Hey, guys! It's me again, Aub! I'll bet you weren't expecting to see me again so soon, were you? Ha ha . . . I'm smooth.
Okay, so before you get confused, I'm going to tell you that this chapter opens on the next day. Why? Well, it will all be explained in the chapter, but I'll give you a little hint before you freak out. FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT. There, I said it. Gay, I know . . . But detail happens to be one of the things I like, so detail you shall have. It just makes the story flow so much better that way.
Okay, so last time? Well, Stan saved Wendy, thank God. Butters followed her out of the hospital and just managed to protect her, but this has of course raised some questions in Kyle's mind on how this was possible . . . Questions that were answered, of course, with very negative results. What results, you ask? Well, those you will now see, in one of those painful little avenues we writers like to call flashback. I hope you enjoy. *smile*
Okay, so enough jabbering. While I'm at it I'd like to officially tell you that it's down to the wire, now-- the story is officially past the half way point. Or, at least, I think. I'm pretty sure. Nobody can tell what the future holds.
But here's chapter ten for you: Loyalty!
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Ch.10: Loyalty
It couldn't have been any later than seven o' clock in the morning when Kyle woke up to the smell of turkey-bacon. It entered his mind through a dream that he could no longer remember, taking his heavy mind and lifting it to the sky like a birthday balloon stolen by the wind . . . And for once in what felt like light years, bringing him back to a body that felt well-rested and whole.
Snapped from the dream as he was-- which had been something about school, he was sure; part of the 'Monday Morning Plagues' as he so much liked to called them-- he remained in bed with eyes softly closed, wound so tightly in a network of blankets that they clung to his body like a second skin. There was something invigorating about that feeling. About being well-rested. In all the years he'd taken it for granted, he'd never realized something so common could feel so good when it was truly needed.
And bacon, He thought sluggishly, smiling a little through the cover of spare sleep and foggy, weary laziness. Nothing can go wrong to the smell of fresh bacon.
He could hear the pan sizzling from downstairs, the noise wafting pleasantly through what was surely a little crack in his door. Even without his eyes opened, he would have known this for certain-- because even though his mother had a tendency to be a little overprotective, he didn't blame her for peeking in after the state she had found him in last night. He'd been dirty. Wet. Tired. Most certainly not the way she would have expected him to look, especially after taking this alleged 'nap'. He had to admit he'd surprised himself, too. He'd chanced one look down at himself after Cartman brought him back, saw the smudges of mud or what could have been dried blood streaked across his chest, and promptly decided it would be better if he looked away.
When his mother had opened the door to wake him, he could tell she didn't want to look, either. Whether this was out of confusion or reluctance to cause a confrontation, he'd never know . . . Only that her face had quickly flushed a ghostly white, and her hand had begun to tremble ever so lightly on the door knob.
" . . . Kyle? It's time for dinner, bubie. Are you hungry?" Her eyes darted over his body from top to bottom, taking in his mussed clothes. His wind-stung face. His hair, which had squelched from beneath his partially dislodged hat like a gory explosion.
A part of Kyle had wanted to answer no, to this. No, so he could try to go to sleep and forget whatever crazy things he'd just witnessed in Stan's bedroom, sitting next to a boy who's leg should have looked like a piece of tenderized meat but didn't and a fat piece of shit that should have had a broken nose but didn't because . . .
Because she touched him. Because Wendy touched him.
This thought had brought a cold, angered chill to his spine. He turned away from these feelings promptly, not sure he was willing to take them on right now. Not sure he was in the right condition. Thinking back on it now, he had actually been in better condition to deal with it than he thought he'd been. Because now, the thought made him want to scream.
"Yeah, sure, mom. I'm . . . starving," He had responded absently. Flatly. As if he wasn't really there, and wasn't interested in coming back.
She had paused a moment, uncharacteristically . . . Then said, "Are you sure, Bubie? You're looking just a little bit . . . Under the weather."
Kyle had nodded. His head had felt both heavy and light, as if attached on ball bearings. "Yes."
After his low, almost guttural response she had begun moving toward him, her shoes rasping against the carpet as she moved to presumably check his head for fever. But Kyle had done her one better, on this; before she could get close enough even for him to get a start at smelling her perfume cloud, he was off the bed and heading off behind her. Even in the state he had been in, that state that was a melancholy mixture of exhaustion and mental fatigue, he had been aware that his feet moved much too slow. That he walked at a slow, stiff limp, fighting to keep mobility past joints that had been filled with broken glass.
