A/N: Whoa… There's my reviewers! Holy mother of Christ on a pogo-stick. THANK YOU! It's about the only thing right now giving me any joy. It really made a huge difference and I can't tell you guys how grateful I am that so many of you took the time to review. This chapter isn't as long as they normally are, but I felt it was a good ending place and I wanted to give you guys an update before you forget about it. P Inspiration suddenly struck me this evening, reading over all the reviews for last chapter, so lets hope it lasts and I get the next chapter out sooner. )

I promise I'm not trying to drag this story out. It makes me nervous every time I post a chapter because it's getting so long, but through this whole thing, I've sat back and let Kyle take the wheel. This is his story, and I'm going to let him tell it. I'm not going to intentionally rush the end, just as I wont intentionally drag it out.

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Chapter 16- Popcorn

Have you ever spent a whole night replaying a conversation in your head? Wondering what sort of logic the person you were having the conversation with was using... and why you had no clue what they were talking about?

I haven't slept a wink because of it. I can't stop thinking about Stan. I can't stop thinking about how close I came to the one thing I want more than anything else in the world, and how I lied to get out of it. I can't stop replaying the heartache on his face when I told him he was wrong; when I pretended I didn't want him.

…I can't stop thinking about popcorn.

I sigh and look at my clock, which blinks to 1:23 AM the moment I do. My lights are still on, and I'm laying on my bed with my hands behind my head, staring up at the ceiling; miserable.

He's right, in a way, about the popcorn. I do let him eat all the buttery pieces. Because… it makes him happy, and nothing in the world makes me happier than when he is.

But he doesn't know that, I remind myself. This frustrates me a little bit, because I don't understand his reasoning, and me and Stan… we always get each other.

So why don't I this time? I don't understand how popcorn is something he can build a whole assumption on. In fact, out of everything he mentioned, there's an incidence in which he behaves similarly toward me. After all, he always gets sugar free ice-cream, just like I have to, so I won't feel left out. And, hell; he even gives me his cherry when we have sundaes, just because he knows how much I love them.

It's something he's always done. Because we're friends. It was never because he wanted me. And, yeah, maybe I do save him a spot at lunch, but he waits to walk with me to school.

…And so what if I call him every morning? He calls me every night, just to tell me "sweet dreams", though not worded exactly that way.

I frown thinking about this, because he didn't call to say "goodnight" today, and that bothers me a little bit; but I guess I can't really say I'm surprised by it, either. He must feel terrible.

Fuck, I hope he's all right.

I turn onto my stomach, hugging my pillow to my face. I close my eyes, breathing in deeply; trying to relax and find I'm unable to. My wall clock ticks above my desk, sounding especially loud in the silent post-midnight hours. I contemplate putting in a CD; something calm, but decide there's too much work involved. The player is all the way on the other side of the room.

Usually, when I'm having a night of acute insomnia, I'll get a call from Stan, who can't seem to sleep, either. But so far, my cell phone has sat quietly on my side-table, getting a far better nights rest than I could possibly hope for at this point.

My eyes are heavy and sore with fatigue, and I wish I could knock myself out with a baseball bat and not suffer brain damage for doing it. I dimly consider calling Kenny, but who knows what he'd be doing after a party where he could have potentially charmed the pants off of any number of girls there? I consider Ike next, and even Wendy; but this situation is far too complex. Ike because of his age, (even though I'm probably underestimating him again) and Wendy because… it'd take too much explaining. That, and I'm not entirely sure how well she'd take to the prospect of me lusting after her ex-boyfriend.

I sigh again, releasing my pillow and turning onto my right side. A seemingly endless sea of empty bed greets me, and my stomach gives a painful lurch as the realization sinks in that… it didn't have to be empty tonight. Had I gone along with Stan's advances, he'd be here with me; holding me, loving me… letting me do all the things I've ached for so long to do.

Looking at it that way, I want to punch myself in the face for being such a retard. I screwed myself out of my ultimate fantasy; a fantasy that I could be living out right now. I could have kissed Stan tonight, and he wouldn't have pulled away. He would have kissed me back; would have touched me back. I bite my tongue, my eyes stinging with tears.

But it wouldn't be worth it in the morning, I remind myself, reaching out to touch the vacant pillow beside mine. It wouldn't, not when he could never look at me again. Or worse, when he'd look me in the face and tell me the whole thing was a mistake; that it didn't mean anything, that he felt absolutely nothing for me. But at the same time, I worry that everything is already damaged between us. I wonder how badly I hurt him, and how stupid he's going to feel when he comes to his senses and realizes his emotions are just fucked up and that he could never possibly want me. I wonder if the prospect of trying to kiss me will make him laugh because it's so ridiculous.

I wince, shuttering at the thought, and a more selfish part of me hopes for his misery over his laughter in this particular situation. But that only makes me feel worse.

…Christ, everything sucks right now.

Moaning, I flop onto his side of the bed, inhaling the scent of his hair on the pillow. My eyes close slowly as my head fills with the smell, and despite everything, the familiar tingles start buzzing deep inside my stomach, spreading warmth all the way down to my toes.

