Hey guys, thanks for all of the awesome reviews, I hope you like this chapter, I had fun writing it for some reason and I think it is my favorite chapter I have written so far. If you liked, please review, it helps me continue the story.

Ch 18

Stan stood behind the two, his eyes wandering from Cartman to Kyle. He held his side firmly, an icepack against it. He was clothed in his pajamas, his usual brown coat on, but unzipped. His breath showed in the chilly air.

"Let Kyle go, Cartman."

"Stan…" Cartman's voice was laced with mock sympathy. "Poor, poor Stan. Did I hurt you pretty badly? Did you come back for more?"

"Knock this off, Cartman. I'm sick and tired of this."

Cartman let his bruising grip off of Kyle. He walked towards Stan, Stan stepping back a little. "You're tired of this? Well, maybe you should have just kept this a secret from everyone. Your love for Kyle, that is. This wouldn't be a problem if you would have just kept your mouth shut." Cartman cracked his knuckles.

"Lay off. You shouldn't have been listening in on people's private conversations anyways." Stan replied, his voice at a low whisper.

"You're brave enough to come back here, Stan." Cartman had a malicious smile on his face.

Kyle got up, dusting dirt and wood chips off of his pajamas. "Please, Cartman. Leave Stan alone."

"I'm not even scared of you." Stan replied to Cartman, the two staring each other down.

"You broke one of Stan's ribs, by the way, Cartman." Kyle narrowed his eyes.

"Good."

"I have to get to therapy tomorrow. I don't fucking have time for this." Stan snapped, throwing a look at Kyle. "I'm leaving." The oxycodone was starting to make him lethargic. "Kyle, let's go."

"Stan-"

"I said, let's go!"

Kyle hesitated before turning his back to Cartman.

"This isn't over, Kyle." Kyle could feel Cartman's eyes bore into the back of his head. He tried his best to ignore him.

"Stanley, how are you feeling today?" the therapist pushed his glasses from the bridge of his nose and started to scribble notes on a notepad in his hand when Stan answered him.

"Fine."

"You always say that when you come here. We aren't progressing, Stanley."

"Can you please just call me Stan? I only let certain people call me Stanley."

"Alright, Stan." The therapist looked up from his notes. "You've been coming here for eight days now. How are your sleeping habits lately?"

"Why?"

The therapist sighed. "I need to ask you these questions if I'm going to help you, Stanley."

"Stan."

"Right, Stan. I apologize."

"I've been sleeping a lot when I take the oxycodone."

"And your mother is monitoring the meds?" Mrs. Marsh had told the therapist about Stan's incident.

"Yes."

"So you haven't been sleeping before the prescribed oxycodone?"

"Not very well."

"Mhhmm…" the therapist scribbled more notes down. "Mhhm…"

"Now, tell me again, Stan, how did you get your injury?"

"I got hit by a softball."

"What really happened, Stan?"

Stan hesitated. "Uhh…"

"You can tell me. Everything is confidential in here, unless you want me to tell your parents."

"I got, uhh.." Stan started. The therapist waited for Stan to continue, nodding.

"I got punched a couple times. And it fractured my rib."

The therapist frowned. "I see. And by who, may I ask?"

"One of my 'friends'." Stan made air quotes.

"Why would your friend do this to you, Stan?"

"Because he doesn't like me liking my friend as more than just a friend."

"And who is this girl?"

"Not a girl." Stan replied plainly. Stan was annoyed at how many people had mistaken his relations with a girl. The therapist blinked.

"Ah."

"His name is Kyle."

"Now, does Kyle like you back?"

Stan shrugged. "I guess."

"He lied to me about having the same feelings at first, and just a few days ago, he confessed he had the same feelings towards me. I'm a little hesitant still, though. A part of me thinks he's doing it because I almost died when I… overdosed. And he's worried for me." Stan continued.

"I would be worried too, Stan."

You don't know the situation. Stan thought to himself.

"Can I have an icepack?"

"Sure, Stan."

The therapist got up, moving to the door, and opened it. He called to the receptionist and asked her to retrieve an icepack for Stan. She nodded.

There was an awkward silence as the two waited for the receptionist to come back. When she returned, she had a bag of ice in her hand. "This is all we have."

"That's fine. Thanks." Stan grabbed the icepack from her, it dripping water slightly. He lifted his shirt slightly and placed it on his bruise, wincing a little. Stan pulled his shirt back down over the icepack. The receptionist walked out of the room and closed the door.

"Now, Stan," the therapist continued, clearing his throat. "About Kyle. Are you secure about your feelings toward him?"

"Not really. I didn't want to accept them."

"I see."

"Now, the drinking," the therapist continued, but Stan cut him off.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We have to, Stan."

"You told me when we first met we wouldn't talk about anything that made me feel uncomfortable."

"That's… true."

"I haven't drunk for ten days now."

"That's great, Stanley."

"Stan!" Stan shouted.

"Sorry, sorry." The therapist held his hands up apologetically.

"Are we done yet?"

"Not for another," the therapist glanced at his wristwatch. "Forty minutes."

