I Feel So

by Brat-Child3

I hugged myself and let out a sob: longing for the comfort of his smile, his touch. I was so sick. So sick and tired of being angry. In one clear moment, I realized how hopeless it had all been, and I asked myself: Now what?

14. Ivory Soap

Authors Note: Hooray! This took too long! But I'm done! Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter, and thanks in advance for those of you who'll review this one. J

P.S (or something): KyleisGod posted a one-shot we wrote together. It's posted under M. If you're an S/K fan… hehe… read it.

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Chapter 14- Ivory Soap

For the first time in weeks, I dream that night. Horrible, nightmarish dreams. The worst one comes after a string of confusion.

In it, I'm looking at Stan. I can't even say where we are, or maybe we aren't anywhere at all. It doesn't matter really; I'm trying too hard to figure out what the hell he's saying. He isn't coherent. Not that he's talking about something I don't understand; the words of his sentences seem to be words at random and don't fit together as a sentence to begin with. It's like someone minced what he was trying to say and jumbled the words all together.

Then he touches my cheek and I decide I don't give a shit what he's talking about as long as he doesn't take his hand away. Ever. He does, of course, but just as I open my mouth to protest this unfathomable action, he grabs my hips and heaves me against him. The movement is so quick I feel my breath rush out of my lungs. His expression is serious and confident; then his eyelids lower slightly and he smirks.

More gibberish; more words thrown together that make no sense. But this time they hold a tone of sensuality that makes my blood run thick with warmth. He moves his hand to my jawbone and pulls my face toward his, crushing our lips together. A grunt of surprise issues from my throat, but it's muffled against his mouth. And then he's kissing me.

…And I'm not enjoying it. This confuses me, and I feel my eyebrows furrow as his tongue invades my mouth. I'm not enjoying it because something doesn't feel right. Something about this kiss just isn't Stan. Something is just too… delicate.

I moan in protest and push myself away. Where Stan had just been stands Wendy, her arms still coiled around my hips.

"Stan?" She asks. "What's wrong?"

This mystifies me further, because she's looking right at me. "What?" I question, and it comes out in Stan's voice.

Wendy smiles and pats my nose with her index finger. "Oh, Stan. I'm glad we worked everything out. I never want to be apart again."

She leans in for another kiss, and suddenly I'm shooting upright in bed, gasping for breath.

My room is quiet, and even though it's illuminated in pale moonlight, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I reach over, blindly trying to find Stan's hand among the sheets and come up with nothing. I blink my tired eyes and strain to see better.

The bed is empty. He isn't here.

"Stan?" It comes out fearfully, teetering on deliriousness.

"Over here, Ky."

His voice is soft and tranquil, coming at me from my window. I squint in that direction, then release the blanket I'm clutching beneath my chin and slip out of bed.

I stumble when my feet touch the floor. The world seems to tilt at sharp angles; up and back, left and right as I make my way clumsily over to the dark figure against the open curtain. I clutch both sides of my head, trying to steady it.

"Stan?" I ask again, and my voice sounds like I'm talking through a plastic jar.

His arms are folded over his chest, and I start to feel a bit panicked again, because he's staring sightlessly out the window, his face void.

"…I've been so stupid," He murmurs, once again in that careful, quiet voice.

The room falls in silence again, but I can't find it in myself to speak. So I don't. I watch him blink through the silvery light bathing him; wait until he speaks again.

"I never wanted to worry anyone. I was just so… broken. It felt like too big of an effort to try and act normal when I didn't feel normal at all. It'd be like pretending, and I stopped playing make-believe a long time ago."

The room isn't tilting anymore. Now it's starting to spin. And I'm freezing; freezing and sweating at the same time. But I'm too entranced by Stan's voice and, more importantly, his words, to let it consume me. I grip the window ledge to stay upright, fighting the growing seed of nausea forming in the pit of my stomach.

"But I had to deal with things," He goes on. "and I did the only thing I could do: I held it all in and battled it out in my own head, because I… didn't want to unload on you."