And as he'd hunched over his plate with his family that night, staring at his reflection in a bowl of steaming navy bean soup, it had been hard to keep from feeling the beating. His eyelids wouldn't stay open, but the thoughts were alive enough and sequenced through his head in a cycle. Stan. Butters. Black-suited man. Wendy.
Wendy touching Cartman. Cartman pulling his hands away from his nose, his face beginning to brighten with dawning wonder.
I've been able to do it for a while, now. And I've been getting better at it. Better every--
The sound of his chair scooting musically across the linoleum created a temporary block in the gentle wave of dinner conversation. He turned away from his bowl, sure that he had never felt less hungry in his life, and climbed out of his chair.
"Thank you for dinner, mom. I'm finished. I'm going to bed."
Both of his parents' heads snapped up to regard him at once, their confused gazes like lasers at his back. It made him feel just slightly terrible, knowing how worried they probably were . . . But why try to act normal when he felt horrible? It was true that they could never know the origins of his feelings, but at least they could know enough to leave him alone. To leave him alone, and let him think.
After this initial moment of stunned silence, his mother quietly cleared her throat. It made razor blades of irritation travel up his spine, because after a lifetime of being her son, Kyle knew very well what the sound meant. That she was ready for argument.
" . . . Bubie, don't you think you should sit down and eat a little more? You barely touched a thing."
"No, ma. I'm fine. I just don't have much of an appetite."
He made it to the third stair before the expected argument came. In a way, this impressed him; on a good day, his mom had been known to have her bitching out before he'd even moved to mount the first one.
"Come here, Kyle," She said strictly, her voice beginning to cloud like a coming storm. It was the way it often sounded on the rare occasions he got a mediocre grade on a test or did something naughty; the way that informed him she meant business. "You've been acting strange all weekend, and I think it's time you tell me why. You're not yourself. You seem like a completely different child."
Kyle, who had froze in his ascension to listen to her bitch, slowly began to continue climbing up to his room. He could sense the way his mother probably felt at this-- hurt, crossed with immeasurable rage-- but he was just so tired. So confused. It was hard to care.
"I'm okay, mom. Really," He said sluggishly, continuing up the stairs. Each individual step seemed to take an unusual amount of juice out of him, forcing him to clutch the hand-rail until his knuckles turned white just to keep from tumbling backwards. "I just need sleep. The nap, it . . . It wasn't enough."
"Kyle!" His mother crowed, her voice loud and shrill with shock. "Kyle, this instant!"
"Good night, mom. Good night, dad."
After finally reaching his room-- a feat that seemed to have taken forever-- Kyle had closed the door behind him and promptly launched himself onto his bed. Once there he'd flounced onto his stomach and pressed his eyes into his forearms, stretching out his legs as far as they would go and kicking his shoes off behind him. His mind was immediately high jacked by thoughts, the very things he'd been trying hideously hard to avoid these past few hours. However, somewhat fortunately, his exhaustion got the better of him.
He fell asleep.
If his mother ever came in the room to reprimand him for his behavior, he didn't remember it. Only waking up about five groggy hours later, with the crotch part of his trousers digging painfully into his groin. He'd simply changed into pajamas and hopped promptly back into bed, falling asleep the second time just as easily as the first.
And now here he was, nestled up in the blankets after what felt like the best sleep in his life. Waking up for school with the aroma of sizzling turkey-bacon invading his nostrils-- an unspoken olive branch, he hoped-- and the wishes that, today, everything would turn out all right. The simple way he'd woken up seemed to promise that for him; but was that enough to go by? Because after this, there was still school. And after that . . .
Recess, He thought exasperatedly, through dread so great that it forced out a groan. He drew his pillow from beneath his face and pulled it over his head, hoping it would keep out the realities of morning for just a little while longer.
He said meet up at recess, and I'll explain farther. Meet up at recess, and I'll tell you what other things I've hidden from you for--
"Kyle! Time to get ready for school!"
