The Courage of Others
Courage is an empty word.
Courage is a school value, a pretence. Something that only comes naturally to those who won the genetic lottery. Some say it can be learnt, through practice and falsified smiles, but in Stan's rational mind, that would be the errand of a fool. And he, as he would have us know, is no fool.
No fool indeed. He has such sharp eyes; his mannerisms are intent and purposeful. Time has lifted him from the troubles and the tribulations of youth, so why, today, does he carry some of them with him? He has tells, of course. When his hat isn't on quite straight. When one of the buttons on his coat is left flailing. When his lips quiver.
"She made me come."
He speaks softly, as if he regrets ever speaking at all. Perhaps he does. It's hard for you to tell.
"She cares for you."
"I know. She told me so."
His response is choppy, too sharp, too wired. You'd hesitate to call it a lie, but as ever with Stan, it may not be the entire truth.
"What did you do today?"
It's a simple enough question, but it makes Stan's expression wither. He quickly casts his eyes to the draperies, sky blue and hollow, casts his eyes to a vase, adorned with a single golden chrysanthemum. The spiralling petals serve as a distraction.
"Not much."
Your prepared replies falter. They shouldn't; at least he's here, this time. It's some development from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.
"Breakfast?"
"Yogurt."
"Flavour?"
"Peach and apricot. Can I go, yet?"
You don't reply. A tattered notebook is thrust towards him. The cover is green leather, bound by twine and a single silver nightingale pin. The pin catches Stan's finger as he takes it, a delicate teardrop of blood blossoming onto the cover below.
His questioning expression is met with your gaze, familial and yet so far departed. You've seen so many like him before; this is nothing new. I can see it in your eyes, and it makes me burn with anger when you give him that look.
The one that reads: this one is up to you.
…
To them, it never really mattered how they came together. It doesn't matter how they fell into one another's lives, it doesn't matter who asked who, who kissed who, when, and how. What mattered was that they Were and that they could Be. This was important.
Deciding this took courage. Kyle's courage was to relieve himself of Cartman's burden, to shut out those that disapproved. Stan's courage was to stop answering Randy's angry phone calls. Their combined courage was to buy a house in England, far away from former connections, and to start anew.
There had been a time - the scariest time in Stan's life - when it had seemed they would be separated. Kyle had been offered a scholarship at Berklee College Of Music, meanwhile, Stan was headed to Colorado State to study fucking Psychology of all things, a subject of which he had no interest whatsoever. In those few days, there was nothing.
But then, three days into the semester, at 1:32 AM, there had been a knock at the door, and the next thing Stan knew, Kyle was there, snuggled up to him, because he'd transferred and couldn't live without him - and a million other sappy things that Kyle wrote and sung about over the next few years. Words so warm to Stan that he kept them, bound and protected as they should be; they were as they should be, and it was blissful.
England is 'quite nice', by Stan's estimation. Kyle finds that amusing, as he sweeps through the door of their quaint townhouse, a cheap affair in a dodgy estate of Liverpool, but their cheap affair in a dodgy estate of Liverpool. Stan's favourite place is the docks, shipfuls of goods flowing seamlessly from source to destination. Then Kyle finds a street of 'the gayest shops ever, dude', and they spend the rest of the day buying rainbow badges and fake pot plants.
"It's nice to feel as if we're not gonna get shot, just for walking down the street," Stan comments, lazing in the park. Students rush past, a redhead amongst them, anxious and ready for another taste of academia. Kyle trails the redhead with his eyes, his bag half-open, mouth taught in worry. It sends a surge of familiarity through him, and he found himself wondering if this boy had a Stan somewhere as well.
Stan looks glorious today, thinks Kyle, all soft and fuzzy. They're sharing a punnet of grapes - one of those mixed ones, because Stan likes the sweetness of the red, whilst Kyle prefers the crispness of the green. Their hands are clasped around one another, and it's one of those movie moments, Stan thinks, where he can't remember how he got so lucky. Kyle takes a lot of photos. His favourites are the ones where Stan smiles.
