Authors: Thank you guys SO much for the reviews.
Kudos to my boy, KyleisGod, for helping me through. ;)
Chapter 7- Thunderstorm:
"Red."
The name comes out of no where.
I blink at my milk carton and look up at Wendy, who's suddenly appeared at my side, smiling down at me with her tray of school food.
"Red?" I repeat, one eyebrow arching.
Her hair is getting long; I don't know what makes me notice stupid things like this, but I do. On everyone; not just Wendy, and not just girls.
She flicks a strand out of her face and falls onto the bench beside me, setting her tray on the table and adjusts it to make it straight. "Yeah, Red. Stan says you agreed to let me set you up."
"Why Red?" I ask, curious why she'd pick someone like that. I hardly even know her. She's just some girl who's always kinda floated around school with us, almost like a background person on T.V.
"Why not?" She wonders. "I asked, and she thinks you have a totally hot ass."
"What?" I'm torn between skepticism and boredom. What is it with girls liking my ass anyway?
I keep my chin in my palm and tinker with my milk straw, wondering if I should ask Stan. After all, I never see my ass, but he does. I think.
Wendy nods. "Besides that, she's a daywalker."
She snaps the lid off her juice as my eyes slice to her face, flashing in anger. I can't believe she just said that to me.
"Excuse me?" I snarl. "She's a what?"
Wendy breaks into a huge, unapologetic smile, amused at my anger. She thinks it's funny when I get rattled; she likes to provoke it.
The female version of Cartman, I think bitterly.
"You don't like redheads?" She asks.
I glare at her a moment, then blow out a puff of breath and let it go, because I know she honestly doesn't mean anything by it. "I don't want to date someone who looks like me."
"Why? You're really cute." She pops a chip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Besides, she doesn't really look like you. Even your hair is a different shade. She's more of a strawberry blonde."
She's trying to confuse me on purpose, just because she thinks I'll get frustrated and agree. I don't know shit about hair color and what the different shades of red are called, and quite frankly, I don't give a crap.
"That'd just be weird." I decide.
"Oh, damn Kyle, you're right," She replies, licking salt off her lips. "Some people think Stan could be my brother, so I guess I should dump him, because it's weird. I can't believe I didn't realize this sooner."
"What?" I ask, mad at myself for feeling a twinge of hope at her words. "No you shouldn't, you make him happy; he makes you happy."
She gives me a pointed look. "See how silly it is to overlook someone just because they have the same hair color as you? Come on, you're smarter than that."
"I didn't realize my intelligence depended on who I want to go out with and why." I shoot back.
Her spoonful of rice stops midway to her mouth. "So you'll go?"
"Wendy," I sigh. "I don't want to go out with Red."
"Told you he wouldn't go for it." I feel the table bump when Stan sits, and my heart springs to life in the same jolt.
I haven't looked at him all day. I've talked to him, but I haven't looked at him. I wonder if I appear as guilty as I feel; part of me is ashamed, paranoid for what I'd done last night. But the bigger part of me is afraid how looking at him now will affect me; afraid mostly, I think, that I'll be repulsed.
I experimented into the night and found that thinking about him, not just his body, but him; hair, eyes, lips, skin, smile, laugh… excites me, and it isn't suppose to. Something is not right in the world of Super Best Friends.
"Okay Stan," Wendy harrumphs. "Since you think you know more about matchmaking than I do, why don't you help me out and tell me who the perfect date for him would be?"
"Okay." He agrees, looking up at me. "So who would the perfect date for you be?"
Wendy kicks at him under the table, making him laugh. "If he had somebody in mind already, we wouldn't have to set him up."
"Unless there's something he isn't telling us. Kyle?"
My eyes fall on him out of instinct of hearing my name, my breath catching in my lungs. Shit, I think, the fear of repulsion gripping my stomach. My fingers go white from squeezing the edge of the table. I don't want him to make me feel sick; I don't want to be grossed out by my own twisted fantasies.
His gaze paralyzes me. I can't seem to pull my eyes away; I don't even want to. My heart races madly and I swear I feel my brain go numb.
Pictures don't do him justice. He's much better looking face to face. My heart begins to change in tempo, this time more of a hard throb that pleases more than it hurts.
