South Park © Matt & Trey.

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Stan's POV

Soon enough Kyle's eating disorder will once again been forgotten by the majority of the people surrounding him. I'm not so sure it's a good thing. I hope his parents aren't going to keep acting so naïve. I know I won't. We can't just erase things. It won't make life any easier. If anything, it'll just screw everything up.

His birthday just passed. It went by silently. All we did was hang out in his hospital room, since he's not a fan of celebrations. He's eighteen now. A legal adult. A man.

Even though we've broken up, I've been spending a lot of time with him. I want him to know that just because we aren't romancing it up; it doesn't mean I don't want to still be his best friend. I'll always want to be his best friend… and maybe I'll always want to be more than that, but it's okay for now. I'll tell him again someday. If he says no, I won't do it again. It's all up to him. I won't push him. I won't pressure him. If it happens, I want it to be real and I want it to be on his terms.

Kyle still isn't at school the next day since he's still being monitored by doctors, much to his dismay. I think we all know where this is headed. I think he knows, too. His parents will probably start talking about institutionalization soon enough and he's going to fucking hate it.

When I get home, my dad is sitting in the living room with my mom and sister. Great fucking timing. "You're here," is all I say. I didn't expect it, to be honest.

"I am," he replies.

"Stanley," my mom cuts in. "Why don't you sit down so we can all talk."

I roll my eyes, but nonetheless, I do as she asks. The visit proves to be mildly awkward, but I'm glad he finally decided to show up.

"Your mother told me about Kyle," he says, probably trying to have a more meaningful conversation.

"So?" I mutter. "We broke up."

"Wait… what?" he asks. "I was talking about his trip to the hospital."

"Oh, right…" I say. "Oops."

Shelly rolls her eyes. "Turds in love. How romantic."

"Shut up," I retort before repeating, "We broke up…" No one questions it, probably because I look so miserable and pathetic. It's obvious who did the dumping.

The rest of the night goes smoothly and it feels the way things always felt. Maybe it won't be so fucking bad having my parents separate. Maybe it's for the best. If we can keep at least this amount of normalcy, I think I'll be able to handle it.

The following day, Kyle is allowed to leave the hospital. I skip out on school and go with Gerald and Sheila to pick him up. They don't chide me for missing classes.

At the hospital, Kyle looks himself. He's wearing a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He holds up a hand when he spots us and offers a small smile. As his parents talk with a doctor, he turns to me and says, "You came."

"Yeah," I tell him. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," he says with a shrug. "Just tired, mostly."

"Understandable," I say.

"So, what's been going on in the outside world these past couple days?" he asks.

"Nothing exciting. My dad came for a visit yesterday," I reveal.

"How'd that go?" Kyle asks.

"I don't know," I murmur. "I'm hoping it won't just be a one-time thing like the last time my parents got separated."

"Yeah," he sympathizes.

"So…" I pause, unsure how to word what I want to ask.

He smiles warily. "They're putting me on Xanax."

"Xanax…?" I frown.

"For the anxiety," he explains distastefully.

"That's some serious shit…"

"Yeah… but the doctors think it's for the best," he reasons. I don't bother trying to tell him that sometimes doctors are very fucking wrong. "It won't be forever, though…" he continues, "and I'll keep seeing my therapist so he can monitor me and watch for anything bad."

"Good," I murmur. "What could happen?"

"Some side effects are to be expected – like impulsive behaviour, fatigue, changes in libido, speech slurring," he starts. "Aggression and mania could also happen… but that's not likely."

"Christ," I frown.

His parents finish talking to the doctor a few minutes later and the four of us leave the hospital. On the way back, we stop at a pharmacy and Sheila goes in to pick up Kyle's prescription. La dee da. I end up back at the Broflovski residence, not bothering to attend my last classes. Me and Kyle go upstairs, where he decides to pop one of them pills. I pick up the prescription bottle and read the label –

BROFLOVSKI, KYLE

TAKE 1 TABLET BY MOUTH ONCE A DAY

"Jeez," I say quietly. I'm not really sure how I feel about him taking this shit. I just hope it works and helps him cope while he's in therapy. I hope he won't have to take them for a long time because prescriptions like this can be bad if you're on them for a long time. Dependence can happen and I don't think he needs that. He has a lot on his plate as it is.

