Author's Note: Ah! Thank you so much for your guys' comments. I'm glad the consensus seems to be that they're in character. Remember: your comments power my laser-eyes which defend the planet against space attacks and the far-right!
I was in a very different state of mind when I was writing the first part verses the second part of this chapter... Probably due to the fact that for most of the second part I was listening to the song 'Everything is Awesome' on repeat. I'm not sure if it shows. (And holy Hell, I'm sorry it's so dang short, I didn't even realize until I saw the word count... it must be because not enough people are commenting!)
Weeks went by, and their cuts had begun to heal. Kyle had a few shallow ones that already had already turned into delicate pink scars. Eric kept a close watch on both of them. Infection could mean the worst. There was no room for sloppy mistakes.
Neither of them left the house at all. Cartman had Mr. Stotch bring him a list of things whenever the need arose.
"Wow, Eric. Are you sure you're staying in another day? I mean... people are starting to get real worried about you," Stotch nervously played with his hands, searching his friend's face.
"I have business to attend to, and I fear I may have some... minor illness."
"Oh no!" his eyes lit up, "Do you want me to call a doctor?"
"No, Butters," Eric rolled his eyes, using the man's old nickname, "Just get the stuff on here," he thrust a crumpled piece of parchment at him, "Don't fuck it up, okay?"
"Oh... Okay. But Eric, I just want to know, is this about Kyle? It's been almost a month. Have you thought about talking to someone about it?"
"I think I'm good," and with that Eric slammed the door in his face.
"Well that was fucking rude," Kyle scolded from the kitchen archway.
"You shouldn't even be out here!" Eric cried defensively, "What if he would've seen you?"
"What if he had?" Kyle huffed, slamming his copy of Wuthering Heights shut. In truth, he found it a bit boring, but it was one of the only books in the house he couldn't remember the plot of. He supposed that he could relate to being forced to stay in an estate with a deranged man.
Annoyed with Cartman for being an inconsiderate bastard, Kyle begun to stomp to a different room to pout. But Eric grabbed his arm, "If people saw you... They wouldn't understand. I'd be ostracized and God knows what they'd do to you."
"I know," Kyle's voice shook, "But he... seems like such a nice man. I want to meet someone. I feel so confined... You and the cat are great, but there's an entire world out there that I can only ever remember reading about! I see the people moving around from the window... I want to have human contact..."
Eric ran his hand over the red fuzz that was prickling on Kyle's head. They met each other's eyes. Their bodies touched lightly together, both conscious of how fragile the other was. Kyle brought his arms up to Eric's shoulders, pulling him close enough that their noses lightly brushed. Their lips finally met, eyes shut, pulses rising. It wasn't the first time since the reanimation that they had embraced and kissed. It was becoming a more frequent occurrence, Eric more comfortable with the idea, and Kyle feeling more like his old confident self as the days wore on.
Eric's breath was hot and pleasant on Kyle's trembling lips, "I'll... let you meet some of our friends. If it'll make you happy."
"Yes," Kyle gave him several more little kisses on his mouth, and squeezed onto his broad shoulders before letting go.
As he sauntered away, Eric couldn't help but watch his back and think of how much healthier Kyle had been looking. Skin that had been white and clammy glowed with life once more, with special thanks to the hours he spent in the sun, gazing out the open window longingly. Even some of the muscle Kyle had lost to his illness right before his death was filling in. He looked less like a lifeless rag-doll and more like himself... With a couple extra scratches.
The next evening, Cartman greeted his two oldest, and closest friends out on his porch. He gingerly moved to the side, letting them pass through the front doorway, "Gentlemen."
Stan stepped past him first, with a grimace and an eye-roll. His clothes remained dark and colorless in mourning. The depressed appearance he'd adopted was complete with bags under his lifeless eyes. Since Kyle's death he'd withdrawn himself from social gatherings, however small. He hadn't wanted to come tonight, but Cartman was very adamant. It was just the three of them anyhow. He figured the real reason Cartman called them over was to get drunk and cry together. A nice change to the last month he'd been at it alone.
Kenny walked in next, with a sad little smile on his face. "Hey, do me a favor and go easy on the guy, he's still really messed up about everything, okay?" Eric grunted incoherently. He'd never been particularly empathetic. Why should he care if Stan was upset? Whatever the case, he figured that old Stany would get over his little depression once he saw his dead best friend again. Who wouldn't?
Cartman placed both hands behind his back, and grinned at his friends manically, "I have something very exciting to share with you."
"One hundred proof alcohol?" Stan guessed with a lackluster gaze.
"Better."
"You finally bought me a pony?" Kenny squealed happily, knocking himself into Cartman playfully.
"Feh, and how would you plan to feed, and take care of that, poor boy?"
"Shut up! At least I'm not-"
Stan's voice cut through the pair, "Can you guys not play fight? It reminds me of when Cartman and... used to..." his voice wavered and faded. Holy shit, really? Apparently everything reminded him of Kyle.
The palpable emotion radiating off of Stan made Cartman more than slightly uncomfortable. So he cleared his throat loudly, and motioned toward the doorway, "Let's just go."