…maybe it's really not so bad.
I feel my whole body start to ease up when I notice that he's smiling at me, blinking comfortably, so at ease in my presence. My tight breath leaks out of my lungs; relief washes over me as I adjust to this new revelation.
The truth? I'm not repulsed. At all. Not at him or at myself or what I'd thought about us doing together. He was still Stan, I was still Kyle. We were still best friends and the world hadn't ended.
I'm shaking slightly, barely; the aftermath of getting so emotionally worked up. I feel tension leave my neck.
Even if he knew about these thoughts, he probably wouldn't care. He's so laid back about everything, so understanding. That's one thing that makes him my best friend; my hero.
I smile to myself thinking about this, and how good fantasizing about him that way made me feel. I'm almost a little eager to do it again. …And again, and again, and again…
My toes curl in my shoes.
"Kyle?" He frowns, nudging my shin under the table with his foot. Tingles ripple through me. "Kyle!"
"Huh?" I blink stupidly, unsure of what he'd just asked.
"Is there someone you have in mind? I never really noticed this before, but you don't seem really be into anyone."
What the fuck am I suppose to say to that?
I never thought about dating anyone before, because dating is simply hanging out one on one with someone, and whenever I want to go to a game, a party, a movie; I want to go with Stan. I have no room in my life to "date".
I rub my neck, wondering if I should just blurt a random name to make it seem like I've at least thought it over before. The only problem is the fact that the only name I can remember at the moment is "Stan".
"I don't… really have anyone in particular in mind." I answer, opting for the truth instead.
"Didn't think so."
I study him, confused about that. Has he actually wondered if I liked someone? Why didn't he ever ask me?
Because he doesn't give a shit about your love life, I bitch at myself. You're the only pussy agonizing over your friends' relationship. Nobody normal does that.
"What about Heidi?" Stan breaks into my thoughts again. I look up at him, watching as he casually puts a cracker sandwich together with the Lunchable he brought. I fight a smile.
"Heidi?" Wendy asks. Funny; I'd almost forgotten she was there.
"Yeah," Stan answers, biting into it. Crumbs fall all over the table. "You were lab partners last semester, weren't you?"
Heidi?
Heidi…
Who the fuck is Heidi?!
I wrack my brain, wildly searching for any familiarity, but all I can find is Stan; Smiling, crying, laughing, playing, moaning, sleeping…
Get out of my head, asshole!
I close my eyes, trying to think clearly.
…Heidi.
I knew Heidi.
"…Yeah." I remember. "Yeah, we were lab partners. Two semesters in a row."
My heart is throwing itself around wildly again, making it hard to breathe. My face heats up.
Stop it!
"Well, since you already kinda know each other, want to go out with her?"
"Stan," Wendy drones. "It doesn't work that way. There has to be chemistry."
"Yeah, sure." I agree. "I'll go out with Heidi."
At this point I honestly don't care if it's Bebe or even Rebecca. I just want to get it done and over with and never do it again. I could use the "failed first attempt blues" to reject any more dates. I don't want to be set up; I want it to suddenly knock me on my ass when I least expect it.
I feel my pulse points throb and look at Stan again. I wish he cared a little more.
"Don't you even care who you go out with?" Wendy asks, concern wrinkling her forehead.
"Sure I do," I lie. "Heidi's pretty cool for a girl and everything."
Stan laughs. "What is this, the fourth grade?"
"Think about this, Kyle." Wendy cuts in. "Out of everyone, I mean, there's got to be someone else."
"Why?" I ask, not understanding the problem.
She sighs, eyeing me reluctantly. "Heidi is kind of a …two-faced bitch. It's why I don't talk to her anymore. She may seem like all sweetness, but she'll stab you in the back faster than you can turn around."
"And you know this…"
"Because she's done it to me before. Because she's done it to everyone she's come in contact with."
"She seems pretty cool to me." Stan opinionates, receiving another death glare. He's definitely not winning any points today.
"That's because you're a guy, and guys are oblivious, especially to deceit."
"To what?" He smiles cutely.
"God Stan, shut up!" Wendy yells, but she's laughing while she says it. He jounces his eyebrows at her and my stomach tightens violently.