I'm stupid for even letting myself entertain the thought, I know; but what if… just, what if… I hadn't stopped him? And what if, by some miracle, he wasn't confusing his feelings?

I almost smile thinking about it, even though I know I'm only kidding myself. But you know something? Who cares if I want to fantasize? What's one night of wishing going to hurt? What's one last time envisioning all my dreams coming true?

I sink deeper into the mattress, sighing. I can picture everything about him, so perfectly. Why does he have to smile at me the way he does? And why do his eyes have to be that color? It's so unfair. But I'm smiling now, thinking about it all. I know tomorrow I'll have to face reality, but for now, I let my thoughts tempt me, and soar through all the possibilities I know can never be.

It's not until I get around to thinking about falling asleep with him, our limbs tangled up rather than just laying beside one another, that I start to drift off, and my cell-phone begins buzzing softly next to me… but I'm too far gone to answer.

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I wake up the next morning far earlier than I would have liked, my stomach in knots. I feel horribly nervous, and I don't want to go to school. I'm not sure what's waiting for me there… or rather, what isn't waiting for me. I don't know if Stan will even talk to me. But then there's this little part of my brain saying… that it's me who can't face him, and I think I believe that more than anything right now.

I eat breakfast in the dark, watching the kitchen grow brighter as the sun rises behind the mountains. I'm finishing the last slice of my orange when Ike stumbles in, still in his pajamas, yawning. He squints at me through tired eyes, then collapses into one of the chairs.

"Morning." I mumble, wiping my citrus sticky fingers on a wet napkin.

"Mmmff." He manages to slur back. I smile softly at him and rumple his hair, muddling it more than it already is. He growls at me, glaring, and flattens it down with his hands as best he can.

He, like Stan, is not by any means a morning person. They're both nocturnal by nature, and always sleep in until at least ten on the weekends. Stan is mellow when he's waking up, though. I can talk to him and tease him and usually I can even get him to smile. Ike's his polar opposite when it comes to morning moods; he'll rip your face off if you bother him too much. He rubs his eyes blearily, then lets his face fall against the tabletop.

"Have some juice," I tell him, slamming half a glass of Florida's Natural in front of his face. His eyes open half way, and he groans before sitting up and chugging it like a shot of brandy. I don't really understand why he's so grumpy. Ike should love the mornings; Ike should love every minute of his life. It's not like he has anything in particular to be upset about. Mom and Dad still buy him everything, they baby him, he gets good grades, he has lots of friends. My lips pucker at the thought, eyes narrowing in on his face as I tap my fingers against the tabletop.

Unless…

"…Hey, Ike?" I ask him, remembering our last morning conversation all those weeks ago. "What ever happened with that girl you like?"

"What?" He grumbles, disinterested in my musings so early in the day. He pries the container of orange juice from my hands and pours another half-glass.

"I was just wondering about that girl," I rephrase. "Did you ever get the chance to impress her?"

He stares at me, confused, and suddenly I see his expression click. "Oh, her." He remembers, his voice dull. "I don't know. I guess I just lost interest."

I blink. That was only a little over a month ago. "Just like that?" I ask, bewildered.

He looks carefully at me, surprised by my reaction. "Yeah. You like someone and then figure out later that they suck and you get over it. That's the difference between a crush and actually liking someone. You're not that stupid, Kyle. Stop pretending to be a retard, it's really annoying."

I snort at that, offended. I do know how easy it is to get over a crush. I guess after so many weeks of StanI just didn't expect such a neutral answer about getting over someone. I just can't see it being that simple anymore.

I watch Ike curiously, then leave him to his breakfast, figuring that's about all the conversation he can handle before he's truly awake, and head upstairs for a shower. I give him a backward glance as I exit the kitchen, catching him smile at the stupid joke printed on the back of the cereal box.

It hurts to know Stan will get over me just as easily.

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There's a weeping willow on the corner of the street Stan's house is on, and I always find him perched against it in the mornings, waiting to walk to school with me. His face lights up when he sees me, eyes sparkling like cerulean stars, and then he scoops his backpack up off the ground and falls perfectly into step with me.

I have no idea if he'll be there today.

My heart pounds harder the closer I get, and I have to keep telling myself not to turn around and run. I have never in my life dreaded seeing Stan; never until today. And it cuts like a pointed tip of a diamond.

I didn't call him this morning to tell him what I'd dreamt. I don't think we've missed a day of that in seven years. And when I grabbed my cell phone before leaving the house, I had a 1 missed call message across the screen from last night, with Stan's name under the caller-ID. And even after seeing that, I still didn't call him, because I was too afraid of what he'd say; because if I'm honest with myself, I'd rather never talk to him again than hear him tell me we can't be friends anymore.

I can't explain how that makes me feel inside, how empty. But it made me realize that something inside me is broken; something that can't be fixed, something that I'll never get back again. And I don't know if I'll ever be the same.

