Perchance to Dream
Disclaimer: See Prologue.
Summary: Stan finally gets a chance to bitch out Kahl.
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At School V
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Monday simply couldn't come soon enough. In fact, it took so long arriving that I stuck a polo shirt on a coat rack, pretended it was Kyle, and ranted at that. Nine times. I had to have a cigarette after every time, but on the upside, I have the delivery down pat, if I can get that faggy Jewish bastard to stand still long enough. I have the strong sense that he'll either flee in tears or hit me once I get started. Anybody would. It's really, really vicious.
But when it did come, and when I got to school, he wasn't there. I will admit to not being that surprised, since he was so smashed he's probably still hungover. Or maybe he figured out that I'm going to be extremely angry with him for the stunt he pulled at his house on Friday, assuming he remembers what the fuck he did. There's also the slightly possible option that he didn't manage to get the house back spic and span before his mother came back, and he got murdered, but any which way, he'll probably turn up sometime during the day.
"What'd you do to Broflovski?" Cartman snarls into my left ear as I'm suddenly shoved into a locker on my way to our first period History class. I've forgotten how much this hurts, since it's been a considerable amount of time since the last time.
"Nothing. Get off me, Lardass, we've got a test," I hiss back, squirming and trying to get away.
"He was perfectly fine when I passed out Friday night, I haven't seen him all weekend, and he's not here. I think you killed him." If he wasn't deadly serious, and if he didn't have me pinned to this locker, I would be laughing like a madman.
Instead, I stare at him, eyebrow raised and mouth hanging open. "You've been hit in the head one time too many, Cartman. I was hardly at the party ten minutes, if that. Doesn't Wendy know?"
"The last time she saw him, he was running downstairs just as she was about to start sucking him off." Well, at least that explains why he looked like he was in the middle of sex… he was.
"Well guess what, Cartman? I didn't kill him."
"I say you did," Cartman insists, pressing closer to me. He has no concept of personal space at all, I swear…
"And I say you're a fucking idiot," I say, kneeing him in the gut and slipping away. "You might wanna catch your breath so you don't fail, by the way!" I call back, slipping into the classroom. It's an easy as hell test, over the period between World War I and World War II, but Cartman doesn't seem to understand why people think Al Capone was a bad man. This of course, comes from a guy who borders on Holocaust denial and would make an excellent Goebbels if not a second Hitler himself and who, according to rumor, was denied a visa to travel to Germany last summer because of a blog he maintains which is full of statements that are criminal under German law.
When he does finally stagger in, two seconds before the tardy bell, he shoots me his patented "I hate you so much I want to kill you in 987 different ways before feeding you to your parents" glare before taking his seat. I grin, shrug, and proceed to ace my test, chewing vigorously on a piece of bubble gum while I do so. It's not a cigarette, but it does help relieve a bit of the stress that is incurred by taking even the easiest test or quiz. Psychologists have a better word for it (or a few, I don't know), but since I don't know any, I'll just go with the "it's stressful" excuse.
I catch a glimpse of red hair at the office on my way to Art, but even if it is Kyle, I don't have the time to tell him everything I need to tell him, and the middle of a crowded hallway is hardly the appropriate place for such a conversation. No, he'll probably catch me himself. Jackass probably knows my entire routine by know, like some sort of crazy stalker that Dateline does two hour Friday night specials about, so he'll be able to "discuss" things with me in private. Or relative privacy, as much as can be gotten in a public place.
Art is fucking fantastic today. We're given a word-prompt and told to draw and color something that we associated with that word. The word is "Peace." I draw a barren and broken landscape, with charcoal grey skies with black clouds and piles of bodies on the periphery, with the Grim Reaper sitting in a rocking chair sipping a cup of tea in the center of the page, scythe stuck in the ground. The teacher turns pale when I hand it in, and I smirk while I head out of the room.
English and Math pass without incident, and I'm well and thoroughly ready to grab my lunch and head outside for a nice smoke. Lunch is nice, even though I do have to eat it in the cafeteria. Chicken nuggets are somewhat portable, but mashed potatoes are an entirely different story. I'm full and happy by the time I get outside and light up, but of course, any happiness in my life is destined not to last. Because, sure as shooting, around the corner comes Kyle as soon as I get halfway through.
"There you are!" he says, exasperatedly.
"Where else would I be? My nice little dark corner in the cafeteria? I think not," I scoff, throwing my empty milk carton at his head and taking a drag, blowing the smoke in his face as he comes to sit beside me on the back steps.
"Goddamnit," he mutters, waving it away. "Why are you such a jackass?"
"Because I hate you," I reply cheerfully, and with just a hint of smug satisfaction and stand-offishness.
"Yeah, about that…" he starts. "I don't want you to do that anymore." He sounds like he actually expects me to do as he says.
"Not going to happen," I respond immediately after. "You have no idea why, do you? You don't have a fucking clue."
