South Park © Matt & Trey.
And here is the end! Big thanks to everyone who left me nice reviews :) enjoy the epilogue!
Winter.
It's the first of January. My resolution is to smile more. I feel like it's something I don't ever do.
I'm twenty-five years old and it's the start of yet another new year. I'm no longer a kid and I'm no longer fucking myself over with everything I do. I live an easy life, to be honest. I live in a townhouse with Kenny and Craig. They're two people I haven't lost touch with as the years went by.
The house is modest: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room and a kitchen. I have to listen to Kenny and Craig hump a lot, but that's fine. I'm just glad they're happy.
My bedroom is a reflection of my mental health. Sometimes it's tidy and nice and other times it's completely fucked up and messy to the point where I can't find a damn thing. Then again, there are also times when I keep it tidy just to compensate for how messy I feel inside.
Token and Nichole are engaged. So are Clyde and Bebe. We still see them quite a lot. Token and Nichole are both doctors while Clyde teaches kindergarten and Bebe is a hair stylist.
Wendy and Cartman are still around, too. Wendy is a social worker, which I find befitting. She wants to change things for the better and help people. Cartman works for a bank. He ended up marrying Wendy a few years ago. They have two kids. Craig works at the front desk for a veterinary clinic and Kenny works in the call center still. It works for him since he's good at talking to people.
And me? I'm a waiter at a restaurant. It fucking sucks and I hate it, but I make good tip money. I work a lot and I'm good at my job, but that doesn't stop it from sucking.
New Year's was spent in my room alone reading. I've been reading a lot lately. It's true what they say – when you read books, you live tons of lives. I like that. It's definitely not the same as watching a television show or a movie. I never used to care for reading. I suppose, for me, it's yet another healthy distraction. I think that's okay. Craig likes to read, too. His favorites are Mark Twain, Frances Hodgson Burnett and JD Salinger, but I could never get into the classics. I've been into fantasy and strange surrealism lately. Haruki Murakami is prime and I think I must have reread the Harry Potter series at least ten times.
I knew it'd be best if I avoided parties. I literally cannot be around people who are drinking. I've relapsed quite a few times in the past years and being around people who are drinking makes me want to drink, too. But I can't. I have no sense of moderation. I always overdo it and end up on the floor with my legs open. Then the morning after is full of regret and sickness.
Craig and Kenny went out. Craig drove him home around 3AM. Kenny was drunk as a sailor, but he's usually a peppy drunk. Until this day Craig doesn't drink, so he's always the designated driver.
Now Craig is tending to Kenny's hangover. Kenny has been whining and moaning for most of the morning. Kenny always overdoes it on New Year's.
"How is he?" I ask when I turn into the living room.
Kenny is lying on the three-seater sofa with a blanket draped over him. Craig is sitting next to him, tending to his every want and need. "Annoying," Craig answers and Kenny just lets out a long groan.
I stifle a smile, turning into the kitchen and taking the pitcher of OJ out of the fridge. I pour myself a glass and sip. I've been running lately. I avoid gyms because I don't like being watched, but we have an old treadmill in our basement that I've started to use. Healthy distractions. Me and Craig use it, but Kenny prefers the gym.
"Stan, are you doing anything tonight?" Craig asks me out of the blue.
"Yes," I say, "but nothing important. I can cancel if you need me to watch him."
Craig smiles faintly. "I wouldn't ask, but I have to be at work around two until closing hour. Do you mind?"
I return the smile and shake my head.
"Craig, I don't need Stan to babysit me," Kenny says in a hoarse mutter.
"Look, I don't want you drowning in your own vomit," Craig tells him, rubbing his cheek. "You'll probably feel better after you puke."
"Aw," Kenny coos. "Does that mean you care about me?"
Craig scoffs. "We're married."
They were the first to get married, believe it or not. After two years of smooth dating, Kenny popped the question. They got matching rings – simple and gold. Kenny even took Craig's last name. Now they're Craig and Kenny Tucker. Kenny has the family he always wanted. Ha. Well, good for them. I know how happy they are. They forewent children and settled on adopting a couple cats instead. One is white and one is black. Naturally, Craig named them Salt and Pepper.