I really wish I hadn't seen that random display of playfulness.
"All I'm saying," She announces. "Is that even if you had a good time with her, it'd be fake, because that's what she is; fake."
"This is hard." Stan complains. "Shouldn't it just happen naturally?"
Yeah! Yeah, what he said.
"Of course it should," Wendy agrees. "But sometimes romance needs a little kick to get moving."
Stan frowns at her, scratching his head, then kicks my foot; It's not so much rough as it is teasingly. "Feeling romantic yet?"
Laughter bursts from me, but it isn't forced this time, just genuine happiness bubbling out of my throat. I don't know what's gotten into him today. Though he's normally good-natured, there's a lot of Kenny shining through at the moment.
Wendy huffs, though she's desperately trying to hide a smile. Sometimes I wish she'd just relax and let her obvious laid-back side out more often, but that'd only make Stan more crazy about her. Let her be a bitch.
"Well if you're not going to take this seriously-"
"I'm seriouslah." Stan remarks, making his voice husky to sound more fat like Cartman. "Are you seriouslah, Kahl?"
Wendy's smile breaks through.
"I'm totally seriouslah, you guhs." I pull my chin into my chest to try and create the illusion of a double chin.
Stan bursts into a fit of laughter. "Dude, no way, you sound almost just like him!"
"Aye! Are you calling me fat? If you don't shut the hell up,
I'll kick you squa in the balls!"
Wendy covers her mouth, then finally succumbs to her humor and laughs along with Stan, who's face is buried in his arms on the table, shoulders shaking with mirth.
A soft smile creeps up my face as I watch him. I can feel my heart swelling inside my chest, inflating like a sponge, being saturated by the sound of his laughter. When he looks up, smiling, he wipes his eyes. I love this; when he brings himself to tears from laughing way too hard. Especially when I'm the cause of it. There's no feeling in the world like making Stan happy.
"Okay, you guys," Wendy says, having collected herself. "Really."
"Seriously." Stan emphasizes. I grin at him brightly and watch him melt into another puddle of humor. He's really in a good mood today. "Alright, okay." He says, trying to calm himself. "So how about you just go out with Cartman then?"
"Dude, sick!" I yelp. His forehead smacks into the bend of his elbow with another explosion of laughter, slapping the table with the flat of his hand.
"Okay Stan, I think you need to lay off the chocolate milk for a while." Wendy teases affectionately. I'm smiling when she looks at me. "Now that you're in a better mood, you probably wont be so close-minded. So instead of thinking of people in particular, why don't you just explain what you'd generally like in someone?"
That sounded reasonable. What was I interested in? What would really crank my chain?
I look again to my best friend. His mouth is screwed up into a squiggle, effects of holding in his amusement. My heart grows another size.
"Dark hair." I decide. "I like dark hair."
"Good, that eliminates Heidi." Wendy mumbles, mostly to herself.
"…And… a nice smile. The kind that you can't help but smile back when you see. Eyes so deep you could drown in them. And… tall. But not too tall. Just… kinda… average tall."
I get stuck a moment, then rip myself away to look at Wendy again. "Uh, you know. Like your height." I rush, just to cover the awkwardness I hope no one but me is feeling.
My cheeks are scorching.
There's a look of deep concentration on Wendy's face; I hope to God she doesn't figure out where I'd gotten all that from.
Please don't be smart enough to figure it out…
Suddenly, her eyes brighten with a smile. "I know the perfect person."
That night, I dream about Stan.
It starts out normal at first; we're just hanging out at the park, Cartman and Kenny in tow, playing basketball. But something seems wrong, and I can't make a decent shot. The basketball disappears, and then the court. Everything does, in fact; except for Stan.
"Why me?" He asks.
I'm confused. I don't know what he's talking about, but my dream self responds; "I wouldn't know where to begin."
There's an image of Wendy inside his pupils, one that doesn't go away even when he blinks, but it doesn't make me angry. His fingers slide into my palm.
"Are you scared?" He whispers.
I feel myself shudder and then start to tremble. "Terrified."
His arms snake around my shoulders, pressing his forehead against my cheek. I can hear his thoughts; I'll always keep you safe.
