Authors Note: I don't speak Hebrew... so just keep that in mind. It's been a while, but here you go. Thanks for the reviews on the last installment. :) They're incredible. And I tried to write back to everyone, but FF was having an issue and I don't know if they went through. Anyway, thanks guys. I appreciate it.
Chapter Eight: Jelly and Jews
The world finally stops whirling Saturday morning.
I wake up later than usual, which doesn't surprise me. Stress makes me sleep, whether or not I've brought it on myself. In this case, I think I mostly have.
God, I'm so fucking stupid…
I pull my blanket over my face, the smooth surface cool against my scorching cheeks. And I think, even though I don't want to, about Wendy and Stan. He shares more with her than he ever has with me, because it's deeper than just friendship. He gave her his heart and, as of last week, his body. No matter how close we are, I'll never be able to cross the friendship line, we'll never have that kind of bond. This is where it stops for us. The hardest part is knowing that I'm not the most important person in his life anymore, and that I never will be again. The hardest part is knowing… that he wants it that way.
I close my eyes, trying to dull the ache I feel that isn't an ache at all, just emptiness. I hate friendship; It's too exact, too final.
And then I remember, reluctantly, about Cartman. Though I try to push it away, it just won't go. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take the whole fucking evening back. It was the worst night of my life and I don't know if I'll ever get it out of my head. Everything, even now when I think back, was fast forward. I remember it like watching a movie; I knew what I was doing, but I couldn't control it, couldn't stop it.
I didn't want to do that. Not that way, and not with Cartman.
I cover my eyes with my hands, wanting to hide, but I don't know from what. Myself, maybe, my own thoughts.
What the hell have I done?
Cartman?!
My stomach churns with pure disgust, and I realize suddenly that I want to talk to Kenny. He's got too much going against him to judge me on anything. And I can't go to Stan, no matter how badly I want to. I'll have to figure out exactly what I'm going to say first, because the only thing I'm sure of right now is that I don't want to fuck things up further.
I toss my blankets off and grab the phone on my desk. My head is starting to spiral out of control again and I need someone to help me sort through the tangle. I stab at the numbers and listen impatiently for the sound of ringing, but all that answers is an out of service message. I slam the phone down.
"God dammit!"
"Kyle?"
I whirl around at the small voice, knocking a can of pencils off the desk. Ike peeks in the doorway, his eyes cautious as he looks from the abused phone to me. I blow out a breath and roll my eyes heavenward.
"Jesus, Ike."
"What's wrong?"
"You scared the crap out of me, what the hell do you think is wrong?"
He steps into my room and closes the door behind him. Apparently, he's decided I'm not angry enough to avoid.
"Stan kept calling last night."
"So?" I growl, much too defensive for my own good, and swoop down to scoop up the scattered pencils and stack them neatly into the cup
"He kept calling and you weren't home. He's not here now, and you slept late." He observes coolly. "None of that is normal. Something's wrong."
"Oh, I get it, so you're Mom's little nazi spy now, is that it?" I hiss.
"No." He shakes his head. "Mom's too busy with her newest fundraiser to notice anything anymore. I just know when you're fighting with Stan because it's the only time you get that look."
"What look?" I snarl, more angry with myself for letting a nine year old irritate me than I really am at him in the first place.
"That look," He answers, pointing at my face. "Like you have no soul."
I can't control the surprise that snaps across my face. I wasn't expecting something so deep, so alarmingly dark. I touch my cheek questioningly, watching Ike's careful observation.
"It's like a light goes out in your eyes and nothing's there anymore." His voice is sad, with just a touch of accusation. "It's like you're dead, even though your body keeps on living."
My jaw has fallen loose, very slightly slack at how attentive he was. I hadn't realized it was so blatantly obvious to him, but even more than that, it was incredible the way he described plainly how I actually felt. I clear my throat, tightening my jaw to appear more collected than I feel.
"Is that all?"
He sighs, shoulders dropping, and sits on my bed. "I need to talk to you."
"Ah, I gotta go find Kenny," I complain. I had my own issues, how was I suppose to take on more? "Can't you talk to Dad?"
He gives me a look, clearly mocking. "And get advice from the prehistoric era? No thanks."
A half smile curves my lips. "Okay," I concede. "You make a solid argument." I move to sit next to him, brushing aside my own thoughts for now.
He starts with a sigh, eyes searching my ceiling. "I have this friend-"
"Please," I interrupt. He frowns, eyes slicing to mine. "Do you actually think I don't know this is about you?"
