South Park © Matt & Trey.

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Kyle's POV

If someone asked me why it is I love Stan Marsh, I'm not sure what I would say. I suppose I could say there are too many reasons and each day I find myself coming up with new ones.

But time is going by and Stan will begin to drift back to Wendy soon enough. I know Stan isn't mine and I know I'll lose him.

Everything comes and everything goes, it's the same for people.

When I told Kenny, he just listened. He listened, and he knew. He always does.

"It's okay, dude. It'll be okay. Stan was a dick for doing all that shit to you."

I couldn't help but defend Stan, "I wanted it, though."

"You wanted something different than what Stan gave you. What you wanted was his soul and all that gay stuff, what he gave you was his body. It was all he could give you. Wendy had the part of him that you want. She kept it locked away where only she can reach it." Kenny shook his head and sighed, "Stan should have known better… To be honest, I don't think Stan knows what he wants, even now."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," he started, "You might have a chance with him."

I just shrugged, mumbling something indiscriminate.

"And even if you don't have him in the end, you know what they say," he continued, "It's better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all."

Kenny knows. Kenny always knows.

I suppose it's true. We aren't children anymore. Today isn't yesterday. We should stop making these stupid little mistakes.

But Kenny had said something that surprised me. He said he understood how I felt.

Speaking of Kenny, he still disappears every so often. By disappear, I of course mean that he dies. I guess "disappearing" is just a nicer way of saying it.

However, there are times, like now, when I'm able to find Kenny. He's sitting on a boulder near Stark's Pond, throwing rocks into the water.

"Hey, Kyle," he says, not turning around, "You found me."

The walk back to my house is quiet, but not in an uncomfortable or awkward way.

"So what happened?" I ask.

"My dad's being a piece of shit," he shrugs, as if to say it's nothing new.

"Did he hurt you?"

He kicks a pebble before answering, "Yeah."

"Come on," I wrap my fingers around his wrist, "I'll patch you up."

"I should just kill myself and save you the trouble," he mumbles, "I'd come back a while later good as new."

"Kenneth," I say in a mock scold. "Come, let's go back to my place and I'll fix you."

"Fix me, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you know I was there?" I ask once we're back at my place and situated in the bathroom.

"I heard your footsteps," he says as I fetch the first aid kit underneath the sink.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"I just knew."

"You always know everything."

He grins, "Not quite everything."

"Well then, tell me something you don't know," I challenge.

He pauses for a moment. "I don't know when I'm going to die. I mean, I know when I will die. It'll probably be this week… But I don't know when I'm really going to die," he pauses, "Maybe I'm not wording it right… How about this: I don't know when I'm going to stay dead."

"Do you want to?"

"I want to," he confirms. "I want to know when my last and final trip to hell will be so I can savor my last moments on Earth. Each time I'm gone, there's part of me that worries I won't be able to come back and my mum will fuck herself up while I'm gone and all I can do is think of the things I regret. I always find myself thinking that I may as well walk in the middle of traffic each time I leave the house. It wouldn't make a difference, because no matter how unlikely the situation is, death finds me… But no matter how often I think that, I'd never actually do it."

"Oh."

"I guess I should start living like every death will be my last, huh?"

I feel myself frown, "Dude, don't say shit like that."

In high school secrets were what made you cool… having a lot of secrets, or maybe… acting like you have a lot of secrets. I guess that is why people liked Kenny so much, but unlike all the kids who would pretend, Kenny really did have secrets and now that I know about it, it isn't as cool as we all thought it was when we were young. I'm sure it was probably a burden on him, and for the longest time, I had no idea.

Now, I would be lying if I said I remember his deaths. I don't… but when Kenny finally told me the secret he had been harboring for so long I couldn't help but believe him. I knew he was telling the truth from the way his voice sounded, the expression he had on his face… He just looked sad and desperate. He needed me to believe the things that were coming out of his mouth, and I did.

Stabbed, ripped apart, crushed, eaten alive, amputated, decapitated, et cetera. It all sounds so horrible. I can't even begin to imagine it… So I told him I believed him, because I do.

He smiled when I told him that. He smiled and said, "I love you, man."

I was the first person he told. I still feel happy that he trusted me enough to finally share his secret. Somehow, Cartman had already known. Surprisingly, he vouched for Kenny every time someone doubted him. Though I'm not sure how much trust people put in Cartman's words.

"Sorry, Kyle."

I just shake my head, "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who should be sorry."

I suppose I can't blame him for the things he feels. He never asked for any of it.

"Why?"

"I never remember the days you die."

"You do remember," he says, "At least until I come back. It's okay, though, no one remembers it once I'm back."