"Can't you make it stop?" He pulls back, looking into my eyes. Wendy is gone from his, but they're now brown; Cartman brown.
"I don't want it to stop." I choke. My fingers tangle themselves in his shirt, trying to keep him close; trying to get Stan back.
"But why, Kyle?" His eyes fill to the brim with shiny tears. "Why?"
When he blinks, they roll down his face. I touch them with my fingertips. "You know why."
He presses our faces together, dropping a light kiss on my mouth. "Because," he whispers against my lips.
"This is the way it's suppose to be." We murmur together.
I can taste the saline of my own tears mixed with his before we both fade into the darkness of my unconscious mind.
I've been looking in the mirror for twenty minutes.
My eyes are definitely still green; cosmic green, as Stan calls them. The surrounding skin is light, but not pale. There's no visible freckles like most redheads have. My nose is small, longer than Stan's, but not as wide. I pull back my lips and look at my teeth; straight and white, maybe just slightly crooked on the bottom, but hardly noticeable.
I'm the same as I always was, I simply know myself better. I don't even feel any different. Probably because it had always been there, I just never questioned it before.
Three days.
That's all the time it took for me to accept the fact that I was not straight, gay, or metrosexual. I was slightly sexually attracted to girls, but the truth was, I was more attracted to guys, and in more ways than just their bodies.
"Bisexual." I try the word out on my lips. I don't like it.
It makes it sound like something bad. I pull my eyelids down, inspecting the moist, pink flesh underneath; the way doctors always do to make sure something isn't horribly wrong with you.
…But I haven't just accepted it; I'm not just okay with it, I'm relieved.
I've never been all that comfortable hanging out with girls. It's not that I hated them, it's not that I didn't find them attractive; it was more like I never grew out of my girls-are-okay-but-they're-weird-and-kinda-have-cooties stage.
And now, I never have to worry about trying to figure out what to say to them, or how to impress them, or how to get them to like me. If I want to impress Stan, all I have to do is burp loud enough. I like that kind of low pressure company; although I doubt gas would make him go weak-kneed and want to kiss me.
I let go of my eyelids, letting them snap back in place and decide gaydom isn't an illness.
"Bi-thexual." I tell myself again, this time adding in the stereotype that all gays lisp. I laugh at myself. No way in hell I'm going to start acting like a pussy now.
The only thing that does worry me is the fact that I'm not worried. I've seen movies before, wasn't I suppose to go crazy? Freak out? Become suicidal? Kill myself because I'm different?
But I don't feel any different. I'm just Kyle. Same as I always was. What did it matter who I was attracted to? What did it matter who I had feelings for, so long as I was actually able to feel, unlike Cartman? Why do gay people have to "come out" when all it is, is telling everyone what makes your dick hard? Is it really any of their goddamn business?
And most importantly; why the fuck is everybody so fucking stupid?
I hear the knob of the door turn and then open. Stan appears in the mirror behind me a second later.
"Why are you wearing that?" I ask, indicating his sweater.
He shrugs. "Wendy likes this shirt."
"You don't expect me to wear something special, do you?"
He snorts. "Dude, I don't give a crap. Relax, this is totally casual." I pull on my hat, watching him as his eyes move down my body. "It might be kinda cold for a t-shirt though."
He moves to my closet, flipping through shirts. I come up behind him just in time to have a maroon sweater thrown in my face.
"Wear that over your shirt." He commands, frowning at me. "And lose the hat."
"Suddenly you're my queer fashion consultant?" I unravel the balled up sweater and pull it over my head. Stan snatches my hat off the second my head pops through and sends it sailing through the air. "I thought you liked girls." I pry. "And my hat."
"Your hat is awesome, Kyle. And I don't like girls, I love Wendy." My face screws up bitterly. "This is common date sense. You wear a sweater over a shirt, that way if she gets cold, you can either take it off and offer it to her, or even better, you can wrap your arms around her and feel her up."
I let out a small cry of outrage. "You don't actually expect-"
"And how is she suppose to run her fingers through your hair when you're making out if you wear a hat?" He snorts. "Seriously, Kyle, where's your head?"
"Making out?!" I rave. "I don't even know who the hell she is yet!"
