"Hi, rapist," Kyle said very quietly. He was whispering, but Stan could tell he was having a little trouble monitoring the volume of his voice. "Fuck any more babies today?"
Stan drew away, and lifted Kyle's arms off of his shoulders. "How are you?" he asked quite seriously. "Are you okay?"
"Oh, I'm fine," he sniffed, wobbling backward. "I'm jacked up on multiple sedatives. When I lash out, they get so concerned, they fuck me up with drugs. I feel like I could die and wouldn't even feel it." Kyle lowered his eyes. "I'm angry at you for so many things right now." He fidgeted with his sunglasses; he kicked one of his heels against the base of the stairs. "I think they only came because I'm on so many fucking drugs it's like I'd rather go lie down than be angry at you. So, bye." Kyle tried to give Stan the finger, but he was having some kind of trouble figuring out which finger he wanted to give, so he shrugged off, and stumbled toward his parents and Stan's, who were all sort of standing around the coffee table in the living room. Stan saw his mom eating celery.
Behind him, Ike cleared his throat. "Can we go upstairs?" he asked.
"What? Oh, yeah. Okay, sure."
As soon as Stan had shut the bedroom door and sat down on his bed, Ike tried to jump him again. "No!" Stan shrieked, jumping up. "There is so much fucked up about that! No!"
"Don't yell," Ike sniffed, brushing off his sleeves in defeat. "You want them to hear?" He shook his head sadly. "Is my eyeliner smeared?"
Stan knelt down next to his bed, and pulled Ike toward him. "It's fine," he hissed. "You listen to me. There will be no more sex, do you get it? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Ike cleared his throat. "I'm horny."
"Take my advice, and do what I did when I was 15 and lived in South Park, and find out how to clear your browsing history, and jack off like a normal kid. Okay?"
"I'm past that," Ike argued. "I'm beyond that."
"Be beyond it all you want, we're done now." Stan tried to leave the room.
Ike threw himself in front of the door. "Wait!"
"What now?" Stan asked impatiently. "You've fucked up my life enough for one week."
"Well, that's kinda rich," Ike sneered. "I wonder how that would hold up in court. 'Your honor, that little boy, he practically raped me! I have no control over where I stick my cock when I'm fucked up.' "
"Will you stop threatening me already?"
"I'm not going to tell!" Ike swore. "I told you I wouldn't."
"I see, that's great. Then tell me this, Ike, how the fuck did Kyle find out?"
Ike blushed, and put his hands in his lap. "It's a long story," he said. Then he shook his head. "I mean, it's a pretty short story. He, um … he read it on my LiveJournal."
Stan blinked. "What?"
"I fucked up, okay! I'm sorry. I used the wrong filter. I thought I blocked him out."
"Kyle has a LiveJournal?"
"Where else would he write his weird pharma-psychological ramblings?"
Stan smacked his forehead, and sank into his old desk chair. "This is brilliant."
"I'm really, really sorry." Ike hung his head. "I didn't mean for him to find out."
"And then you try to seduce me again?"
"Look," Ike began. He heaved a sigh. His hands were still clasped in his lap. "I have problems like everyone. I like sex like everyone. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm not … I'm never going to tell my parents, or anything. Ky's not going to tell them. We help each other, you know?"
Stan rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you're sure? Because Kyle's fucking nuts, in case you didn't notice."
That pissed Ike off, and he snapped, "I noticed! Goddamn, you think I grew up with him and didn't notice? In case you didn't notice, I'm fucking 15 fucking years fucking old and so far the extent of my activities have been playing the bass, babysitting my fucking insane older brother, and fucking his best friend. Okay? That's all. That's sort of the extent of my life."
"Oh," Stan said stupidly. He could hear his parents and the Broflovskis laughing downstairs. He imagined Kyle was probably sitting by himself, head resting on the back of his chair or a wall, eyes rolled up, wishing he weren't in this situation. He felt bad for Kyle, he really did. He felt bad, and yet he would rather be up here with Ike all of a sudden than down there trying to make his best friend feel any better. He sighed.
"I'm sorry, too," Stan admitted. "I really am. I'm, like, an adult, and you're a kid. I'm sorry I took advantage of you."
"You didn't take advantage of me. Don't be sorry! How many dudes do you think I get to fuck? I mean, zero. It was fun. We should do it again, you—"
"No. Just no."
