Authors Note: Thanks to everyone who was kind enough to review. I try to respond to everyone, but if I didn't, it's only because I've been trying to get this chapter out. Or, you were anonymous. So special thanks to all the anonymous people, especially the ones who said they never usually review. I appreciate it so much. And yes, all of you in the Netherlands.

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Chapter 10- Bed Sheets

There's something about bad luck; something to that old saying "when it rains, it pours" that seems to be true. And Stan is no exception to this cruel joke fate likes to play.

Wendy's sudden break-off hit him harder than I'd expected. He was fighting the battle of a broken heart and promptly losing, despite everyone's efforts to keep him from drowning in it. Granted, it was only Friday, just under a week, and a few days was barely enough time to have come to terms with the shock of it, let alone begin to heal. But he wasn't even doing that. It was like watching quick sand swallow him up; slow, but so damn quick that if you turn away for one minute, his head might be completely covered when you look back again.

To add salt to the wound, Sparky decided to get sick Tuesday morning. He was such an old dog now, and despite the vets optimism, I felt nervous about it today. He didn't seem to be getting any better. I was careful not to mention this to Stan, but it'd really started to concern me.

Which is why I earned myself a big, fat detention this morning.

I should have expected it. I've never been able to get away with anything. Not that I would do anything wrong even if I were capable, but these were special circumstances, and I always bent the rules if the good outweighed the bad. Right now, Stan needed me, and I was eager to be there for him, or at least be there with him.

…So I decided to walk straight out of school third period. And I got caught, by the principal, who called my mom in D.C.

I sat in the corner of the office, picking at the green thread in the hem of my shirt. I could hear her ranting on the line from across the room, because I'm the kid with that mother. But I was used to it, so I barely paid any attention; I was too preoccupied struggling with my own thoughts. Thoughts that, of course, revolved entirely around Stan. But eventually I was handed the phone with The Jewish Mother of mine waiting on the other end, and winced as I brought it to my ear.

Our conversation went a little something like this:

Mom: KYLE BROFLOVSKI, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE THIS TIME, YOUNG MAN?!"

Me: I-

Mom: I leave for a few days and you're already getting yourself into trouble? How am I suppose to trust you with anything? I didn't raise you to be a sneaky little bastard! You must be hanging out with Eric Cartman again, aren't you? What do you have to say for yourself?

Me: I-

Mom: Don't you use that tone with me! Oh! Your father will have a few words to say to you when we get back! I don't know where I went wrong! I always tried to tell you right from wrong, but do you listen to ANYTHING I have to tell you? I might as well be talking to a brick wall!

Me: But-

Mom: Do not back talk me, Kyle!

In the end my attempts at saving my ass were futile anyway, and I knew it from the get go, but I also knew that if I said nothing, I'd be accused of not listening. There really was no reasoning with the woman.

Not until I mentioned Stan, that is.

Mom completely, utterly adores Stan. There's no other way to describe it. She's the only one of our four parents that hasn't pestered us for spending practically every waking second together. And when Stan started spending most of his time with Wendy and less of his time with me, Mom was the only one to complain. She's more or less won over by his well rounded, all-American style and enduring thoughtfulness.

By the end of our conversation, my sentence had been reduced to washing the car, which was normally Dad's Saturday job. But only because she understood how important Stan was to me, not because she "advocated" skipping school. I'm also pretty sure she let me off so easy out of relief. I wasn't cutting class because I was hanging out with Cartman, who she never did bother to hide her disapproval of. It was obvious she considered Stan a better influence. I think it's one of the few things we'll ever agree on.

I served my hour long detention in the library after the final bell sounded, and then had to walk since the buses were already long gone. I had wanted to spend more time with Stan and instead lost two hours for attempting to gain that extra time.

There's a moral in here somewhere, and it's probably somewhere along the lines of: If you're going to do something wrong, make sure you have a getaway car in case you get caught and the fricken bus leaves your ass behind.

I was only glad Ike was staying at his friend Fillmore's house. It made it possible for me to walk straight to Stan and not have to worry about getting home.

The wind picked up, swirling leaves around me and sent a distinct chill in the air on my way to his house. I squinted up at the dark sheet of clouds, smelling rain. Wasn't that some kind of bad omen? I tucked my hands under my arms and continued onward. It didn't matter really; everything sucked today, but I was on my way to see Stan. Nothing else could go wrong. It wasn't raining yet.

Thunder cracked in the far distance the same moment rock-sized droplets began pelting down.

"Goddamnit."