"Trust me, this girl will totally make out with you."
"Who is it?"
He smiles, making me even more suspicious.
"If it's Bebe-!"
"It's not." He pats my shoulder, laughing. "Jesus, Kyle, calm down."
"You're right," I admit, taking a breath. "This wont be so bad." This time when I look in the mirror, all I see is a big, red Jew-fro.
"Perfect." Stan beams.
"Perfect?" I growl. "I look like a sad little clown boy about to get his lips sucked off by a testosterone-hungry girl."
"Cool, so you're ready." I blink at him. "Lets go, your date's at Wendy's house."
Sighing, I follow him out of the house, trying hard not to stare at his ass the whole way.
Her name is Porschea.
Stan assured me she was hot, and he wasn't lying. But now I know why it's all he would tell me, because what the hell else can you really say about her?
Yes, she's gorgeous. Sure, she's friendly and seems to be into me. But Christ, does she ever shut up? Maybe if the conversation was in some way mentally stimulating I could tolerate it, but I can actually feel myself getting dumber listening to her.
Stan and Wendy don't seem to notice this at all; they're way too absorbed in one another, which I guess is a good thing, in a really fucked up way. We stop to get some food on the way to the Art museum (Wendy's choice, not mine.), where I'm too preoccupied watching them share a plate of spaghetti and feeling bitter about it to listen to half of what Porschea is saying. I think it's something about the little ridges on the butter knife. How she can talk about something so simple for so long is beyond my comprehension.
About half way through, I'm sick of watching the other couple make kissy-face and push my chair closer to Porschea's. Stan notices, but only smiles, then goes back to Wendy.
I lean in close, talking low in her ear. Nothing important, just little flirtatious things. I glance at Stan, hoping he's seeing this; expecting some kind of fury scrawled across his face. He is watching, but he's smiling. The kind of smile that says he's proud of me. He keeps eye contact, but slips his arm around Wendy.
I grind my teeth, put my arm around Porschea and my other hand on her thigh. She glances down, shocked, then smiles approvingly at me.
Stan blinks in surprise, but he still doesn't look bothered. Instead, he decides it's a game. Every move I make, he makes one bolder, until finally I stop; it was going too far, with Stan frenching Wendy and me too depressed and too chicken to outshine that.
I'm quiet the rest of the dinner, but that's okay; Porschea talks enough for the both of us.
The walk to the museum eases me up a bit. Mostly, I'd say, because Stan fell behind, letting Porschea and Wendy gossip and giggle together while we walked a few feet behind them, side by side. He doesn't say anything about our showdown, and neither do I. There's nothing to say; but secretly, I know he's proud of me and is rooting in my favor, which in reality is rooting against me. But he doesn't know that, so I can't be mad.
The local museum is exactly that; Local. There are no famous paintings, and from what I've seen, no good ones either. It's reserved for South Park residents, and it shows. It's stuffy and stinky in here, and I keep sneezing.
"Oh my gosh, it's a pony!" Porschea squeals in girlish delight at one of the statues. "One time, my class took a trip to this ranch that had a pony, but it was like, a million miles away. The bus ride made me soooo sick!"
I shoot Wendy a look, who smiles innocently and shrugs. "I think she's cute."
I just shake my head, smiling, then pause. The painting on the wall behind her catches my eye. Something about it; something about the colors. I move past Wendy, unable to blink. It's magnificent.
"That guy's head is kinda shaped like a dick." Stan comments rather loudly from across the room, looking at some portrait. Porschea giggles, so high pitched and nasally.
But I'm too drawn in to the paiting to care what they're saying, and apparently, so is Wendy. She's noticed my sudden shift in mood and touches my arm, studying my face. "What do you see, Kyle?" Her voice is soft and gentle; understanding. So much more pleasant than Porschea's.
I swallow, my eyes roving over the patterns. My throat swells up with tears and when I speak, my voice is thick. "He's afraid." I tell her. "And determined, all at once."
We're quiet a moment. I feel Stan and Porschea come up behind us, but it doesn't stop me. It feels so good to let this out.