Beneath the pillow, his mother's voice sounded like it possibly could have come from downstairs. But when she knocked on the doorframe, those terrible bangle-weighted bracelets clanking like marbles against the side of a bottle, he knew for sure where she was. Right there. Looking in on him from the doorframe with her apron tied around her waist in an old-fashioned manner, a sorrowful smile on her face that seemed to be hoping for his compliance. For his recovery. He rarely ever acted toward her in the way he had last night, and he knew it was probably eating at her. A little sad, yes, but mostly irritating.
When he didn't respond, he heard her houseshoes hush against the carpet as she walked to his bedside. Shortly following this was a blot of light against his closed eyelids as she made her way over and lifted the pillow, revealing his face to the harsh picture of reality. He opened his eyes, but what he really wanted was to close them harder. To fall back asleep.
Blinking as if through eyes filled with Vasoline, he mumbled, "Okay. I'm awake. I'll be down in a second."
He heard his mother give a short, worried little scoff, and then felt a heavy warmth in the center of his forehead as she laid her hand on his brow. This made him slightly irritated, but he held still for her just the same, if only to grant her peace of mind. If only to make her stop thinking he was suicidal or something.
After a moment she said, "You're not running a fever, but I still don't like the way you look. Why don't you just stay home today? I'll bring your breakfast up to you in bed, and you can rest."
Surprisingly, Kyle found himself pausing to consider this option. Stay home? Stay home and not only get a couple of hours more sleep, but also avoid that predestined talk beneath the jungle gym? That horrific little talk that would likely ruin his entire day, and many more after?
That does sound nice, but I can't do that, He thought earnestly, feeling his heart sink like a stone inside his chest. I may not be happy with him, but he's still my best friend. And he needs me now more than ever.
Sure, his absence from their conversation beneath the jungle gym wouldn't be a huge misstep; after all, It wasn't like Stan didn't have his phone number. It wasn't like he couldn't just call him up and tell him everything that he had to say, without the dramatic effects of Cartman's indignant snorting or Wendy's soft, gentle arguments as she defended Stan's excuses. He didn't mean to lie to you, She'd say countless times, with her wrists crossed gently across her knees and her deep brown doe's eyes catching his like fly traps. Everything he did was done in your best interest, and can you imagine how it must have felt to carry that sort of weight alone?
But everything wasn't done in my best interest, now was it? Kyle thought angrily, beginning to pull himself weakly up into the sitting position. His mother put a hand to his back to help him, but she might as well have not even been in the room. It was done in your best interest, wasn't it, Wendy? Your best interest, while people lay hurt that didn't have to be and we were all scared out of our fucking--
"Kyle, bubie, where are you going? Aren't you going to stay here and rest?"
Kyle, who had just finished wrestling himself from the nest of blankets, thumped to the floor below him. He began walking past her toward the rectangle of light that marked his open bedroom door, suddenly ready to feel that bacon crunch in his mouth. Suddenly ready to gulp back that orange juice with a maniac fervor, and maybe even a sip of coffee or two if his mother was feeling overly generous.
"I can't stay here, Mom. I'll go crazy. I need to see my friends," He said in passing as he left the dreary darkness of his room, squinting slightly at the pass from dimness to light. He heard his mother give a grunt of surprise behind him, and begin to follow . . . But she said not a word.
When he finally reached the table, stomach groaning as violently as a dying man in the last stages of the fact, he didn't think he'd be able to get it down fast enough. If simply smelling the food hadn't been enough, seeing it in front of him was about ten times worse . . . And before he knew it he was scarfing it down, bits of bacon tumbling down his throat before his butt had even touched the wooden seat.
Ike stared at him from his high chair, his big black eyes blinking with a mixture of concern and confusion. It hurt Kyle a little to see that even his little brother was picking up on his change in behavior, and the thought briefly crossed his mind to brighten up his boots a little, even if it was fake . . . But he quickly determined that it was impossible. The sparks just wouldn't light.
"Ess-plode?" Ike asked curiously, frantically swatting his toast with the round part of his spoon. "Ess-plode? In the twee?"
Yeah, dude. You have no idea, Kyle felt like saying. There was more than one meaning to that answer; because, as much as his hands could cut a crater through tree bark, words could have the power to explode, too. Words like what he'd heard yesterday, sitting in a familiar room that had grown to become claustrophobic with tension.
Before he could say this, he heard his mother from the living room. Her voice was hushed and furtive, as if she didn't want him to hear . . . But no matter how quiet she kept it, he could always tell when she was talking about him. Mainly by the irritated sound of his father, rustling his morning paper as he wasinterrupted yet again by one of his children's 'serious issues'. Also by the way his mother's tone grew-- high and wavering, as if close to tears.
