Authors Note: Well, this took forever. I'm sure no one remembers this fic or really gives a crap, but hey.. I want to finish it, so... Onward I go. :)
Chapter 3- Mind Love-Making
I'm pissed through the weekend and refuse to answer Stan's phone calls or acknowledge his presence when he comes to the door. Luckily my mom hadn't been around to answer, and my dad and Ike are just plain too lazy to care.
Yesterday I timed him. He stayed on the doorstep for exactly forty-three minutes and eleven seconds, knocking profoundly and demanding I open up because "I know you're in there, ass licker!" I ate my sandwich quietly and secretly relished the fact that his weekend was being wasted on me, even if he wasn't actually with me. At this point, I figured that any attention was good, because it meant he still remembered who the hell I was and, most importantly, that he cared.
Monday, I'm sitting by my locker, writing out the report due third period. I feel a presence to my right, and a quick glace at the shoes confirm it's the ass wipe. I'm still mad, rightfully in my opinion, and so I go back to my paper. The only thing I have to say to him are four letter words, anyway.
"Kyle, can I talk to you?"
I finish writing out a sentence. "Why?" He watches as I begin scratching my pen across the paper again.
"Because, dude!" He exclaims, as if that explains everything in its entirety. I don't say anything, so he goes on. "We're best friends and you ignored me all weekend because of a stupid little fight."
I snort, eyes never leaving my homework. "It wasn't a stupid little fight." I argue. "You called me a fag."
It's got to be the worst insult to be thrown at an adolescent boy, especially when he's harboring thoughts that could be considered borderline gay. It's one of those 'hit too close to home' things, and that's not cool.
"Cartman calls you a fag all the time." He reasons.
"Cartman," I remind him, cringing at the foul taste the name conjures. "is a self-righteous bastard. You are suppose to be my friend."
"Kyle, I am your friend." He whines, sounding helpless and pathetic and just a bit pleading.
Snapping my notebook closed, I shove that along with my pen and textbook into my book bag and stand. I want to believe him, but I just can't. "Then I guess we don't have the same idea of what friendship should be."
Worry lines crease the normally smooth skin between his eyes. Looking at him, I can see circles under his eyes and obvious fatigue in his stance; His hat is leaning to one side.
"Kyle, please," his lower lip trembles. "you're my best f-friend."
How many times have I heard him say that? I realize I can't even begin to count the number of times he's reminded me just how important I am to him and where I rank on his list of friends; The Best. In Stan's eyes, no one can measure up to me. He's chosen me, out of everyone else, as his very favorite. In all honesty, I view him in the exact same light. But how many times have I told him so? Once? Twice? A handful at the very most. He reminds me all the time, every chance he can.
I feel guilty, and I don't like feeling that way. It's why I never do anything wrong, and If I do, I have to make it right. My heart trips over itself as I stare into his eyes. Two large, sparkling orbs of deep blue begging for understanding.
"Could you guys get a fucking room or something? Jesus."
The spell is broken, and we both glower at our "friend"… thing.
"What the hell do you want, fat ass?"
"I want you two fags to quit making love with each other in your minds, It's gonna make me puke!"
"We're not making love-"
"Anymore." I cut in, finishing off Stan's sentence. He blinks at me, and then his eyes go wide.
"WHAT!"
"… Come again?" Cartman asks, one eyebrow arched high on his head.
Opening my locker, I shove everything I don't need for first period inside. "I broke it off last Friday." I slam the locker closed, then face Cartman. "He was suppose to spend the night with me, but he snuck out with Wendy instead." Stan looks mortified at my emphasis, because it does sound really, really gay. But that was the point; to embarrass him. "So I told him to shove it up his ass." I look Cartman straight in the eyes, making sure he knows I'm serious as shit, and then shoot Stan a look. "There'll be no more 'mind love-making' in the hall."
The bell sounds through the corridor, signaling us to get our asses to class, now. No one makes a move, no one says a word, because they're both too shocked at my outburst, so I take the initiative.
"See you later, assholes."
Lowering Stan to asshole level with Cartman; the ultimate blow. I'm torn between feeling awful and feeling satisfaction. Their eyes burn into the back of my head as I walk away, and to show them I meant it, I hold up my hand and flip them off.
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Stan isn't sitting with me today, just like he didn't sit with me yesterday, and just like he probably wont sit with me tomorrow, because he's too busy sitting with Wendy. The weird part is that it's not like he's ditching me to sit at her table, because she left her friends behind too. No… they just want to be alone, and I don't get that. Maybe it's like the times I feel like I want to kill Cartman and Kenny so that they can't bug me and Stan. But what is there to disturb between him and Wendy really, besides Stan's flying chunks of vomit?