"I wish we could be the exception," I say, referring to Stan, Cartman and myself.

"That'd be cool," he smiles a bit before changing the subject, "So how's Stan? Is he still whining about Wendy even though I told him not to?"

"Yeah…" I sigh.

So it happened like this.

Stan put his hand on my thigh as his lips met mine. He called me over to his bed and said he wanted to "try something".

"What –" I had started to say, but was quieted, for you cannot kiss and speak at the same time.

It was messy and new and I didn't know what to do when his tongue crept into my mouth, but I went with it. It's all I really could do. I'd never kissed quite like that before. Bebe and Rebecca happened so long ago, and playing ookie mouth with Kenny didn't count.

There was desperation in his movements and I found it hard to believe that he'd done this so many times before. It was like he needed it, and maybe, just maybe he did? Or has there been that much desperation in each of his fucks? Was he like that with Wendy?

Maybe I'm not so special.

No, I know I'm nothing special. I was letting him "try something".

That's what friends are for, right?

He started to remove his clothing. Every inch of him was pleasant, just as I imagined it would be. He unbuttoned my shirt and felt the skin with fingers and tongue. I felt like a mess and he just felt me. The most intimate parts of me, parts I never thought Stan Marsh would be touching.

Our warm bodies pressed together, my pale skin contrasting against his slightly darker flesh.

There were roaming hands, fingers, and then –

"It'll feel good," he whispered. I felt the heat of his breath against my ear as he pushed his way inside of me, building up a steady rhythm. His hips moved slowly at first, but the movements gradually grew faster, harder. I kept my body rigid, trying to ignore the pain. My eyes were squeezed shut and my features were probably contorted, but Stan didn't stop. He didn't look. He didn't notice.

He had a firm grasp on my hips, while my legs were tossed carelessly over his shoulders. It hurt.

I couldn't tell him, "Wait," or, "Stop," because I couldn't find my voice. Even if I had been able to, would I have said it? I don't think I would have. I had wanted it for so damn long.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He wasn't looking at me. His eyes were glued at the wall behind me, half lidded. His mouth was slightly parted, small pants escaping. I didn't look away, I just kept staring.

I felt myself tear up. I thought that I would feel something from him, probably not love, but something. Maybe some sort of… deep caring? But no. Nothing.

It hurt. That's all I can say. It hurt, inside and out, and when it was over I just laid there for the longest time, kind of letting the entire experience sink in.

I felt Stan stop. I felt his whole body shudder. He made sounds I never thought I'd get to hear escape his lips and then basked in an afterglow. He wore an expression that shone pure bliss. I followed short moments after he wrapped his hand around me. I sprayed cum all over our stomachs and it dripped, making a mess of the sheets beneath my body.

I can't deny that a part of me felt satisfied. I felt satisfied that it was my own body that made him feel this way, but another part of me felt used. I recognize that that's all it was, and I knew it from the start. There is a clear difference between being wanted and being used

None of it was right. None of it was the way I had pictured it would be, not that I ever expected this day would come.

Once his breathing steadied and I was sure he was sleeping, I got out of bed. There was a lamp on, lighting up the room with a dim shine. I glanced down at the sticky mess on my skin and the sheets, feeling a sharp pain in my spine.

"Fucking hell," I hissed as I limped to the little bathroom in our dorm room.

I looked at myself in the mirror, my pale skin even paler than usual. I leaned in closer, staring into my own eyes. I didn't feel very good. Everything felt wrong. I felt hollow, yet heavy.

In my earlier years I had gotten used to hearing all those stupid romances about "careful touching". I knew it would probably hurt, but I hoped it would be a good kind of hurt.

It wasn't like that at all, instead there was just pain. Maybe it's because Stan didn't care. Ironically, he was always the one to lecture me about sex. He always said things like, "Make sure your first time is with someone you love and who loves you back, otherwise it'll probably suck."

So that's how it went the first time. I thought that would be the end of it, but it just kept happening and each time I fooled myself into thinking that maybe if I kept sleeping with him he'd eventually start to feel something.

After I showered I got dressed in my pajamas. I curled up on my bed and fell asleep.

The morning after wasn't pretty either. There was none of that romantic waking-up-in-each-others-arms bullshit like in the movies. There was just a sadness lingering in the air. It was uncomfortable.

Goddamn those fucking romance films, they're so deceiving.

"Good morning," I said, sounding like we just met. The tone of my voice is unpleasant even to my own ears.

"Hey," he said softly, "What are you doing?"

"I can't really move well," I said monotonously, shifting awkwardly into a sitting position.

"Kyle…" His eyebrows knitted together. "Were you a…" he trailed off.

I looked away, avoiding eye contact.

