around the bush. Tell me what's up."

This seems to give him a bit of confidence. "Heh, yeah, I guess that's true. But, well… Okay, you want to know so badly?" he asks, the usual note of Cartman-sarcasm back in his tone.

I nod. "Yeah."

As the words leave his mouth, I wish I hadn't nodded. I wish I hadn't said anything, I wish I hadn't pulled him over. I feel sicker than before, and ask him to repeat what he said, just to confirm that I heard him correctly, you know. My hearing is working. My mind isn't playing more tricks on me. And he obliges.

"Kyle, I think I'm in love with you."