"Well, I'm very sorry I let him find out, okay? Believe me." Ike stood up, and wiggled his hips to get his wallet chain back in place. "More than wanting to protect you, believe it or not, I wanted to protect him. He doesn't deserve this. He can't help how he's going to react to stuff. I see the way they medicate him. It's not pleasant. You saw him down there, right? Pumping a guy full of drugs doesn't make him happy." Ike crossed his arms. "What'd your mom make for dinner?"
"Pot roast." Stan sighed. "Fucking, like, pot roast."
"Fabulous," Ike deadpanned, slipping out the door.
Before he went back downstairs, Stan looked at himself in the mirror. His yellow T-shirt had a picture of a cassette tape on it. He shut his eyes, and rearranged his bangs. "Awful," he whispered to himself. "You're awful." But he couldn't tell if he believed it.
Stan knew Ike was punishing him, because he took the chair between him and Kyle, and immediately put his right hand in Stan's lap. All throughout dinner, he rubbed Stan's thigh under the tablecloth, pausing every now and then to give a squeeze, or pay some attention to his dick, which in turn made Stan regret wearing boxers. Ike Broflovski was apparently adept at eating pot roast with one hand, even pausing at one moment to chat with Stan's mother about how he enjoyed being left-handed. "It's just another special thing about me," he said cheerily, twirling his fork around in a pile of mashed potatoes. "I'm Canadian, did you know?"
"Really, bubbe," Sheila said graciously. "I think everyone knows."
"It's nice being an outsider," Ike continued, letting his thumb graze over the head of Stan's dick.
"Don't the kids pick on you at school?" Randy asked.
"Sometimes," Ike admitted.
"You shouldn't let them do that," Sharon added. "When Stan was about your age, he got picked on. Do you remember that, honey?"
Stan shrugged.
"It's true, he did. I think the other kids picked up on his insecurities, you know?"
"Mom," Stan wheedled.
"But, do you know what? He had Kyle." At hearing his name, Kyle gave a weak little wave to Stan's mom, and then crossed his arms and let his head rest against the back of his chair. "So what I'm saying, Ike," Sharon concluded. "Is that it's always nice to have friends."
Ike frowned. "I have Fillmore. I have some friends."
"You have lots of friends," Sheila suggested.
"They're more like acquaintances," Ike corrected.
"Well, whoever," Gerald said with a shrug. "You're not alone, that's all that matters."
Dinner had been going on like this for what seemed like an eternity; perhaps it had only been 20 or 25 minutes. The parents were talking to Ike; Ike was leading them around, relishing the power that all kids who are the center of attention eventually learn how to savor. Stan was breathing through his nose very audibly, trying to choke down chunks of pot roast, all the while pretending that he wasn't being somewhat masturbated under the table. The worst part about it was that he was too afraid to stop, or move Ike's hand.
Kyle was silent, not hungry, trying to stay focused on the conversation, or at least awake enough to push his food round his plate with some enthusiasm. He perked up, however, when he heard his father's statement.
He lurched forward. "Loneliness," he said. He put his hands on the table; his loose sleeves caught his mother's attention as they grazed the gravy boat. "It's so interesting that you mention loneliness."
"Yes?" Gerald asked, turning to his son. "And why's that, Kyle?"
Kyle shook his head. "It's so apropos, that here we are discussing loneliness."
"Why?" asked Sharon Marsh. Since eighth grade, she had developed a somewhat patronizing attitude toward Kyle; it had always really annoyed Stan. It was as if she couldn't appreciate his value as a friend without recalling that he was somewhat damaged, and that whatever worth he had to Stan had to have been distilled from his lack of normalcy. "Have you been discussing loneliness lately?" she asked slowly.
Kyle gave a disgusted look, and then shrugged. "Oh, brother."
With a profound look of concern in her eyes, Sheila reached across the table for Kyle's hand, which he rapidly drew back from her. "Is something the matter? You can say it, bubbelah, it's all old friends here."
"Don't treat me like a fucking child," Kyle rasped out. There was a definitely misery to his tone, and yet, his words sounded so hollow. It very nearly made Stan cringe.
Stan felt Ike's hand still on his thigh.
"But." Sheila sighed, thoughtfully. "But, Kyle, you are my child. What's the matter?"
Kyle rolled his eyes.
"Do you want to talk later?"
"Why do you do this to me?"
"Do what?" Sheila asked.
"Sheila." Gerald lowered his eyes. "It's a bad time."
Stan caught his parents cast each other wayward glances. Ike's hand resumed its casual motions.
Kyle shut his eyes. In a dead, flat voice, he said, "You take away everything from me."
"That's not what—" Gerald began.
Sheila interrupted. "That is so unfair, Kyle. You know it's not us. It's … well, it's complicated."