"See the stars?" I point up; Wendy nods, silent. "He's reaching for something he'll never be able to have. There's so many things in the way. Even… himself." I look at the tear painted by his eye and touch my own cheek. "It hurts," I breathe. "But he keeps trying anyway; keeps trying to reach it somehow, because… he wants it. More than anything." I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, then look at Wendy. She's staring at me with shiny eyes.
I suddenly feel like the biggest dope in history, and I don't know why.
"That's beautiful." She whispers, making me feel just slightly better. I try to smile, thankful for her kindness.
I move to the next painting, avoiding Stan's bewildered stare.
Porschea holds my hand all the way back to her house.
I don't want her to; she just takes it, and I'm too dazed to pull it away. Besides that, Stan keeps watching, and so does Wendy. Part of me doesn't want them to be disappointed that I didn't have a good time. I can't let them know that it made me miserable; that I'd do anything to take back these few hours of torture.
I'll never do this again…
She kisses me when we reach her house; kisses my lips, and I want to wipe it away with the back of my hand, despite how pretty she is.
And she is pretty.
I wonder why Wendy would set me up with someone like that. She's so out of my league. but it's weird, because at the same time, I don't want her. Not even the slightest, sleaziest way.
On the way home though, I can't tear my eyes away from Stan. And I can't help thinking… that it's him I want.
I walk behind them, staring at his hand interlocked with Wendy's, imagining that it's mine. It probably feels so warm. I hate her for having that; for having him. I think about the painting and how much it's like me, wanting something I'll never have. I wonder if the artist is gay; wonder if he's felt this way… for his best friend.
"Kyle?"
I look up, not realizing we had already passed up Wendy's house and made it to Stan's. I blink, confused, because she's still there.
"I hope you had a good time." She rubs her hands up and down her arms, trying to ward off the chilly air. Stan's key jingles as he unlocks the door.
"You're cool walking back alone, right? It's only another street down." He asks. My eyes focus on Wendy as she disappears into the house. A second later, I see a light click on.
"She's staying with you?" I blurt, feeling my stomach burn with dread. I want to grab him, hold him against me, physically restrain him from going inside. My heart starts pounding in my ears when he smiles, giving a knowing little laugh. "Stan," I rush, not knowing what to say, or where to start.
"Mom and Dad are gone this weekend, remember?" He reminds me.
My legs are trembling. I feel sickness accumulating in my stomach, and I'm hot; so hot my vision is going fuzzy. He can't do this to me.
"Kyle?"
"You… I… I thought-" He grabs hold of me, keeping me steady. I push him away. "You're still going to… to…" I can't say it. I feel dizzy and it makes me too sick to even think it.
"Kyle, I-"
"You can't do this, Stan." I demand, clutching at my heart; It feels like it's being ripped apart. Words start tumbling out, I'm not even thinking about them, and I can't control it. "It's a mistake, please, you have to listen to me, Stan! Don't do this! God, don't do this!"
"Kyle!" He shouts, grabbing the neck of my sweater. The maroon one; the one he picked out. I swallow back vomit. "It's too late."
My world freezes. I stumble backward, somehow managing to catch myself. "What?" It comes out a deadly whisper, a puff of steam in the night air. It's starting to sprinkle; the drops are clinging to his hair, his eyelashes, making him shimmer in the darkness.
"It's too late." The words come again, but they sound so surreal. This is a nightmare. It has to be. "We already…" He sighs, looking down at his shoes, not understanding what this is doing to me.
"When?" I choke. I want to hurt him; want to make him bleed. "When did you-"
"The other day." He answers quickly. "When… when you were waiting for me. When I thought you were missing." He pushes his bangs out of his face, gives me a careful smile. I can't breathe. "That's why I didn't come home, I- I'm sorry for not telling you sooner, Kyle."
My whole body is pulsing; skin, hair, eyes, organs, teeth. My spine is tingling, head spinning like mad. He continues talking, saying something about how it's over with and everything can go back to normal, saying shit that proves he knows nothing; that he's stupid, that he doesn't fucking get it.
"I was going to tell you, dude, but you've been so-"
"Ahhhhhhhh!" I cry in outrage, lunging at him with all my strength, unable to control myself any longer.