Even Bebe came up and punched me in the arm today. It hurt. When I asked her why, she said; "That's for getting Stan and Wendy back together, asshole!" I feel bad for her. She must miss Wendy as much as I miss Stan.
I also wonder if she's as grossed out by their public displays of affection as I am. Which they aren't even trying to tone down. Shit, they were making out hard core in the hallway just this morning. It made me punch my locker and now there's a dent on the front and a scab across my knuckles.
I've been trying not to look at them now, even though they're sitting in clear view. I'm afraid I might see something I don't want to see, like… I don't know exactly. It's not like they're going to hump each other right here in the cafeteria, right?
I glace up, unable to help it. Wendy's thigh, which is bare thanks to her short skirt, is pressed snugly against Stan's. Her hand has crept and smoothed its way to his inner thigh, resting just above his knee. And Stan…
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I blink my eyes, trying to focus them and make the image in front of me disappear. Stan has his own arm wrapped around her delicate little waist and his hand resting on the smooth, bare skin of her thigh. His fingers rub and caress, sneaking their way slowly upward. They're so touchy with each other. I wonder if they've had sex…
As soon as I think it, I cringe visibly.
Damnit, my stomach hurts. I'm sure shoving a double helping of school food down my throat didn't help any either. It feels like maggots are crawling around in there, wiggling and squirming, trying to find their way out my throat.
The thought makes me slap my hands over my mouth and dry heave.
"What's wrong, Jew boy? Normal food not agreeing with your kosher stomach?" Cartman drops his lunch tray in front of mine and sits across the table. Kenny slides in next to me.
"Up yours, fat ass." I recite, so drearily it could hardly pass as an insult. Sighing, I lean my cheek against my palm, hating everything and trying to fight the urged to punch someone.
Kenny pokes my side. "What's wrong, dude?"
I look at him, his eyes concerned, skin pale and dirt ridden, always the sweetheart. I love Kenny, because even though he's a dirty little bastard, his heart is pure as gold. One thing I know without a doubt is that his gentle probing is genuine.
"Stan's a crappy best friend."
There. I said it. And not even out of spite.
Cartman snorts. "You're just now figuring that out?"
"Is not." Kenny argues.
"Is so!" I scream back, not even meaning to spit fire.
Kenny shakes his head, calm and level like always. "Nope. He's just trying to score. You should be supporting it, but you aren't."
Slipping two fingers into his mouth, he gives a short whistle. Stan turns to look, his hand creeping higher up Wendy's thigh. Kenny gives him the thumbs up, making him grin ear to ear, then looks back to me. "Guess your lack of support makes you the crappy best friend."
"I don't remember hearing anyone ask you, Kenny!" I explode. "Chef told us we can't let girls come between friends, or has everyone forgotten but me?"
"Chef's dead." Kenny reminds me.
"… So? Does that mean his words are?"
He finishes chewing, then nods while he swallows. "Yep."
"Kenny!" I shout again. "You of all people should know-"
"That you don't matter once you're dead." I close my mouth, taking in his words, his serious expression. "Kyle, once you're dead, you don't matter among the living." He spreads his arm out, indicating the cafeteria full of live students. "Sure, they may miss you, but you're dead, and they go on doing their own thing in their own way. Chef is a dead guy now. We miss him, but we aren't going to let him control us."
Gaping at him, I shake my head to clear it. "So you're telling me it's okay to let a girl come between you and a friend?"
"No, retard." He corrects, sucking on the straw of his chocolate milk. "I'm saying friends shouldn't come between you and scoring."
I point at him. "I want you to die now."
"No." He rebukes, not even sounding offended.
Cartman hasn't said a word, and I notice, as I look up at him, that his gaze is rendered on Stan and Wendy; eyes narrowed, large fingers squeezing his tiny milk carton. A piece of sugar-brown hair falls over his eye, tickling his lashes and making him blink away from his focus of anger.
"No, Kenny," He muses, his lips tight. "the Jew's right. Public displays of affection should be outlawed. I can hardly eat mah lunch because of that asshole."
Kenny laughs a hearty, muffled laugh, slapping his hand onto the tabletop. "It's not the affection that's making you sick," He grins. "It's Stan pawing the girl you want as your bitch."
Cartman's face, normally a pleasantly pinkish shade of pale, heats up with rage and turns a deep red. His eyes are still and unseeing, round with shock, but his entire body quakes in anger. Then suddenly… it stops. His normal color returns, and chocolate brown eyes cut across the table to Kenny.
