Authors Note: Hurray! Another chapter completed. Not my longest, but longer than the last. Hopes you likey's. . I'm very pleased with the reviews I've been getting, and I hope you like this installment. Let me know.
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Chapter 17- Rocket
"…Hey, Kyle?"
A half hour after the last bell rings at school, twenty minutes after Stan and I part ways with Cartman, and I can finally see my house coming up in the distance. I'd asked Stan at lunch, when it had occurred to me, why in hell he didn't just drive to school now that he had the option. His answer was simple: "I like walking with you."
I bite my lip now, evaluating the words for the millionth time, and answer his current inquiry. "Yeah?"
Hesitation. I tilt my head slightly, looking over at him. He's pretty much pouted silently the entire day, taking breaks every now and again to watch me with that same intent, curious look he'd given me the night he snapped out of his trance. I can feel him prying into my thoughts, digging into my secrets with some sort of super best friend, x-ray, laser vision or something; and I'm trying to block him out so he won't know how badly I'd lied to him. It's been a battle of wills all day, and I have no clue who's winning. I'm afraid, though, that he's caught me staring one too many times, the way I'm staring now. I am so fucking obvious.
I quickly look back down. "What, dude?" I ask again. My shoes drag loudly as we walk.
He finally sighs. "Nothing."
I smile faintly at the answer, feeling my mental scoreboard click. "Seven."
"Seven? What does that mean?" He asks, somewhat paranoid, in my opinion.
"That's the seventh time you've said 'Hey, Kyle' and answered with 'Nothing' since we left school." I report.
"You kept count?" His frown deepens. "Sorry."
I roll my eyes, shoving him playfully. "And that's the twenty-third time you apologized for yourself since this morning. Seriously, whatever it is, just tell me or ask me or something. The anticipation, man, it's making me nuts."
We stop in front of my house, where I proceed to fish through my pants pocket for my key. Stan swallows loudly, saying nothing. I peer up at him through my eyelashes and find him thoroughly absorbed in watching my hand groping around inside my pants. My blood stills.
"…Stan?"
He jolts at the sound of his name, then backs up a few steps, refusing to make eye contact.
"What is it?" I urge, my face hot. Christ, I didn't know it was going to be this difficult. Stan doesn't blush easily, but he bites his nails when he gets nervous, and he's currently munching away.
"I was thinking about Cartman," He mumbles against his fingers.
"Cartman?" I repeat, my eyebrow quirked.
"Yeah."
We stare at each other, trying to decode thoughts again; gauging one another's reaction to each tiny instance for quick analytical processing. It used to be so easy to finish his sentences. We used to know exactly what the other was thinking with a quick exchange of glances.
"What about him?" I cave, unable to solve the puzzle of his thoughts.
He studies me another moment, suspicious. "Something's… different between you two."
I successfully pull the key out and jam it into the door handle, our roles switched. Now I'm too uncomfortable to look at him. "Really?" I turn the key and shove the door open. "I hadn't noticed."
"You hadn't noticed?" He follows me into the house, grabbing my hand and turning me to face him again. "Kyle, he hugged you this morning."
"I helped him with something," I snap. "That's all."
"Why are you getting so defensive about it?"
I reach over his shoulder and push the door closed behind him, then turn back around. "I'm not."
"Then what's wrong?" He's not trying to be a dick about this. I know he isn't, but he's touching too close to sensitive matters.
"You're insinuating things," I growl. "Horrible, terrible things about me and Cartman. What the hell do you think is wrong?"
"Jesus, Kyle, I was only asking." He defends himself. "You're such a drama queen sometimes."
I whirl and nearly smack into him. He's closer than his voice sounded. "Drama queen?!"
"Yes."
"Queen?!" I repeat, emphasizing the word that's particularly offensive here.
"I think my point has been proven." His eyes are dangerously narrowed. "You are the queen of queens."
My blood is boiling under my skin. Stan's usually the one to calm me down, not spark flames of fury. What the hell is going on here? "Why are you being such a dick to me?"
"Why are you?" He fires back. "All I did was ask a question. He sat with you at lunch, you weren't apart for one second between classes, you talked all the way back to his house-"
"Jealous?" I ask coldly, my arms crossed, eyes slits of green poison.
"Yeah." He admits. "I am." He raises his arms in a helpless gesture and lets them fall back to his sides. "You said everything was okay between us, but you failed to mention that Cartman is your new best friend."
"Cartman is not and never will be my best friend!"
"What, boyfriend then?" Stan hisses, his voice calm, but deathly vile. I'm shaking visibly in my rage, and I want to scream. The painfully obvious tension that's severed our communication for the day has finally reached its peak. "Am I right?" His voice is soft, mocking.