Fucking fantastic.

"I want to get home. I don't want to talk anymore."

"You agreed to an hour a day, Stan."

"No, my parents did, I didn't."

The therapist sighed. "I'm here to help you, Stan."

"Well, you aren't helping. You're bringing up feelings I don't want to experience again."

"This is the way therapy works."

"Well, let me tell you, it's bullshit."

The therapist frowned, but said nothing.

"We need to progress or nothing is going to get better for you."

"Well, it's gotten worse again for me. Once I felt happy again, everything came crashing down."

"That's what I'm here for, to get you through this."

"Kyle has done a better job than you."

The therapist looked flustered, but quickly recovered.

"If Kyle is helping you more than I am, I guess you don't need these sessions."

"My parents won't let me leave these sessions until I get better. They think I haven't progressed much since I got out of the hospital the second time."

"You didn't tell me that you were in the hospital twice. What was the first time for?"

"Kyle called the hospital in Louisville and they took me away against my will."

"How was that for you?"

"Worthless." Stan clenched and unclenched his fist, turning it around a few times.

"I see…"

"Is it almost time yet?"

"We get out in twenty minutes. Is there anything else you need to talk about?"

"No."

"Then maybe I can let you out early."

"Great."

The two got up from their seats and the therapist motioned Stan out into the waiting room where his mother was sitting, reading a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. She looked up from the reading material, smiling slightly. "You're out early, Stanley."

"I'm done talking."

Stan's mother frowned. She got up and walked to the therapist, glancing at Stan before turning back to him.

"How was his session today, Dr. Burg?"

"Well, he wouldn't tell me much, again." he stressed the last word.

"He won't talk to us either. He only talks to his little buddy, Kyle."

"I need to talk to you a moment alone, Mrs. Marsh." Dr. Burg whispered, glancing over at Stan.

The two walked into the therapy room, closing the door. Stan sighed.

Stan fished out his phone. He started to text Kyle.

"Hey, dude." Stan typed.

"Hey, Stan." It was a quick reply from Kyle.

Kyle was typing again before Stan could reply. He waited for Kyle to respond again.

"How was your therapy session?"

"Fucking terrible."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"But still."

"I'll be back in an hour."

"Come to my house when you get back."

"Alright."

Stan shoved his phone back in his pocket. He walked over to the trashcan and threw away his melted icepack. As he did so, his mother and Dr. Burg returned from the therapy room.

"Stan, can I talk to you, with your mother?" Dr. Burg asked.

Stan shrugged. "Sure."

The three walked into the therapy room. Stan sat across from his mother as the therapist closed the door behind them.

"Alright, we have to talk about something, Stanley." Stan's mother started hesitantly.

"I've been noticing things." She finished.

"Yeah?" Stan gave her a questioning look.

"With Kyle."

Stan swallowed. The therapist fucking told her.

"You fucking told her, didn't you?" Stan tried to contain his anger.

"Stanley!" his mother scolded.

"No, no, no…" Stan closed his eyes and covered his ears. "I don't want to talk about it." His face felt hot. "You said everything we talk about would be kept confidential unless I asked you to tell my parents!"

"That's true, but-" Dr. Burg started.

"No! You lied to me!"

"Stanley-" Stan's mother began.

"Mom, please don't hate me… I tried to get rid of my feelings towards Kyle, but I can't! You and dad hate me, don't you?!"

"We already knew, honey. You don't remember when you mentioned that Kyle had kissed you?"

"N-no… My memory is hazy. I don't remember Kyle kissing me." Stan whispered. "I guess from when I overdosed. I can't remember anything from a few days to a couple weeks ago."

Mrs. Marsh frowned.

"We don't hate you, sweetie."

"But… it's wrong."

"Yes, it is, but it's who you are, and we can't change that."

Stan swallowed. My mom said my feelings are wrong. She does hate me. She's disappointed in me. Stan felt the sudden urge to punish himself again.

"I…I have to get out of here, I'm sorry. Mom, can we leave, please?"

"We aren't done yet, Stanley." She answered.

"I feel very uncomfortable." Stan shifted in his seat.

"We can talk more on the phone, Mrs. Marsh." Dr. Burg replied.

"Alright." Sharon answered.

Stan and his mother arrived back at the house.

"I-I'm going to Kyle's, mom."

"Alright, Stanley."

"I need an oxycodone."

"I gave one to you before we left. It hasn't been twelve hours yet."

"But I need it!"

"How bad is your pain?"

"Very bad." It wasn't as bad as Stan made it out to be, but he wanted to feel numb again.

Mrs. Marsh sighed. She unlocked the medicine cabinet and pulled out the bottle. She handed him the pill and a glass of water. Stan gulped it down hastily.

"I'm not giving you another one for a while. I don't want you to get sick."

"Whatever."

"Don't 'whatever' me, Stanley."

"I'm leaving."

"Don't be out too late."

"I won't."

Before Stan left, he swore he could hear crying from inside the living room.

Mrs. Marsh broke down, sobbing into her hands. "Please, god, help my son… I feel like I've done all I can, but it's just not enough..."