Since moving in with them, I've witnessed a handful of Craig's seizures and, at times, I've had to help see him through them. The first time it happened, Craig and I were alone in the house. I was in the kitchen but I heard a bang. I ran upstairs and saw him on the floor. Like Kenny, I felt panicked, but I was prepared. As soon as I moved in with them, I wanted to know what I could do to help. They don't happen as frequently these days. I know Craig finds that relieving.
"Does that mean you like me?" Kenny asks, feigning neediness.
"I love you," Craig corrects, "even when you're all hung over and gross."
"You guys are so romantic," I cut in with a simper.
"Ah, yes, modern romance," Craig snort, sitting up. "I need to get ready for work. Thanks again, Stan."
"Sure," I say. I take Craig's seat and stare down at Kenny. His eyes are closed and there's a crease in his brow. Clearly, he's in pain. "Was it worth it?"
"Hell yeah," he says.
"Well, I'm glad," I tell him.
"Hey," he starts offhandedly, opening an eye. "Does it bother you when I drink?
"No," I admit truthfully. Besides, in all honesty, Kenny doesn't drink that much these days. He definitely doesn't drink as much as he used to. Maybe he doesn't feel the need to. For that, I'm glad. "So, do you want me to grab you anything?"
"Another glass of water," he says, "and maybe an ice pack."
"You got it," I reply, sitting up and moving into the kitchen. I fill up his glass before fetching an ice pack from the freezer. When I return to the living room, Kenny sits up and sips on the water for a few minutes. When he puts it on the table, he lies back down and I press the ice pack to his forehead.
"Thanks, Staaaan…" he mumbles groggily.
"Sure, Kenny," I say.
I don't mind doing this. I don't mind caring for him or caring for Craig. It happens a lot less with Craig, though. Sometimes they'll fight. I'll be on the other side of the wall listening to them argue and cry. The fights never last, but Craig is emotionally volatile and when he's angry at Kenny I'll have to try and talk some sense into him. They always make up, though. Then they have loud, obnoxious sex. I guess it's normal to fight every once in a while.
"What were you going to do tonight?" Kenny pries, closing his eyelids.
"Go see a friend," I decide to be vague.
"Is that code for sex?" he asks.
"Yes," I admit, "but I'll reschedule for tomorrow."
"You're okay, Stan… aren't you?"
"Yes," I say, rolling my eyes and sighing. "Sex is no longer a form of self-harm for me. It's just something I want."
"Want?" he asks. "Or do you feel like you need it?"
"Okay, okay, stop analyzing me," I tell him, pinching his ear.
"Ow," he whines, opening his eyes and staring up at me. He wrinkles his nose and adds, "You don't talk much anymore… about anything."
"About Kyle, you mean?" I ask him knowingly.
I never ended up seeing Kyle again. He's something I try not to think about. He's something I feel like I've moved on from until I give it too much thought. Then I realize I'm still in love, but who the hell knows if the guy I love still exists? Something tells me he doesn't and something tells me that it's okay.
Honestly, I don't even know if Kyle is alive. Sometimes I see Sheila and Gerald around. Gerald looks weary and Sheila looks twice as bad. I guess that's what happens when you lose a child. I can't really imagine it… but I'd like to think that Kyle wouldn't put them through that twice. Though, in the end, he doesn't owe them that. Especially not his mother.
Kenny closes his eyes once more and smiles faintly. "Yes, about him."
"Because he's gone," I say. "He's been gone for a long fucking time."
And it's true. Even before he was physically gone, he was mentally gone. He was slowly disintegrating and I barely noticed. I always get sad thinking about it, but I keep moving.
"As long as he's in your head, you'll never be okay," Kenny points out. "It's not healthy."
"I know that," I respond.
But, as bad as it sounds, part of me thinks I'm okay with that and I'd probably die to see him again.
Kenny doesn't end up puking. He dry heaves a bit, but then he falls asleep. Craig returns around 9PM, kicking off his shoes, hanging up his coat and dropping his bag on the ground.
"Did he throw up?" is the first question he asks.
"No," I snort. "He'll be fine, though. He just coughed a bit and then went to sleep. He seemed to go easy, so he must've felt a bit better."