"I just don't know what's come over our boy lately, Gerald. He just isn't himself. He's staying so tired all the time, and I can't get him to open up to me no matter what I do . . ."
These were the only words he picked up out of the conversation. Surprisingly, they were the only ones he cared to. While his mother's rising concern for him was in no way unexpected, there were other things here that were. Things like his best friend lying to him, for one thing. Or, if not exactly lying, omitting certain truths. All in the name of her. All in the name of someone he hadn't known half as well as Kyle until about a year-and-a-half-ago, when he suddenly couldn't get enough of her.
They always said in the old proverbs that love was very complicated business. Well, here it was now, complicating things; because it had Stanley Randall Marsh by the short and curlies, and there were no indications of it ever letting go. It had caused a boy that would normally do anything for anybody to betray his best friends. To keep someone, someone as innocent as Butters, in torturous pain for two nights all because of a selfish, needy whim.
But wait, some part of him deep inside tried to say. This part of him had been absent last night and all of this morning, but he was very glad to see it back. Wait a minute. Maybe I should look at it from the opposite side. From Stan's side. Maybe then it wouldn't seem so horrible.
He was about to go through the process of doing this, of mapping everything out meticulously in his head, when he was acquainted by a sudden splash of wetness on his cheek. He looked up at the angle it had come from, not exactly sure what he was expecting to see . . . And saw Ike sitting there with a shit-poke smile on his face, holding a spoon that he had obviously used to fling something wet on Kyle's cheek. Whether it was orange juice or slobber, Kyle would never know. Only that it had awakened him from something that could possibly have driven him crazy.
"Essplode, Ky-ul!" Ike crowed, clapping happily with his accomplishment. With this action came another little splash of wetness, but this time in Kyle's eye. He squinted painfully and recoiled. "Ess-plode in the twee!"
"Jesus Christ, Ike!" Kyle moaned, a little angrier than he would have liked. He reached up and scrubbed at his eye, aware that it had began to burn with a dull, insistent anger. Definitely orange juice. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Fwy! G.I. Joe fwy!"
Yeah, I'll make you fly, all right, Kyle thought angrily, simmering with an unhealthy amount of animosity. Luckily, before he could act on any of these unreasonable feelings, he heard the gentle hush of his mother's house shoes as she made her way back toward the kitchen. He could tell in the way that she walked-- hurried, stressed-- that her coming would only add weight to his current situation.
"Kyle?" She asked as she came into the kitchen, her round face a perfect picture of tentative hope. He could see by the look in her eye that his father hadn't been of much help-- she looked vaguely lost. Angry. "Are you feeling better this morning, bubie? I made your favorite." No, He felt like saying immediately. Because it was the truth, wasn't it? But of course she couldn't know that. Any of it.
"Yeah. I feel much better, mum," He said meekly, finding the strength in him to look up at her and smile. Even though it was painful and terribly unnatural, he knew it was the right thing to do . . . Because the minute she saw the smile, her own face seemed to light up. "Thanks for the breakfast. It was great."
Her face flushed with what Kyle could only judge as great relief. It was something very uncharacteristic to the face of his overbearing, oftentimes unreasonable mother, and for this reason he was thankful that it was short-lived. She bustled toward Ike in her usual way, snatching the rag off the lip of the sink in the process.
"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, bubie," She said sincerely, grabbing Ike by the shoulder and beginning to wipe his soiled face. The toddler began writhing in his seat, submitted to the awful torture Kyle himself had been submitted to countless times throughout his childhood-- that of the rough, skin-shredding rag. You deserve it, you little asshole, Kyle thought half-humorously, still rubbing at his eye.
"If you're planning on catching the bus, you'd better get a move on. It took me a little while longer than normal to wake you up," his mother said, still torturing Ike with the dry rag. Kyle couldn't help but smile when Ike let out a babbled --but plainly clear-- expletive. "Are you sure you want to bother? You may say you feel fine, but you don't look okay to me. You look like you could use a little bit more sleep."