I lunge at him, shoving him violently onto the couch. "Just because we're getting along doesn't mean he's my boyfriend!" I explode. "You're in no position to be jealous! Look at everything I have done for you this past month! I've held your hand, I've read you books, I climbed into bed with you every goddamned night-!"
"-And then you stopped!" He bellows. I'm on my knees, each of them straddling Stan's thighs. If I sit, I'll be in his lap. My hands are on his shoulders, pushing him back into the cushions, his resting dully at his sides. His face is torn between hurt and anger, and just like that, I'm miraculously able to read him like a book again.
"… And you didn't want me to." I murmur, staring into his eyes.
He answers carefully, his voice firm and sure. "And I didn't want you to."
I bite my lip, softening. I could easily kiss him right now, and Holy mother of Moses, I want to. I wonder what he'd do if I just went for it and didn't stop.
"Stan-"
The sound of tiny feet pattering on the carpet makes us look away, our attention redirected.
"…You got a dog?" Stan asks, watching the puppy sniff around the coffee table.
"No," I tell him, pushing myself off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. "You did."
His head whips around to stare at me again, shocked, but excitement already seeping into his expression.
"Happy birthday." I conclude.
"Kyle!" He laughs, just as the puppy leaps onto his lap. "It's a little Sparky!"
I'm still feeling a bit irritated, and my sexual frustration is at an all time high; but as I sit here, watching Stan laugh while his new pet licks his face, tail wagging madly, I feel my face softening into a smile.
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After going over one million and one names, we came up with Rocket, due to the pugs' annoying habit of shooting straight up into our arms without warning. After the naming ritual, we took him for a walk, going the semi-short distance from my house to Stan's. We ran most of the way, until Rocket decided it was bullshit and insisted on being carried. Stan happily complied, talking with cutesy, purposely mispronounced words, like; "Are you tired my widdle Wocket? Don't worry, I'll, cawwy you home because I wuv you!"
I have never in my life heard Stan talk that way to anything, not even Sparky, and I am rightfully concerned. This is just not normal Stan behavior. If I said 'widdle Wocket' he'd be scared for his life. I think he's puppy whipped, to be perfectly honest.
Goddamnit.
…I can't even believe I'm jealous of a dog. A thousand sarcastic thank-you's to Stan for accomplishing that
humiliating feat.
Now, though; we're spread out on Stan's living room floor, our backs against the couch, where Rocket has already taken over residence; flopped over on his back, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth while snoring louder than the buzz of a chainsaw.
I lean my head against the couch, closing my eyes. We're finishing The Catcher in the Rye, and Stan had volunteered himself to read it.
"I think it's about time I did my share." He had grinned at me, brandishing the book. I gladly accepted the offer, and am currently relishing in the sound of his voice disturbing the otherwise silent house. His mom isn't due home from work for another hour, and his dad a bit later than that, so the place is all ours for the time being.
It's only when he stops reading that I realize I'm starting to doze. The abrupt quiet throws off the buzz of relaxation humming through my body, and I open my eyes, frowning at the unwelcome disruption.
"What the hell, dude? Why'd you stop?" I demand, eager to fall back into my Stan-induced hypnosis. His eyes are stuck on the corner of the page, but it's obvious he's not seeing the words. "Stan?" I ask, lifting my head. He smiles faintly, still looking into the depths of his mind.
"Remember when we taught each other how to read?" He asks. "In first grade, every time we stayed over with each other, we'd pull out a book, sit on the couch, and read." He finally looks at me, and I nod, a small laugh escaping me.
"Yeah." I answer. "If one of us didn't know a word, the other one did. Between us we could read any Dr. Seuss book we set our minds to." I grin back, and we chuckle together, watching each other as we do. The staring lingers long after the laughter is gone, and his face grow serious.
"You didn't want to, either." He says quietly, hugging the book and his knees to his chest.
"Huh?" I ask, confused.
He blinks at me, his eyes deep and sad. "I… this past month. You didn't want to stop reading to me, or holding my hand, or climbing into bed with me any more than I wanted you to stop." I turn away from him, ready to get up, but he lurches forward and wraps his arms around my shoulders, catching me before I can escape. He tries to look at my face, but I keep it turned away from him, my eyes glued to the floor, hands clasped together on my raised knees.
"You're wrong about that, Stan." My voice is quiet, dry.
"No, I'm not." He whispers. His thumb is rubbing circles into the skin of my arm, and I can barely think with him doing that.
I take a deep breath. "I was only-"
"No." It comes out pleading, and so soft it's practically nothing but a tickle of breath in my ear. "I may be wrong about everything else in the world, Kyle, but I'm not wrong about this. I'm not. I can see it in your eyes." I sit rigidly, not saying a word, my eyes digging into the carpet. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
I look at him then, out of pure curiosity, if nothing else. His face is close; so close all I can see are his eyes. His fingers sink between mine, clasping my hand and bringing it up to his chest. He flattens my palm against his ribs, and I can feel that his heart is thudding wildly inside, matching the tempo of mine to absolute perfection. He brings his other hand to my heart, feeling it quiver madly in time with his.