The house looks glorious too, once the decorations are done. The kitchen is cramped, but always full of food; apples, oranges, freshly-baked tiger bread, all overflowing out of jars and bowls. In the lounge, a series of beanbags and sofas made up the seating arrangements, memorabilia from fandoms or occasions filling shelves and walls. The bedroom is comfortable, a double bed packed with blankets and pillows and cushions, a wardrobe full of their clothes on the opposite end.
Life wasn't perfect, how could it be? But Stan felt it completely, and saw every colour, bright or dark.
…
Stan eventually goes, words few and far between, leaving you on your own. You only notice me when you move into the office to sign papers, and I relish in the curse upon your lips.
"Fuck - how did you get in here?"
I choose not to answer, imploring you to ask the question, the one that you always ask me.
"What happened to him? To Stan?"
My lip curls. "Aren't you supposed to be figuring that out?"
A hand drifts to your head. You feel heavy, weighed down by another lengthy day. "You're his boyfriend. Why can't you be the one to help him?"
"You're the professional. It's your job."
I sit easily on your desk. You grit your teeth. You hate it when I do that.
"My job is made much easier with cooperation. From all involved parties."
I give you a searching look. I can tell you think I'm full of myself, which makes me scowl. "Not all secrets are mine to reveal."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because-"
"Excuse me?" A woman's voice rings out from the hallway. It's Janice. You like her - I can see it in the way your pupils dilate, and your stomach fills with butterflies. It makes me jealous. "Are you in?"
You stand, adjusting your hair that little bit. You give me a pointed look, and I'm gone from the scene, leaving you to live out those gorgeous fantasies.
…
Courage lets them make new friends, and start new jobs in their new paradise. Stan uses his psychology degree to sign volunteer at a clinic, something that Kyle admires considerably. Stan thinks Kyle's job is cooler though, owning a studio, having up-and-coming bands in to record fresh new singles. They're still sure to put aside time for one another, for sex, and meals, and discussions about Very Silly Things, and it doesn't matter that Kyle forgets things sometimes, or that Stan has anxiety, because they are together, and nothing can ever take that away.
They lie in bed, entwined. Stan feels warm, he pulls out all of Kyle's worries about money, people, and the clinic's godforsaken team-building exercises. Later on, they get out the photo album, laughing at that picture of the two of them, six years old, covered in orange paint. They smile at the photos from Kyle's 13th birthday party, where Kenny had kissed Butters, and Cartman had destroyed the cake. They'd played seven minutes of heaven, Kyle remembers with a nostalgic jolt, and he and Stan had spent those minutes blushing and apologising in the closet.
Liverpool is 'quite nice', by Stan's estimation, which makes Kyle laugh because it's more than nice, it's home now. Kenny flies over to visit on one occasion, bringing a get-well-soon card and a cheery smile, and it's good to see him.
"Do you ever miss South Park?"
They've been munching their ways through a punnet of strawberries, sitting on the docks. They take a photo. The three of them. The way it used to be.
"Sometimes," Stan shrugs, thinking of racing icy laps of Stark's pond against Kyle. "What's it like, nowadays?"
"No idea. I moved to Illinois."
"What for?" Kyle's surprise is plain. He's never been good at hiding his emotions.
"Work, mostly. Decatur is a shithole, noisy engines, and that fucking grain smell - I want to move away."
Stan thinks Kenny has mellowed out since their childhood. Kyle reckons Kenny still runs a secret weed dealing business. Kenny goes back to the states a day later, promising to send letters, but Kyle realises he forgot to give him their address.
As time moves on, the visitors increase. Stan holds Kyle's hand when the Broflovski family come, because Kyle is scared and thinks his parents will be angry with him. They don't shout though, they only seem sad, sad that they live so far away. They bring presents of flowers and, wisely, an old Nintendo Wii. Mario Kart helps them through many long nights after that.
Kyle smiles, and Stan sees every colour, bright or dark.
…
It takes a week for Stan to come back. You're unhappy, but you don't ring him enough times, you don't make enough effort. I tell you that, and it makes you angry.