"No, I don't! What the fuck do you have against me? I already told you, it's not my goddamn fight that you got your ass kicked. That was all Cartman."
"It's not just about the ass kicking, which, by the way, I do not buy your story about. You're the top fucking dog. Cartman respects your authoritah. He does not do anything that you have not approved. That's how your world works. I remember. And don't give me any bullshit about how you've changed that, because if I here those words come out of that gaping mouth of yours, I'm gonna fill the gap with my fist," I say, adding the last after his mouth opens to interrupt. He closes it, chagrined. I continue my verbal assault.
"I hate you because you're a traitor. My dad gets fired, and instead of my best friend offering to help me out, you threw me aside like yesterday's trash! You traded almost ten years of friendship for what? For a good fuck? For more touches in football? So you could be the shining star? You're a bastard, Kyle. A complete fucking bastard.
"Never once did you offer to help me out, help us out. Your family's obviously rolling in money, since you've been able to give me all these lavish fucking gifts lately, trying to atone for your asshattery, I assume. You could have asked if there was anything you or your parents could have done to help us out. I wouldn't have minded eating Kosher, knishes are better than motherfucking Ramen noodles and toast.
"What you did instead was you threw me out of your life for some inane, improbable to decipher reason, kept my friends away from me when I needed my friends the most, banished me to the outer fringes of scholastic society, prevented me from speaking for nearly three years on pain of beatings from your goon squad, and stole every award and accolade athletically that by every right should be mine. And now, you think you can just waltz back into my life, essentially bribing me, and just have me fall into your arms swooning like a doe-eyed schoolgirl in an anime? You're fucking delusional, you crazy faggot," I sneer, taking a long, long drag, and relaxing as the nicotine takes its effect on me.
"I'm not fucking delusional. I dropped you like a hot potato because I had to," Kyle says, grabbing my shoulders and making me look at him. "I had to get you away from me. It was only supposed to be for a little while, and then your dad got fired and I got an excuse, but it just got out of hand! It was never supposed to go on so long and get this bad, I swear to God!"
"Oh let me guess, it's because you woke up with a raging case of gay for me three years ago and wanted me away from you so you could try and get over it, and then when you got over it, you'd bring me back into the group? Way to fall down and hit every branch on the cliché gay teen story on the way down, Broflovski," I jump in, rolling my eyes at the hyper-sensationalized "sincerity" his eyes are projecting at me.
"Goddamnit, take this seriously!"
"OK, fine, fag-Broflovski is serious business. I'll comport myself in a more dignified fashion," I say, sniggering.
"You're being an ass again," Kyle complains. "Seriously. Just believe me, I didn't want you to be hurt, and I didn't want things to go down like this. I would have loved to be able to take my handoffs from you, and just bring you back after a few weeks or so and let everything go back to normal. I felt so fucking bad seeing you having to grow your hair out that long, being able to hardly see you at all at lunch, just hunched over all alone. I felt horrible seeing you walking in the mornings, visibly cold without hardly any protection from it during the winter, and riding the bus while I was driving my car. And I was almost sick when I saw you being beaten, and when I saw you after being beaten, and when I heard Cartman and everybody bragging about how good they'd gotten you."
I blink, already knowing where this is headed. That massive case of gay hasn't gone away at all, obviously. My mind was right, Friday. He's a raging homo. He wants to pin me to this wall and have his way with me, kissing, and quite probably butt-fucking me. And in no way am I going to let him do that to me. I won't let any man do THAT with me, and DEFINITELY not Kyle.
"I'm not going to listen to the rest of this," I say, dropping my cigarette butt on the bottom step and crushing it with my heel, shrugging Kyle's arms off me, and standing up. "I know where it's going, and there's no fucking way in hell am I going to let you do what you want to do. Ever. You can take your faggy desires and shove them up your asshole. Because I'm not going to submit to you, and there's nothing you can do to make me. No gift, no nice little heartfelt speech, and no goddamn sad pouty look can ever make me want to take your Jesus-killing fag cock up my ass. Fuck you, Broflovski. Fuck you all to hell," I sneer, stomping off towards the door.
"Stan! Stan, wait!" Kyle shouts, running after me. He catches me, of course, and pins me to the wall.
"You're such an asshole," he says, breathing heavily. "But I love you anyway." And then he clamps his mouth on mine.
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Notes: Hey guys! Look who's back with a cliffhanger! Yep, that's right, it's me! Sorry about the delay between chapters, but when I was hoping to write this before I left university for home, I didn't account for a massive lack of time and inspiration.
So I'm home now, with what will most likely be the only update in May. I start a new job on the 21st, and thus will lose 10 hours a day of writing time (8 hours plus travel time) per day, before overtime and weekend shifts. On the plus side, the pay is fucking fantastic, so…
Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed this baby. We're getting into the really good part now, and it only gets better in terms of angst and anger in the next fifteen chapters. Let me know if you liked it!
Phoenix II