Kyle gritted his teeth behind his lips, all the time thinking get me out of here. Get me out of here before my mouth slips on her, and I end up saying something I'll regret. He could feel the tension buried shallowly beneath his skin, in the thin layer just underneath, and it was causing him to literally shake in his little wooden chair. Shake, so that he could feel the one slightly short leg teeter over and over again upon the floor.
I have to get out of here. I have to talk to him, He thought hastily, biting back a wave of emotion he'd never be able to explain. It's the only way to stop this. The only way to stop all this . . . Anger.
He hopped down from the chair and rushed toward his room as fast as he could, thanking God for the excuse that he was 'in a hurry'. If he hadn't have woken up late, it might look just slightly strange that getting dressed suddenly seemed so important . . . And that he took the stairs at a speed that could have been considered flying.
"Nah. I feel fine, mom. I have something I have to tell Stan."
And even as the words flew from his mouth, intended to be an excuse, Kyle knew they were partway true. Because as he ditched his pajamas and tossed on some clothes, not even bothering to turn on the light to match them, all he could think about was what he was going to say to him. How he was going to tell him that he felt betrayed, and in the worst way possible.
It all starts with being there, He thought mildly, his stomach cramping with nervousness at even the thought of confronting his best friend after last night. After that . . . heat.
It all starts with being there, and if I'm not he'll think it means I'm giving up. Giving up not just on all of this . . . But on him.
As he thought this, somewhat satisfied with himself, the odd sound of a bus brake sounded from down the street. Suspense hardened his muscles and at the last minute he pulled on his coat, slung his backpack over his shoulder and dashed down the stairs.
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Walking onto the playground as the recess bell rang was supposed to feel joyous. Lord knew it had on the other days. Speeding down the concrete stairs with a football in his hand, following his friends out the heavy back doors and wobbling on his feet through hard, rapid-fire titters sometimes seemed a repetitive way to spend a day's thirty minutes, but to Kyle nothing could ever be richer. It didn't matter if he sometimes got pushed down. It didn't matter if nine times out of ten he got tackled, ending up with scraped-up palms and lungs that felt like shriveled prunes.
All that mattered was the joy. The nostalgia. The pure childhood wonders of recess with your friends, and forming memories you'd try your whole life to get back.
This was the reason why, on this day, Kyle found it rather odd that his appearance on the playground felt more like a funeral march. It wasn't just his mood that seemed damp; it was everyone's. There was no Stan for him to follow after. No Cartman for him to relentlessly dodge, as he tried endlessly to snag his shoulder and send him stumbling. No football to punt. No nothing.
Nothing but the snow, creating frosty ripples in the air as the loose flakes were lifted in the wind. Nothing but the quiet breeze, turning the old merry-go-round ever so slightly, letting out a tired shriek.
Nothing but silence. Nothing but everything Kyle didn't want to hear, and a nice little dose of animosity to go along with it.
I don't know if I can do this, He thought suddenly, shortly. So promptly that it actually scared him, enough to make him feel like running back inside and spending recess in the bathroom. Face all of them like this. I don't know if I can do it. I know Stan has a lot more to tell us, but how can I just sit there and look at him when he--
"Hey! Psst, Kyle!"
A familiar voice from behind him. Kyle whirled in the direction of the-- Ugh-- jungle gym, sure as shit what he would see. And he was right. There was Stan, standing right behind him, a little smirk on his face that said he'd thrown all that had happened yesterday out. Had he? Hell, it was easy for him to do. He wasn't the one who'd been surprised.
"Dude, we've been waiting for you. Did you forget where I said to meet?" Stan asked amiably, that little smile growing just a smidgen.
At seeing this humoring little smirk, Kyle felt himself try to do the thing he normally would do in this situation. I mean, it was a little odd that he 'didn't remember' where they were supposed to meet, but it was funny, so he was supposed to smile, right? To smile, laugh at himself, tell Stan he was 'retard'? To do the same thing he would have done all the years before?
He wasn't entirely surprised to feel that the instinctive smile was absent, today. Not just a little absent, but totally gone, leaving his face in the dour, mellow state he was sure his mother had been worried about all last night and this morning. It wasn't just that he didn't feel like smiling. It was just that, when looking at Stan, the stirrings in his head said that smiling was the last thing he wanted to do.
"I didn't forget. I was coming," He said lowly, putting his hands in his pockets and his eyes to the ground.
From the fringes of his vision, he could see Stan stiffen at this response. Stiffen, and lean forward, as if checking Kyle's skin for some sort of deadly rash. It made his heart twist like a rag.