"Kyle," he breathes, touching my cheek with the back of his fingers. I instinctively lean backward as he leans forward, and we both lose our balance and collapse to the floor. I can feel his body on top of mine, and I open my eyes to find him hovering over me.
"Stan, you've got to stop this." I tell him. My voice is unsteady and completely unconvincing.
"I don't want to stop." He touches my face again, watching his fingers against my skin. "I don't ever want to stop."
"I want you to." I insist. I try to move my legs, but only succeed in brushing them against his. The movement sends a flight of sensations through my body, and I know that he's noting the effects on my face. "You've got it all wrong, Stan."
"I've got it all wrong?" He asks, sarcasm creeping heavily into his tone. I nod my head. "Oh, so it totally wouldn't do anything for you if I did this, right?" His hand slides over my throat, and my breath comes out in a pleasured gasp. He pauses, looking down on me in complete astonishment. He hadn't expected such a dramatic response, even if he does think he's right. Stan is not arrogant, but he knows when people are lying; especially me, and he's using that gift to his advantage. He knows I want him. He doesn't understand the how or the why, but he has a firm grasp on the general concept.
I'm surprised to see his eyebrows pull together, contorting his face in pain. "Kyle, why-" He swallows thickly, trying to read me again, but I block him out, freezing my gaze over with ice. "Why are you fighting this?"
I stare back at him; hard, unfeeling. If I open my mouth and say anything, all that's going to come out is how much I fucking want him. I can't move, either. If I do I'll only pull him closer. So I marbleize myself, staying perfectly still beneath him; stubborn as a fucking mule. He's trying to read my eyes, trying to break through the block I've put on my thoughts. His finger traces my jaw line, and the contact makes my breath start to quicken. He blinks again, still honestly surprised by my reactions to his little touches. He settles his body along mine, rubs his nose against my neck. I go limp beneath him, my blood thickening with desire.
"I want you, Kyle." The words are a rush of warm breath against my neck before his lips dissolve into my skin.
"Stan," I mouth, no sound coming out. His lips suckle down to the hollow of my throat; pressing open onto my skin, then closing and fanning outward to form a sucking motion.
"Tell me you don't want this." He dares me, his voice thick and husky, moments before his teeth sink gently into my skin.
The truth is that I want this more than I want to breathe; to live, to laugh. The truth is that I've never wanted anything so bad in my entire life.
And the truth is that his want for me is only an illusion.
"Stan," I whisper. I squirm slowly; writhing under his touch.
His teeth nip behind my ear, making sparks shoot through my stomach. "…Mmm." his lips vibrate against my pulse.
"Stan, please…" Still a whisper.
His fingers are gliding, twirling, twisting slowly up my torso, pulling my shirt up with them. My knees start shaking.
"Please what?" His question is hot in my ear. He presses his forehead against my cheek and squeezes his eyes closed. "I'll do anything you want me to."
"Please," A moan this time. I don't know if I'm asking him to stop now or never.
His teeth find my earlobe and grind it gently, and suddenly my back is arching off the floor. His breath hisses in his throat.
"Stop." I manage to whimper. My hands find their way to his chest, pushing upward. He pulls back instantly, looking keenly into my eyes, gasping.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't want this." I pant, pushing up on his chest.
"You're lying."
"Get off me, Stan."
He snorts. "If you really want me to, which I seriously doubt considering the size of the bulge in your pants right now, then why don't you make me?"
My face is fire-engine red, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. The combination gives me the boost I need to overpower him and throw him onto the floor. His elbow hits the couch, making him wince. I scramble to the opposite side of the room and glower at him, flames shooting from my eye sockets. The look he shoots me as he cradles his arm is a thousand times deadlier than mine.
"I am not going to be your rebound sex!" I explode, hating him for being so careless about this sort of thing. The bitterness melts from his face, and his eyebrows draw together.
"Rebound sex?" He frowns. "Kyle, what are you talking about?"
"Wendy!" I remind him, exasperated by his stupidity. "This all comes down to you and Wendy!"
"This has nothing to do with Wendy! This is you! Can't you see that?" He pulls himself to his feet, but keeps his distance. "And what do you mean 'rebound sex'? I've never had sex to begin with."
"That's not what you told me."
"I wouldn't lie to you." He argues, stepping closer. I step back.
"You said it was 'too late'!" I fire at him, pointing my finger.
He shakes his head, staring for a long time, and I wish he wouldn't. I'm uncomfortable with him looking at me like that.