When you next see Stan, you notice he looks a lot worse than before. The hat has been abandoned entirely, weighted bags hang under his eyes, a sight that makes my insides burn at the sight. I'm not sure if you fear me, or if you genuinely care, but that's what switches something inside of you.
You slip the leather notebook onto the table. He touches it. His hands are still soft, as soft as the day they were made. This time, he doesn't prick his finger.
"Why do you have this?"
"It was a request," you murmur. "Breakfast?"
Stan rolls his eyes. "Yogurt."
"What flavour?"
"Mango and Vanilla. What's the point of this?"
I can feel your eyes attempting to seek me out. I can feel your frustration when I have nothing to offer.
Blithely, you wave to the other room. "Nurse Janice?"
Janice comes in. She's relatively tall - for a lady - with sleek auburn hair, and those hazel eyes that you like so much. She's kind too, that's your favourite part; one time you watched her feeding the ducks for nearly an hour. It made you feel like a creep at the time. Looking back, perhaps it was sweet.
"What is it? Oh - Stan, hello…"
Janice sits beside you. Stan's face is worried, he doesn't like being treated this way, like a special case. You already know this, of course, that's why your calendar is open on your desk, bursting to the seams with other appointments.
"Look," Stan spreads his arms in frustration. "This isn't helping. You guys always ask the same stupid questions, and I keep giving the same stupid answers! I shouldn't even be here. This is ridiculous."
"Stan-"
"No." His chair scrapes against the cold vinyl flooring. "I'm not doing this anymore. No matter how much she thinks I need it!"
As he leaves, you want nothing more than to follow.
But you can't.
…
It takes courage to move out of their cheap affair in a dodgy estate in Liverpool, but it's one of those things that has to be done. Kyle goes into each room one last time on moving day, savouring the last moment of their presence. We'll come back, Stan assures him. One day.
Stan holds his hand extra tight on the journey.
Sometimes when Kyle looks at Stan, really looks, he sees something unnerving; so often, when their eyes meet, it's like Stan hurts. Whilst Stan's hands are softly palming his back, his cheeks are dripping and Kyle finds it hard to understand. Maybe he isn't good enough? But didn't they promise, always and forever?
"I won't leave you," Stan mumbles into the darkness, one night. "Never. Not even if you died."
Kyle laughs. "That's impossible, dude. At least make promises you can keep."
Stan sighs. Kyle can feel his arms, snaking around his torso, mapping out the familiar territory of his curved hips. He eases into the touch, allowing the warmth to surround him, as Stan softly speaks. "I promise that we'll make the best of everything. I promise that we'll be okay, in the end."
The clock ticks in the distance. Kyle listens to it, and the rhythm sends him to sleep.
The new house is 'quite nice', by Stan's estimation, and it makes Kyle laugh because it isn't. Everything is too sterile, white, modern and clean. They're only allowed to put up one photo - of course, they choose the photo of the two of them, covered head to toe in orange paint. That's Kyle's favourite.
Stan and Kyle spend a lot of time indoors, but they still go outside on occasion, to watch the stars or the sunset, or to go on a walk around the suburbs. Bigger trips are expensive and impractical, plus they tire Kyle out; being around too many people is exhausting. Life is fine, just the two of them, together. They listen to a lot of music, The Cardigans, Blur, even some of Stan's 'dad rock' taste, Steely Dan. A little system is formed, where they'll give albums a score; Kyle thinks it's geeky at first, but in reality, it's quite fun.
Darkness becomes Kyle's new favourite time of the day, when the blemishless walls aren't so bright, and Stan can curl up beside him and keep him warm. That's the one thing that's always stayed the same, that will never change, from their sleepovers every Thursday night, to their college years of Stan secretly taking residence in Kyle's flat (much to the chagrin of his flatmates - not that he cared much for their drug-addled views). Kyle was the little spoon of the relationship, despite his dissent towards labels, which meant extra good cuddles and extra doting from his dearest Stan.
Stan rests his chin on Kyle's bony shoulder. "Hey, dude."
"Hey," Kyle smiles.
