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Chapter 10- Night Falls
(1 year, 1 month, 16 days ago)
Kyle and I stepped out into the dark evening from the brightness of the movie cinema, our pinkies linked together at our sides. We hadn't officially told anyone about our advanced relationship, but we weren't hiding it either. It was decidedly easier on everyone to simply allow our affectionate gestures toward one another become more apparent, that way no one had to feel uneasy about being called for a meeting simply for us to look them all in the eye and tell them we were gay. Straight people didn't have to have a discussion about their sexual attraction to the opposite sex, and we didn't feel we needed to discuss our sexual attraction to each other. It only made people edgier, more uncomfortable.
Our method seemed to be working grandly. When someone would ask, we would answer honestly. At this point, our friends already knew and our parents had began to raise eyebrows. None of them asked, but Sheila seemed to be the only one who wasn't suspicious; she seemed absolutely sure. What was crazy about it was that it didn't seem to bother her. She was so ridged about everything else in Kyle's life that, for the life of us, we couldn't figure out why she didn't seem to mind; seemed to be pleasantly surprised, even.
In the end, we linked her phenomenally accepting manner with her adamant disapproval of our female classmates. Their promiscuous attitudes and scantily dressed bodies had the parents of South Park more concerned and protective of their sons than daughters; and Sheila, we concluded, probably preferred her own son with a morally conscious, well-behaved male than a heathenish, decadent female. But we were still reserved to a point, being polite enough not to make-out and grind against each other in anyone's presence. We saved that for special times, when we were alone and could indulge ourselves fully.
Now we walked through the park, discussing the movie we'd just seen and listening to the frogs and crickets near the quietly flowing stream. I found a comfortable spot to sit close to the water and against a tree, then pulled Kyle between my raised knees and into my arms. I kissed him soundly, my heart doing jumping-jacks at the contact. My hand slid up the side of his neck, pulling him into me as I deepened my actions. We had already made love twice, but for lack of opportunity, hadn't in over a week. I was eager to be that close with him again, to find out what other kinds of praises and noises I could extract from him.
But he was stiff in my arms, his lips frozen. Certainly not the deeply warm and favorable response I had grown accustomed to receiving. I pulled back slowly, looking carefully into his face. His eyes were closed; I watched a lone tear roll down his cheek. I caught it with my index finger, and with tender worry, smeared it into his skin.
"What's wrong, Ky?" I asked. His eyelashes squeezed tighter against his cheeks, and another drop of saline fell. I caught this one with my lips. He hiccupped a particularly forceful sob and dissolved against my chest in a fit of hysterical weeping.
Kyle wasn't one to cry easily. Though he definitely didn't lack sensitive emotions, he was all boy inside; tough enough to keep himself composed unless it was something unbearably painful. Surprised by his reaction, I cradled him snugly against me, dropping lingering kisses and nuzzling against his exposed right temple. His face was pressed desperately in the crook of my neck and his fingers dug into my shirt, kneading the material. His whole body trembled between my thighs.
I let him cling to me, let him get it out. Five minutes turned to ten, to fifteen, to twenty.
"Kyle, please," I begged him, rocking him now. "What's wrong? You're really scaring me here. Do you need me to get help?"
"No!" His shout was muffled against my skin.
"Then talk to me. Come on, Kyle, please tell me what's wrong."
He took a few gulps of air; sniffling, swallowing, trying to gain some sense of self-control. At long last he pulled back to look at me, but remained entwined in my arms. He rubbed his nose against the back of his hand, anguish still washing over him with hiccup-like spasms.
"Tell me, Ky." I encouraged, stroking his face.
"We can't be together anymore," he rushed out on a tight breath, more sorrow spilling out of his eyes, dripping gracefully off his chin. My heart skipped a beat, terror flashing icily through the very core of my soul.
"What?" I asked slowly, carefully.
"We can't be together anymore," he repeated, mewling out the words in the most gut-wrenching agony. He clutched his stomach, squeezed his eyes closed again, and choked with more silent sobs.
My lips parted as I stared back at him, completely stunned by his announcement. It took a few seconds to find my voice, and even then I stumbled on the words. "Wha- why would you... you can't be... is this some sort of joke?"
"No," he bawled.