"It is about me," He huffs. "If you'd let me finish."
"Sorry." I hold my hands up in defense, silently amused he picked up my snappy personality despite not even sharing the same line of blood. It had to be something about the way my mom raises us.
"I have this friend," He pauses, lips puckering in thought. "This sorta friend."
"Like Cartman?" I offer, immediately regretting thinking of him again. I shudder.
"No, like a girl." Ike confesses. "so we play on opposite sides of the playground."
I nod in understanding, remembering those days and how conveniently that unspoken rule kept Wendy and Stan apart. Sometimes I wish it still applied; hormones really did ruin perfectly good logic about cooties.
"But I really, really like her." It comes out in a rush, and I think that if the anguish wasn't taking over the embarrassment, he'd blush harder than the light pink color barely staining his cheeks.
"So if she's your friend, she must like you too."
He grimaces, looking physically pained. "I don't give her butterflies."
"How do you know?"
"I asked her."
I blink. "Damn, you have balls, Ike."
He smiles, eyes sparkling shamefully. "Well, I asked her friend to ask her."
I snicker, shoving his shoulder playfully. He grins, but it quickly dies out.
"I thought I could win her over, but it only made her mad at me." He sighs, dejected. "She likes my friend, Fillmore."
"Ouch."
"Yeah." He laughs bitterly. "And he likes her too."
There's silence as he waits, eyebrows furrowed, letting me analyze the situation. I know what he's hoping I'll say, what he needs me to say. But I couldn't subject him to that kind of disappointment; I won't lie to protect him. In the end, it'll only make it hurt more if the odds weren't in his favor.
"Ike," I close my eyes, feeling my own heartache course painfully through my veins with each beat of my heart. "Do you want the truth?"
When I look at him, I can tell he's already crushed.
"Because If you don't, you'll have to talk to someone else." I warn, unwilling to hit him with it unless he was truly alright with hearing it.
He nods, swallowing. I can see his fingers curl into the bedspread.
"The truth, Ike," I breathe, telling this to myself as much as him. "is that you can't make someone like you, no matter how badly you want to. Yeah, sometimes gifts and flattery works for a little while. On some people."
I admit this somewhat reluctantly, hoping he isn't desperate enough to attempt it.
"But it would be all wrong, because in reality, they still don't like you. Not really. And eventually whatever you're doing to keep them around won't work anymore.." I rub my face, suddenly feeling tired. "It's hard, isn't it? To let go of the hope that maybe they'll change their minds, that by some miracle they'll suddenly feel the same way about you?"
He nods again, silent still. I think he's trying to keep himself composed; His eyes are starting to swell. I put my hand on his shoulder and smile sadly.
"I didn't realize this until recently, but I've held on to that same kind of hope for a very long time. It makes it harder to let go the longer you hold onto it, and every time you realize they still don't want you that way, it hurts even more."
"Does it ever go away?" His voice is barely a whisper.
I shake my head. "I don't know."
I close my eyes again, thinking about Stan, trying not to at the same time. "I'm not saying you shouldn't have hope, because for you, there is hope. What I'm saying is to try to not let it take over every other emotion. You're nine, Ike."
He smiles at me; I return the favor.
"This sucks, I know, but the best thing you can do -for yourself and for your friends- is to just be yourself. You're still going to like her, and that's okay, because you can't change how you feel any more than you can change how she does. Someday she might like you, and someday you might realize that she never will. It's okay to hold on to that hope, but don't depend on it. Don't let it hurt you more than it has to."
He looks down at his hands; wistful, thoughtful.
"I'm sorry, Ike."
Before it can properly register, his arms are around my waist, hugging me. "Thanks, Kyle."
I pause, wondering if I truly helped at all. "…You're welcome."
Ike moves to the door, stopping briefly to analyze me again. "Don't give up hope yet," He advises. "Stan loses his soul when you're not around, too."
The door closes before the shock is even visible on my face.
-----
Kenny manages to keep himself invisible all weekend, so I keep myself occupied with long walks and even longer stretches of time locked away in my bedroom. I was anxious about Stan, repulsed about Cartman, and perplexed by Ike and his insight. My mind raced the entire weekend, but still, I was somehow able to sleep most of my time away. I didn't feel well, but I didn't feel sick either, not in the traditional sense.