I pulled the hood of my sweat jacket over my head and bolted to my destination, which was now in full view. I didn't knock this time; it wasn't normal for either of us to knock on each others doors, and welcomed the dry warmth of his home upon entering.

Mr. Marsh was once again planted in his official spot in front of the TV, a long-neck bottle of beer in one hand and two empty on the coffee table. His eyes were glazed and spacey, but the thing that threw me off was that it wasn't in a drunk kind of way. If anything, he looked sullen. But he didn't seem to notice me. So instead of throwing off his thought pattern, which from the looks of it, could have been anything from undressing the spokes model for tic-tacs on TV to deciding if he wanted to be buried or cremated, and made my way up the stairs to Stan's room.

I found it empty, which hadn't happened once since Wendy's break-up, and after a brief lapse of puzzlement, backtracked to follow the sounds and smells of dinner being prepared in the kitchen.

Mrs. Marsh sighed when she saw me, her face drawn and taught.

"Mrs. Marsh is…" I paused as I studied her. "Is everything okay? Where's Stan?" I pulled at the drawstrings on my hoodie, hating the eerie feeling chilling up and down my spine.

"He's out in the backyard." She sighed again, in that stressed-out way only mother's can do, and dried her hands on a yellow dishtowel. "He's been out there all day and I just haven't been able to convince him to come inside."

Every organ in my body froze with dread, only to restart again in overdrive. It wasn't what she had said, it was the way her words came out, the way she held my eyes, the way her lips were pursed together… and I knew. But I still couldn't help myself, I still had to ask.

"… Why won't he come in?" My voice was whisper thin, like a ghost. She shook her head.

"Sparky died this morning."

And my heart splintered; for Sparky, for Stan. Especially for Stan. And all I could think was, So what if he refused to come in, how can they leave him alone at a time like this?

I threw the door open and lurched across the yard, letting the cold air nip at my nose and sting my eyes; letting the rain patter against my skin. The yard wasn't very big, but it still seemed to take forever to get to him; to reach the wooden fence in the far corner where he stood, hands in his pockets, face turned downward, letting droplets of rain drip off his nose and onto the mound of dirt beneath the half grown peach tree, Sparky tucked safely underneath.

I slowed when I got closer, my shoes squishing and sloshing in the mud. He looked up at me with those eyes. Those deep, cerulean eyes, rimmed with red, puffy with heartache, but not a single tear in sight. His bangs were plastered to his forehead by the rain, his nose running.

We stared at each other, just stared, until the sound of his sniffle broke my trance. I closed the distance between us tentatively, like you would approaching a frightened animal. I pulled him against my body, encasing him in my arms. His soggy clothes seeped into mine; soaking my shirt, my shoes, my skin. I clung to him, pressing my face into his neck, closing my eyes and concentrating on our hearts beating against each other.

He let his forehead fall onto my shoulder, his arms remaining limp at his sides. I could almost actually feel the misery radiating through his skin.

I held him for a long time, waiting. But he never broke down. He didn't cry.

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That was hours ago. Now I'm sitting with my back against Stan's headboard, a science book propped open on my raised knees. I can hear the spray of the shower through the wall, and chew my lip up thinking about the fact that Stan is beneath it with no clothes on. I find that this knowledge makes it absolutely impossible to study; makes it useless to do anything really, except concentrate on the sound of the water so I won't think about what I really want to be doing right now.

I look at the empty spot next to me. It's illuminated with the soft, yellow glow of the lamp on his bedside table. I reach out slowly, touching the knot of tangled sheets. I'm jealous of them; of the way they wrap and hug him in comfort every night, draping and clinging to every curve, the way they have the privilege of being saturated in the warmth of his body. If I could die and come back Stan's favorite bed sheet, I'd jump out the window right now, not a moments indecision.

The faucet handles squeak and the water shuts off. I close my eyes and picture Stan dripping with wetness, rubbing soap all over his body. I cover my face with my hands and let out a moan caught somewhere between longing and anguish. Being near Stan was like a starving child told not to touch at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Damn near impossible. The only thing that had stopped me so far was fear of losing his friendship. I couldn't live without Stan. Once touch, one kiss… wasn't worth a lifetime without him.

But that was always more convincing when he wasn't close enough to touch. I lost my head far too easily when he was near me.

The bedroom door opens, and my hands fall back down to my science book. The moment they do, I'm glad it's there. Stan closes the door behind him, a towel tucked around his bare torso. I blink, trying to keep my eyes from flying wide and adjust the book appropriately over my lap.