"Good," he murmurs, approaching Kenny's side and pushing the blond hair away from his tanned face.
"You don't mind it, do you?" I ask him.
He glances at me. "I don't mind what?"
"Cleaning up after him," I say.
Craig shakes his head. "It's like that when you love someone. You remember it, don't you? You were always cleaning up after Kyle."
"Yeah," I admit quietly, "but I could never clean up after myself. Still, his messes were much different than Kenny's."
"True," Craig agrees. "Kenny just makes little messes. He doesn't stress me out."
I smile at the fondness in his tone. I've honestly never seen two people more in love than Craig and Kenny. It's the purest, sweetest kind of love. In the end, they're good for one another.
"Anyway, I'm going to bed," I tell him.
"Thanks again, Stan," I hear Craig say.
I hold up a hand and then head for the stairs. I make my way up and into the bathroom, brushing my teeth, taking a piss and washing my face. I didn't even bother changing out of my pajamas today, but that's fine.
After finishing my nightly business, I cross the hall and kill the lights before flopping into bed.
I'm still a good fuck… or so I'm told.
Tomorrow night finds me at a man's house. It's no secret as to where the night will lead us.
Sex is fucking easy. Taking off your clothes is fucking easy. Spreading your legs for some guy is fucking easy. Putting it in some guy's ass is fucking easy. Coming is easy. Orgasms are easy. The simplest thing in the world is to fuck away the pain. Because of that, I still fuck carelessly. It's a habit I haven't quite broken. Wendy was my first and last relationship. Sure, I've been on a few dates since then, but none were fantastic enough that I wanted to go out on a second. So, instead, I just have sex. No strings attached. I don't care about the people who fuck me. They're just handsome, kind faces. It's easier this way. Sometimes hook ups last more than one night, but the second they hurt me I cut them out of my life. I have to. I'm not a masochist anymore. I've learned my lesson long ago.
After parting ways with Kyle for the last time, it took me a while to actually have sex with someone again. My friends and parents kept their eyes on me, not wanting me to continue letting old men slip between my legs. Inevitably, my mom found out about that. Wendy told her, but I didn't get angry. I understood why she said it. She was worried. My mom got so fucking sad. I felt guilty, though she kept promising I had no reason to. I don't know if that's true or not.
It's hard to meet guys when you're a recovering alcoholic. I can't go to bars. Bars are bad for me. I'm not yet at the point where I can have one drink and be satisfied. I need to have, like, five. I need to feel it. So, instead of any of that, I hit up dating websites for hook ups. Yeah, it's fucking lame, but I've met a few really nice guys that way. I'm never worried about falling in love with any of them. I haven't felt romantic love for anyone since Kyle.
Tonight is the same as any other night. I called up a guy and we meet up at his flat.
"How are you?" he asks me.
"I'm fine, you?"
"Fine, thanks."
We exchange polite formalities and then we go straight to the bedroom.
His name is Francis. We went to school together, but we never really spoke. He has brown hair and a sturdy build. He's pleasing to look at and he's always nice. Sometimes we'll get coffee and act like we're friends, but at the end of the day this is what we do. It's all right. I like sex when I'm not using it to hurt myself. Sometimes I honestly do feel like sex is something I need. I know it sounds stupid, but that doesn't stop me. I should be able to just jack off and be okay, but no. I need to feel someone else's hands on me. I need to feel someone else inside of me.
But, hey. At least I don't surround myself with shit anymore. My confidence was on the fritz for a long time and it's still not that much better, but at least it's something.
So, I take off my clothes and I get on his bed and I spread my legs. He's a gentle guy and he never points out the scar that still shines clear as day near my navel. For that, I'm always thankful. It's a hard one to explain. I've been with guys who have pushed and pried, needing to know the story behind the cruel mark. I'd have no choice but to tell them. It's still a shameful memory, one I hate reliving. So, I try not to think about it.
Francis hovers over me and I close my eyes.
Soon, the once-quiet room is filled with the sounds of us fucking.
Spring.
Winter should be over, but there's still snow on the ground.
