Disclaimer: For the… seventh time- South Park is not mine!
Author's Note: Again, my thanks go to all those who reviewed! Keep it coming!! :D
And don't tell me I don't have grammar mistakes! I know they're there, admit it!!! Anyhow, sorry if I have any…
Enjoy :)
Four Days
Saturday Morning: Of Friday Nights and Jewish Mothers
He was confused. Cartman was being nice to him, if you could really call it that, and Stan acted like… he didn't want to be around him so much. Kyle thought it was weird; after all, the black-haired boy had been all over him a few hours ago. He had come back in earlier, holding a bowl of soup in his hands and giving it to him, leaving immediately after. The soup tasted weird, but Kyle ate it, nonetheless. For a first try in cooking, and soup no less, Stan did quite well.
Kyle smiled softly. He remembered that during those cold Friday nights, when no one dared to step out, he would sneak into the kitchen and watch his mother lean over pots and slaughter vegetables, and he would approach her, slowly so not to anger her, and ask to help. She would turn to look at him, shock written on her features, and then she would frown and tell him that if he has so much free time at his hands, he should use it to study. And then, as Kyle would turn around and return to the living room he would hear her complain yet again that she has no daughters, who could help her out.
It's not that he wanted to help her for the sake of helping her, he simply got sick of her continuous complaints. He knew that in two or three years he would go away to college, and by no means did he plan to live on junk food. He wanted to learn how to cook, but she never gave him the chance. "Go study!" she would yell, and he would bow his head and leave, promising to himself that he would never ask to help her out again, only to find himself in the same position the following week. He never understood what she wanted from him; his grades were good, he was almost the first in class.
He confronted her about it sometime last year, when she forbade him from going out and hang out with his friends because it was a school-night.
"But I scored an A in my last Math exam!" he remembered yelling, clenching his fists, agreeing for the who-knows-what time with the song Cartman made up when they were younger, which he had already forgotten the words of.
"A is not enough!" she yelled back. "You should aim for an A!" then her voice would go softer, and whilst in the past she would crouch so she could look at him in the eye level, he was now just slightly taller than her, and instead of crouching she put her hand on his shoulder. "You can do it," she said, reassuring. "Then you could be a doctor or a lawyer for sure," then she smiled and left him. He would fume and march upstairs, locking the door to his room, and he would take out the exam from his bag and tear it apart.
He didn't want to be a doctor nor a lawyer- she was the one, who wanted it the most. He wanted… he didn't know what he wanted, but it sure didn't involve spending years between the pages of a study book as long as the Bible itself.
"You know, Gerald," she would then start at dinner, leaning forward on her chair so she could look at her husband from closer. "Kyle scored an A in Math today."
"That's great!" his father would reply. "Can you show me that exam later?"
And Kyle would tense and swallow hard. "I-" he would stutter and then shake his head to clear his thoughts, "-gave is to Stan so he could study for his exam next week."
"Oh," his father said, sounding disappointed. "Show it to me next week then." Luckily for Kyle, by the time the next week rolled around, his father would forget about the pieces of paper in his trash can.
Kyle took another sip of Stan's soup, deciding that it's not as bad as he thought it when he first tasted it, but it still fell from his mother's chicken soup. She may have been quite a bitch at times, but still, her cooking was delicious.
He was about to take another sip when he stopped, his eyes wide. His mother… it's not like he could stay at Stan's forever! He'd have to go back to his own house on Sunday, and he may wear long-sleeved shirt and long pants, but as soon as his mother would do as much as touch him in the wrong place, he would cringe and she would become suspicious. And he'd have to tell her, for even if he chooses not to she'd find out about it anyway, and then either she would fuss over him and hunt those men down, or either she would blame him for it because he was walking out so late. Yet, even if she would choose to do the latter, she'd still fuss over him and hunt those men down, and God knows what more.
Kyle didn't want that to happen, not at all. He feared that if she would succeed at hunting them down, then they would come back for revenge and he would get away, if at all, with more than bruises and a broken soul.
He put the spoon down and put the bowl on the drawer next to the bed, suddenly not as hungry as before. "Shit…" he mumbled to himself, putting his head between his hands. "Shit."
Stan never came back that night.
He found it quite odd that even when he was worried about something and thought of it the entire day, when he went to sleep he would simply think of other things, and the thing he worried about would still be there, of course, but he would not think of it. That was a good thing, he decided; he's able to sleep well even when worrying. It was when he was excited that sleep deprived from him.
Friday night proved to be quite problematic. He was worried about Kyle, and for a reason unknown to him, he felt... excited. Was it because of his latest discovery? He doubted it. A thing like that should not make him excited, but relieved. It wasn't the fact that Kyle was feeling better, either. He should feel happy about it, not excited.
Surely he's not excited over nothing, is he? There must be a reason…
He rolled to his side, shutting his eyes and willing for sleep to come. When he was excited he'd feel a weird energy coursing through his veins like blood, and he couldn't sit still. He changed positions ten times in five minutes.
Eventually, he gave up and lay awake, staring at his ceiling through the darkness. The skies were clouded, so even though there was supposed a full moon that night, it didn't bless South Park with its light, and Stanley Marsh had to settle for the light from the street lamp.
He replayed today's - which at some point became yesterday's – events in his mind, trying to figure out what was it that made his heart beat faster than it should and metaphorical butterflies to flap their wings in his stomach.
Cartman was the one to find him by the door, weeping. He just couldn't stop himself from doing so.