By Monday morning, I'm not feeling any better, but I get up nearly an hour early and walk right past the bus stop and straight to school, my mind so far away I barely remember the walk at all.
Even as I trudge into home room twelve minutes late, the teacher glowering openly, it takes a minute for the mind fog to clear long enough to realize, with devastating horror, that the desk next to mine is empty.
Stan didn't come to school today.
The weight of a thousand tons of remorse sink into my stomach, but even as I drag myself to my desk and all but fall into it, worried that I'm the reason he isn't here, I can't get Ike's words out of my head: Stan loses his soul too.
How would Ike know something like that? Maybe he really was a spy; not a nazi, just the creepy, annoying little brother kind. But he did know, somehow, and I can't help but feel an almost overwhelming sense of relief. Relief and… hope.
I shake my head violently and focus quickly back on my desktop. It wasn't good to hope. Not about that anyway; not about him. The book had closed on that a very long time ago, when he fell for a girl before he'd even gone through puberty.
A girl.
I realize now that this isn't about whether or not I'm good enough; I could be the best thing that's ever happened to him and it still wouldn't make any difference. Stan doesn't want me because he can't want meHis brain isn't programmed for that.
I frown, stabbing my pen into my notepad. I wish I could rewire him somehow.
"Kyle," A voice hisses, and my heart comes to a dead standstill. I'd forgotten about Cartman, and that wasn't good. There was no telling how he'd react to me now, but chances were it wouldn't be in my favor.
I swallow, keeping myself ramrod straight in the chair. I'm suddenly very aware of my every movement, and of each person in the room. He wasn't stupid enough to expose what happened to everyone, was he? I'd think he would realize that if he knocked me down, he'd be dragged right along with me.
"Kyle!" He bellows again, and I'm snapped in the back of my neck by a flying rubber band. I spin around in my chair, stopping short when I see his smug expression. My face pales.
"How'd you do it?" He asks, barely able to sit still. I've never seen him look so happy, outside of the day we went to Casa Bonita.
"What?"
"Excuse me, Kyle?"
I turn back toward the front of the room, where Ms. Jordan stands, hands on hips.
"Would you be bothered terribly if I were to interrupt you for a moment and finish teaching the class?"
"I don't know, why don't you ask Cartman?" I mutter, glaring darkly at the edge of my folder.
"Mr. Cartman?" She asks. Her thick, British accent makes his name sound better somehow. Proper.
I hear him clear his throat, almost in a professional manner. "I hope you can forgive me. I was just urging my good friend Kyle here to pay better attention. I do learn so very much from you."
"Well, then," She breathes, looking overly flattered by his untrue statement. "Shall I continue?"
She turns back to the board, launching into another lecture about Edgar Allen Poe, and I turn blazing eyes back to Cartman.
"What?" He asks innocently, then turns smug again.
I chastise a string of profanities under my breath and proceed to ignore him. Which isn't easy; not when I feel his eyes boring into the back of my head the entire time. It makes my stomach crawl, and I hate myself even more for doing it with that.
I look over at Stan's empty desk, regret wavering through me. And I can't help but wonder what it would've been like with him. There is one thing I know with total certainty: I would neither be repulsed, or regret one moment of it.
I close my eyes, letting my imagination have its way this time, blurring the disturbing memory of reality and replacing it with fantasy.
It wouldn't have been so sloppy, I decide.
Maybe just as spontaneous; probably just as fast. Although smoother somehow, gentler. But still more intense, more passionate.
Goosebumps wash over me.
With Cartman it was sloppy. Not just awkward sloppy, but just plain bad. His touch was uncoordinated and impersonal; cold almost. And greedy. Stan's touch is completely opposite. Even a slap on the back sends ten thousand volts racing through my veins. It's always so warm, so intended. Like every one, no matter how small, is planned and thought-out and meant just for me. If an accidental brush of his arm against mine is capable of melting my bones and turning my blood to fire, what would intentionally intimate touches do to me?
I feel heat spread through my stomach and fight the urge to drool thinking about it. My eyes scan the room, searching for a distraction to ward of the potential danger I can feel is starting to form in my pants, and make the mistake of giving Cartman another look. My stomach flips when I take in his smirk. I can't tell from this angle if it indicates any danger, because somehow, it looks genuine.
"Meet me after class," He mouths. I blink.
Shit. Cartman wasn't so messed up he thought I was his boyfriend now, did he? That would be wrong in so very many sickening ways.