I forgave my dad when I was twenty-two, but I still feel shitty about it. Well, perhaps forgiveness isn't the right word. Perhaps I should say I simply accept it. My therapist helped me cope with the fact that things are always going to be shitty between us.
"I know you'll never love me and it's not okay," I had told my dad. "That makes you a shit father… but I've accepted that things won't change."
He didn't seem to care what I had to say, naturally. But things are better, even though they don't seem it. I only have to see my doctor once a month these days.
Today is my monthly appointment with my therapist. She welcomes me with a smile. I smile in return and take a seat in front of her desk. She asks me some questions and I give her answers.
After therapy, I meet up with Firkle.
When I was nineteen, my therapist suggested I become a Big Brother for a teenager in need. So, after much hesitance, I did. That child ended up being Firkle. I almost didn't recognize him. At that point, I hadn't spoken a word to him since my short and embarrassing goth phase. Fortunately, we've both moved on from that scene, but Firkle still has quite a dark personality. I don't really blame him. Apart from that, he still hangs around Michael, Pete and Henrietta. None of them really look all that goth anymore. Every time I see Henrietta she's wearing pencils skirts and blouses. She has an office job and it shows. Pete is rarely out of sweatpants and Michael is about as casual as Firkle. It's strange to see, but I suppose everyone grows up and away from things they once took pride in.
I still remember seeing Firkle for the first time after high school. He cut his hair and was wearing blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt. There was nothing goth about him, but he still turned up his nose as soon as he spotted me. At the time, he was heavily addicted to heroin, which I found really fucking scary. He was thin and sick looking, almost like a corpse walking. I thought for sure that I wouldn't be able to do anything to help ease him. He was stubborn at first, not really wanting to talk to me or be around me… but as the month went by, he eventually warmed up. The first meaningful bit of information he confessed to me was that he was a friend of Ike's. That hit me hard.
"No one knew we were friends," he admitted. "I mean… kids are assholes. He was kind of sporty, big into hockey… and I was still heavy into my goth phase, not wanting to associate with conformists. We got paired together for a class project. Cliché, right? Well, that's how it happened… I guess we ended up enjoying it because we kept hanging out. I guess I found him refreshing. He was always so happy and extroverted. I was so introverted. Still, I felt like I could be more myself when I was around him. He kind of brought out the best in those around him."
I sympathized with him. "It sucks you had to hide your friendship from everyone."
Firkle nodded, closing his eyes. I could tell the memories were painful to talk about. "I mean, we were only twelve… Kids aren't supposed to die, y'know?"
"I know," I said softly, agreeing wholeheartedly.
There were times that the tables turned. Instead of me comforting him about Ike, he would comfort me when Kyle crossed my mind. I guess it's funny (in a sad way) that we found one another. It's a strange friendship and it's hardly conventional, but I cherish it.
I walk to Harbucks and stroll into the café, scanning the room until I spot a head of black hair. I move forward and sit across from him. "Hello," I say.
"Hello," he echoes, sipping on his drink.
"What are you drinking?" I ask him.
"Black coffee," he says before pushing a second cup towards me. "I got you a latte."
"Thanks," I say with a smile, taking it. Seeing him now, I never would assume he was once a junky. He looks healthy. Tired, but healthy. "So, how are you?"
"All right," he admits with a shrug. "I quit my job yesterday. Henrietta is letting me bum around with her until I find a new one."
"That's good," I offer. "Any plans?"
He shakes his head. "Wal-Mart was shit. I don't want to work a job like that ever again."
"Hey, why don't you apply at the library?" I ask him. "It would be quiet and you wouldn't have to deal with assholes all day."
He tilts his head to the side. "Hm… Yeah, maybe."
Summer.
Firkle does end up working circulation in the library. He seems to like it. He says it's a bit boring, but it's all right. I go see him on his breaks sometimes.
I stop at Harbucks and see Tweek behind the counter. I wave and we exchange smiles before I order. Green tea. Plain. It'll keep me awake. I'm trying to avoid straight coffee.
I nod my thanks when he finishes making it and I sit near the window, leaving through a newspaper.
"Oh, wow!" I hear Tweek exclaim from where I'm seated.
When I look up, I nearly spit out my tea.