He finally blinks, just once, a sarcastic smile fixed on his face as he shakes his head, but it quickly fades into a grim line. "I was stupid. I didn't see what it was doing to everyone; what it was doing to you. Maybe part of me was too angry to care. But none of that mattered, not to you. You were there for me anyway. You held my hand through it all."

I feel his hand sneak into mine. I try to look down, but the movement of my eyeballs sends a new wave of dizziness over me. I look back up, trying to blink it away. He's still looking out into the darkened night.

"I didn't realize it then, but… I literally had the world, my world, in the palm of my hand. I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I'm done hurting everyone. I want to get better…" He squeeze my fingers. "For you, Kyle." He finally turns to me on those last words.

The zombie is gone, I know that now, looking into those eyes; those goddamn eyes. They could only belong to one person in the whole world. The one person that'll hold my heart in the palm of his hand for as long as it continues to beat, and long after it's already stopped.

"You mean more to me than anyone ever could. Nothing, Kyle, nothing could cut me as deep as the pain I saw in your eyes tonight. And I will spend the rest of my life making these last few weeks up to you, if that's what it'll take to never see that pain again. I promise… I won't let you down."

Even through the throbbing in my head, the words are swirling through me and making my heart swell with something I can't quite identify. Something good, something real, something so powerful I can feel it vibrate the air between us. And I decide…

I'm definitely still dreaming.

A very faint smile is playing over his lips, adding to the adoration already there. He puts his palm to my cheek, and I watch his expression collapse.

"Kah-" He feels my other cheek quickly; the top of my arms. "My God, Kyle, you're freezing."

I stare at him through hazy eyes and see nothing but a slash of concern across his face. My teeth are chattering again; loudly, like at Wendy's house.

"Come here." He first crushes me against him, wraps his arms around my shoulders to try and warm me, then pulls away and drags me to the bed. In the next instant I'm under the blankets, cuddled against his chest.

I've spent countless nights in the same bed as Stan, but this… this is something I could really get used to. I nuzzle my face in his neck, not giving one shit about gayness or modesty or even sex. This closeness feels way too damn good to ruin by thinking with my dick.

…And it's so warm; so right. I feel so… fucking loved.

"Get warm, Ky." His hands rub up and down, helping to warm me with friction. "Get warm."

His breath and his smell and his voice and his touch are hypnotizing me; rocking me in a comfort so deep I feel my consciousness fading to sleep, even as his leg slips between mine for extra warmth.

---

It's light when I wake up. A stale sort of light that tells me the sun isn't shining in my window anymore, like it does in the mornings. The clock reads a quarter to one, but I'm not completely sure how accurate it is. Sometimes I hit the wrong buttons when I'm slapping around for my very favorite called "snooze" and mess up the numbers.

I yawn at it with disinterest and then stretch my arms up, rolling from my side to my back and spread out star-shaped across the mattress. I let out a sigh, and then my face scrunches up. Even though I'm only covered from my waist down, it's way too damn hot.

I kick the blankets off and glare in the direction of a soft whirring, spotting the culprit. A small, square space heater is sitting on my desk, place strategically at an angle to blow at me from across the room. I moan lazily and roll out of bed to shut it off, irritated that I have to get up even though it's already early afternoon. It makes me wonder why I slept so late in the first place. I'm not really a morning person, but at the same time, I never sleep in past seven-thirty.

I also wonder where the hell Stan ran off to.

My bones feel weak and I've got a putrid taste in my mouth, like I'd spent the night puking and never washed it out. My face screws up for the second time, and I pull a clean, fresh set of clothes out of my dresser and closet and head to the bathroom.

I brush my teeth before anything; brush them twice, then take a swig of florescent green, spearmint flavored mouth wash and swish it around for sixty seconds straight. Only then do I empty my bladder, get in the shower and scrub away the groggy, lazy feel clouding my head. I stand under the warm spray when I'm done and let it massage my neck and scalp; let it wash all the tension from my shoulders and pelt against my hair, my bangs running long and straight over my eyes.

I'm trying to put the puzzle pieces of last night together, but there's so many that are so tiny and I'm not sure which were dreams and which, if any, were reality. The faucet squeaks when I turn it off, and a single drop of water splashes against the porcelain tub. I stand there a moment, my hand frozen on the knob, staring blankly at the tiled wall.