"Are you . . . Okay, dude? Did I do something?" Stan asked tentatively, with a level of clueless curiosity that made Kyle feel like screaming.
Yes! Yes, you did do something! He wanted to respond. The words were resting right on the tip of his tongue, right within grabbing distance, but he just couldn't get them to come out. If this had been Cartman, Butters . . . anyone but Stan, he might have been able to judge things very quickly. But to do it to his best friend . . .
You lied to me! You kept a secret that left Butters in pain, you tried to protect her on your own when you knew it only made things more dangerous, and you could have gotten us all killed because of it! You're irresponsible, unbelievable and--
"Let's just go, dude," Kyle replied, letting his words out through a shallow sigh. He began walking away from Stan, toward the jungle gym that would likely house a full thirty minutes of stress and painful tension. "We only have half an hour. And you have news about Kenny, right?"
"Yeah," Stan responded, sounding vague and stunned. "Of course. I said that yesterday."
"Then let's get a move on before we run out of time."
Kyle moved on toward the jungle gym, listening to Stan's shuffling steps behind him as his feet dragged through the snow. This alone was enough to clue Kyle in that his best friend's mood had considerably dampened, but in his current state of mind it was a little hard to care. He'd hurt him, last night. Why was it so wrong to let Stan feel some of the sting?
When he reached the jungle gym, his body language about as merry as a parvo-ridden puppy, he could see two pairs of brown eyes staring at him from beneath the iron bars. One of these pairs was cloudy and plain, hooded by eyebrows that promised hatred and unprovoked meanness . . . And the other wide and bright, laced by dark eyelashes that seemed three miles long.
Cartman and Wendy. Wendy.
Of course. She was a part of this now, wasn't she?
"Well it's about time you got your ass over here, fucktard. We thought Stan was going to have to start without you," Cartman snapped, his voice sounding strangely cheerful even through the string of insults. In a way, this actually made Kyle feel a little better-- at least it was something normal.
"Where were you? Curled up in a corner somewhere, trying to kill yourself? God knows we could never be so lucky." Kyle shot him a tired middle finger as he ducked beneath the bars. "Fuck off, fatass."
Cartman fell silent at this remark, a satisfied smirk crawling across his round, wind-chapped face.
When Kyle managed to get himself sidled beneath the bars-- a feat that seemed to take much too long, especially counting his tragically shattered wrists-- he found himself facing a relaxed, smiling Wendy. The shadowy darkness of their location, cool and gray and dappled with bright strips of sunlight, could do nothing to hide the emotions behind her expression . . . Because even though she was smiling, he could tell she was dreading the worst. It had nothing to do with what Stan would tell them. By the way she studied him, her eyes soft with tentative regard, he could tell she was fearing his reaction.
"Hey, Kyle," She said softly, in a low, meek voice that hardly matched her normal one at all. Kyle could sense Stan ducking into the shadowy space behind him, but he paid him no notice-- only looked at Wendy, thinking about how long he'd been ignorant. Thinking about how long she'd been able to do this-- to fix things like Cartman's nose-- without him knowing about it. Only Stan.
"Hey, Wendy," He responded after a moment, his voice flat and joyless. A part of him knew that blaming Wendy for any of this was insane, especially after the way she and Stan had explained it last night (It was all my idea to keep it from you, not hers, Stan had said, his eyes like blue searchlights fixed on the ground, And I tried to tell you but I was too afraid of how you'd react), but he still wasn't surprised to notice himself put a considerable gap between he and his best friend's girlfriend. When he flounced to the cold ground below, flinching as his bottom landed in a puddle of dirty melting sludge, it shocked him to realize he had actually moved closer to Cartman than to Wendy. Cartman.
If Wendy took offense at this gesture, she didn't show it. She simply looked up at Stan as he entered their pavilion of otherworldly tales, and flashed him a short, grateful smile that made Kyle's spine crawl with razor blades. It was smiles like that that had put him under her spell. Smiles like that that had forced him to lie, and put everyone in danger because of it.Smiles like that that came from girls like--
Stop it. That's enough, He thought angrily, shifting busily against the hard, frozen ground. His bottom, protected only by the thin material of his trousers, could hardly be felt anymore. It's okay to be mad at Stan, but it's not okay to blame Wendy because of it. It's easier, but . . . Still not right.