Kyle?
His hair is a little shorter, but it's just as curly and his face is unmistakeable. He looks nice. He's wearing a pea coat over what looks like a black suit. He doesn't look sick like he did the last time I saw him… but that doesn't surprise me much. It's been years, after all. He looks handsome and I feel myself staring, but I can't find it in me to look away. I feel like I'm frozen.
He exchanges a few words with Tweek as the blond makes his drink. When he turns to leave, we make eye contact and he hovers, lips parting. For what feels like hours, we simply stare at one another. He looks hesitant, but he decides to approach me.
"Stanley Marsh," he says my name once he's standing by my table.
"Kyle Broflovski," I return.
He gives me a charming smile. "You look good," he compliments.
"So do you," I return. "You look healthy."
"I'm getting there," he says.
"Uh, h-how are you?" I ask him, stuttering like a schoolboy with a crush. "It's been a long time…"
"I've been in and out of clinics for a while, but then I started to get my shit together," he says with a shrug. "I mean, I'm not perfectly okay but I can at least function in society now."
"Why are you back?" I ask him.
"Job transfer," he admits. "Trust me, if I didn't have to be back here I wouldn't be. It'd be best for the both of us, right? We're both older. You probably have a life now. We were stupid kids when we made that stupid promise."
"That's not what I meant," I murmur. "I mean… I'm really glad to see you. I'm glad you seem to be doing okay."
He points to his face and the smile he's wearing. "This is all fake," he says. "I've got good at smiling. It's about the only thing I can fake… but I suppose you're right. On the grand scale, I'm doing okay." He pauses before adding, "I'm sorry if me being back is going to make anything difficult for you."
I just shake my head, forcing a weary smile. "It's comforting to see you."
"Likewise…" he says. "Anyway, I need to head to the office. It was really nice running into you, Stan."
"You, too," I tell him. I watch him walk away and leave the café.
I try not to think much about Kyle. It's like Kenny said to me all those years ago: I forget him and I think I'm moving on, but then I'll remember him and it'll all come back. I'll feel so melancholy. Well, shit. I guess I'm back at square one again.
"Rumor has it Kyle is back," Kenny says to me later in the night.
"He is," I admit. "I saw him."
Kenny nods slowly and I can tell that he's worried about how this will end… but maybe it doesn't have to end. Maybe it can begin.
Autumn.
I turned twenty-six years old yesterday. I feel like I'm a hundred, but I still look like I'm twenty. So, I guess that's all right.
The following day, I see Kyle at Harbucks again and we agree to meet later on. It makes me fucking nervous, but I can't say no.
"Sure," I tell him.
"You free around six?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'm off," I say.
He simply nods. "Happy birthday, by the way," he adds before leaving.
He still remembers.
When night comes, I'm even more nervous. I scan the area and spot a head of curly, red hair in the corner near the window. I slowly saunter over and sit across from him.
"Stan," he says.
"Hey," I respond.
"I got you tea," he says, pushing a cup towards me. "It's a bit late for coffee."
"Oh, thanks."
I see his sleeve ride up ever so slightly when he hands me the cup. There are a plethora of cuts. Some are scars and some are fresh. Some are across and some are down. It makes me sad that this is still something he does, but I don't say it out loud. Nonetheless, Kyle still has a knack for reading me.
"I guess we need to talk," he says.
"I guess so," I agree.
And this is it. We'll get it all out. I'll say what I want and he'll say what he wants. We'll talk about the things we used to avoid. We'll talk about the important things.
"Mind if I step out for a cigarette first?"
"You still smoke?"
He wrinkles his nose, nodding. "I quit for a few years in my early twenties, but I was going through another rough patch last year and I started again. Stress relief, y'know? I'm trying to cut down again… but it's challenging."
"Yeah," I whisper, picking up my cup and following him outside of the café. He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling. He wraps an arm around himself in an almost self-conscious manner. It's strange to see him looking so meek.
"I never meant to hurt you so fucking badly," he says suddenly. "I didn't mean to be so selfish and manipulative. I mean... I didn't feel like I was acting that way. It was just how I was feeling. I was sad and desperate and so fucking scared and when my worst fear came true, I guess I kind of lost it. I always let my emotions rule me."