"Is that what's bothering you so much?" He finally asks, nicer now. "Kyle, you didn't let me finish. And maybe that was a bad way for me to word things, I confess, but that's not what I meant that night." He pauses, waiting for my reaction. My expression doesn't waver. "I meant it was too late to try and talk me out of it, because I'd already made up my own mind. I tried to go all the way, and you know what happened? All I could think about was how much it mattered to you that I waited. I just couldn't get myself to disappoint you like that, and honestly, I wasn't all that ecstatic about it, either. I just felt like it'd secure mine and Wendy's relationship somehow. I cared a lot about Wendy, I admit that, but even then I didn't know why it was so important to me to make it last. I knew I could live with out her. I knew I didn't need her, and as long as I had you, I knew I could move on."
"You seem awfully assertive for someone who's still a virgin." I point out, and to my chagrin, he actually has the nerve to grin. Asswipe.
"You excite me like no one else." He explains, stepping closer again. I let him this time. "Besides, I already know I can make you cum. I've done it before."
My face flushes with heat again. "That was-"
"Don't lie to me." He snaps, irritated. "It's not like you to lie, now why the fuck are you denying the obvious here?"
"You're my best friend, Stan." I bite my lip, losing myself in the blue of his gaze. "That's all. And it's all you ever will be. This… thing you're going through, it's just a phase. This is just some stupid infatuation you developed; rebound feelings from Wendy. That's all."
He nods, understanding me so much better than he'd seemed capable of. There's patience in his voice when he speaks, and I'm irritated by it, because it's melting my heart more than it already has been by him. I can't afford to fall even harder for him than I already have. I'm already in too deep.
"Okay." He says. "Forget about whatever kind of infatuation you think it is I have with you, and just tell me how you feel about me."
I don't answer him right away. I can't. It'd be way too easy to give in to those eyes. But I can't be selfish; I can't confuse him more than he already is. "I don't have any feelings for you, Stan." I separate the words carefully, hoping to produce the greatest impact on his brain. "Not anything more than I feel for Kenny: simple friendship."
He tries unsuccessfully to hide the pain my words cause him, but I see it flash across his face. I can't stand to see him that way, knowing I'm the cause of it all. I've spent so long trying to mend his heart, only to break it again. I must be some kind of monster. I turn away, opening the door to leave. His hand on my shoulder stops me.
"I don't believe you."
My heart thuds mournfully, five whole beats before I respond. "Then you're wasting my time."
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Our relationship is strained the next day, with Stan observing me like some sort of lab rat and me enduring it with tight-lip silence. We still walk to school together, though; but conversation is scarce. I desperately need to fix this, but I don't know where to begin. It's such a helpless feeling.
I save him a seat at lunch, sitting across from Kenny and Butters. They've got the contents of their backpacks strewn across the table, scrambling to finish some sort of paper they'd put off until the last minute, and I'm glad to have their attention directed at something that isn't me. I don't think I could tolerate Kenny's perverted theories about my mood and Butters overly-exaggerated analysis of my state of mind at the moment. I need to think. I need to figure this thing out. My resolve is quickly dissolving and I'm afraid I'm an inch away from giving in to Stan.
I spear a piece of asparagus with my plastic fork as he walks quickly toward the table. He slams his tray down on the table beside me and sits down, his face intent.
"Dude, what the hell?"
He stares at me, his eyes burning into mine, then reaches over and grabs a stack of plain yellow post-it's and a pen from Kenny and Butters supplies. He scrawls something across the top, rips it off, and sticks it to my thigh under the table. I blink at him, then look down at the note.
I don't believe you.
I rip the paper from my leg and roll it into a tight little ball, stinging him with my gaze. Then I write him my own note, sticking it to his thigh: Too bad.
He glowers at it, but leaves it there as he writes another. I pull it off my pants before I read it, but keep it out of eyesight of anyone else.
You held me while I slept.
I crumble that one, too, but I don't reply. Instead of giving up, he simply writes another.
You kissed my face one night. You kissed my lips. Just because I seemed like I wasn't there doesn't mean I didn't realize it.
I shred this one to pieces, making an angry show of it. He watches me calmly, waiting until I'm through destroying it before writing another. This one makes my face go white seconds before bursting into flames.
You moaned my name in your sleep almost every night. And you were hard. I checked.
"Stop it!" I hiss out loud, making Kenny and Butters look at us.
"Why should I?" Stan growls back, shooting up. "It's the truth."
"No, it's not!" I stand too, just so I wont feel so small. I hate feeling insignificant.
"Why can't you just admit that you want this every bit as much as I do?!"
"Because I don't!"
He grits his teeth, grabs the pen, and practically tears letters through the paper. He slaps the post-it to my forehead with a resounding smack, then stomps away. Kenny and Butters watch him go, then turn back to me, there's eyes confused and wide with shock. I pull the note from my face and read the single, underlined word:
LIAR!
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TO BE CONTINUED
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-BC3