"Adverse effects aren't likely, so stop worrying, Stan," he says, taking the bottle from me and setting it neatly in the drawer of his nightstand.

"I'll try not to," I promise him.

"And… don't tell anyone I'm taking these," he requests. "They'll just think I'm mental."

"No, they wouldn't," I say, but nonetheless I agree not to tell. "I'll keep quiet."

"Thanks," he murmurs.

We settle on Kyle's bed and end up watching a movie on his laptop. Though, I don't think either of us is paying attention. Our minds are wandering, I can tell, even though we're talking about the most unimportant things. Soon enough, Kyle is groggy. He says it's because of the pills and he tells me not to worry yet again but I can't fucking help it.

"Kyle?" I say his name in a questioning tone.

"What?" he asks.

"Do you…" I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. "Do you think we'll ever get back together?"

He wrinkles his nose, causing me to frown slightly. "I don't fuckin' know, Stan… Why?"

I shrug. I'm just being selfish, I guess. I want to be near him and all that shit, but I also want to put a label on it for my own sake. Then I won't feel so fucking insecure. I just want him to want me in return. I need this sort of validation. I wish I didn't, though. It's kind of pathetic.

"Do you want to?" he asks. He's not looking at me. He's staring straight ahead at his laptop screen.

"Yeah," I admit quietly.

He softens and he closes his eyes. "I need time," he whispers. "I wish I could tell you how much, but I can't because I don't know yet. It could be a month, it could be six. It could be a year. I don't want to make you wait. It's not fair… So… just…" He pauses, opening his eyes and finally turning his head to face me. "Do what you want, Stan. Don't let me stand in the way of your happiness. Try and move on."

"Easier said than done," I mutter.

He smiles sympathetically. "Try, at least."

"Fine," I say, but I know it won't make a damn difference. This feeling is different. It's new. It's not quite the same as what I felt for Wendy. I can't explain it, but I have a strong sense that it isn't going anywhere.

Kyle turns away, staring back at his laptop. I do the same and watch the movie play on. Neither of us say another damn word and for the first time ever, the silence isn't quite comfortable.

Once the movie is finished, Kyle shuts his laptop and reaches into his nightstand, pulling out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He opens it and takes one out, putting it between his lips before grabbing a lighter and lighting it.

"How much of those damn things do you smoke now?" I ask.

He shrugs, exhaling in my face and causing me to cringe. "Sorry," he snickers before adding, "Probably like a pack a day…"

"How many cigarettes are in a package?"

"Twenty."

"Damn," I say. "That's a lot."

"Not really," he insists. "My aunt Flo used to smoke two packs a day before she croaked."

"That's really fucking gross," I murmur. "You do realize your teeth are going to go all yellow and shit, don't you?"

He laughs, rolling his eyes at me. Smoke escapes his lips and nose in the process. "You're cute, Stan," he says to me.

I raise an eyebrow, wondering where that came from. "Huh? Are you being patronizing?"

"A bit," he admits lightly.

"What'll your mom do if she comes upstairs and sees you with a fucking cigarette between your fingers?" I ask. "She'll probably cut your hand off."

He shakes his head. "She wouldn't do a damn thing. She might try to gently tell me about the negative effect it'd have on my health, but she wouldn't do much more than that."

"How can you be so sure?" I wonder.

"Because," he starts, "she saw me smoking the night before I passed out at school. I heard her coming up the stairs. I tried to put it out and hide it before she could see, but it was too late. It fucking sucks not having a door."

Oh, wow. "Seriously? What did she say?"