"I want you to die now." He repeats my earlier words.
This time, Kenny's smile twists into a frown. "No." Obviously he's a bit more distressed about it this time, but I laugh; because no one would ever really want Kenny dead. Not even Cartman.
My smile dies when I look back toward Stan, because he isn't there anymore, and neither is Wendy. I sigh, poking at my untouched food.
"Kyle?" A hand falls on my shoulder, and I almost bite my tongue when I jump, and then look up, recognizing the intruder as Stan. Sliding his hand across the back of my neck and then down my other arm, he swings his leg over the bench and sits next to me, one leg on each side like he's riding a pony. His knee grazes my thigh. "Still mad at me?"
His eyes look like tanzanite's, and he touches my hand in secret with warm fingers. I shiver, remembering other places they've been.
"I…" The word floats from my lips and hangs in the air like an annoying gnat. Stan leans forward; lips parted slightly, eyebrows knit in concern, so afraid of my answer. I close my mouth, release my breath through my nose, and then I shake my head.
He blinks, expression relaxing, and pulls his hand away from mine to rest on his own thigh. Disappointment wavers over me.
"Thanks, dude." He breathes; smile pleasant now. "I knew you'd understand how important it is for me to be with Wendy now. I already lost her once because I barely talked to her for weeks, and you remember that. That was a bitch. I can't lose her again, dude. I love her. And, honestly…" He looks down at his hands, smiling to himself. "I love spending time with her. I can't stand it when we're apart."
My expression resembles that of a person whose just sucked on a sour orange. I expected sweet and got a mouthful of shit.
Fuck I hate this.
"You're a fucking faggot, dude." Cartman sneers his opinion in Stan's face, trying to look tough but failing in my eyes. He hasn't touched his food, which tells me he's more bothered by this than even I am.
"Oh yeah?" Stan shoots back, sounding more "cute" than threatening. "We'll see who the faggot is after this weekend, when Wendy spends the night with me alone."
The three of us gasp in unison, sounding similar to the way we had the first time we saw Terrance and Phillip on the silver screen and heard their colorful brand of name-calling. Only this time, the chorus was lacking Stan.
"Wendy is not going to spend the night at your house." Cartman decides, sounding unconvinced.
"You're right," Stan agrees, making me feel better for only a second. "She's going to stay in my bed, too."
"No way."
"Yeah, she is, you ass licker!"
"You gonna make her scream?" Kenny asks, openly curious about it all.
Chuckling, Stan nods. "Shit, dude, I hope so."
"Okay Stan, fifty bucks says you won't get in her pants this weekend." The fat ass is determined to be proven right on this matter, for reasons I don't think Stan is quite grasping.
"It's a pretty safe bet considering she's the one who never could keep her hands and lips off me and still can't, you bloated, goat-fucking whale!"
"AYE!!!"
"-But I still wont bet on it because it's none of your goddamn business what the hell I do with Wendy. I was telling Kyle, not you, so stay the hell out of it!"
I don't want you to tell me about it… I think, fighting the bile rising in my throat and trying to smile and mean it all at once.
"You can tell me about it, too, I wanna know." Kenny mumbles, eagerly including himself in this particular topic.
"It doesn't matter, Kenny, it's just a bunch of lies anyway." Cartman assures.
"So? I know he's seen her boobs, so the description will be accurate."
I can feel Stan tense next to me; feel the heat of his growing agitation. His teeth ground together and his fists ball. "God, SHUT UP!" He yells. "I don't think I want to tell either of you anything because all you want is a story to jack off to in the shower!"
"No, I'll do it right here while you tell me." Kenny clarifies. His tone of voice means he's not kidding, and I know I'll run as fast as I fucking can if I hear a zipper because that's not something I want to see. I glance toward the exit, glad to see the door standing wide open should I need immediate evacuation.
"I don't want you getting off to Wendy!"
Shaking his head, Kenny loudly sucks the last of his chocolate milk from the bottom of the little cardboard carton. "I'm not just getting off to her, I'm getting off to you screwing her. That's hot, I always knew you'd fuck her good one day. Shit, I would have done it when I was eight. Even then she was all over you." Shoving a plastic fork into his lasagna, he scoops a bite into his mouth and swallows it whole. "You're too late anyway. Already jerked it to her lots of times."
"I jerk it to her five times a day," Cartman chimes in. "Six if mah mom doesn't give me extra dessert that night."
His words are meant to anger Stan, but I know they're true to at least some extent. One time, right after a heated debate between him and Wendy in health class, they were sent to the office and I left shortly after to use the bathroom. When I opened the door, I heard Cartman in one of the stalls, panting and moaning Wendy's name.