Something in my brain is telling me not to worry; to be happy, and I can feel some tiny corner of my heart quivering with excitement.

…He looked at me last night.

I feel a corner of my mouth twitch, trying to smile, but still quaking too deeply with anxiety to actually let it form.

I exit the shower smelling of various passion fruits whose scents were obviously bottled for the female species, because Mom doesn't like to stop and consider the fact that she lives with three males who might not want to smell like strawberry soap and pomegranate shampoo. I like taking showers at Stan's house better, because he uses ivory soap and smells clean and not like a bowl of Froot-Loops.

I towel off my body and then my hair, which fluffs annoyingly back to life.

…Stan.

Stan Marsh…

I shudder as I slip into blue polka-dotted boxers and pull my long-sleeved shirt over my head. His name sounds foreign for some reason, like he's a celebrity I love to look at and don't know the first thing about. But that's crazy; I know Stan better than anyone. I'm closer to him than anyone. So why do I feel so far away? I slip one side of my pants on, then the other.

Maybe it's because I'm not sure how splintered our friendship's become, and I'm not even sure it can be completely mended. Maybe because, after everything, I'm afraid he might have become a totally different person now. One that may never be as close with me as we once were.

A ripple of fear shoots through my stomach, my fingers stalling on the button of my jeans, and dry heavy; only once. I clutch the sink as a cloud of dizziness wavers through my brain, making it feel sprinkley, like its fallen asleep.

"Dammit," I mutter, knowing I need to eat because of my blood sugar and hating the inconvenience of it. Maybe I don't fucking want to eat right now.

I zip up my pants and go back to my room for socks and shoes, planning on making a quick exit as soon as I stuff something in my face and before Mom tries to force inane chores on me.

Besides; I really, really need to see Stan.

"Fuck," I mutter, spotting The Mother start up the stairs just as begin descending them. I pull at the ears of my hat, wanting to hide but knowing if I run it'll only make me that much more obvious.

"Kyle! Good, you're awake." Her voice is overly pleased to see me.

Oh, God… I think miserably, sighing as I lean against the banister. Goodbye weekend.

She grabs my face when she reaches me at the top, feeling my cheeks, then my forehead. My mouth opens to protest, then I freeze; a flash of memory streaming across my mind, because I can recall Stan doing the very same thing last night.

Was that a dream?

I shudder, goose bumps cropping up along my skin as I remember the way he held me against his chest. In bed.

"Kyle?!"

"Huh, what?" I blink and focus back on Mom, who's still scary when she yells, even though I'm towering over half a foot taller than her now.

"I asked if you're feeling alright." She repeats, sounding slightly annoyed, but not mad in the least; thank God. I shrug.

"I'm fine." I tell her, not quite sure what she expects me to say to that. Maybe if I lie she won't make me do anything, but then she also might not let me out of the house. She's really good at either over-working or over-babying both me and Ike. I'll bet she's the one who cranked up the heat in my room to a blistering eight-hundred degrees. "I need to grab something to eat though."

"Yes, I figured as much, I was just on my way up here to wake you up. Stanley's downstairs, he made soup for you." She grabs my wrist and yanks me down a few steps, then gently presses my back to encourage me to descend the rest of the way. "Go on downstairs and get some. He spent all morning fussing over it." She leans toward me and sniffs. "Oh, that Pomegranate Passion shampoo is just heavenly."

I watch her disappear down the hall, one of my eyebrows quirked in puzzlement, then realize she just said Stan was here. I blink, my heart kicking up with hope, and break into a dead run down the stairs.

The TV is flashing with brightly colored cartoon reruns, but the living room is otherwise empty. I can hear Stan and Ike's voices wafting from the kitchen; their chatter dominate over the muted program.

"…You're missing something." Ike says, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Goddamnit, Ike," Stan snaps, though he only sounds half as irritated with him as I usually am by this point in the afternoon. "Would you stop saying that and just tell me what it is I'm missing, if I really am missing anything?"

"It's too late now, you ruined it."

"Do you always act like such a little shit?"