He shrugs, tapping the cigarette and letting the ash fall into the tray on his nightstand. "She was disappointed. She didn't say it, but I could fucking tell. I'm sure she knew before now. I mean, you can smell it on me, right? But you know how my mom is... she likes to feign ignorance until the proof is right in front of her face. So, she looked at me and she told me she wanted me to care more about my health… but honestly, I'm too scared to quit."

"But why?" I ask. "You'll be healthier. You'll feel better. Just because you can run fast it doesn't mean shit. If you're smoking this much, you're health is just going to decline and soon you'll be out of breath after going up a damn hill."

"Did you know," he starts, "that you can gain weight if you quit smoking?"

Well, now it makes sense. This is why he won't quit. "Oh," is all I say. I didn't know that.

He takes one last puff before smothering the cigarette in the ash tray. "I don't want to gain weight," he says.

"Can't it be prevented?" I try to reason.

He shrugs. "Maybe," he says, "but there's no guarantee. Everyone is different."

"Can't you try?" I ask. "Please?"

"Why's it so important?" he asks. "Even if I get cancer or something, it won't happen yet."

"It could…"

"It's not likely," he snorts.

"You're being unrealistically optimistic… Come on, Kyle, you're smarter than this," I say.

He just rolls his eyes at me, not wanting to hear what I have to tell him. He reaches for another cigarette, but I stop him. I grab the package from him and open it. There are three left. I take one out and grab Kyle's lighter. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asks. Christ, he's moody today. He's moody often, though.

I put the cigarette between my lips and then flick the lighter. Once I see the little flame, I let it near the end of the cigarette and inhale. I feel the need to cough, but I suppress it. Gross! I haven't touched a cigarette since that time when we were kids and accidentally burned down the elementary school.

"Stan, what the fuck?" Kyle snaps.

I close my eyes and let the smoke leave through my nose. "I just wanna see what the fucking fuss is all about," I say, opening my eyes.

"I did coke once," Kyle snaps. "Wanna try that, too?"

"When the hell did you do cocaine?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. I fucking hate drugs. I mean it. I think they're disgusting and I hate the thought of Kyle doing them. It's just not right. They don't suit him.

"I did it with Tweek when we were fifteen," he says unceremoniously. "It was a one-time thing."

"I'd fucking hope so," I murmur. I take another puff. God, this is awful.

Kyle laughs at me. "I can sense your distaste." He takes the cigarette from me and places it between his lips, inhaling and looking satisfied. He sighs, blowing the smoke up and away from me.

"You're in an odd mood today," I say. I'm not sure if it's the drugs or because he's still angry about his most recent trip to the hospital and trying to compensate by pretending not to care. I don't really know a damn thing about Xanax. I just know kids used to do it for fun. Craig was pretty into it when we were little, but I think he dropped the habit. I guess I should probably do a little reading when I get home. I don't really want that to happen to Kyle.

Kyle just smiles at me. He ashes the cigarette in the tray before holding it in front of his face and examining it as if he's examining a piece of fine art.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Suddenly, he frowns and before I can stop him, he puts the cigarette out on his forearm.

"Kyle!" I gasp, too shocked to budge an inch. Everything slows down and it's quiet until Kyle finally lets out a shout. The sound leaves his mouth like a string of pained sobs and I move forward, grabbing the crumpled cigarette from his fingers. I put it in the ash tray and wrap my hands around Kyle's forearm. "Fucking hell…" I whisper, staring down. It doesn't look that bad, but clearly it hurt. On the school ground, this used to be one of the biggest dares. All the tough kids and the stoners would put cigarettes out on their arms. I always thought that was pretty stupid.

I hear Sheila marching up the stairs. "What happened?" she demands upon entering her son's room.

"Kyle… burned himself," I say, not bothering to specify that it wasn't an accident. I don't know if she'll read into it and ask. "I'll take care of it for him," I tell her, knowing he probably won't want her to question what happened.