"What do you mean we can't be together anymore?" I demanded. I went on when the only reply I got was more crying. "Is it your parents?" He shook his head. "Is it mine?" Another shake. "What then?"
He sucked in a profound breath, still clutching his stomach, and looked up at me with those captivating green eyes, sparkling brilliantly with the abundance of tears.
"Because I don't love you!" he wailed, screaming the words with maddening vigor.
He touched me for the last time, his hands warm even through the material of my pants as he used my thighs to push himself up and then shoot off into the night, never once looking back.
(Present)
I'm reliving it again in a dream, forever haunted by the darkest moment of my days. The memory has imprinted itself on my brain and will often replay itself with perfect clarity in my sleep. The nightmare always ends when Kyle runs from me, disappearing into the shadows.
I awake with a start and decide in one instantaneous moment that I have to see him. Now. Tonight. It doesn't matter that he had talked to me, after long fucking last, just to tell me to stay the hell away from him. It doesn't matter because the kiss I'd received before the warning had blossomed the tiny seed of hope I'd carried for so long. The pendant he'd pressed so loving in my hand gave me all the strength I needed to carry out an act in the name of that hope.
So I break into his bedroom window at 1:34 in the morning. He'd always had the habit of keeping his window open in the warmer months, and the screen was easily detachable. I'm able to make it fully inside the room, sit at the edge of his bed, and take note that he's still fully dressed, before he's startled by the intrusion and bolts upright from sleep. The shock gives way after just a moment, and underneath his eyes are dead, lacking everything but a trace of malice. My heart is bumping in the timeless rhythm of love's song, aching for some sort of my Kyle to shine through. But his detached gaze remains in tact, not a waver of charitable emotion detectible in any form.
And then he's on me.
I moan into his open mouth, clutching him against me as his tongue pushes between my teeth. He breaks contact an instant later, long enough to rip my shirt over my head and toss it with reckless abandon across the room. It smacks loudly against his football poster and falls into a heap on the floor. He shoves me violently against the mattress and tugs at my waist, stripping me of my pants and boxers in one ruthless tug.
Kenny had been right about Kyle. It was impossible to see it from the distance I'd been forced to keep from him, but he's different. He's unfeeling. I didn't notice the pure vindictive manner about him from across the room, but up close and personal, it's a monster that's taken complete control. His once artistic and breathtaking touch has fallen to callousness; hard, cruel, impatient. He doesn't even smell like Kyle anymore. He carries a thick, suffocating aroma of cigarette smoke and a trace of French cologne.
He smells exactly like Christophe.
I feel my eyes prick with the formation of fresh tears, but I refuse to close them. If I close them I might miss an instant in which the Kyle I remember from long ago might appear.
He keeps his own clothes in place, but undoes his belt and zipper with twice the fury as he had rid me of mine, muttering profanities and practically tearing the delicate cloth of his boxers. I do absolutely nothing to stop him. I had wanted this more than anything, would do anything for him to touch me again, to acknowledge me. But not this way. I didn't imagine he'd become such a completely different person. And still, I say nothing as he spits into his hand to add lubrication. My teeth ground together when he tries to force himself in, but he doesn't budge. And then, there's an instant when he sounds almost normal.
"I need you to relax."
The single command tugs at something in my heart, and I stare into his stone-cold eyes as I will my body to fall limp beneath him. He manages to accomplish his goal this time, but the form of self lubrication he'd used isn't enough, and the better part if me is in pain as he fills me with movements perfected by an entire year of practice on Kenny and Christophe.
I cover my tear-soaked eyes with my hands, inwardly scolding myself to not think about that sort of thing. Whatever's happened in his life while I wasn't a part of it is irrelevant. Right now Kyle Broflovski is mine. Maybe it's in the worst way imaginable, but he's still mine.
He stays up on his knees, my thighs around his waist and his hands angling my hips up and into him. Besides that contact, he's careful not to get too close, careful not to caress or kiss or make any sort of gesture that could be marginally considered affectionate. He's sadistic the whole time, selfish... the whole act played out to satisfy his own wanton needs. But his excitement creates enough lubricant to make it more comfortable for me, and soon I'm moaning in contentment, clutching at the sheets because he slaps my hands away every time I try to touch him.