I frown, staring off to the side. "What was your worst fear?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"I didn't want you to leave," he confesses. "It fucking killed me that you did. You were honestly all I had. I guess it wasn't fair of me. I put too much pressure on you and I depended on you too much."
"I'm sorry," I say sincerely.
He just shakes his head. "It wasn't your fault."
"It wasn't yours, either," I tell him. "I understand more now. I never used to understand that you weren't just faking these emotions to get what you wanted. What you were feeling was valid. It was real. You were scared."
"Yeah," he says softly. "I just wish I could have found it in me to see a doctor sooner. I learned everything the hard way. I feel like I could have saved you a lot of pain. Myself, too. I could have saved myself a lot of pain, too."
"What helps you now?" I ask as I watch him. "I mean… How do you bring yourself back down when you're having an episode or when you're worrying about stuff?"
He takes a long drag. "Well," he starts, puffs of smoke leaving his mouth, "If someone is bothering me… and I feel myself growing paranoid or mad, I try to remind myself that they're irrational thoughts. With the mania, my pills help. I still get episodes, but they're more spread out and they don't happen as much."
"That's good," I say softly.
He forces a faint smile. "I got my GED," he continues. "I thought it'd be in my best interest. So, now I work at a bank. Unfortunately, our branch isn't doing so well so I got transferred back here."
"Ah," I sympathize. "You're working with Cartman, then?"
"Yeah," he says with a nod. "I saw him for the first time last week. I usually stay in my office, but I decided to step out and get coffee. He called me out in the break room. I think he was surprised. He looked at me and shouted, 'Jew! Is that you?' Heh…"
"Yeah, that sounds like him," I chuckle.
"Weird as it sounds, it was pleasantly familiar to hear him call me that," Kyle admits with a faint smile.
After a few minutes, he finishes his cigarette and we move back inside. We take our seats once more and sit across from one another, simply staring at each other's faces.
"What now?"
"Whatever you'd like," he answers. "If you have any questions, don't be shy."
"Can I ask you anything I want?"
"Of course," he says.
"Do you feel better than you did last time we were together?" I start.
He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. "I've had my medications changed a few times," he admits. "I've taken a few kinds of antipsychotics that just made things worse. Luckily I was still in a hospital at that point so I couldn't really go out and get into trouble. The ones I was taking when we last saw one another made me really… empty, for lack of a better word… but I suppose that there are times I still feel that way." A pause. "Some days I don't even remember what kinds of books I like to read and what kind of music I like listening to," he admits.
"Jeez," I whisper. "I'm sorry. That sounds shitty."
"You and I both have a shitty sense of self," he says. "Sometimes I go through periods where I literally don't feel anything at all. I'm often too dissociated to remember things about myself and you're still in the process of trying to put yourself back together due to your depression." A pause. "Was that a rude thing to say?"
I give him a faint smile. "No. You're right. Depression drains you and I feel like I'm still trying to regain the knowledge of exactly who I was before it got bad."
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Did it get worse when we parted?"
I stare down at my hands. "I remember getting very upset as soon as I left your room… but somehow, you offered me closure. I guess I was just glad to finally get to talk to you again. Talking… is something we kind of stopped doing."
"Yeah," he murmurs again. "I'm so, so sorry, Stan…"
I just shake my head. "It's okay, Kyle. I always forgive you."
"Always?"
"Yeah, always."
"Hm," he muses. "There were days in the past where I wished you wouldn't. When we parted with each other, a piece of me wished you'd stick around for a little while longer and say something really mean to me. I felt like I sincerely deserved it."
"I'm not that kind of person," I tell him.
He smiles again. "I know. That's what makes you better than me. That… and so much more."
"You're not a bad person, Kyle," I insist.
He stares away from me and down at the table. "I am, though."
"You're not," I insist again.
"Well, maybe I'm not a bad person," he relents, "but I'm not good, either… and I'm not saying this to get sympathy or reassurance… Well, that's a lie. Maybe I am."
I reach across the table and take his hand, holding it in mine. "It's fine. You're more honest now, I can see it."