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing. "Little Shit" has been my official nickname for him for a few years now.

"…Only to Kyle." He answers. My eyes narrow at the confession, and Stan lets out a sigh that sounds like a dragon breathing fire. "But since you're practically glued to his hip, that gives me full rights to be a little shit to you, too."

"Then that means I have full Big-brother rights to boss you around, and I order you to stop being a little shit." Stan commands.

"No." They walk into the living room as Ike says this, him smiling triumphantly and Stan clutching a small food tray with a bowl of soup and short stack of saltine crackers on top. "Just because you can boss me around doesn't mean I'll actually listen." He glances at me. "Huh, Kyle?"

Stan's eyes snap up, locking on mine. "Kyle!" He exclaims. His excitement at seeing me nearly knocks the tray off balance, but his quick reflexes keep the bowl of soup from sliding off onto the floor. I smile.

There's emotion in his voice, on his face, in his movements. I can see life flickering wildly behind his eyes when he looks back up at me again, and then…

…he smiles.

The world stops around us, even the breath in my own lungs;

and my heart, like it's been cast under a spell and frozen for a hundred years, starts beating for the first time in my life.

If I didn't already have romantic feelings for him, I know with everything I am that this is the very moment I would have fallen in love with him. Where the first time snuck up on me, built slowly and matured as we got older, I'm experiencing falling in love with him all over again; only this time its socked me square in the stomach, and this time… there's absolutely no mistaking what it is.

We're staring at each other; eyes penetrating one another's souls, warm smiles soft on our lips. Part of me is worried he can read the emotion in my eyes; that he'll figure out he means much more to me than I could ever mean to him. But I don't care, not right now. Everything we've gone through this past few weeks, every second of desperation, depression, and agony have all been worth it, just to get to this moment; just to see him smile again.

"So kiss or something." Ike pipes in, but it doesn't break the staring spell.

Stan breathes a short laugh, more air than sound; shoves the food tray at Ike, and hurries over to me. I think for a minute that maybe he will kiss me when he reaches out, but I'm folded in his arms and drawn against him instead.

A hug.

I blink, my arms going around him carefully.

"I'm sorry, Kyle." He mumbles. His voice is thick, and it tickles my spine. "It's all my fault you got sick. I shouldn't have left you out in the snow."

"I was sick?" I ask dumbly. Stan pulls away from me, looks at me like I'm insane.

"Yeah, dude! You were really sick all night. To the point that you were delirious. I was sure you'd started puking up your intestines after a while."

My hands are clutching his waist. I let go, and hate that I have to. "I don't… really remember…" I look upward, digging through my scattered memories of last night.

"Well, your mom and I do." He snorts. "It was pretty fucking gross." He smiles again, teasing, then touches my sleeve and his eyes deepen. "I really am, though. Sorry."

I think that everything I remember from last night probably wasn't a dream after all; that he really did tell me he was done feeling sorry for himself, and that maybe now things are really going to get better.

I wonder how long he held me before I started puking my guts out.

"Are you hungry?" He asks, pulling me toward the couch. "I made you soup. And it's not from a can."

"You don't know how to cook." I accuse. He flings me onto the couch next to Ike, who's completely absorbed in some brainiac hard-copy news report thing.

"He forgot something." He mutters, eyes never leaving the TV. Stan shoots him a look, which goes unnoticed.

"It's chicken and rice." He says, eyes softening when he looks back at me, and positions the tray over my lap.

I peer into the bowl, smiling to myself, pleased beyond comprehension that he went through all that trouble just for me. His reflection on the liquid distorts when I pull the spoon out and take a bite… and try not to choke.

It's horrible; a bowl of rice and chicken bits floating in a sea of hot tap water. And the sad thing is that it could actually be a lot worse, because at least the rice is soft. I try to pretend that I like it, so I won't hurt his feelings; but I'm making a face.

"You don't like it." He observes, sounding more disappointed than hurt.

"No," I rush. "It's fine… it's just…" He waits for me to finish. I bite my lip, twisting my spoon in the bowl. "Well, you kinda… did forget something."

"I did?" He looks at Ike, who grins back manically.

"Told you."

