Summery: It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs
AN: I haven't updated this in two years and boy do I have a lot of things that I want to say. School's out and with summer vacation looming, I've been playing with the idea of finishing up a few of the stories that I've left hanging – this angsty little South Park fanfic being one of them. Being away from this story for two years has given me a lot of new perspective on the three chapters I've got up. I've realized some issues both in the writing and in the plot. ALLOW ME TO ADDRESS THEM, YES?
The writing as a whole was…pretty awful. I like to think that I've improved at least a little bit so hopefully, your eyes/brain don't die reading this new chapter
I really made it sound like Stan just went and forgot about Kyle in the course of four years. My intention was that he had suppressed the memory of Kyle (unintentionally or intentionally?). This aspect I didn't really make very clear – even I was confused about this ^^;;
These chapters are relatively short, and they're all formatted in a slightly different way. I wanted them to be like little snapshots; together they form a more (hopefully) fluid plot.
All other little details that might be off…please just ignore them, lovelies 3 I'll do my best to avoid them in the future!
P.S. Kenny McCormick POV is next.
Warnings: Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs
Kyle:
The first thing he did was sit stupidly on the bed for a good minute.
It was only at the sound of the knock did he tear his gaze away from the empty wall. Before he could give any form of a reply, his father was struggling through the doorway with his bulky piece of luggage. "Been a while since you've been in here, Kyle," he declared, catching his breath through a large grin. "Swear we didn't move a thing. Your mom came in to dust once in a while, but everything's just how you left it." The man straightened himself out, turning over the room with his eyes. Kyle stood to take the luggage from his father's grasp before muttering, "Thanks. Really, dad. Thanks."
"We've all missed you, Bud. Glad you're home." There was such elation in his voice, an elation that Kyle couldn't muster in himself.
"Okay."
"I'll let you get settled. You know, unpack your things. Get use to the old place."
"Okay."
"Dinner's in a half an hour. Man, it's good to have you home." His dad turned his heels and closed the door behind him. Alone, with only silence for company, Kyle listened to his old memories and emotions dripped like toxins from the walls and the furniture.
The second thing he did was turn over all of the picture frames in the room.
"Look at you, Kyle!" His mother practically yelled at him over the top of her wineglass. "Look at how you've grown. I barely recognize you. I can't believe you've cut off so much of your hair, though." He smiled meekly up at her, pushing his food around the plate with his fork and placing a hand on his head where his mop of curly read hair used to be. He turned his eyes to gaze around the dining room, perplexed by how everything seemed so strange and so familiar at the same time.
"Tell us all about what you were up too out there. We want to hear all about it. Last we heard, you took that extra art class…but that was last semester."
"We should go out as a family tomorrow night, Gerald. Maybe you'll run into someone you know, Kyle."
"I'm a little tired," he replied, taking a small sip of the orange juice, as he gorged in the scents of his mother's cooking. He loved it; he was surprised he had gone so long without thinking about it, especially after four years of cafeteria food.
"Well, you should give your old friends a call. I bet they would love to hear from you," his father said, offhandedly.
Kyle froze for a second, with his fork hanging from his mouth, blinking at the table cloth. After he gave a slight shrug, his parents happily moved onto another topic. He silently and somberly went on eating as he did his best to ignore the frequent and wary stares Ike threw him.
He declined his parents' invitations to leave the house, and lied about already having done so while they were at work.
They arrived home every day to find him sitting on the couch, rumpled and quiet, and veiled his obvious tribulations with their exuberance. It seemed that the happier they were, the less thrilled he was to be around them. By his third day, he moved from the couch to his room, where he spent most of the day rearranging the furniture and shoving his old things into the dark corners of the closet. Truthfully, the moment he set foot out of the plane, he felt like running back. It struck him that he had no idea what to expect and now that he had seen it, he had no idea how to react to being in a home that felt almost like a strangers, with parents he hardly felt close to. Swimming in a universe filled with trillions of words of every language, he had no idea that he would say to anyone. Underneath this layer of excitement, anxiety, and dread, there was something that felt like fear.
In the mornings, he awoke to the sound of Ike's alarm, and he would listen to his brother stumble around the house, getting ready for school. When they bid him good morning, he would give a nod back as an automatic response, not really registering anything outside of his body as he tried to make sense of what was inside of it. It seemed like they were all in a hurry in the mornings, but he moved light years slower than everyone else.
After a week, he still couldn't look out the window out at the mountainous backdrop of his hometown. He couldn't stand overhearing his mother from the house as she talked happily with the neighbors.