"It's something I've been trying to do," he says. "Be more honest. Tell the truth. Talk about my feelings or lack thereof."
"Good," I say with approval. "That's a really good thing, Kyle."
"I'm not angry anymore," he adds. "I guess the pills kind of helped mellow me out through the years, though I'm still a bit of a negative person. I try to be positive, it just proves to be a challenge."
"I understand that," I empathize.
"Death and life. War and peace. Sickness and health. Pain and numbness. Bad and good. All these binary oppositions… Does any of it matter?" he asks before simply shrugging. I already know he isn't truly asking for an answer. He's just asking me to listen. So, I simply give a thoughtful nod. "Do you still pray?" he asks me after a pause.
"Yes," I admit.
"Why?"
"I like to think there are reasons for things and that higher power has plans for everyone," I say. "Maybe the plan might not affect you, but it can affect the people around you, y'know? It's like… sometimes bad things happen and they're lessons. Perhaps everything is just a lesson. Life, death, war, peace, sickness, health, pain, numbness… Bad things." I stop before I get ahead of myself and finish with, "I know there are answers I'll never get to hear, but when I'm lost, I still like to seek guidance. I like to believe that everything is worth it in the end, no matter how much it may hurt. I guess it's comforting to me."
Kyle nods his head. "Me, too," he says weakly, staring down at our hands before staring back up at me. I remember finding him in the synagogue all those years ago. He was lost then. Maybe he's still lost now. "Does it ever help you?" he asks. "Praying?"
"Sometimes," I tell him, though I'm not so sure.
"Life is disappointing," Kyle murmurs. "All these lessons you talk about… They are cruel. I could have happily gone my whole life not knowing what it felt like to see my brother die. What kind of lesson was that? What did that teach me? I don't fucking know."
"Me neither," I whisper.
"Maybe, in ways, it made me stronger," Kyle admits as an afterthought, "but the cost of what little strength I gained wasn't worth it."
"Yeah," I say softly, unsure what else to offer him.
"I found out I was going to be transferred back here in May," Kyle confesses. "I took the following weekend off and I came back for a couple days. I rented a hotel and I went to visit Ike's grave for the first time since the funeral. I told him I was sorry. I thought I could do it without crying because so much time has passed… but I didn't, ha… I fucking bawled. I could barely get the words out I was crying so fucking hard. But I knew it wouldn't be the same if I just said them in my head… because I had been saying the words in my head for years. It never made me feel better. I wanted to be near him. I wanted him to hear it… but I guess that's fucking stupid. I stood in front of a headstone. I stood over a corpse. I told it I was sorry. Yet, still, it somehow made me feel better than all the other times I've said it. After that, I called my father. I didn't want to see my mother, so I just swung by his office and had lunch with him. He said he was happy to see me. He seemed it and I was relieved. I had prepared myself for the worst, but it never came." He pauses and sighs. "I really love my father. I love my mother, too... but sometimes I wonder why I don't hate her."
"It's understandable that you love them both," I tell him gently. "They're your parents. It's hard to hate your parents, even when they're cruel."
Kyle smiles a small smile, nodding his head slowly. "I guess it's true what they say… you never leave South Park. It always calls you back."
"Yeah," I say softly.
"Seeing my dad made me feel better," he admits. "I felt so alone for all those years. I allowed work to consume me. I wasn't very social. People I worked with hated me for acting cold, but I mean… I was the office asshole, but people who work at banks aren't typically friendly as it is."
"True," I say with a small chuckle.
I suppose it makes sense why Kyle feels better. Ike died around May. Kyle needed a good memory to replace the bad one. Well, perhaps replace isn't the right word. You can't ever truly replace memories. Perhaps grief can't be replaced, either. It can't be replaced with good feelings. Instead, it becomes a part of who you are and it becomes something you need to deal with. You live with it. You just live.
"Can I ask you a question now?" Kyle wonders somewhat airily.
"Yeah," I permit.
"Do you love me?"
"Yeah," I say again.
"Still?"
"I never stopped."
He smiles faintly. "Me, neither."
Winter.
Kyle broke apart from us when we were kids, but we're all sitting together right now. It feels the way it felt when we were ten years old… but we're not children anymore. We're men.