As Stan crossed in front of him and made his way over to Wendy, his demeanor suddenly brightened with the mere visage of her presence, it took everything in him to keep from speaking. In the end, he managed . . . But only by filling up his need to speak with something else. Something less confrontational.
"So I guess Butters' 'miracle recovery' didn't fool his parents?" He asked listlessly, hugging his knees and staring fixedly into a puddle. His reflection stared back at him, somber and pale.
There was a short pause as Stan finished settling next to Wendy. Kyle might have looked up at him as he answered, but he was sure a part of him wouldn't be able to stand what he would see. The two of them, sitting close and snug. Maybe even so close you couldn't put a sheet of paper between them.
Because they needed each other. Needed the comfort.
Oh, please. If they needed anything at all, they might have said something instead of--
"Yeah. As amazing as his recovery is, the adults are a little harder to convince," Stan said, his affable tone of before seeming to have returned for the time being. Of course it did, The mean part of Kyle said before he could shut it up. Of course it did, because he's next to her. "They didn't let him out of the hospital, either. The doctors won't stop running tests on him. They think he has some sort of 'miracle virus' in his blood or something."
"Jesus Christ. They didn't find anything, did they?" Kyle heard himself asking before he could stop.
A tiny sickle of a smile curved Stan's lips. Kyle wasn't sure what it was for . . . Only that it chilled his spine, a bit, as many things about Stan had done since yesterday night. He wasn't sure if it was just him or not, but something had changed in his best friend. Even when he was himself . . . Something was off.
"I don't think so, dude. If they had, I'm pretty sure he'd be in quarantine by now," Stan said, laughing shortly at the end of his sentence. He fidgeted in his spot-- which was a strange behavior in itself, considering the fact that Stanley Marsh wasn't ordinarily the 'fidgeting' type-- and moved a little closer to Wendy, an action that ignited Kyle's uneasiness like a fire. Protectiveness, or fear?
"I think it'll be fine. They'll just consider it a freak accident and let him off. You know how they are there. They would release a guy with a pipe through his head as long as he was still aware enough to talk."
Cartman gave a brief scoff of laughter at this. All other heads in the room turned instinctively toward him at this, Kyle's included . . . But whatever the fatass had found humorous about Butters' situation, it wasn't funny anymore. The laughter had died.
"Forget about Butters. He's useless anyway," He quipped, when he realized all eyes were on him. He shifted a little in his seat, reminding Kyle uncomfortably of Stan . . . And then said, "Tell us what happened to Kenny. You had to have seen him, right?"
Feeling a little like a bobble-head dashboard decoration, Kyle turned his attention back to his semi-estranged best friend. He immediately noticed the change lingering there-- after all, how could you know a guy five years and not notice?-- but he didn't think it had anything to do with Kenny. He could have said he figured this out after Stan answered the question, but later on he'd think on it and realize that wasn't it . . . no matter how much it scared him.
That look . . . He thought, suddenly finding it appropriate to bunch his hands into fists. He felt the slide of cotton against cotton as both his mittens met and mingled, and became aware that he was wringing his hands. Great. Just like Butters.
It's the way he looked . . . Just after he woke up. When I saw that tear, and he went after Wendy . . .
His heart was suddenly wrapped in a cold sheet. He continued looking at Stan, his eyes wide and attentive, his hands working at each other like two complicated animals doing the nasty. He looked at Stan like a stunned child first learning his ABCs, and for the first time that day he did it without anger. Without even a smidgen of resentment.
Remembering that unpleasant little confrontation of last night would surely bring it back, but for now it was blissfully out of memory.
"I saw a lot of things," Stan said shortly, suddenly looking at the ground instead of at anyone else. Kyle at first judged this emotion to be sadness, but on looking closer it was just a little more . . . Because he hadn't exactly been sad when he'd went after Wendy yesterday, had he? When he'd looked the same way? Of course, he had been a little . . .
But mostly he'd been angry.
A hard lump settled into Kyle's chest. He felt the urge to get up and run, no matter how important this conversation was, because ending up like the man who'd gotten between Stan and Wendy yesterday didn't seem like a pleasant experience. But hell, he was here for the ride now, wasn't he? Now that it was obvious that Stan needed him?