In the next room over, Kyle nervously tapped his hand on his leg. His face contorted oddly as he tried to remember how to do that smile he'd practiced in the mirror earlier. Lightly, he told himself. Too forced and it just looked grotesque, and boy did he not need help looking like a monster. A wave of self consciousness hit him, and he suddenly became very aware of that particularly ugly scar the wrapped around his head. It was the only big one he couldn't hide.
A few days earlier, Kyle recalled glumly, he'd found an old photograph. Oh, he wish he'd never found the horrible thing. It was of him, Cartman, and some other men, from before his death. He'd been entranced at first. It was proof that he'd had a life before. Friends. But than... when Kyle had excitedly shown Cartman, the man looked at the torn up black and white thing with such longing, and said, without thinking too much on it, "Hopefully that'll be you again someday."
It turned the whole picture sour. Kyle felt detached from his image in the picture. He didn't look how Kyle was supposed to, or think how Kyle was supposed to. What if that was never him again? He wanted to be enough right now. Whole. Unafraid to go into the world without facing probable persecution...
"Holy shit balls."
Kyle stood up at the sudden voice, walking slowly towards the new faces. He recognized them. From the picture... They were both stunned at the sight of him, and he wasn't sure what he should say. What do you say when you're an old friend among strangers?
The blond man was the first to recover. He narrowed his eyes and crept a few feet closer. "Kyle?" He whispered, "I knew it."
Kenny had been to both Heaven and Hell in the last month, multiple times, actually. Not once had he seen Kyle, and not for lack of searching. He'd known something was off. Now it was clear, Kyle's soul had never ascended because it'd been here all along.
It barely shook him to see his previously dead friend. No, he was merely ecstatic. Kenny grinned madly, and threw his arms around Kyle, "Damn, it's good to see you." Kyle groaned in slight pain, but patted Kenny's back bit. It was exactly the type of connection he'd been craving. The heat of another body, the feel of a loving presence around him. And from a new face. A new personality.
Their reunion was interrupted by Stan chanting, "No, no, no..." Everyone looked toward the shaken man. His tired expression had turned manic. "You. You're dead," he pointed at Kyle, and slowly backed away.
"Obviously he's not, dumbass," Cartman rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorway in a bored manner.
The inconsiderate gesture only rattled Stan more. He turned on Cartman, taking him up by the front of his shirt and shaking him, "No!" he grimaced and blinked rapidly, as if trying to wake himself up from a sort of nightmare, "I saw it! I was there! He died in my arms. Kyle is dead! Dead dead dead! Don't try and tell me-"
Kenny gently touched his shoulder, guiding him away from Cartman. He spoke nice and soft, as not to offend the obviously precarious state Stan was in, "Stan, Kyle is standing right next to us. Alive. Why don't we just calm down and give Kyle and Cartman a chance to explain themselves, okay?"
Stan stared blankly at him a moment. Kyle had been gone a month. It didn't seem like very long on a grand scale, but the last weeks had felt like a Hellish eternity to Stan. He'd barely come to terms with Kyle's death, and now they were thrusting this faceless ragdoll at him and telling him that his other half was really alive and well. It had to be another nightmare. Stan hesitantly glanced at Kyle once more. It really did look like him. The thing looked so afraid. Of him. Of what he'd say. Maybe... Stan bit his lip and quietly asked, "Kyle? Is it... is it really you?"
"Yes- I think so... I mean... can't remember much from before my death-"
"From before your death? What?" Stan searched his beat friend's scarred up face, than spun around to Cartman again. He rose an accusing finger towards his fat chest, "What the FUCK did you do?"
Cartman scoffed, "You mean besides bring your supposed best friend back from the dead -almost killing myself in the process? Uh, not fucking much."
"He was dead... And you... I don't know what you did, but this isn't right," Stan growled, trying to work everything out in his head. He spent much of the last weeks talking with his priest. He'd never been much of a religious type before, but he found it was something to cling on to. The priest had been trying to placate him by telling him that God needed his friend. That everything was supposed to die. And well, Stan had begun to find solace in his faith. This all seemed very sacrilegious to him.
"How do we know it's even him anymore? He says he doesn't remember anything!"
Cartman's nearly nonexistent patience was completely gone, "Look, I don't know why you're being such a dickhole about this, but he IS starting to remember. I've been looking into retrograde amne-"
"Jesus Christ! Just stop!" Stan pulled at his hair, "Kenny, you can't possibly condone this fat asshole... playing God!"
"Stan..." Kenny patted a wilted Kyle's shoulder, "You're upsetting him."
"Oh? I'm fucking upsetting the dead guy?" Stan threw his hands up, "Let me explain this to you. Kyle is GONE. Cartman desecrated his grave, and made some kind of..." he looked Kyle up in down in reproach, "...THING out of his remains. And we're just supposed to act like everything is fine?"
Cartman was getting a little tired of this charade. He didn't really care if Stan was in a delicate state of mind. No one insulted Eric Cartman. Least of all in his own fucking home. Not to mention that he was obviously making Kyle uncomfortable. He pushed himself off the wall, and attempted to puff himself up to look more threatening, "Quit being such a prick or get the fudge out of my house."