My shoes splash on the slush of the sidewalk; the remainder of whatever snow had been left on the ground and the rain we had last night. I take a deep breath when I turn the corner, trying to prepare myself, but I still miss a step and slip a little when our meeting spot comes into view. My stomach is already sour, but my lungs tighten when I find it empty. I stop in my tracks as the dread creeps into my bones, and I seriously consider turning back around; going home, hiding under a pile of blankets and never coming out again for the rest of my miserable, fucking, pathetic, sorry excuse for a life.

Then I see a flash of blue near the tree, and Stan steps out from behind it; head downward, hands deep in his pockets. Seeing him standing there, I feel something inside of me change, and suddenly it feels like all my fear had been felt by someone else. Warmth spreads through the deepest part of me, melting my insides, and I find myself being drawn into his magnetism again. I'm standing in front of him before I even realize I've moved.

He looks up at me carefully, and I watch his face, swallowing thickly when the blue of his meets the green of mine. He stares for a moment, locking me into his gaze, then looks back down, blinking sadly.

"Hi." He mumbles. His hat is on crookedly, and a small tuft of dark hair is poking out onto his forehead. I reach out to touch it, but pull back before he notices.

"…Hey." I whisper back, folding my fingers into my palm. He swallows a few times, then wets his lips.

"Do you hate me?" He asks, squeezing his eyes closed as if he were suffering some unbearable pain.

"What?" I rush, then more firmly, "No." I shake my head, eyes still glued to him when looks up at me through his bangs. His expression resembles a puppy expecting to be scolded for wetting in a slipper. "I could never hate you, Stan. How could you think that?"

He snorts sarcastically, but strangely, it sounds more like a sob. His eyes water as he searches the clouds, and I lean a bit closer, unable to help myself. "I fucked everything up, didn't I?" His voice is shaky.

"No-"

He's shaking his head, biting his lip, angry at himself. "I'm sorry." He breathes, swallowing back all the emotion.

"It's okay." I soothe. God, I want to touch his face. "Everything's gonna be okay, Stan."

And then I do touch him. I don't even mean to, I'm just sort of there, arms sliding around his neck. I feel him sink into me, but we rest our chins on each others shoulders, I for one, resisting all that I am to not nuzzle my face in his throat; breathe him in… taste his skin. I unconsciously pull him tighter, gritting my teeth against temptation, and pat his shoulder blade, like a good friend would do. He in turn holds me firmly, longer than we probably should; long enough for Kenny to make remarks if he were here.

He's the first to pull away, but he doesn't step back. His eyes dig into mine, questioning just under the surface. I look away, stepping around him so he won't see how hard it is for me to let go, and pull my hand out of my pocket, reaching behind me.

"Come on," I urge, trying to keep my voice light, but it only sounds desperate in my own ears. His hand slips into mine, palm sliding against palm, until they locked together in just the right way. I pull him up beside me, then let go, but he keeps pace with me. We slide our hands back into our pockets at the same time, and I wonder if his reasons are the same as mine.

We're mostly quiet through our walk; which is okay, I guess. We do that sometimes, so it's at least normal. I can feel him look up at me now and again, trying to figure me out; maybe wondering what's going through my head same as I'm wondering about what's going through his. For the most part though, he pouts; frowning down at his shoes in what seems to be outright frustration. I want to ask him about it, but I can't seem to force out the words, and before I know it, the school pulls into view. He grumbles something unintelligible at the sight, to which I grunt in agreement, then fall silent again. I stop him halfway up the schoolyard.

"Hey," I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He turns to face me, glancing at the point of contact. My hand falls away, and I think I see his eyes flash with distress. "Come to my house after school? I still have your birthday present I want to give you."

Something in his eyes softens, which surprises me. He didn't look harsh to begin with. "You don't have to give me anything."

I smile faintly. "It's a little late for that. I can't return it and my mom will have a conniption fit if I keep it."

He watches my face, managing a slight smile of his own; unaware how completely fuckable he looks. I'm not usually one to have outlandish Kenny-thoughts in public, so as my desire to throw him behind a bush and ravish the hell out of him increases, I feel my cheeks slowly start to burn up.

He lets out a soft laugh, opening his mouth to speak, but before any words come out, I'm bulldozed from the left by a massive force and crushed against softness. Shock courses my entire body in a flash of waves before I recognize the thick arms restraining me.

"Cartman?!" I yelp, my senses still reeling in frightened recourse.

"Thank you, Kahl. Oh Mah God, thank you!" He squeezes me tighter, and I gasp in what's most definitely bone-crushing pain.

"For …what?" I pant, gulping for air. He's squishing my goddamn lungs.

"For telling me what I needed to do. I had the best night of mah life! I made her laugh, Kahl! She said it was fun! She thanked me for being nice!" His hold only gets tighter, but I managed a choked, breathless laugh. "You're the best stupid Jew ever! I have to go practice being nice again before she gets here." I'm released as quickly as I had been attacked, and I topple a little. Stan grabs my arm to steady me, his touch so much gentler than Cartman's.

We watch him bound up the steps to the front doors, happier than I've seen him in a while. When I look at Stan, who's still holding my arm, his face is contorted with bewilderment.

There's an unmistakable glint of jealousy mixed in his eyes when he looks back at me.

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TO BE CONTINUED.

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-BC3 )