"Hey, fag," he said, and Stan was sure he had been smirking. "Thought you'd be happy." Stan could not reply, he just kept on crying. Through his blurred vision he saw Cartman doubling over in laughter. "God, Stan! You are such a fag!" he said, and Stan didn't even have the strength to deny it. When he finally clamed down after about fifteen minutes he sent Cartman to sleep on the couch in the living room and then went to his parents' room to sleep. He was exhausted and he figured sleep would come fast, but he was mistaken, and he found himself in the current position.
So why was he so excited?
He wasn't raped. That was not the reason he pushed you away.
Stan's eyes went wide, and he felt like hundreds of more butterflies invaded his stomach. On a second thought, though, what was the reason he was pushed away?
Maybe you did touch where you shouldn't have. You know he's bruised all over.
Stan gulped. If he didn't do anything that wrong then maybe… he still had a chance. And when he realized that that was the reason he was so excited, the number of metaphorical butterflies in his stomach doubled again, and he blushed.
No way he'd be able to sleep after that.
He opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurred. He blinked a few times until everything came into focus, and then he glanced at the digital clock on his father's drawer. He groaned when he noticed it was already past noon. He yawned and stretched, blinking a few more times to make the tiredness go away. He probably did fall asleep eventually, and quite late if you consider the time in which he woke up. He picked up the clothes he tossed on the floor the previous night and changed quickly, straightening his hair with his hand until it looked normal enough in his eyes and then leaving the room, heading for the kitchen.
He was a bit taken aback at the scene before him: Cartman was eating a sandwich, which Kenny, who probably got there not long ago, tried to snatch, only to get his hand slapped by Cartman, and Kyle was sitting there too, laughing at the scene.
"Morning, fag," Cartman greeted as he noticed him, and slapped Kenny's arm again.
"Stupid fatass," Kenny mumbled. He stopped wearing that orange parka a few years back, and got himself a job so he could buy whatever he wished. His words were now clear, and his friends found that he could be really profound at times. Cartman stuck his tongue out at the poor boy.
Stan merely glared at Cartman, not feeling like replying. Sure, he admitted to himself that he's probably a fag, but there was not a reason that Cartman should know it. "Kyle," he said, "What are you doing down here?"
"Oh, I feel better… I thought I could get something to eat," he replied, smiling. Stan smiled back, finding it impossible not to. It felt good to see Kyle better, after the hectic Friday.
"How was the soup?" Stan asked, and Kyle cringed. Stan frowned. "Didn't you like it?"
"It was… good…" Kyle said, looking sideways. Stan frown deepened, but he let it go.
"Kenny here ate the rest," Cartman said, pointing at Kenny.
Kenny grinned. "It was great, Stan! Best soup I ever ate!" he exclaimed, and Stan smiled. Kenny would think that last week's milk is tasty, but still, it felt good to be complimented.
Stan went over to the counter and grabbed a plastic bowl, filling it with cereal. After filling it with milk and grabbing a spoon he joined his friends at the table.
"My mom says that if I wake up after eleven then I shouldn't eat breakfast, so I could leave room in my stomach for lunch," Cartman said, his voice high. Stan always found it annoying that his voice barely changed, compared to the rest of them.
"My mom isn't," Kenny said, eyeing Stan's bowl.
"That's because you're poor, Kenny. You don't eat lunch," Cartman said, taking another bite of his sandwich. Kenny scowled.
"You want something, Kenny?" Stan asked, lifting his gaze from the doughnut-like cereal swimming in a pool of milk. "You can get whatever you like," he said and resumed eating.
"No thanks, I'm not hungry," he said.
"But you were trying to take Cartman's food."
"I only did that to annoy him," Kenny smirked. "I had breakfast at McDonald's."
"Oh," was all Stan could say. He was glad, really, that Kenny had now his own money and he could fill his stomach with goods.
Kenny McKormick had been failing almost all of his subjects thorough elementary school, and then they entered junior high. When Kenny found out he'd been placed in the lowest groups for almost anything, he decided to get a grip. "I am not going to end up a drunk fool like my father," he told Stan back then. And indeed, Kenny improved his grades. He was a bright kid- he was just lazy. When they entered high school he got himself a job at a fast food restaurant, and earned his own money. He didn't share it with his family, though, claiming that they don't deserve it. "If they want it so much, they should get a job themselves," he used to say.
Silence followed.
"Stan?" Kyle whispered, looking at the tiled floor.
"Mm?"
"Can I… talk to you for a minute?"
Stan gulped down the remaining milk and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Sure," he said and stood up, walking out of the kitchen with Kyle.
"Isn't that cute, Kenny?" Cartman asked. "The two fags are going to be alone."
Stan gave him the finger before he disappeared from view.
-------- (A/N: should have been a double-line break but decided that shiftenter should not work for this line....)
"So," Stan started, sitting on the edge of his bed. "What's on your mind?" he knew he was blushing. He'd been hoping that maybe Kyle would tell him what he wanted him to tell him since… well, since yesterday. Kyle would say it and Stan would smile and welcome him into his arms and kiss him, careful so not to hurt him again.
But… wasn't the fact that he kissed him back proof enough?
Stan was sure of it, but if Kyle was about to confess his deepest and most secret feelings, then Stan would let him finish. He licked his lips in anticipation.
"I've been thinking…" the Jew started.
Here it comes!
"I'm going to stay here until Sunday-"
Here it comes!
"But what am I going to do when I come back home?" he finished.
Stan felt numb, like his stomach became ten times heavier. "W-what do you mean?" he managed to stutter.
"My mom," Kyle elaborated. "What is she going to say?" he then turned away, and Stan could have sworn he saw tears in the corners of his eyes.
Okay, so maybe he wasn't ready to confess.
And then the full force of what his best friend had said hit him. "Your mother…" Stan said quietly, and Kyle nodded. "Fuck," Stan finished.
To Be Continued…