Stan shoved his hands into his pockets, heading toward the door with a grimace, "Don't think this is over, you twisted fuck..."
"Out!"
The room fell silent as they listened to the thundering of Stan's departure. When the door slammed, Kyle's silent composer fell. He quickly walked over to Cartman. Pale little fingers grabbed ahold of Cartman's shirt, as if it was the only thing that could anchor them to the Earth. Kyle couldn't stand to look anyone in the face, not even Cartman just than, so he buried his head into the soft cloth bunch up his grasp. "You were right-" is all he could could manage to squeak out before breaking down into a quivering mess of tears.
Cartman sighed and put an arm around the frail shivering man. There wasn't really a place for his usual 'I told you so' followed by a series of childish mockery, but he wasn't sure what else there was to say. So he just kept his mouth shut. Maybe Kenny would be of better help in the comfort department. He looked toward him and dramatically mouthed, 'Say something.'
Kenny, who had been watching the oddly affectionate display with some amount of interest, shrugged in response and silently replied, 'What?'
'SOMETHING NICE.'
Kenny rolled his eyes, his body shaking with a quiet laughter at Cartman's ineptitude. He reached his hand out and patted Kyle's back, calculating exactly what he wanted to say.
"Stan... was closer to you than anyone else. It really messed him up when you- you know. I promise, it's not your fault that he reacted the way he did. It's just that he's in a really dark place right now. I'm sure he'll come out of it soon, though." Kyle's red, tear stained face turned to glance at Kenny, who smiled gently back at him. "If it makes you feel any better, I think it's fucking tits that you're back. Things just haven't been the same without our little bookworm around." A smile cracked onto Kyle's face, yeah that was him alright.
For the first time since his feeling of confinement had set in, hope was instilled in Kyle. Hope for a tomorrow with freedom and acceptance.
But across town, in a study deep within the confines of a tiny suburban house, the air took on a much more stale quality. Everything was shrouded in darkness, sans the corner cast in the light of one small flame in the center of a candelabra. The wax on the candle was nearly completely melted off, but the flickering light that shone onto the ghastly features of one Stan Marsh was exactly the same as if the candle had been brand new. He sat with an empty bottle of scotch hanging loosely in one hand. His other hand brushed loosely against his face, feeling the hollowness of his under eyes and the worried wrinkles forming on his young face. His life was a fucking disaster.
"Stan?" a high but gentle voice called from the doorway. There, in the harsh light if the hallway, stood the silhouette of his fiancé, Wendy.
"Oh God. Oh God, Wendy..." Stan wailed, hitting the back of his head on the chair.
"What? What happened?" She picked up her long, layered skirt and rushed to his side. When she saw the alcohol he was handling, her face twisted in slight resentment, but she kept her complaints to herself for now.
"It's Kyle. He's... I mean to say... his body is..." Stan struggled to find the correct term. He didn't believe that Kyle was alive. Just that his body had been reanimated.
"What? Did something happened to his grave?"
"Yes. Cartman. He... he somehow made it move again. His body. It can walk and talk..."
"Kyle... He's alive?" Wendy asked in a slow, unsure tone.
"No! No, no... It's not him. It can't be..."
"You've been drinking an awful lot, Stan," she told him hesitantly.
Stan stood up defensively, throwing his hands up, "I know what I saw, okay. It was him- but it's not RIGHT, Wendy. It's... It's blasphemous, is what it is."
A shadow fell over Wendy's face, "You're positive that he's back?"
"Yes, for God's sakes, Wendy, I think I know my own best friend when I see him. Even if he's... a zombie or whatever..."
"Stan, sweetie? I can guarantee you that it wasn't him. It's just stress from lack of sleep."
"No, it was-"
"You just need to sleep it off. I'm sure you'll feel better once you sleep."
"-it was really Kyle, though-"
"Oh, fuck it," Wendy muttered, and grabbed the empty scotch bottle from Stan. He gave her a questioning look, right before she smashed the glass over his head.
"Ow! Fucking Hell, why did you-" he rubbed his bruised head tenderly, blinking away black spots. His slight daze made his reaction to Wendy smacking him with an oversized encyclopedia too slow. He fell to the floor, unconscious.
"That always works the first time in the films," Wendy muttered irritably. She knelt over him, opening one of his eyes. It didn't dilate. Also the blood on the encyclopedia was a little bit worrisome. She whispered apologetically, "Sorry, Stan."
Leaving her bloodied fiancé passed out on top of broken shards of glass, Wendy briskly walked to the old black phone, picked up the receiver, and gave the operator the extension she needed. "It's Wendy. Yah. We've got a problem."
I hope what I was trying to accomplish with Stan came across right... He's not the bad guy, the Catholics just got to him. And I can say that because I (sort of used be) Catholic.
In personal me-news: I've been trying to seduce an on-the-fence-bisexual Laotian. She's much too nice for me, but wish me luck anyhow! In the comments maybe? With comprehensive feedback to the story attached?