I gulp at the thought, swallowing acid, and jump when the bell sounds. I'm out the door before anyone else is even out of their seat. But I still don't make it out fast enough. The hall is filled to capacity within a couple of seconds, and I feel Cartman grab the back of my shirt and spin me around to face him. His touch makes me hot with nausea, and I remember him sweating and panting on top of me. He smiles again; that weird, abnormal smile. And it's even worse than I'd imagined, because now I can see admiration plainly in his eyes, and wherever that might lead is a far more horrible fate than blackmail.
Bile rises in my throat, and when he touches my arm again, I turn my head to the side and spill the contents of my stomach across the slick tile. Cartman jumps back, his eyes going wide.
"The fuck is wrong with you lately, Jew? Get yourself pregnant or something?"
I glare up at him through my eyelashes, clutching my stomach. It's still rocking uneasily. I hope I don't puke again; I already feel badly for the janitor.
"Wow, you should see the nurse- You're baby shit green." He recommends.
"Fuck off," I hiss, wobbling slightly as I pushed past him and toward the bathroom. Thankfully, he lets me go.
Once inside, I clutch the edge of the sink to keep myself upright and close my eyes. Why the hell have I been such a screwed-up pussy lately? I splash my face with water and dry it on a grainy paper towel. I already know the answer to that question; It's because I fall apart without Stan by my side.
I crumple up the paper towel and throw it in the general direction of the garbage, then look at my reflection, hating myself. I can see in my eyes what Ike was talking about. There's absolutely nothing there; I'm just like a zombie. I don't even know how it got this bad.
But it has to stop. Right now. I can't keep doing this to myself, I can't keep doing this to Stan. I'm way too dependant on him, way too needy of his company. There's room in my life for other friends. I don't have to be with Stan constantly. I would see him again. We would hang out again. I have to let him go. I have to stop holding on to this false hope. We were and always would be best friends. I knew that; even now, even before we'd resolved this stupid fight that was all my fucking fault in the first place. Stan is my best friend. Always and forever. That should be a comforting thought.
I blink at myself, my face twisting into a pained expression a second before the image blurs with tears.
The only problem was that I didn't want to be his best friend anymore; not just his best friend. I wanted to be his everything, the way he had somehow become my everything.
And I don't know how I'm suppose to hang out with other friends and actually enjoy doing it when I'm miserable and missing Stan every second he isn't near me. It's like being without oxygen and trying to not be bothered that you can't even fucking breathe.
Obsessive, maybe. Insane… completely. But I want him, in the worst possible way, and I don't know how to make it stop.
The bathroom door swings open, and I turn away quickly to hide my puffy eyes, hoping desperately it isn't Cartman.
"He's in here!" I recognize Butters voice. I turn to him just as Kenny follows him in.
"Cartman said you puked in the hall." Kenny explains, carefully reading my expression. "Are you sick, or is he really taking it that bad?"
"Is who taking what bad?" I ask, confused.
He makes a face, like he can't tell if I'm being serious or not. "Stan."
I feel some sort of internal reaction at the sound of his name; a startled, excited feeling. And an ache. "What about Stan?" I pry, not following.
His face is blank a moment, then an eyebrow shoots up quizzically. "Dude, where the hell have you been all fucking weekend long?" He asks, but continues without waiting for an answer. "Wendy broke up with Stan Friday night. No one's heard from him since."
Shock courses my body, freezing in my veins. The first thing I feel is happiness so deep, I almost collapse under the pressure. But it doesn't last long, because in the next second, an image of Stan, nine years old with black make up around his eyes, surfaces from my memory. My heart starts racing again. Him and Wendy were in way deeper this time, they were a lot more serious. What would it do to him now, if it was that hard for him then? When all they were was some elementary crush gone bad?
"Kyle?" Kenny puts his hands on my shoulders, shaking me slightly. "Is Stan alright? Are you alright?"
"No one's heard from him?" I ask, just to be sure I heard right. Kenny purses his lips, worry flashing across his eyes, and he nods, more serious than I've seen him in a long time.
"You haven't either." He doesn't ask, but it's obvious that this revelation is new to him.
"We had a fight." I explain, ashamed.
"Shit," His hands fall away, his head hanging. "This isn't good."
Butters' eyes are wide, searching both of us frantically. "Wah- well, maybe someone ought ta go make sure he's alright."
He doesn't need to tell me twice. I whirl for the door,
nearly tripping over myself when Kenny moves in front of me. "His mom would have called if anything… really bad happened."