"You were," he frowned, "I was your first…" There was a look in his eyes that I couldn't quite place. He dragged a palm down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah," I said quietly, though he should have known it. Maybe he did.

"Why?" he asked, almost desperately. "It shouldn't have…"

"It shouldn't have what?" I asked, finally getting up and standing up.

"It shouldn't have been me!"

I shrugged. "Sorry about the sheets on your bed," I gave a dry, humorless laugh, sounding like I was ashamed or slightly embarrassed. I think I was.

His gaze softened and his eyes grew sympathetic, but he didn't say he was sorry.

Like a lost child, I could not speak. I only shook my head and wrapped my arms protectively around my own abdomen.

I tried to smile, but it probably came off as a pretty lame attempt.

"Hey, what is it?" he asked softly.

I took a step closer to him, pressing my face against his naked chest and my hands on his ribs. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around me, and it made me feel little. It was like, for the first time, I was noticing how significantly small I really am. Never before had I felt so small.

I was crying, and he probably knew it, but he didn't say anything. He just let me.

When I finally pulled away, I gave him another unsure smile and left the dorm room, leaving him to change his sheets. I didn't want to have to watch him do that.

It felt like a one night stand. I guess, at first, that's all it really was, but we had slept together again the next night. It happened again and again.

"Does it help?" I had asked him, many days later.

"W-what?" he stuttered, caught off guard. We had been sitting in the library with our heads in books, trying to cram as much as we could before midterm exams started.

"Does it help you forget about Wendy?"

He frowned and looked away. "I'm sorry, Kyle." There was genuine remorse in his tone.

"I know you are, Stan," I said, "You always are."

"You deserve better than this," he whispered.

I didn't say anything else for the time being. I knew that admitting that probably wouldn't put a stop to it. I just began to wonder if there really was a difference between being wanted and being used.

When it first happened I thought I'd be okay with it. I remember thinking, 'if this is all I can have from him, I'll take it.'

But it was hurting more than just my body.

It hurt the worst when he said Wendy's name while he was with me.

I liked to think of myself as a pretty strong-minded person. I can handle a lot of pain, but when he'd say Wendy's name, it hurt. It hurt worse than any physical pain I could have imagined.

Yet still I told him it was fine.

I used to think I was a strong-willed person, but I'm really not. I wished I could have told Stan that I was not a toy and it was not a game. I wish I could tell him that, for me, it was real, but I couldn't even really admit it to myself at first.

I would have rather had that than nothing at all, and realizing it made me feel sick to my stomach.

"Why me, though?" I asked, long moments later.

"Because you're soft, like a girl is."

"And?"

"You felt like her."

"And?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't object."

There it is. There is the truth.

It hurts.

He hurt me again.

I've always been there for him, whether I've been his feel-good fuck, whether I've been stopping him from punching holes in his bedroom walls, or whether I've been like this: wiping away his drunk tears at 3 in the morning.

My head would hurt each time and I just wished he would stop crying.

I used to have fantasies.

In these fantasies, I'd say, "I want to take care of you," then he'd tell me he didn't need to be taken care of because he's not some fragile little kid.

He'd say that, sure, but we would both know he didn't mean it. Deep down, he'd want me to stay with him, to take care of him, because sometimes it's nice to be taken care of.

After my in-depth fantasy, I'd just sit and think, "How pathetic."

When given the chance, I knew he would go back to Wendy with arms wide open. He'd forgive her, maybe she'd forgive him, and they'd make up. He'd love her. Stan has always been all about Wendy. Why would now be any different?

I knew I would only have him briefly. Wendy has the part of Stan that I can never touch.

So I had told him on a Saturday morning a few weeks back. The early campus streets were bare and Stan wasn't around at breakfast. I assumed he was probably still hiding away in our room in an attempt to chase away Friday night's familiar hangover.

I walked back upstairs after eating and those suspicions were confirmed upon my arrival. I crept into his bed and pressed my forehead into his back. I couldn't contain myself. I was hurting, and I was realizing that "heart break" wasn't just a figurative term. My chest was aching.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I know," he croaked, rolling over to face me.

"I love you," I repeated, starting to sob. I meant those words every fiber of my being.

"I know," he said again, pulling me into his chest.

I spend too much time looking back and contemplating things that shouldn't matter. I don't spend nearly enough time looking forward. But I don't think I'm the only one. None of us really spend that much time looking forward.

Often, I find myself thinking, "Well what exactly do I have to look forward to in the future?"

But then I realize that there is so, so, so much and Stan is only one small part of everything my life is. A small, but important part.

I think that no matter who he ends up with, I'll stay by his side. It might hurt, but I'll still stay.