Summary: Stan thought it ended. But scars are always there. Major Style and iStan. Mentions of other pairings. Submitted for Break the Rape.
AN: This is a pretty long one shot. So long that I had to write a plot for it. It's also a dreadfully sad plot. It involves rape and the consequences and scars that never end: that never heal.
I'm also submitting it as a part of the unofficial movement to Break the Rape. Basically, we write stories on rape - whether on FP or FF - to counter the number of stories that we see where rape is used as a plot device. I don't like being one to preach about stuff, but it's truly disheartening to see so many stories written by those who do not understand the true violation of one's self. Send me a PM if you would like to join the movement, and let's Break the Rape.
This is actually my first time writing for the South Park fandom, despite following the show obsessively. It is also my first story with any slash, let alone sexual themes. It's non-graphic, however. And it's mostly shrouded in the confusion and pain.
Ike and Stan are separated by four years.
If there are any mistakes, please tell me!
-/-
Stan Marsh was a normal boy.
He spent his days working hard in school, doing well in sports, and maintaining strong bonds with his friends. There he was: sixteen and successful.
And then life had to fuck him over.
The transition from who he had been to who he was wasn't easy. In fact, Stan could distinctly remember the feeling being one of a brutal mugging on an innocent child. Or being stabbed awake.
He was gay.
There it was, a motherfucking bomb on his average life.
He was gay.
He couldn't believe it. Surely it was a lie. And then, his hidden stash of Playboys became boring. It was as if they were lacking one thing and having far too much of another. He sought out the internet a week after discovering who he - might! - be. Steeling his courage, he typed in the fateful letters.
'Gay porn'.
It was as if the floodgates had opened and drowned him. He was swimming in a sea of men and though the thought may have been disgusting a week ago it no longer was.
(Of course, this was a vast exaggeration. The thought of being fucked up his ass was disturbing, but when he actually tried it, it suddenly wasn't so bad.)
He began subtly checking out the various males in his life with his newly-opened eyes. Plain, boring, uninteresting, delicious. His mind didn't register who it was until he was mentally undressing that beautiful body.
Life just had to fuck him over again.
Kyle Broflovski.
-/-
The process was slow and painful, coming out to his best friend. But once it was out, he felt a weight being lifted off his chest.
And then a weight was in his lap.
And a tongue was down his throat.
-/-
When Stan finally told his parents the reason he dumped Lilly, they were disgusted.
The thought of someone being gay was not a problem, but in their own home... It was as if they didn't know who they had raised.
Randy resorted to drinking more and more, out at odd hours of the night. Sharon began to fall behind in housework, soon opting out to just give up. Shelly watched him with cruel eyes and spat even harsher insults at him.
And yet, Stan managed to walk with his head held high. He smiled to his family, he smiled to his friends, he smiled to his boyfriend.
On the inside, he sobbed.
-/-
He was being pressed against a wall, a knife to his throat and three men glaring down at him. Stan had never seen any of them in his life, if their builds were anything to go by.
Two were thin and quick while a third was strong and medium sized; number three was currently scaring the shit out of him as he pressed his beaten body harder into the wall.
Stan felt himself sobbing, his face numb and his body aching. He wanted to be free of this, to go. To go home, even if it meant no parents and no love. He just wanted to be free.
The knife cut a deep line along his cheek, stretching from his temple to the left corner of his lips. The blood sprang forth eagerly, the harsh sting barely registering in his panicked mind.
He felt his bladder release in fear. When the distinctive tang of urine filled the air, the man assaulting him's grin grew.
'You scared, faggot? You fucking scared? I'll show you what to be scared of.'
And he was being thrown to the ground, kicked in the stomach and the skull repeatedly. He wanted it to stop, he wanted to be gone just so he wouldn't have to feel this. This humiliation and this pain and the thoughts that if he weren't a fucking gay this wouldn't be happening.
The larger man was straddling him, his baggy pants and boxers discarded to the side. The bulbous head of his uncircumcised penis was repulsive. Stan felt like throwing up. The bead of pre-cum was shining in the moonlight. Stan wanted to be gonegonegone.