"Where is he? Haven't seen him about at all!"
"I think he might be coming down with something. He's awfully quiet sometimes."
"Tell him we said hi, Sheila."
He crawled into bed as early as he could, trying to clear his head. Somehow, he felt like even the air changed; he felt that something inside him was changing. He could smell it in the air: his childhood was there, in bits and pieces. It was colder that he had remembered, despite the summer. While it was easier for him to breathe, it was harder for him to take it all in. He'd hold a mouthful of air, trying to recall every detail of South Park while simultaneously trying to ignore all the details of everyone he one knew. Was the town different or was he?
When he exhaled, he asked himself why exactly he was so terrified, why exactly he felt so strange and uneasy.
In the eerily quiet nights, he struggled to sleep. Between the muffled sound of Ike's voice in the next room, and hypnotically stealing glances at his wristwatch, he would drift off into sleep with the hope that he would wake up in the past where everything felt right.
"You haven't left the house in four days. That's pretty pathetic."
Kyle looked up from his laptop, closed it and swiveled around in his chair to see Ike leaning on the doorframe with a slight frown and dark, piercing eyes.
"Yes I have," he replied, looking down at his lap. He swallowed his words like a dry pill.
"Don't lie to me, Kyle. I'm not an idiot like mom and dad." Ike crossed his arms. The brothers stared silently at each other for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, as Kyle was about to open his mouth to say something – anything – to fill the silence, Ike stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. "I know why you've been moping around. You're practically afraid to go out and see people," he shot at his older brother. They both paused to make sure they could still hear their parents comfortably oblivious downstairs. Kyle leaned back in his chair and defiantly muttered, "I haven't been moping around. I just don't want to talk to people or whatever."
Ike leaned against the door. "You feel guilty."
"For what?"
"—For leaving and then pretty much abandoning mom and dad. Abandoning me. Everyone." Ike paused, taking several deep breathes, before saying, with a rise in his voice, "you practically disappeared."
Feeling trapped by the blatant accusations, Kyle stood up from his chair and made a step towards Ike, appalled that they were nearly the same height. His baby brother's face, even at thirteen, seemed decades older than his own – or maybe it was just seemed decades older than how he remembered it. He couldn't wrap his head around what he'd missed all these years.
"I didn't abandon anything. It was mom and dad who forced me to leave, remember?" Kyle snapped back, feeling irritated by Ike's ability to see right through him and place this puzzle together when Kyle himself couldn't even find the pieces.
"Yeah, but they didn't force you to leave without saying goodbye!"
Kyle stumbled, trying to find something to say but feeling too exhausted to defend himself. "Ike," he muttered, putting his hands up in defense, buying time. "Hold on." He couldn't stand looking at Ike's face now that it was smeared with such loathing.
"And they didn't force you to not keep in touch. That was you, Kyle!"
"Ike, it was hard for me, being so far — "
But before he could finish, Ike threw open the door, stormed out, and slammed it back closed. Kyle stood motionless, dumbfounded and slightly dizzy. He collapsed onto his bed, defeated and overwhelmed, with his hands on his head. He hated himself, clenching his teeth, trying to steady his breathing. His heart was pounding in his ears.
A minute later, the door swung open, Ike stormed back in and shoved a glossy but crumpled pamphlet into Kyle's hands.
"Bus 27," he deadpanned, folding his arms again, keeping his eyes everywhere but his brother.
"Sorry? What is this? A bus schedule?" Kyle sat up, unfolding the pamphlet, raising his eyebrows at its contents. "What? You want me to take the bus back to –"
"Bus 27 will take you directly to the gym."
"What?" Kyle stared, giving Ike a look of disbelief, crumpling the pamphlet in his hands, "What does that have anything to do with—"
"Two and a half years ago, they built an ice rink in the basement of the gym." The thirteen year old's voice was calm but forced and controlled.
"Ike, just listen for a second—"
"The Bruins just started the summer season," Ike said as he walked to Kyle's bedside table and picked up the picture frame that was lying face down on the mahogany. "Practice goes from seven-thirty to ten. It's nine-thirty now."
"How could you think that I abandoned—"
Ike forcefully slammed the frame down onto the table – picture up – before shooting Kyle a look of such disbelief.
The boy leaned close to his baffled brother and jabbed a finger at the photograph.
"Stan Marsh is the captain of the Bruins."
Ike stomped to the door, turned back around and muttered, "...I can't stand your fucking misery anymore."