Then they're kissing as if they haven't kissed in decades. The feeling has never erred, never altered, hot dynamite slipping down their throats and bursting red-hot in their stomachs. The first time had been awkward, hurried limbs and hurried breathing in an IKEA showroom. It had been a simple trip with Kyle's dad, they were fifteen and Stan had tagged along, and a simple confession had led to awkward smiles and secret stolen glances for the rest of the day. Adolescence fast became an amalgamation of studying, stealing booze and hour-long hungry kisses from under the noses of their parents.
Kyle's neck burns as Stan's hands slip around his waist, pulling him in. He will never grow tired of the way Stan holds him, like he's delicate, precious, at risk of falling apart. His kisses are tender and frequent, to the forehead, the cheek, the lips, and then the neck, leading down into forbidden ecstasy.
It shoots colours through Kyle's vision, and he sees every single one of them, bright or dark.
…
"Go to the estate," I say quietly, perched on the edge of your desk. A cold cup of coffee sits beside you, your head buried in calloused hands.
"I can't. It's not permitted - autonomy is important. I cannot help if he doesn't want to be helped."
"What about beneficence?" I kick my legs into space, looking almost childish in my position. Papers rustle on the desk - Stan's file. The leather-clad notebook is open next to it, a blurry set of photographs inside, ones I can't quite distinguish. You distinguish them just fine, after all, your imagination has always been more vivid than most.
Your glasses fog, hot air rushing upwards from your covered mouth. "The moral dilemma of beneficence versus autonomy made up nearly half of my PhD, and yet, I failed to reach a conclusion."
I swing into an upright position before you. My shirt ripples in the heavy air. "Then follow your gut. Help him. I'm waiting."
You close the notebook, an audible groan escaping your lips. What to do? What can be done? Surely this is just another appointment, another person to deal with. Why is it that all of a sudden, it matters? Haven't you always been able to distance yourself from your work? Not let other people get in the way? Then again, you never had the courage of others, did you?
Janice works hastily in the office next to your own. She catches you staring, and she gives a fleeting smile, one that fills you with warmth. What would she do? She briskly stands, stepping through the door to use the water cooler, moving like a ripple in a wave. The sunlight catches her gleaming hair in the doorway, and she gives you a subtle grin before she's gone once again.
You stand. Stan Marsh needs you. The address is in his file. You clutch the notebook in your hand, and you stride into the day.
…
Sharon, Sheila and Gerald all visit at similar times. The meetings blur into one, so much so that they could've been on the same day.
"You'll be back home in no time," Sheila promises, producing a sumptuous bouquet. Kyle balks, thinking of South Park.
"That's right," Gerald agrees. "It'll be okay."
"It's nice here," Kyle mumbles. "I like Liverpool."
"Oh, Kyle," Sheila reprimands as if he's a foolish eight-year-old all over again. "Now, where's Stanley?"
Kyle looks to his side, finding it disconcertingly absent, before he remembers. "He's gone out to buy groceries. He wanted to cook you - us - some lunch… I think."
"Aw, how sweet! I told you, didn't I, Gerald? I told you they'd be a wonderful pair."
"Yeah," Gerald says, his voice tinged with sadness. "I guess you did."
It hadn't been easy, telling them. Kyle's parents came to campus to visit, and to interrogate Kyle into why on Earth you would give up such a wonderful scholarship!
"Beats me," Stan had said, with a chuckle.
"I wanted to be with Stan," Kyle stuck out his bottom lip. "I hated it in Berklee. My roommates went out drinking - and doing drugs," Kyle added, knowing this would appease his mother. "I got really homesick and I cried most nights. Luckily, Colorado State was still accepting applications."
"But what about your degree, bubbeh? All the nice Boston girls?"
"It's okay, they do music here too," Kyle sighed, exasperated. "I'm part of the band and everything. And, mom, I don't like girls, I like Stan."
For about ten seconds, there'd been silence.
"What-What-WHAAAT?"
"It's true," Stan had shrugged. "Girls suck."
Sheila practically clapped her hands with joy. "I can't believe it! My own son - he's finally in a relationship! Oh, I'm so, so proud of you!"
"It's not that big a deal," Kyle muttered sheepishly, but he was muffled by a bone-crushing hug.