Pathetic. He can piss me off more than I've ever been in my life, but I still can't get up and leave when he needs me. Even when it's possible that he might turn me into paste.
Some part of him was aware this thought was just a little funny, but no part of him was laughing.
Stan's brows furrowed over his beautiful, frightening eyes, and that was enough to bring Kyle out of his thought. Wendy placed a hand on her boyfriend's back and rubbed just slightly, enough to soften shoulders that had been rigid and hollow with some pent-in emotion . . . But they weren't doing much to cure that face. That hardness.
There was likely only one thing that could cure that. And it was probably murder.
"So what happened?" Cartman cut in through the thick, pea-soup tension. Kyle didn't know whether he was aware of it our not, but the fatass's voice was carrying a lot of concern. "Did you see him, or didn't you?"
Stan made a strange, choked noise in the back of his throat. He looked up afterwards, his face slightly flushed and sweaty but mostly normal . .. Except for those eyes. Those bright, penetrating, haunting eyes.
"No. I didn't see him," He said flatly, in the voice he often used when things were beginning to get out of hand. "I didn't see him, but a met a guy who had. The guy who let me in on what was going to happen to Wendy. The guy who I couldn't . . ."
Another falter, another drop of his gaze to the cold, hard ground. When he said what was next on his mind he did not raise his gaze, and Kyle thought that was perhaps why it struck him as such a surprise . .. But, maybe then, that wasn't the reason at all. Maybe it was something else.
Maybe it was because the next thing Stan said was utterly, downright frightening.
Maybe that was it.
"The guy who you couldn't what?" Wendy asked softly, her hand still lightly revolving on Stan's tight, trembling back. He looked pathetic, the way he was now. Pathetic, and miserable. "What happened, Stan?"
He swallowed. Kyle wouldn't have been able to tell had he just been looking on, but an audible click from his best friend's throat clued him in.
"The guy that I couldn't hurt. The guy who said my powers wouldn't work on him, and that he didn't think anyone else's would, except for .. ."
He looked up, as unexpectedly as a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky. Kyle was suddenly fixed in that frightening, deep blue gaze, unable to do anything except blink, stutter, and gasp. It was the long, drawing sort that shriveled his lungs like raisins, and he suddenly found that he could barely breathe. He didn't feel like he was strong enough.
"I think you're the only one, Kyle," Stan finished simply, still drilling Kyle with that gaze. Still penetrating him, but it was no longer threatening . . . More pitying. More the type of thing that made Kyle wish he'd never woken up from that coma a month ago, and instead slipped into sweet, cascading darkness forevermore.
"He told me nothing would work, but I think that was a lie.You're the only one, Kyle. There's only one thing in the world that can get rid of him, and I think it's you."
What? Who? What the hell are you talking about? Kyle wanted to say, through a mouth that suddenly wouldn't work. He was hopelessly lost in whatever Stan had said, as surely everyone else beneath this jungle gym was . . . But the confusion was lost behind one thing. One sentence.
You're the only one, Kyle. There's only one thing in the world that can get rid of him, and I think it's you.
Who the hell are you talking about, Stan? What the hell do you mean, and why would you--
Before he could get the rest of the thought out, the world was spinning in a not-unpleasant shade of darkest, murky gray. There was only one thing he could think as he went out like a light, only one thing in the world that mattered enough to outshine the thought of having to use his powers to save his friend's lives . . . And it bellowed in his head like a fire signal as he collapsed into the snow.
I should have listened to mom, I should have stayed home today . . . I should have just stayed in bed.
After that, everything was black.
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Hey, dudes! Strange place to end, huh? But I could think of nothing better. Nothing more DRAMATIC. So that's what you get . .. But it was good, right? RIGHT?! I know you were probably a little confused at Stan's . . . skipping of the details, but don't worry. The poor boy's traumatized. He'll explain the rest next chapter.
Okay, so what happens next? Well, Kyle wakes up from his faint, of course. :P We also get to hear Stan's reasoning behind the last sentence of this chapter, and what the rest of the gang are going to do about Kenny. About Slicer, too . . . Because even though he's a little hard for Stan to talk about, he'll get there. Just give him some time. And what about the strains on Stan and Kyle's friendship? Will they be repaired?
I don't know. Wait and see. :P
Okay! See you next time!! Thanks for the reviews and praises, guys, I love you all so much!
-Aub