We've been seeing a lot of him lately and I can tell there's a difference, though it's not the kind of difference I once thought I'd hope for. He still isn't the way I remember him when we were young. I doubt I'll ever meet that Kyle again. He probably died… but I like this Kyle, too. I don't feel the need to mourn.
We're at the house I share with Kenny and Craig. Eric, Wendy and Kyle came over and we're sitting in the living room. No liquor. Just us.
I listen for the most part. Wendy and Cartman talk about their engagement, their wedding and their children. The engagement was unceremonious. It was something they spoke about for a long time and eventually decided on mutually. The wedding was very dramatic because of Cartman's fat, redneck relatives whining about him marrying an Arabic girl. Then came the kids. Naturally, Wendy kept her last name and the children's names are hyphenated.
"What about you and Craig?" Kyle asks Kenny afterward.
Kenny smiles faintly. "We were twenty. We were living together with Stan by then, but he was asleep by the time we got home. So, I decided it was now or never. I was hella nervous, but I pushed it aside. As soon as I got down on my knee, Craig started cussing. When I pulled out the ring, he started crying."
"Shut up," Craig nudges him. "You could have spared that detail."
Kenny snickers, wrapping his arms around his husband. "No, that's my favorite part," he says.
"Your crying woke me up," I decide to add. "I thought you guys were breaking up."
Kenny snorts. "Nah, basically the opposite of that."
I smile a small smile and Kyle chuckles, adding, "That's a pretty cute story."
Kenny nods proudly.
Everyone continues catching up and it feels so fucking… right. It feels like this is how things should have always been, but I know it's not possible. I know there will be some days that suck and other days that'll be worse. I know sometimes I'll feel like shit. Sometimes Kyle will feel like shit. Sometimes we won't want to be near each other. Sometimes we won't be able to be near each other… but right now, I know I still want him. I guess I always knew that it wasn't gonna go away. I hope, no matter what happens, that we can still have days like this.
Maybe I understand why Kyle wanted to kill himself. It's a shitty world and it's even harder when shitty things keep happening to you. Even if an angel was brought down to earth, I think she'd want to die.
The following night, it's just me and Kyle. We met at Harbucks after work again. It's something we've been doing a lot. He drives me home around nine and the car ride is comfortably silent until he starts to speak.
"Hanukkah starts soon," he murmurs.
"Who are you celebrating with?" I ask, glancing at him as he stares at the road.
He smiles faintly. "Myself. I can't really be around my parents during the holidays. We all just get fucking miserable."
I frown at that. "You're alone during the holidays?"
He nods and shrugs. "I'm used to it by now. It's not so bad. There's time for reflection, I suppose. As bad as it sounds, I don't really celebrate. I haven't touched a menorah in a long time, but I often find myself at the synagogue. It's the one place where I feel truly at peace."
"That's a good thing, Kyle," I promise him. "It's not a bad thing to have faith."
"Yeah," he agrees quietly.
"How about I celebrate with you this year?" I offer.
"Really?" he whispers the question.
"Really," I say. "We'll do Hanukkah at your house and Christmas at mine."
He glances at me quickly from the corner of his eye before returning his gaze to the streets. "Thanks, Stan. That would be really fucking nice."
The ride is silent again and soon we pull into my driveway. I want to kiss him before I go, but it might be too soon. It might be wildly stupid of me, but there's something so quiet and so cautious about him. He's so handsome and he's kinder these days and I want him to stay in my life. I don't want him leaving ever again.
So, I take off my seatbelt and before I reach for the door I turn to him. "Kyle?" I say his name in a questioning tone and when he turns to face me I lean into him. I place an open-mouthed kiss on his lips and then I draw back.
"What was that for?" he asks hoarsely, touching his fingertips to his lips.
"I wanted to," I tell him. The innocent confession makes me feel like a child again, but it's true.
"We could do it right this time," he says quietly.
I can't help but smile. "Could we?"
"Maybe," he says. "We… We could try."
"Yeah," I say softly.
"So… um, friends?" he asks.
"Yes," I respond with another smile.
Friends and perhaps someday we can be something more.
Fin.