"When's the wedding, bubbeh? Are you going to adopt? Gerald, isn't this wonderful?"
"It's alright," Gerald said. "But - Stan - you haven't spoken to Randy about this, have you?"
Stan froze. "What? No, why?"
Gerald gulped. "He's been on the wrong side of Twitter. He reckons gay people are just seeking attention. I can't imagine he'd be very happy if he knew his son was one of them."
"Gerald!" Sheila reprimanded. "Don't say such things! I'm sure Randy would love Stanley no matter what, he's a wonderful boy!"
Stan and Kyle exchanged a nervous glance.
Once Sheila and Gerald had gone on their way, Stan set about writing the letter to his parents. Kyle had checked it through for spelling errors, and then they'd walked to the postbox and, rather cheesily, thought Kyle, simultaneously let go of the envelope.
The first angry phone call came three days later.
…
"Stan! I know you're in there!"
You rap sharply on the front door. There's peeling paint, a crooked number one hanging from a dusty brick on the side. You're not alone, by your side is a woman, with immense red hair and an expression that could kill.
"Stanley! It's me, you need to let me in, right now!"
There's a click. You clench your clipboard tight, stepping over the threshold, Sheila right behind. You think you can hear me nearby, and once you're satisfied, you close the door to look at the specimen before you.
If his condition could be described, it would be the word 'hopeless' that is the most suitable.
He seems to have forsaken even the barest concept of sleep. There are caverns beneath his eyes, pooling above grizzled facial hair and sallow cheeks. Even his demeanour is gone, smart, upright Stan, has been defeated.
"You're getting worse," Sheila bustles through the room, setting groceries on the table. "So, I've brought the doctor here, since you clearly aren't putting yourself first!"
"But-"
Sheila shakes a finger. "Young man, what would Sharon think of you right now? What would she say?"
Stan's expression burns. "Don't talk about my mom."
You make your way further into the house. It's worse than you imagined, apples and oranges rotting in the fruitbowl, a half-eaten loaf of tiger bread on the side. As Sheila practically pushes Stan into the lounge, you notice me, sitting cross-legged on the surface.
"Look at it," I murmur, staring at all that surrounds me. You look.
"Our home," I continue. "It's in ruin."
"I know," you reply, gruff. "What do I do?"
"Help him. It could be your last chance."
As I disappear through the doorway, you straighten your tie, you adjust your clipboard. There's a lump in your throat. This could be one of the hardest things you have done, but for once I have some faith. Maybe you feel that, or maybe you're just doing the right thing, because you walk into the lounge without missing a beat.
"Stanley Marsh."
"You have to do something," Sheila begs. "Look at him!"
You take one of the absently strewn beanbags from the floor, sitting upon it. You open the leather-bound notebook, balancing it on your knee. Stan eyes the images within, unnerved and crooked, his leg jigging in anticipation.
"It's going to be difficult," you say, with a half-glance towards me. "But, I need you to take me from the start to the very end. Okay?"
Stanley Marsh gulps. "Okay."
…
To Kyle, the time in the plain house feels altogether too long, and yet altogether too short. When news of Sharon's passing from leukaemia reaches then, Kyle holds Stan tight as he cries and cries and cries. But they're together. They always will be.
More visitors come to give their condolences. Kyle doesn't know them all, and he finds that a little weird, but there are old friends as well. Uncle Jimbo stops by, though he gets confused and gives Kyle the flowers instead. Gerald and Sheila come by once again as well, and they hug Stan tight and cry for what seems like an age. Even Mr Mackey shows up - though only to remind Stan not to get into drugs from his grief, because drugs are bad, m'kay?
Stan mellows out with time, and he drives Kyle to the funeral. It's a mournful affair, but the day ends back in bed, the white lights of the room immersing him.
Time moves, as always. Stan starts cooking again, they listen to more albums than Kyle can count, they greet the visitors and take a lot of phone calls. It comes to a point that Kyle can hardly remember the days before, when everything wasn't so easy, when everything was difficult, and he likes it, floating in bliss through the day-to-day. There's occasionally fear, fear of purposelessness, fear that something is missing, and that makes his head hurt, but that's alright.