"Okay," she says softly, looking piteous. "There's a first aid kit under the sink in the bathroom. Clean the cut first."

I nod and Sheila leaves, probably against her will. "Come on, Kyle," I say, patting his back and urging him to stand. He does so and I follow him to his feet and into the bathroom. He sits on the toilet seat lid, looking stunned.

"I don't know why I did that," he admits flatly.

"It's okay," I say, but my voice cracks. Nonetheless, I can't start crying now. If everyone around Kyle starts falling apart, it'll only make things worse.

I grab a cloth from under the sink and wet it with room temperature water before pressing it to the burn. "Ow…" Kyle whimpers.

"Sh," I say softly. "You'll be fine…" Afterward, I apply a little Neosporin with a q-tip and place a breathable bandage over it. "There, done."

"Thanks, Stan…" he murmurs. "You're too nice to me… I cause you so much fucking grief, but you're still here. I break your heart, but you're still here."

Kyle's broke my heart too many times to count, but I won't say that aloud. I need to stop being so fucking selfish. "I'm here because I want to be, Kyle. I love you."

"I know," he whispers.

"Can you try quitting smoking?" I request gently, kneeling in front of where he's seated.

He lets out a breath, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead on my shoulder. "I'll cut down," he murmurs into my neck.

"Okay," I say. It's progress, at least.

"Maybe someday I'll quit." He lifts his head and stares at me. "But not just yet."

"Okay," I say once more, forcing a smile.

He rolls his eyes at me. "Don't give me a fake smile in an attempt to make me think you're fucking proud. I know you're not. I'm not giving you any of the answers you want. You're not proud of me. You have no reason to be. I don't give you any reason to be proud. I'm a piece of shit to you and I'm a piece of shit to myself."

"Kyle…" I start. "Shut the fuck up for a sec, okay?"

"Excuse me?" he scoffs.

"You heard me," I say. "I told you to shut up because I don't really enjoy hearing you trash-talk yourself. I don't get it. I might be insensitive sometimes, but it's because I don't get it. I mean, how could I possibly ever understand what it is your feeling? I don't. Chances are, I never will. I mean… no one understand what you're going through except for you. Other people might understand more than me. Other people might have similar experiences, but in the end your experiences are only your own. There's no way I can know how to do the exact right thing because I don't know how you're feeling and you hardly talk about these things. It's hard, right? I don't blame you. So, look… I'm sorry if I fuck up. I'm sorry if I yell. I'm sorry if I make you feel worse about yourself than you already feel. I'm sorry if I'm saying all the wrong things. I'm sorry if, right this second, I'm saying something you don't need to hear… I'm just really fucking sorry, okay? I'm not trying to make you feel bad, I swear."

His lower lip trembles and he looks away, letting out a breath. "Shit," he says calmly. "You really know how to fuck me up in the best of ways, don't you?"

"So, I take it you're not too mad?" I assume.

"No, I'm not too mad," he says airily. "How could I be upset when you were so eloquent just now? Truly, I have been moved by your words."

My eyes narrow. "Are you being condescending?"

He glances at me and smiles. "Yeah, maybe a little bit." Nonetheless, he wraps his arms around me and I do the same to him, moving my hands up and down his back. I can feel his spine and it feels more prominent than it did earlier in the year.

"I love you," I say yet again.

"Yeah, yeah," he snorts. "I fuckin' love you, too." Before I can help it, I start crying. Fucking hell, I tried damn hard not to. Kyle doesn't say anything; he just chuckles sympathetically and pats my back. "You're worse than me sometimes," he says.

I don't reply. I can't find any words. Kyle scared the hell out of me today. He hurt himself on purpose and there was violent intent in what he did. Why? I don't get it. I don't get why someone would do a thing like that.

Kyle is getting colder and colder by the day. I don't know what it means. I don't know if it's because he's sick. I don't know if it's because he's trying to cope with every fucked up thing that's happening. I don't know. I don't fucking know. All I know is that I still fucking love him. When I say that, I mean it with every fibre of my being and that's why this hurts.