And then it was jammed down his throat and soon after the two other males were having their fill of him, brutally ripping away any self-respect he had for himself. His skin was raw and he felt exposed, sosodirty. The pain of being ripped apart and filthied. He wanted to be gonegonegone.
And if he wasn't a fucking faggot he'd be able to fight back.
And if he wasn't a fucking cock-fucker this wouldn't be happening.
-/-
He sat there when they left. They spat on him on their way out of the alleyway, telling him they'd be back for his gay ass. That they'd be back and he'd be gone.
The sky started to cry.
It cried for him, for the fear and the pain and the hurt and the shame.
It cried for him and tried to wash it away, to try and make him feel better. To try and fix him.
And he began to wonder if he could kill himself in the rain, if it could wash out his insides and he'd be gone.
He tried.
He couldn't.
He sobbed.
-/-
Somehow, he found the will to get up. To leave the scene and drag himself home. The few people he saw watched him with disdain, and he could see each of their faces replacing those of his attackers.
He could feel his sanity slipping away, the threads breaking and snapping and it was dark.
He was home and he pulled himself into the shower, washing himself off. He disinfected his cuts and bandaged them in a haze.
He fell into his bed and tried to sleep.
If he wasn't a fucking faggot he would be able to.
If he wasn't a fucking faggot he wouldn't keep sobbing, clutching his pillow to his chest and wishing he was gonegonegone.
But he was still a fucking faggot.
-/-
His grades dropped. His sport activities disappeared. His friends left. He was seventeen and non-existent.
His family turned a blind eye. Shelly's words became more biting; more vicious.
Kyle had stuck with him, silently accepting the struggle that Stan was going through. He'd gently ask what was wrong and Stan would unhinge, swinging and thrashing and losing himself in the pain. Thepainthepainthepain.
Kyle stayed.
Then Kyle gave up.
-/-
He never gained the courage to give a statement. Those men, whose faces he saw every night. Those men who took so much from him. Those men that stole him. He couldn't. He couldn't see them again.
Because he was a fucking gay-ass coward.
-/-
And then, it was as if the world decided to give him a second chance. The world, which has so cruel and so merciless and allowed him to be raped had a change of heart and gave him an option.
He could be straight.
He didn't have to see those men's faces every time he looked into a love intrest's eyes.
Girls were soft and delicate and he could take that, he could.
When he told his parents that he wasn't gay - that it was just a phase - they immediately brightened. Mom came home and Dad went sober and Shelly smiled to him.
Stan was seventeen and a half. His future looked bright.
-/-
He met Bebe and they went steady. There was no sex, nothing more than touching. And Stan could blame that quickquickquick his heart began to do as lust, not fear. Notfearnotfearnotfear.
When Kyle found out he turned away. Kyle began dating a boy his junior: Bridon. A boy they had barely known back in primary school.
Stan had regrets. He wished that he could tell Kyle. But that was selfish. To burden someone with his own pain, that was cruel. It was his fault he was a faggot.
So he turned away as well, going back to what he had and should want but didn't.
-/-
He was twenty and he got a phone call.
Frantic breathing, panic. Fearfearfear.
'St-Stan. H-he... I don't know what I'm going to do, I can't say anything he looks so small in the hospital bed and there are so many tubes and machines and why wasn't I there? Why wasn't I there to save him to protect him to stop them, oh God. I don't want him to die, Stan. He's my brother and why the fuck wasn't I there?' Kyle was shouting and screaming into the phone and Stan was staring straight ahead.
'Where are you?'
'Hell's Pass, oh God Stan I don't- I don't...'
'I'll be right there,' Stan soothed into the phone. He ran to his car and began the drive from Denver back to South Park.
-/-
He was tiny and fragile.
He looked like a little child, despite being sixteen. Swathed in bandages, patches of his black hair missing where they had to shave it off and suture the wounds.
The boy turned his head to his right and the jagged scar that struck boldly down his cheek made Stan's gut clench.
He ran out and puked into the sink of the men's restroom.