"I love you," Stan whispers, one day, just like any other. "You'll never forget that, right?"
Kyle smiles. "Of course not. How could I?"
Stan strokes his palm with his hand. The bright lights are hazy, and Kyle feels himself caught awash in a wave of drowsiness.
"Kiss me," Stan says, and so Kyle does, and it's wonderful, it always is. Somewhere whilst they're breathing for air, he notices people, various people, floating through the room.
"Who are they?" Kyle asks.
"Just visitors, friends, family," Stan says, again. "They've come to see us. We're very popular."
"Popular? Us?"
"Yeah, dude. Of course we're popular."
There's a comfortable silence.
Kyle thinks of all the wonderful things they might do tomorrow. Maybe they'll watch some more stupid films, maybe they'll just cuddle all day, or perhaps they'll look at the photos again. Kyle's book - bound in leather - is just there, on the bedside table. It's pretty, next to the old birthday cards and the flowers and chocolates that Stan keeps buying.
Kyle gives a contented hum, propped up against his lover's soft shoulder. "I love you too, dude. I forgot to say it before."
He can feel it closer now, sleep's gentle arms. Perhaps he's dreaming. Perhaps he always has been, maybe that would explain why everything's been so comfortable. Warmth, tenderness, Stan's little words, they're all his, stored in a little treasure chest for only him to know and keep. It's what he's held onto all his life.
There's a kiss on his forehead. "I know you love me. I'll never forget it. Get some rest, Kyle. You must be so, so, tired."
It's all the permission he needs, drifting into the sunset. Something wet and unfamiliar drips onto Kyle's cheek, and then he closes his eyes, nestled comfortably in the arms of the one he loves.
A million cardinals die. Trillions of chrysanthemums wither and burst into scorching flame. Stan grips until he feels like his arms are going to break under the strain, and then Sheila is pulling him away, the doctors are spinning forwards, the lights growing dim.
The colours bleed from Stan's vision, and he sees none of them, only grey on grey.
…
"It was bacterial meningitis that killed him," Sheila tells you, matter-of-factly. "A dreadful thing. He slowly lost his memories, just kept saying Stan's name. I'm not sure he even realised where he was."
Stan covers his face with his hands. I watch your expression crumble, as you look between me, the leather-bound notebook, and Stan's broken visage.
"It'll take a lot of time," you say. You're honest, as honest as you can be. "It should hurt. If it didn't, then there'd be something horribly wrong."
"I can't stay here," Stan shivers. "It's full of him - this place. Everywhere I go."
You turn to Sheila. "Have you been keeping him here?"
She's affronted. It stings you a little bit. "Someone had to look after him! He's got no-one left - he moved away from everyone else, didn't he?!"
There's a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. A green ushanka is amongst them..
"It's not all lost," you say, looking up to me for reassurance. I gift you a faint smile. "Stan, will you see me? For grief counselling? There'll be others there - it'll be a group thing, you don't have to talk, you don't have to do anything, just be there, is that okay?"
Stan nods, a little too quickly.
"It'll hurt, for a very long time. Some days it will be unbearable, some days it will be even worse than that. But we can help you live, Stan. Live better than in this mess. If you'll please accept it."
You watch me sit invisibly beside him. You watch Sheila putting a comforting arm around his shoulder.
"Okay," Stan murmurs, a little more fight in his voice than before. "I'll come. I'll - I'll get help. For Kyle."
"For Kyle," you agree, standing.
For me.
In a couple days' time, Stan moves into the clinic for regular sessions and therapy. A few days later, you and Janice go out for dinner, and it surprises you when she kisses you on the mouth. Later in your office, you catch a glimpse of the notebook and my diminutive form, sitting on the edge of your desk.
I turn to you, for the barest hint of a second, and you know that you succeeded, and that I am proud.
Your voice is but a whisper: "Thank you, Kyle."
You close the leather notebook. We exchange the slightest of nods, and then I simply fade away into nothing.
It doesn't surprise you. Like I said; your imagination has always been more vivid than most.
But at least you can see it. In every colour.
Bright or dark.
…