Release hits him first, and he collapses on top of me, forgetting his own rules of touching for a moment as he catches his breath. Cautiously, carefully, I move my arms up to enfold him. His eyes spring open, his head snaps up, and he's out of bed before I realize he'd moved.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God," He chants, looking manically around the room, covering his mouth and nose in horrified realization. "What have I done? Holy fucking shit, What the hell have I done?"
I sit up and move to the edge of the bed, reaching out to him. "Kyle."
"Shut up!" he snaps, smacking me away like the very touch of my hand burns him. "Stay the fuck away from me! Oh, God, what the hell have I done?" He fumbles with the front of his pants, trying desperately to get everything back in proper order.
I'm torn between confusion, hurt, and anger of my own. He's the one who practically raped me, not the other way around. Nothing about him makes sense, nothing about him is even remotely close to the person I once knew. Something happened to make him this way, I'm convinced. People don't just turn into crazy assholes for no damn reason.
"Kyle." I try again, and receive another particularly painful whack on the wrist when I try to reach out.
"God, if only you would have just moved the fuck on like you were supposed to, I wouldn't have had to talk to you. And if I didn't talk to you, I wouldn't have kissed you. And if I didn't kiss you, you wouldn't have come here," he was rambling, still fighting his belt buckle. "Why the fuck can't I get over you!" he screams at me, throwing the loose ends of his rebellious belt against his thighs. "You have to get the fuck out of here!" He points dramatically out the window, but I shake my head calmly.
"No."
His struggle ceases immediatly as he turns to face me. "No?" he repeats, incredulous. "No? What the fuck do you mean no?"
"I'm not leaving." I explain.
"You're leaving right fucking now!" He scoops my clothes off the floor and heaves them into my face. "Put your fucking clothes on!"
"You took them off me in the first place." I remind him. But I pull my boxers up my legs anyway. There's something about arguing naked that makes me feel at a disadvantage.
He continues to mutter hysterically to himself as I finish dressing, peering out the window and tugging nervously at the drapes. I come up behind him as I pull my shirt down my torso.
"So let me get this straight," I begin when he whirls to face me, my heartache giving way to anger. "It's okay to fuck Kenny behind Christophe's back, but for some reason any contact with me provokes a guilty conscious. Why is that, I wonder?"
"Get the fuck out of here!" The growl rips from his chest.
"I'm not done!"
"We were done over a year ago!" He attempts to shove me toward the door, but I yank his claw-like grip from my arm.
"You were done over a year ago, but I still have some goddamn questions I'd like to have answered! If you seriously want me to move on, then I suggest you start talking right fucking now!"
"You have to go!"
He screams a sting of profanities at me as we struggle to overthrow the other, but his resolve begins to break away to tears.
"Please, Stan," he cries gravely, his strength falling limp. "Please, I'm begging you. Please just walk away. Forget all of this. Forget me. I'm fucking begging you. If you still love me so damn much, then you'd listen to me. For fuck's sake, Stan, stay as far from me as you possibly can."
I hesitate, watching the panic rising within the depths of his eyes. A question that hadn't crossed my mind since my expulsion from his recovery room in the hospital floats to the forefront of my thoughts, begging to be released.
I swallow, carefully studying his reaction as I ask, "...do you still love me?"
He bites his lips, eyes trained on mine. After what feels like an eternity. he finally nods; barely, slowly. His expression is beginning to harden.
"Then why are you-"
"That's why. That's exactly why I'm doing this, and if you trust me you'll walk away and never look back." He rushes, beginning to push me toward the door again.
"I have to know why!" I insist. "I can't just leave you!"
He looks like he's trying not to incinerate into a pile of ash, tears still leaking wildly from his eyes. "Not now," he says, his voice quivering, but expression deathly calm. "If you pretend I don't exist until I come to you, I promise I'll tell you everything. And then afterward you have to pretend again that you never heard of me." I swallow, not saying anything. I can't make a promise I know I might not keep. His voice is stung with insolence when finally manages to shove me over the doorway. "Please, Stan, just go."
The ice is already forming over his eyes again.
(Hmm... I wonder if Kyle is telling the truth? What do you think?)
-BratChild3