He comes to a stop on my side of the bed, proceeding to rummage through the bottom drawer of his dresser for boxers and, because it's cold, a pair of pajama pants and a plain cotton T-shirt. He throws them on the bed next to me, the shirt landing on my leg, and drops the towel.

Torture. Sweet, delicious, irresistible torture.

I shift my book again, then decide to flip it facedown so that the spine creates an upside down 'V' over my lap, giving me plenty of room for things I'm currently needing plenty of room for. I'd been having this problem all week. Being so close to him again was definitely having it's effects on me, and I swear, I've never jacked-off so much in my life. Quietly, of course, inconspicuously; like after I got home from being with him, or if I absolutely couldn't take it, in his bathroom. I had to do something to get my mind out of his pants and focused on more important things, like being a good friend to him.

It was true: Since Wendy had come back into his life, he hadn't exactly been there for me. But I've already forgiven him for that. Up until then, he's always been there for me, he's always stood up for me, he's always had my back. I haven't forgotten that. I haven't forgotten that he's still my hero, and that he always will be.

Now it was my turn to give that back; to be his hero, and I was more than happy to do that. I could be his superman.

But I can't help but wonder if I'm too weak sometimes. How is it that I can manage to sit here in flames, burning with lust, and at the very same time feel like my heart's being ripped to shreds out of sympathy?

More than anything, I wish I could make love to him. Right now, tonight, on this very bed. Epitome of a teenage boys fantasy to fuck his best friend senseless, maybe; but it isn't like that at all. Not at the moment, at least. It'd actually mean something. It'd actually have a point.

If I could, I'd reach out and pull him onto the bed with me, tangle myself up with him, and then saturate him in the feel of my body. I'd kiss up and down his damp skin, make him forget about the world and everything haunting his mind, and I could forget about everything except him. We've always shared everything with each other; I only wish he was able to share his body.

I watch him pull dark blue boxers on, the black elastic band snapping against his skin below his belly button. Next comes the pants, also black. The rim of his boxers show over the top of them. His fingers brush my thigh when he grabs his shirt, making me nearly grunt in surprise. The light touch sends a torch of yearning up my leg. He pulls the shirt over his head as he rounds the bed to the empty side, pulling his left arm through, then pausing on the right. He stares at the floor momentarily, then finishes with the shirt and bends to retrieve something by his foot. He comes up with a stricken expression and one of Sparky's squeaky chew toys in his palm.

I feel my heart break for possibly the millionth time today. "…Stan," I say it gently, setting my science book aside and sitting up.

He shakes his head, ignoring me, and squeezes his eyes and his fist simultaneously. The toy lets out a cheerless wheeze. An instant later he shoves open the window and throws it as hard as he can into the darkness. He slams the window closed again, then turns back toward me, covering his eyes.

I throw my legs over the bed and reach his side in a matter of seconds. I grab his hand and pull him onto the mattress, and he crumples onto his side, back toward me. His right hand is still covering his face, and strangely, he's still not crying.

I'm afraid that something in him has broken. More than just his heart. Until this point, he'd at least seemed human. He'd shed tears for Wendy, though he did what he could to suck it up. He communicated, even if the only thing he'd say was "go away" and "I'm not hungry". At least that was something. Today, nothing. Not a word, not a tear, not anything.

I reach over his body to touch his knee, which is curled up to his stomach, feeling relief when he doesn't push me away. I move my hand up to his arm and caress up to his shoulder. My finger gets caught under his sleeve and pulls it up a bit, exposing part of his upper arm. Faint black scribbles catch my attention. I slip my fingers back under the sleeve and pull it up further, revealing sloppy artwork.

"Oh, Stan," I whisper, hurt for him rather than because of him.

The word "unloved" is scrawled across his skin in black ink. It looks faded from his shower, but is still quite visible. It almost looks like he tried to carve it into his flesh rather than just stamp a label on himself. But the skin isn't punctured, which makes it a little easier to bear. I gingerly circle my index finger over the lettering.

So this is what was tearing through his mind. Of course. Who wouldn't feel unloved after getting their heart torn out and stomped on? It was so simple really, but so complicated at the same time.

And hurtful. Didn't he know I loved him? I had my secret feelings, but any idiot could see the bond between us. A bond like that didn't come without a deep sense of love, no matter how brotherly it may be. At the same time though, I know that this is just my secret feelings pulling out jealousy. Of course Stan knows I love him, but this isn't about me. This is about Wendy. This is about the person he loves and the fact that she decided she doesn't want him anymore.