Curious, he scoops my hand in his, bringing the spoon up to his mouth to test it himself. His nose wrinkles as he swallows, like he's trying to take a dose of bitter cough syrup.

"Broth." He realizes, his face a grimace; mine amused. "God, Kyle, I'm sorry, I-"

"Stan," I laugh, beaming brightly up at him. He peers down at me; half amused, half embarrassed, completely unaware just how incredible he is. "It's perfect." I promise.

And I honestly mean it.

---

He's not better, but he's trying to be.

He decides that what he wants to do more than anything else in the world today is ice-skate; "Like we used to…"

We haven't skated in years because it started feeling kind of gay; but Starks pond is frozen solid by this time of year, and I think it could help him. He seems to need this; like he wants to go back to a happier time, before everything got so damn confusing; and if he could relive it then maybe everything wouldn't be so fucking painful anymore.

We give Ike a ride to Fillmore's house, pick up Kenny (who always comes equipped with Butters), and at Stan's insistence, swing by to grab Cartman.

I volunteer to retrieve him from his house, because I'm positive I'll have to do some quick negotiating to get him to come and not be a dick about it; but he surprises me by not only agreeing to go, but his face lighting up and running right past me the moment he opens the door and spots Stan in his new car.

I had originally given up my seat in front for Butters since he's prone to car-sickness, but fatass tosses him face first into the snow and takes over, chattering to Stan with such animation I can't even hope to argue. Kenny kicks the back of the passenger seat, squeaking a string of profanities.

Butters ends up sitting in back with us, his face buried in Kenny's shoulder so he won't get nauseated. I watch Stan's eyes in the review mirror, and Kenny stares at me the whole way there.

There's a few other people on the ice when we get there; two little girls around Ike's age and a separate couple in their early twenties, who seem to be doing more kissing than skating. I focus on lacing up my rented ice-skate and try not to feel jealous.

"Last one there's a turd sandwich!" Butters proclaims. I look up just in time to see him zip across the pond.

"Come on, Stan!" Cartman shouts, his cheeks and nose pink against his pale face from the cold.

I glance from him to Stan, who's hovering in the snow in front of me. He looks at Cartman, then me; wanting to go but not sure he should leave me behind. Cartman glares, annoyed; and part of me wants to remind him just where Stan's loyalty lies by asking Stan to wait for me. But then Kenny moves beside me, bumping my elbow, his eyes boring into my face.

"Go on, dude." I tell Stan. My breath ghosts visibly in front of me, and I smile; just to see him smile back. He does. I watch him chase after Cartman and nearly topple when the blades of his skates slice across the rink.

"You are… fucking… hopeless." Kenny singsongs the moment they're out of earshot; but the tone is grim, and his voice sounds like funeral bells.

My head whips around to look at him, bringing our faces just inches apart. He's not playing around like normal… his eyes are cold; accusing.

"What?" I ask, my voice a pitch higher than normal; strained in a what the hell did I do? way.

He stares back, hard, ice frosted over his expression, then looks down. "Nothing."

"What?" I ask again, demanding this time.

"Nothing," He repeats, and pulls a cigarette out from underneath his parka. I snatch it from his fingers and toss it toward a cluster of trees, where it lands lightly atop the snow. A squirrel perks up nearby, then charges toward it like a kamikaze, snatches it up and disappears up the trunk of an Evergreen. We can hear it chittering merrily above our heads.

Kenny's gazing up at it, frowning. "Goddamn you, Kyle. I'm not allowed to have one, but you'll pass it out to the wildlife? Smokey the Bear's gonna kick your inconsiderate ass."

"That wasn't suppose to happen." I reason. "I thought you quit."

"Trying," He grunts, tugging at a tuft of overgrown hair. His eyes slice to mine, and he grins at me for the first time today. "… You know what? You're right. I don't need it, and honestly, I don't even want it that much. It's just an anxious habit." He goes back to his ice-skate. I study his expression.

"What are you anxious about?" I question. He shrugs.

"Nothing. So… He just woke up this morning and decided to smile and ice-skate?" He finishes one skate and looks back up at me. I shrug back, scratching my neck.