-/-
Kyle needed him at the moment. He needed someone to lean on, long ago having given up on relationships. The awkwardness had vanished because now there was something. This something that was far worse than any bitterness between them.
Ike was hurt.
If it was so bad for him, Stan couldn't imagine how Kyle felt. He couldn't imagine how awful it was for his former best friend.
It was Stan's fault he was hurt. If he wasn't a fucking faggot and if he had a pair and had reported them this wouldn't have happened. He could have saved Ike but he didn't. He was a fucking pussy.
A fucking faggot.
-/-
Ike was in an indefinite coma.
There was no end to Kyle's pain.
He took it out on Stan.
-/-
Stan was being fucked into the cold hard floor of his apartment.
Kyle was hurt, hurthurthurt. The sickening feeling that Stan felt rise in his body he overcame, because this was his friend and his friend needneedneeded this. So he sat and let himself be ravaged and the tears that fell from his eyes were for the both of them.
-/-
When Kyle awoke he left without a word.
-/-
Later, weeks later, Stan found out the details.
Ike had been mugged. No one knew why. Even the speculations that spread were half-formed and lackluster.
-/-
Stan met him at a party.
A year had passed and Ike had reintegrated himself into the society of South Park. He had graduated early and at the top of his class. Kyle was so proud.
His hair had grown back, however slightly. It was short and chopped, another year or two would pass before it became as long as it had been.
The scar running across his cheek frightened Stan. He could feel the need to ask, to know why. Why he had the same mark.
And then he was afraid. He was afraid that if he was wrong he was sososo wrong. And that he was accusing and breaching territory that was not his and crossing boundaries.
The male was dressed in a suit like Stan's, obviously making a person of himself despite originating in South Park. Stan was only here because he was a designer for a new car about to hit the market. He wasn't meant for this.
But Ike was.
Ike saw him.
They both smiled.
-/-
And then he had a friend.
-/-
Ike had swung by his flat, a girl in tow. She was tall and blonde, leggy and gorgeous. The perfect wife for a soon to be millionaire.
Stan felt a forced grin invading his face as he laughed and joked as he always had.
He had thought that he didn't have to fake anymore.
But apparently, he did.
-/-
They were drunk and watching some sporting event that Stan wasn't paying attention to. He was watching Ike as he relaxed, his tie loosened and his greengreen eyes standing stark against his pale face. He couldn't see the scar from this side, but he needed to. His fingertips brushed against Ike's cheek, turning him to face the other.
That slight pink tinge that ran down in damn near the same place Stan's did. He traced it with his finger and felt the sharp intake of breath. And he wanted to know whywhywhy.
They were kissing and his head was spinning.
-/-
When a hand wandered to his crotch, Ike was back and he was feeling it the pain the shame the agony. His scars had healed but the memories were still there and he felt his breath begin to hitch as the strongstrong man held his arms above his head and touched him with the blade, enjoying the pain and hatred and fear displayed on Ike's face.
The cool metal rubbed against him and with a sickening jolt he felt his body respond. Nonono.
His world shattered and fell away.
-/-
Stan was frozen, his panicked breathing in sync with his companion's. He hated himself. He was a fucking faggot that was gaying-up everyone he knew. He was holding down a defenseless boy, hurting him and betraying him and the kid was fearing him and that look in his eyes when he glanced up.
The glaze of shame. That mask of pain.
He could see himself in it.
Ike spoke.
'I'm sorry I freaked out. I-I...' He was pleading for him to understand this pain he was feeling. This burden he didn't want to place on Stan.
Stan was cold and unmoving. Eight years ago it ended. Eight years ago the marks became scars.
And then he fucked it up.
Almost fucked a poor innocent boy's life up.
He needed to know whywhywhy. Why this man would make him relapse and bathe him in that pool of dark he thought he had escaped.
'You... You have the same scar...' Stan's breath caught as he watched Ike try to speak, not knowing the painshamefear that Ike was all too familiar with. 'Y-you know...'
Stan thought he did know.
He knew of scars.
Baby steps, baby steps. Road blocks to overcome. Baby steps, baby steps. Scars that haven't won.