I crush my chest against his back and prop myself up on my side with my elbow. My fingers stop their circling and lay flat against his arm.

"Stan?"

Silence.

"Stan," My palm begins stroking his arm, almost petting him. I lean over his shoulder and press my cheek against his. "You know I care about you, right, dude?"

My arm twists around his waist and draws him closer. "More than anyone else in the world?" His left hand moves up to help his right cover his face. I pull back and grab his shoulder, rolling him onto his back.

"Please look at me."

I'm surprised at the desperation in my voice, the apparent heartache. Did he know what he was doing to me? Did he really not know how much his suffering effected me?

My fingers cuff his wrists and pull them away from his face. I hold them against his chest and watch his face. His eyes are pinched shut. Without thinking, I lean down and kiss his eyelids. Soft, carefully. When I pull back, they're still closed, but no longer clenched.

"Stan?" I pry a hand from his, just now noticing his tight grip on them, and move it up to touch his cheek. His eyes open slowly, but he still isn't looking at me. He's not looking at anything; his eyes are sightless, dead. He stares right through me.

The sting of tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them away. This time, I kiss his forehead, right between those crystal blue orbs. He doesn't so much as flinch. I can't tell if he can even feel it.

I want him to know he's loved; need him to know. I wouldn't think of unleashing my romantic feelings on him. Especially now, not when he was so vulnerable. But my friendship for him, our bond, our brotherly love; that was something I had always been free to express. It was something I needed him to know I still cherished.

I adjust myself more comfortably, aligning my body against his. The way we fit so perfectly together makes my breath catch, but I quickly push that thought away. I push all feelings of lust and romance out of my mind, difficult as it is. And it is difficult; the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. But I'll do it.

Anything for Stan.

Anything.

I lower my face gradually and press my lips to his, giving him a gentle, purely platonic kiss; the kind you see Italian sons and fathers do on TV, only slower, more lingering. Then I press another kiss into his forehead, then his left cheek, his right cheek, his chin. I rub my nose against his, then drag it across his jaw line to the pulse point in his neck. His skin is clean and smells sweet from his shower. I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder and inhale, filling my head and my lungs with Stan.

"You're my best friend," I mutter into his skin. "I'll never leave you."

I lay still after that, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. His breathing becomes deep and rhythmic with sleep minutes before my own consciousness begins to fade.

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I wake up with my senses buzzing with the scent of Stan. The room is still enveloped in darkness, and a quick glance at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock tells me it's nearing one AM. I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and then drag them down my face. My breathing is jagged and I'm hard as fuck. Something tells me I'd just been having an extremely pleasant dream, but I can't quite grip what it was.

I look over at Stan, who's still asleep. We'd somehow become untangled and were now on our designated sides of the bed, though more toward the middle than the edges. He's on his side, facing toward me this time, his limbs curled slightly inward. One of his hands rests on the mattress, pressed against my side. I feel tingles shoot through me when I notice this. If I turned onto my side he'd be nearly touching it. The front of my pants grow.

And then I realize I'd just been kissing him a few hours ago. What the hell was I thinking?! And how the fuck had I managed to keep it in the friendship zone?

I lick my lips, and feel my eyes close involuntarily. Oh, god… I can still taste him.

I moan and shift restlessly on top of the sheets. I can smell him all over me. Even now, I can feel the heat of his body radiating onto my skin.

I look at him again; let my eyes linger on his perfect face. My gaze travels downward, taking in his entire physique. It fits mine in all the right ways.

I want him. I want to fuck him. So badly I can feel my whole body pulsating with desire. Sparks of pleasure are spearing through my stomach, exploding in every direction from the tiny pressure of his hand against my side. I shift again, disturbing him this time. He stretches and falls back asleep, his knuckles sliding across my skin, his knee bumping my leg. I moan again and reach down to the front of my pants.

I should get up and do this in the bathroom, I think. But I can't move. Now his hand and his knee are pressed against me. I want more. More touches, more skin, more breath, more Stan. My hand rubs faster as I watch him sleep and concentrate on the small points of contact his body is making with mine right now.

The release is quick and violent, and I'll never know how I got through it without making any noise. Minutes go by with nothing by my breathing filling the room as I slowly descend the cloud I'm on.

My mind starts to clear, and suddenly I remember Sparky. I groan, in mourning this time, and slap my hands over my face.

I feel like the sickest bastard in the universe.

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To Be Continued…

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-BC3