We tumble to the ground, sliding across the icy surface of his porch. His head smacks against the wall and I sit up, my legs pinning him down by the waist. I can't control my actions; I can't think. I'm so mad, so hurt. I feel myself throw punches savagely, wildly.
"Kyle! What the fuck!!!!!!" He screams. I grab his throat, choking him, screaming something incoherent, something even I can't understand. Tears are pouring down my face, dripping onto his.
"Kyle-" He chokes, his fingers curling around my hands.
Wendy runs from the house, screaming at me, but I can't understand her either. I feel her try to pull me away, but I resist. She slides between our bodies, facing me, and gets a hold of my arms.
"KYLE!" She yells, so harsh that it stills me. "Kyle!"
My breathing is ragged as I stare at her and come back down to earth. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and when I look at Stan, a streak of lightening flashes across the sky. He doesn't look injured; only frightened, concerned, and… hurt.
It takes me a moment to realize… I put that there.
"Kyle?" He asks, so innocently I feel my heart break all over again. Tears burst out of his eyes.
"Oh God," I croak, my breath so hard it feels like my lungs are on fire. "…S-stan,"My throat constricts.
I feel myself choke up, and then I turn and run.
I make it to Cartman's house in less than ten minutes.
When he opens the door, I topple into him, and I'm a little surprised that he catches me when I do. Maybe… there is something human inside of him.
"Kahl?" His voice is so high I would have laughed under any other circumstance. "The fuck happened to you?"
I take a deep wheezing breath, choke, and then start sobbing uncontrollably. He helps me to the couch, falling beside me onto the cotton pillows.
"Calm down, Jew. Seriously, what happened?"
"He f-fucked her, Cartman," I cry, burying my face in my hands. "It's too lah-late! He didn't l-listen to m-me!"
I feel him freeze beside me; feel his breath stop. "…What?"
I nod, crying harder. "Weh-Wendy…"
"Goddamnit!" He leaps up. His yell rattles the windows, putting the storm outside to shame. "Why the hell didn't you stop him?!"
"I tried!" My throat hurts from screaming, my eyes from crying, my heart from breaking. I want it all to stop; I want it all to disappear. "He didn't even tell me! I tried to stop him, Cartman! I tried but he told me it was too late!"
Cartman falls beside me again. He leans forward, wrecking fingers through his clean, fluffy hair. There's silence and the sound of rain, and then I hear it; the unmistakable sound of sobs. His body shakes beside me, overcome with sadness. I close my eyes, mute sobs making my body jerk. It hurts so fucking bad.
"…Kyle?" He mewls.
I look up at him; one tear streaked face mirroring another. My heart throbs painfully a second before his mouth crushes against mine.
My eyebrows furrow, more confusion flooding my mind. But I don't even try to stop him. Our lips melt together, tongues fusing. My skin is cold from the rain, but I can feel warmth spreading through my body.
And I kiss him back. Hard.
We peel clothes off each other frantically, but it's still not fast enough. I can't help but feel like I need this; that we need this. I don't let myself think about it when our bodies come together. I don't do anything except greedily take all I can from it. It doesn't feel good, but that's okay; it isn't suppose to feel good. It's countering the pain, the anger, the hurt; it's making me numb.
Tears pour down my face as we move together, our groans overpowering all other sounds. His breath his hot in my ear as each pant hits my skin. I stare at the ceiling when I feel myself surge and nearly choke on my own gratified moan. Cartman finishes a moment later, collapsing hard on top of me.
My head spins wildly, but it's slowly coming to a stop. I wipe my face, slick with sweat and tears, and let out a long breath. My eyes flutter closed.
...And reality rains, pours, all around me.
I just lost my virginity to Eric Cartman.
My eyes open reluctantly. He's panting into my shoulder, exhausted. I feel a tug at my heart, a horrible, dreadful ache. Stan floods my mind, and with it, a tidal wave of guilt.
My stomach convulses violently.
"Get the fuck off me!" I shriek, throwing Cartman onto the floor.
"Fuck!" He sputters. "Goddamn fucking Jew!"
I race to the bathroom, not even bothering to close the door, and proceed to spill mouthful after mouthful of sickness into the toilet.
---
To be continued...
-BratChild3