We stare at each other, him peeking carefully up at me through overgrown bangs. My eyes go wide when I realize what he means. "Stan wouldn't do that." I snap wildly, my voice coming out louder than I'd meant for it to.
"Probably not," He agrees, but avoids looking directly at me, and I think if I hadn't already lost my entire breakfast, then I would now. "He just lost the love of his life, Kyle. He told me…" He pauses, glancing at me swiftly. Looking guilty.
"Told you what?" I ask, so soft I can hardly hear it over my suddenly hyperactive heart.
His eyes seem to melt, turning apologetic. "That he was saving up to buy her a ring." I stare, blankly. "An engagement ring."
The weight of his words make my knees buckle, but his arms shoot out to hold me steady. He seemed to expect this, like he knew. I don't care though, not when my heart is splintering into a million pieces.
"That," He rushes, seemingly trying to cover up the wound he carved. "is bad enough. But you're fighting with him?" He lets go of my arms slowly, making sure I can stand. "That worries me the most. Stan can get through anything, because he's strong. But you, Kyle," He pauses, his breath exiting on a quick sigh. "I don't think he can live without you."
Part of me thinks those words shouldn't be comforting. It shouldn't make me feel good, and it doesn't exactly. Only a little bit, but mostly, it makes me worried.
"He won't ever have to." I hear myself admit, though I can't even feel my lips move.
Kenny smiles up at me, looking devilish and angelic all at once. "His mom would have called," He assures me again. "But it's time to stop moping around, feeling sorry for your pathetic little Jew ass, and make things better with him. Don't wait."
I nod in understanding, wondering when he ever got so smart about people. I didn't think he ever noticed anything besides the female anatomy. I seemed to be wrong about a lot of things lately, and this was something I was actually glad about.
"Just get through the rest of the day, alright? He'll be okay until then." He wraps his arm around me, leading me to the door with Butters following faithfully at our heels.
They walk me all the way to my science class, even though they both have French on the opposite side of the building. French because they thought it'd make the ladies swoon, something I realize now I'd never considered because it never crossed my mind to impress them in the first place. Stan liked when I spoke Hebrew, even though I wasn't exactly fluent, so I wasn't interested in learning anything else. I was interested in using what I already knew impressed him. And I exploited that sometimes; exploited it for him in private.
I was flirting, I realize suddenly, shocked at myself.
He liked the way it sounded, and he would watch the way I moved my tongue and mouth to pronounce it correctly. I even taught him a few words; the first being zayin. I told him it meant "Dog", and he walked around calling Sparky "penis" for about a month. He couldn't understand why it made me laugh so hard, but once he looked it up online and realized what it really meant, he wouldn't repeat anything I said that wasn't in English.
I think about little things like that to make it through the day, and I'm amazed at how flirtatious I actually am with him. How did he not see it? But I hadn't either. He wasn't looking for it, and he couldn't see what he wasn't looking for.
It isn't until lunch period that I realize Wendy isn't here either. I sit across from Kenny and Butters, eating my sandwich and wondering about her. What could possess a perfectly sane girl with high moral values to lose her virginity to someone she planned to dump less than a week later? Unless it hadn't been planned at all. Maybe that's why she wasn't here; maybe she was heartbroken too. But what could have gone wrong? They seemed so solid this time.
Cartman sits beside me, but I hardly notice him, not until I realize his eyes are burning into me. My stomach flops again.
"…You're not gonna blow chunks again, are you?" He asks, leaning away from me. I scoot as far from him as possible.
I keep my eyes on my food, shaking my head.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He demands, squeezing his tiny milk carton in his fist. "Shouldn't you be happy? Stan and Wendy broke up!"
I sneak a glance at Kenny and Butters; they're laughing and look like they're having more fun playing with their food than eating it, which didn't use to be normal for Kenny, not until he practically moved in with Butters and got normal meals every day.
Satisfied with their preoccupation, I look back at Cartman, but when I open my mouth, I lose my voice.
"What?" He sneers.
"If you tell anyone about what happened, you're only screwing yourself." I warn dangerously.
He blinks, and suddenly he's hiding behind a poker face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
My fingers squish into my sandwich, making grape jelly ooze out onto the table. "You know damn well what I'm talking about."