I never did go potty. I walked right out and back into class, embarrassingly enough running into Wendy as soon as I left the boys room. I'm just glad he had the decency to do it in the stall, otherwise I'd have gone blind from the trauma of witnessing it by sight. Poor Wendy. The fat ass having a boner for you must suck ass.
"Stop talking about my girlfriend that way!" Stan pounds a fist onto the table, shaking me from my memory. Thank God. "She's not just some piece of ass, goddamnit! I love her and she loves me and that is my reason for all this besides the fact that she's really, really, really hot and I can't even look at her anymore without getting hard. Got it?"
Kenny breaks out into laughter, but the worms in my stomach are back and squirming even faster than before. I really think I might puke…
"I'm gonna tell her you said that." Cartman's threat is more like a little kid giving their friend forewarning they're about to tattle.
"She already fucking knows!" Stan admits. "Shit, dude, she asked me why I don't puke anymore and I had to tell her the problem is in my pants now. Sometimes she even slaps my ass to make it happen."
Way, way too much information, Stan.
A spiteful chuckle bubbles out of Cartman's throat. "Oh, so you're her little bitch then?"
"Even if I was, so what? Look at her."
"Amen." Kenny laughs. "I'd even wear a collar and leash if she let me be her bitch.
"Heh, Yeah…" A smile creeps up Stan's face. The lovesick kind I can never seem to snap him out of no matter what I do.
I'm now rocking back and forth, arms anchored around my stomach and no one even notices. Cartman, of course, isn't happy either. I'm glad for it; glad for him for once in my life. He's fighting for me, even if he doesn't know it. Fighting against the Stan-Wendy factor that I hate even though I have no logical reason to. I'm the one who got them back together. I just can't remember why now. To make Stan happy… but he already was without her. I thought so anyway. He had me. Wasn't that enough?
I sound like a fucking faggot, but I know I'm not, because the idea of Cartman and Kenny jerking don't do anything for me. Naked dudes in the locker room don't do anything for me… It's just Stan and the thought of his hands on himself and his hands on me and the noises he made… I don't want him to share that with Wendy. I don't want him touching her like he touched me. I don't want him to let her touch him like he touched himself because that, for whatever reason, makes me sick. Violently sick.
"Oh, I see, what happened to 'It's because I love her cuz I'm a fag' bullshit?" Cartman grunts.
"It's not bullshit," Stan defends himself. "Yeah she's hot, yes she makes me hard every five seconds, but I also love her and I'm going to be with her for the rest of my life. She's not just a lay to me. I couldn't just put it in anyone, even if they are hot. That's fucking sick, dude."
I risk a glace at him, trembling when I do, hoping he has the same rules about touching just anyone as he does about sticking it in someone, because if he does, it means I'm not just anyone to him. It means I'm different; special. He catches my eye and grins goofily, making me hot and blush and sick all over again. I look down and focus on a spot of his jeans. What would it be like if he popped a tent every time I was around? I hate it that it happens around Wendy, because I don't want her to have that much power over him. But hell, what can I do about it? I mean, even Stan can't do anything about it. Nature is nature and unfortunately we cant help what turns us on.
… Like the way he's rubbing his palms against his thighs, slow and hard. Fuck, why the hell does his touch feel so good? If I were him, I'd constantly rub myself in various places too.
"Kyle?"
My eyes snap to his and my stomach flops nervously, churning with acid and wiggly worms. I'm very aware that Four of his fingers are pressing lightly into my knee. I swallow, then bite my lip to keep from screaming or puking or… exploding or something.
"Could I come over later?" He asks, so soft it's nearly a whisper. "There's some things I could… I could really use your advice on."
It comes out shyly, and he keeps his eyes lowered, only looking at me again to await his answer. I realize how intimate this is; here, in the middle of a crowded cafeteria, but at the same time alone in our own world with his hand on my knee and his gaze melting into mine.
My toes curl in pleasure.
"Sure dude." I answer so casually I shock myself.
The bell sounds the same instant his lips form another smile; brought to you by me, thank you very much. And how often does Wendy make him smile?
…Okay… maybe a whole lot.
Maybe… even more than I do.
"Thanks Kyle." He pats my knee and then stands, flashing a smile, which I return, until I notice Wendy standing by the door waiting for him.
My grin sours and I crumble back onto the table, ignoring Kenny and Cartman's warnings to "get to class, you fucking Jew!". Instead, I wait until I'm alone, then force myself up and drag my feet all the way to class, hoping I'll be sent to the councilor so I don't have to answer retarded questions about decimals and algebra.
-BratChild3