Sharon pushed her chair back from the table. "Would anyone like a drink?"
"Beer," Randy announced, in a way that made it clear he was through giving time at his dinner to some insane kid's pathos.
"Well, I'll have a beer, too," Gerald said, pulling his napkin from his lap and tossing it on the table.
Sharon nodded. "Sheila? Can I get you anything?"
"Oh, no thank you. I'm fine with my water."
"No one is fine with water," Kyle mumbled.
"Did you say something?" his mother asked him.
Ike cleared his throat. "I'll have a beer, please."
"You're too young," Gerald told him.
"Rats." Ike snapped his fingers with his free hand. "I'll take a coffee. Do you have coffee?"
"I can make a pot." Sharon crossed her arms. "So, that's two beers, a coffee, I'll have a refill of sauvignon blanc … Stanley?"
Stan's knee jerked, and Ike's hand clenched into his thigh. "Yes?"
"Honey, do you want a drink?"
The entire table was looking at him, expect for Kyle. Kyle was looking away from him, purposely, staring at the china cabinet.
"I'm fine," Stan told his mother. "Thanks."
"Okay, two beers, a wine, and a coffee. While I'm up, can I get anyone anything else?"
"A shotgun," Ike called out.
Against his better judgment, Stan snorted in amusement, despite the fact that it wasn't funny. Kyle turned toward him, slowly, cracked a wry smile, and got up from the table.
"Okay," Sharon said one final time. She disappeared into the kitchen.
After dinner, when the Broflovskis has left, Stan marched into the kitchen, and sat down at the table. Across the room, his mother was doing the dishes, handing them one by one to his father, who dried them and placed them in the cabinet. Stan thought about his childhood, trying to remember if Randy Marsh had ever been the genteel type of man who helped his wife dry the china after a meal with old friends. It hadn't been like this in high school, had it? Stan tried to remember back farther. He never thought of his father as a helpmeet; more often, he was just a bother. Did he help dry dishes all the time now? Was his mother bribing his father with unmentionable sex acts? The thought made Stan shudder, and he defiantly announced: "I'm leaving."
At the sink, Sharon shrugged. "How long will you be gone for?"
"Forever."
"Are you taking the car?" his father asked.
"No, you don't understand." Stan cleared his throat. "I'm buying a plane ticket and I'm getting the hell out of here. Okay? To hell with this fucking town."
"But, Stanley." Sharon turned around, pulling off a yellow rubber glove finger by finger. "You're supposed to be here until the 15th."
"Well, I hate it here, so I'm leaving. All right? I'm out of here. Good-bye. So long." He gave a sarcastic salute. "Adios," he added for good measure.
"Wait just a minute." Randy shut off the tap, and crossed his arms. "Who's going to pay for you to change your plane ticket?"
Stan shrugged. "I have some savings bonds I can cash out."
"Those are supposed to be for your future!" his mother protested.
"Yeah, my future away from this conformist-ass crap town."
"Jesus Christ, Randy," Sharon gasped. "Do something."
"Um." Randy looked around, locking eyes on his wife. "Can't you see you're upsetting your mother?"
"Sorry," Stan sniffed. "You don't have to drive me to the airport. I'll get Kenny to do it, or something." He turned to leave the kitchen.
"Wait!" Sharon rushed after him, grabbing him by the sleeve. "Stanley, let's talk about this! You don't want to just walk out on your family!"
"No, I do," Stan disagreed, brushing her off of him. "You just don't want to tell your friends that both of your kids walked out on this fucked-up situation."
"No, it's not that! How could you say that?"
Stan clutched at the bottom of his yellow T-shirt, and he paused at the bottom of the stairs and spun to face her.
"You're my son. You're my baby. You can't just walk out on me, honey, I—"
Stan blinked at her. Did she really look this old? She couldn't be that old. Certainly, her red, wet eyes didn't help.
"You're my baby, Stanley. I love you." She pawed at his hair, and he didn't stop her. "Please don't leave me."
Stan was used to being seduced, and yet he'd never learned to resist it. His brand of self-assertion was passive aggressive; was it any wonder where he'd learned it from?
"Stay until New Year's, honey," she pleaded. "It's just a few more days. Just give us some time to have you in the house. I don't want to lose you. You're my son, Stanley, I — I need you to stay for a couple more days."
He just wanted her to stop. "Okay. … But just until the 2nd."
"Then we'll see you off," Sharon agreed.
"Yeah." He rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
Sorry for the delay. Truly, I mean it. But, as always, thank you for reading, if indeed you have read.