His eyes flash; disgust and anger streaking through almost faster than I can pick up on. And then it's gone. "No, Kahl," He says, sounding pleasant and thoughtful. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
I feel my blood pulse in frustration, but he stares back without a flinch, daring me to challenge him further. My hand relaxes from strangling my lunch, and I suddenly realize he does have a plan after all. He knows what I'm talking about all right, but he's already decided that it never happened. It was our little secret; one that neither of us wanted in the first place. No one had to know.
The corners of my mouth turn up involuntarily, and I think that I see him almost smile back. I haven't seen him genuinely happy for weeks; and I know it's because of Wendy. Lucky for me, he's going to be too busy pursuing her to bother giving me hell about anything anyway.
"Stop smiling at me and eat your goddamn lunch, you fricken Jew." He growls into his tray.
I roll my eyes. At least not any more than usual.
---
His mom is a wreck.
I go straight to Stan's house after school, eager to make things right and more than a little nervous. I never fight with him, so I don't quite now how to act.
Sharon answers the door, her forehead set with deep worry lines, but she looks relieved to see me, and a little confused I knocked this time. Normally I just walk in.
"Kyle, I'm so glad you're here." She sighs, and I can tell that she means it. "He won't talk to anyone."
I frown. "He's that bad?"
"The only thing he'll say is "go away". I haven't gotten him to eat all weekend. What's going on with him?"
"…You mean you don't know?"
"Know what?" She asks desperately. "What's wrong with my baby?"
I hesitate, wondering if I should tell. But it wasn't a huge secret. And I can't stand to see anyone so worried. What harm was it really?
"Wendy broke up with him." I announce. "Again."
The tension visibly lifts from her shoulders and she falls back onto the arm of the couch. "All this over a girl?" She laughs, but I can tell she doesn't think it's funny.
"All this over a girl." I repeat, smiling sadly at the irony.
She lets me go after that, shaking her head as I scramble up the stairs. Once I get to the top, I stand outside his bedroom door for a long time before I have the nerve to open it, afraid I won't be forgiven. I finally take a breath and turn the knob.
Inside the room is so dark it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I make sure to shut the door securely behind me. I take in the scene, feeling my heart wrench painfully.
The curtains are closed, but messily, and the blinds are drawn in a deep angle on one side, like he was in too big a hurry to make sure they closed all the way to the sill. There's an untouched tray of soup and saltine crackers by the bed, and small trash can overflowing with used Kleenex.
Stan is lying on the bed on his back, one arm slung over his face. I move closer, noticing the way his breathing moves his narrow torso up and down. I think he's asleep until I reach the bedside and notice wetness leaking down his arm where the bend of his elbow is covering his eyes. Heartache threatens to strangle me.
"Stan," I choke out.
God, I can't stand seeing him this way. It makes it worst that he's not even startled by my presence; that he's so depressed his normal reflexes are gone.
His arm moves down his face very slowly, until he's peeking at me over the top. The baby blue of his eyes look brighter magnified under a pool of tears. They quickly fill with more and spill over his eyelashes to join the ones he already shed. His lids squeeze closed, so tight it looks painful, and his arm moves back up to cover them. His entire body starts shaking with silent sobs.
"It's gonna be alright, Stan." I touch the back of his hand, gaining more courage when he doesn't pull away. I sit on the edge of the mattress, slowly unfolding myself until I'm sprawled out next to him with my back against the headboard. My left arm sneaks across us and onto his right shoulder. I'm not worried about seeming gay right now; and I don't think he's in any condition to be either. Besides that, we were already more touchy with each other than most boys. It kinda sticks with you when you've been glued together since you were four: the age parents advocate hugging your friends and kissing "owies" better.
I scoot a little closer, turning toward him, moving my arm further around his shoulder and pulling him closer until I slowly ease him into my arms. He presses the side of his face against my chest, and I rest my chin against the crown of his head. My arms slide comfortably around his back, holding him securely. His sobs come out harder, a little louder this time, and his fingers twist into my shirt, gripping me tightly.
"I'd take all the pain if I could." I promise. "You're worth a million heart breaks to me. Don't you know that?" I breathe deep, greedily inhaling his scent. "I'm sorry I got so mad at you."
He turns his face into my chest, the sobs ripping through his throat. I tighten my arms, leaning my cheek against his hair and closing my eyes.
"I'm right here, Stan." I whisper. "It's okay to fall apart. I'll catch you."
And he does; completely losing it in my arms.
---
TO BE CONTINUED...
---
-BratChild3.