"Kinda. I mean… it's more involved than that."

"Naturally." Kenny agrees, urging me to go on. I can see in his eyes that he's concentrating deeply; trying to find something in mine and I'm not quite sure what.

"He drove to Wendy's house yesterday. I don't even know if he was going to talk to her. I think it was just to sit and mope. Anyway, we had a… talk," My eyes cut to his, and he raises an inquisitive eyebrow, but I continue. There's no reason to tell him I yelled and screamed. "and I guess it worked, because he was up in the middle of the night thinking it over and told me he was done feeling sorry for himself."

Kenny's quiet a moment, staring at me. His eyes narrow again. "A talk, huh? You're sure that's all?"

"Kenny, what the hell are you talking about?" I huff, tired of his suspicions. He sighs, the air blowing his bangs.

"I'm kind of worried," He admits. "Don't take this the wrong way, but… I kind of think that you've been taking advantage of Stan. Through this whole ordeal… it really looked like you were the one who needed him. I'm worried you took it too far and did something stu-"

"I didn't." I snap. He looks up at me, nods once.

"Okay." He seems relieved to hear this, then looks back down, grabbing a stick and proceeds to draw symbols in the snow. "I'm mostly worried about what's going to happen now that he's better."

"There's nothing to worry about." I tell him. "He's doing great. He-"

"No, I mean I'm worried about you." He spears the stick into the snow and turns to me again. "You've become dependant on him, Kyle. I've seen it. Now you aren't going to have an excuse to hold his hand and climb into bed with him every night. He's going to get over Wendy, and when he does, he'll eventually find someone else." I look down and feel his hand settle on my shoulder. "You're going to have to let him go, Kyle."

I go back to tying up my ice-skate, avoiding his gaze. I have no comment and I don't want to talk about this anymore. He tilts his head to see my face better.

"Kyle?"

"Let's skate. They're waiting for us." I scramble to my feet when I'm done and head for the ice. Kenny follows quickly after me, but he doesn't say anything more.

I glide slowly across the ice, my knees wobbling beneath me. Kenny goes a little faster, but he isn't much steadier than I am. All the years we haven't come has left us a bit rusty. Butters makes it look easy, because he comes here with his parents several times every year, so he's gotten in a lot more practice.

"What in the hell are they doing?" Kenny muses, chuckling as he comes to a stop beside me.

Stan and Cartman are in a row at the other end of the pond, hunched forward, glaring at each other through smiles. Butters is standing off to the side, watching them.

"They look like they're gonna-" I start, then see Butters karate-chop the air and shout, "Go!".

They shoot forward, Cartman swaying and Stan stumbling a bit before they each steady themselves and build up speed.

"Go Stan!" I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth like a megaphone. Kenny sticks his fingers in his mouth and lets out an ear-splitting whistle, though I don't think he's rooting for either one in particular.

They keep glancing at one another as they approach; keeping perfect stride without one or the other moving ahead or falling behind. Stan's directly in my path, and doesn't seem intent on swerving any time soon.

"Don't remember how to stop!" He calls out, sending Cartman into a fit of mocking laughter. Stan grabs my arm with both hands as he flies past, but he's going so fast it only whips me around in a circle. Stan loses his grip, and we're torn in opposite directions; him falling on his ass on the ice and me thrown off completely. I land on my back in a pile of snow.

My eyes open slowly, and I see nothing but tree tops against a cloudless blue sky. In the distance, Kenny joins Cartman, and their laughter blends in harmony.

…And then I hear Stan, his voice like harp music, laughing harder than he has in months. The smile from earlier comes back, tugging at my lips, and then I'm laughing, too; harder than I have in months, so much that I think my stomach might rip, and I think I've never felt happier.

But a pain starts in my chest; one that spreads outward, pouring over me like warm poison, consuming my soul like a plague. I choke, and the laughter dies in my throat, melting into sobs; and suddenly I'm crying miserably up at the heavens.

His laughter means he's healing; it means he's letting go, and I know in my heart that Kenny's right. Now that Stan let go of Wendy, I have to let go of him.

And I don't know how.

---

To be continued…

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-BratChild3