I don't stay at the Broflovski house much longer after that. I bid Kyle a goodbye and I let myself out. I leave quickly and without a word to Sheila. I wouldn't want her prying. Kyle wouldn't either.

Outside, it's snowing. In a matter of weeks, the weather will begin to change. Summer will come slowly and it won't stay for long, but nonetheless we'll all miss the snow. No one in South Park truly enjoys the summertime. When you're so used to the snow, you learn to love it.

By the time I arrive home, the house is quiet. Mom is probably still at work and Shelly is probably in her room. I don't bother going to check. I remove my boots and toss my coat onto the railing before trudging upstairs. I strip off my jeans and sweater, leaving myself in just a t-shirt and boxers. I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth before returning to my room. After flicking off the lights, I flop onto my bed and wrap myself in my duvet. It's still early, but I don't care. I'm tired, really fucking tired. I try to blank my mind, but it's an impossible task and I can feel a lump forming in my throat.

I sit up and press a hand to my forehead, trying to will away the tears but no such fucking luck. I sniff and sob and try to be quiet about it but clearly I don't do a good job.

Suddenly my door swings open and Shelly is standing there. "What the hell are you doing?" she snaps. "I can hear you from across the hall, turd!"

I let out a long keening noise and Shelly groans, probably annoyed at the fact that I'm crying like a baby. Nonetheless, she approaches me bedside and sits on the mattress next to me. Awkwardly, she pats my shoulder.

"What's the problem?" she asks with a sigh.

"I don't know what to do…" my voice breaks.

"About what?" she questions.

"Kyle," I say. I take a breath, trying to calm myself. Better out than in. I get why Kyle cries so damn much, I really do. It feels good to let things out.

"That ginger turd?" she asks. "What did he do?"

"He hurt himself on purpose," I reveal hoarsely, wiping my eyes dry.

"Oh…" she murmurs flatly, probably expecting something a lot more shallow. "That's pretty serious…"

"I know," I whisper. "It scared the hell out of me and now I'm scared he'll do it again."

"Before you got home from school yesterday Mom was telling Dad about you and Kyle," she tells me. "So… I heard most of it."

"What were they saying?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Mom told Dad you were spending a lot of time at the Broflovski house lately. She told him Kyle had a recent relapse on top of his OCD… I kinda knew you were gay for him before you admitted it."

"I'm not good at keeping secrets," I admit. "I only told Mom."

Shelly gives me a few slaps on the back. "He'll be okay," she says surely.

"You can't know that, Shelly…"

"Yeah," she relents, "but look at all the shit Kyle's been through. He always comes out on top in the end. He'll be okay."

"What if things just get too hard?"

"You can't really do much, Stan," she says. "I know you probably wish you could fix him and have it all be magic and unicorns and puppies and rainbows like in the movies. But that's just a big pile of bullshit. The only person who can make Kyle okay is Kyle himself. Of course, you can offer your support and his therapist can act as a guide… but ultimately, Kyle is the one who has to make the change. It'll happen when he's ready. Clearly… he isn't ready yet."

"I know," I whisper. "I wish I could do more for him."

"You're doing plenty by being his friend, Stan," she says. "I mean… look at most guys – they don't have friends they can be naked with. Mind out of the gutter, I don't mean naked like that… but naked, as in completely vulnerable. You probably make it easy for him to open up because you're so god damn sensitive. Everyone needs pussy friends like that. Especially boys because so many suffer from be a man syndrome. I'm sure Kyle is happy to have you."

"I know," I whisper again.

"So stop worrying and stop crying for God's sake, I'm trying to do my homework," she says, standing up. She leaves a moment later and returns to her own room across the hall.

I wonder if Kenny and Kevin ever have talks like this. I can kind of see why Kevin is so fond of Shelly now. I've never spoken to her like this before. I'll thank her in the morning.