Misery Business

Written by: Spirit-the-Titan

Fandom: South Park

Pairings: Stan/Wendy, eventual Stan/Kyle

September 3

(Kyle's POV)

It's finally Sunday evening, and Kenny, Cartman and I are just getting back into town from our trip. The clock in Stan's truck reads 6:47 when I drop off Cartman, and I dreadfully head down the street to Stan's house. I hadn't heard from him at all after he left, save the few text messages from Wendy. I'm not sure how things will go down when I see him… I'm so nervous…

My heart sinks when his house is in view. I don't want to do this… This is one of those moments in life where you wish you could fast forward and be done with it. I don't want to deal with this right now; I'm still playing mad that he punched me, and I don't plan on giving up the charade until he apologizes. I bite my lower lip when I think this over… What if he doesn't apologize? What if he's really mad? I won't know what to do if he's mad at me…

I park in his driveway, turn off the truck, and stall for a few minutes. Fuck… Why does this have to be so complicated? I almost wish I didn't have these stupid feelings, so I could go to the door knowing that it will all be better after this. With these feelings, I keep running the idea through my head that he won't forgive me. Now I'm just being ignorant; Stan doesn't know about my feelings, which makes this a normal make-up session to him. It should go over just fine.

With a heavy, shaky sigh, I get out of the truck and walk slowly up to the door. When I knock, it feels like it's in slow motion. My heart is racing…

I freeze when I see Stan himself open the door; he looks about as shocked and nervous as I do. His expression softens, and looks almost… guilty.

"Hey, dude," he says softly, a meek smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I give him the same smile, but still try to look pissed.

"Hey…" He looks taken aback by my tone. "Um, you got our beds mixed up when you left…" I inform him, and hand him the pillow and sleeping bag I had stowed under my arm, and the keys to his truck. As he takes them, I am almost reluctant to give them up; they helped to keep me calm over the weekend. I was sad when the Stan smell wore off and became my own.

"Thanks," he says in the same soft tone, and presents my bedding to me from its waiting place by the door. I take it, and he steps out onto the porch with me, closing the door behind him.

He gestures to me with a slight movement of his head, motioning for me to follow him to his truck. He lets down the tailgate of the truck, and hops onto it to sit. I throw my stuff in the back, and do the same. We sit there for a few minutes before either of us speak.

"You're still mad…" he finally says, staring at the ground.

"Of course I am. You punched me in the face." I wonder how long I will have to keep this up.

He takes this opportunity to glance slightly at my face, and winces when he sees the bruise on my cheekbone. I try to remain angry at him, not looking at him and keeping my gaze fixated on a less than interesting bush across the street. He looks back to the street, and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Kyle, I'm so sorry…" he whispers.

And suddenly, I feel my body relax, letting my entire charade crumble noticeably. I let my shoulders slump, and sigh.

"I'm sorry too, Stan… I shouldn't have told you to go home," I tell him, and I can hear him relax as well.

"I shouldn't have hit you. I had no right… I was the one who was out of line. I mean, you shouldn't have called Wendy a whore, but still, I shouldn't have hit you… I'm sorry," he rambles, and I can't help but smile about it.

"It's okay dude, it was all in the heat of the moment," I say, trying to justify it. He's quiet for another moment, looking around the neighborhood as if it will help him find the right words to say next.

"Can I admit something?" he asks, and my heart leaps into my throat. My stupid heart has been doing that since the summer, at any sentence that sounds like he might tell me what I want to hear.

"What, dude?" I see him fumble around with something in his jacket pocket. He is stalling.

"I was… really upset when you told me to leave… I felt so bad… I still feel bad…" He stalls again, and starts speaking before I can ask him to continue. "I was really scared that I had ruined our friendship. Things have never been so heated between us…"

I finally look up at him. He really was scared; it's written all over his face.

"I was scared, too," I tell him. "I didn't know if you would be mad still; I was afraid that you wouldn't want to see me." He smiles a little, looking relieved.

"I'm so lucky to have you as my best friend, Kyle," he says, and I can't help but blush. "You're so forgiving… Thank you for putting up with my stupid shit all these years." I bite my lip, and fumble with something not-gay to reply to that with.

"I can't help it; I'm not willing to lose you." Fuck. I cringe inside at how completely stupid that sounded. But he smiles at it, nonetheless.

"I don't ever want to lose you either," he agrees. I wonder if he is feeling as silly as I do about how corny this conversation is getting, but he doesn't look like it. "Can I admit something else?"

"Um, sure." There goes my heart again. Oh man…

"You know those texts from Wendy on Friday?" Well I wasn't expecting that.

"Yeah, why?" He looks away shyly.

"…They were from me," he says quietly, and I catch the slightest blush form on his cheeks. "Wendy made me send them, though. She told me to, after I sulked the entire way home. She said it would make me feel better if I apologized, but I told her she didn't understand that us guys have to play macho and act angry about this shit. So she told me to use her phone and pretend to be her…" I'm quiet for a moment as I let this sink in, and then begin to snicker.

"That explains her shitty text speak," I tell him. He rolls his eyes at my teasing of his typing. "But… why did you tell me that you were sleeping when I asked how you were doing?"

"Because… I didn't want you to know how upset I was." Now I roll my eyes.

"Well I'm glad it's all behind us."

"Me too."

Stan looks like he is about to say something else, when he takes his hands out of his pockets and leans back on them. In doing this, his right hand lands on mine by accident, and he pulls it back just as fast as he had placed it there. Before I can react to this, though, he pulls me into a big hug. It's a good thing he isn't saying anything, because anything I would say in return would be in gibberish; I am too shocked by the sudden affection.

While I am lost for words, I catch Stan's arm move out of my peripheral vision. He brings one hand up to his mouth, and sticks his thumb in his mouth. What the hell is he doing…?

And then I feel his wet thumb wipe hard across my bruised cheekbone.

"OW, Stan! What the fuck!" I scream, and push him away. He is snickering as I wipe his saliva off of my face.

"Sorry dude, I just had to check and make sure you weren't pulling a fast one on me and put make-up on your face! I don't want to feel guilty if I don't have to!"

"You jackass, no I didn't put fucking make-up on my face! This is legit!" I tell him, and his snickering instantly fades. Not because I am yelling at him, which is all in good humor by the way, but because he is now allowing himself to see the real damage he had done.

"Damn, now I do feel really bad… I thought for sure you had enhanced it at least a little," he says, and his smile begins to fade. Damn it, I don't want to see him upset again…

"It's okay, dude. I actually kinda wish you had hit me in the eye; at least then I would have a bad-ass black eye," I admit, in an attempt to bring that smile back. I smile when it seems to work.

"Sorry, I'll try not to miss next time," he says playfully, and I shove him. I'm ecstatic that things are back to normal.

Unfortunately, this means that my hopes of him returning my feelings have come back.

Damn my hopelessness…

(A/N) Sorry for the short chapter; I just wanted to hurry up and fix the angst so I can get on to better things! 8DD