Disclaimer: South Park is not mine, I write this story just for fun…
Sorry for spelling/grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.
Someone to Love
He needed someone to love.
That was what he always thought after having sex with a random guy that he probably will never meet again. He would meet them at bathrooms, gay-porn shops, and sometimes even in his college. His eyes would roam about, looking for the perfect prey. It wasn't that hard to see who was like him, and it wasn't hard to get them into an isolated place and having his way with them. He was good looking, after all. They never said no, and he never said that he'd meet them again. Once was enough for both sides, most of the time.
At the beginning it pleased him enough and he never asked for more, but after about two years of only having sex, he realized that something was amiss. He became depressed and bored with his life, and he locked himself in his room at the apartment for a week and searched deep within his soul for the answer. After a week, when the hour was late in the night (or early in the morning, depends how you look at it), he emerged from his cramped room with a smile plastered on his face. He had found the answer.
He was lonely, and even though he found sex quite fun, it became old and boring, and he always found himself on the active side. It angered him. He wanted to get, too, and not always to give.
If he had someone to love, he realized, his love would be more than happy to give him, and he would be more than happy to give them. He wanted someone to bring to his apartment every weekend, to cuddle with him into the night while watching a movie, or eat a romantic dinner with him to the candle lights. He wanted someone to share his secrets with, to share his complaints about the world with. He needed something to look forward to in his life.
He needed someone to love.
Stanley Marsh leaned backwards on his chair, gazing outside at the snow falling softly to the ground and covering it with a layer of bright white, half-listening to the professor talking about Edgar Allen Poe. He sighed heavily and yawned; he only took English and classic literature because that was what he was good at during his high-school years. He entered this college thanks to a soccer scholarship. Soccer seemed to be the only thing he found enjoying lately. He tapped on the table with his pen, and then flipped it so he could write. He pulled his notebook closer to himself and drew, letting his hand to guide the pen as it wished, drawing straight lines and circles, Xs and Ys, writing the names of every lover he had since he decided to step out of the closet. When he got to fifty names, he frowned, tore the page and crumpled it, throwing it angrily at the floor.
What would the love of his life say after he'll hear about all those various lovers?
"Mister Marsh," the professor said, standing next to Stan's chair and tapping with his fingers on a page in the book he was holding. "Would you mind picking that paper up?"
Stan grumbled and leaned forward, picking the crumpled paper and throwing it to the waste basket, earning claps from the other students in his class when the paper hit the wall and then fell into the basket, joining other unwanted items. "A perfect, three points shot from Marsh!" someone yelled.
"You should try your luck in basketball instead of soccer!" Came another voice, and the entire class erupted in laughter until the professor threatened, and they all quieted down. Stan was in a slump; he knew it perfectly well, as well as he knew just why he was in a slump. He felt like even though the entire school was cheering for him, he needed someone special to stand on the cement benches and call his name, wave to him and promise that if his team would win, he'll get a present once they return home. Stan smiled at the thought.
"Alright," the professor said after what seemed to him like an eternity. "You're free to leave." They all stood up and collected their things, walking out like a swarm of ants. When Stan was about to step out, the professor spoke again: "except for you, Mister Marsh."
Stan sighed heavily and turned around, sitting in the chair closest to the professor's desk. When all of the students left, the professor closed the door and looked at Stan, his face unreadable. "You've been spacing out a lot lately, Mister Marsh," he said, leaning on the blackboard and crossing his hands over his chest. "That worries me. Are you alright?"
Stan nodded, looking enywhere but at his teacher. "Yeah, I'm good," he said.
The professor frowned. "I find that hard to believe. You're a promising student, which is rare among those who come to this college with a sports scholarship. I'd hate to see that go."
"If it'll go it'll go, and there's nothing you can do about it," Stan replied fixing his gaze on the outside world.
The professor sighed. "True," he said, "but I'm sure that you, too, don't want that. You have a future, Mister Marsh. Don't let it go so easily. Sport won't support you for a lifetime. There had been many cases when a promising, young athlete was wounded and could never play again, and they didn't work hard on their other subjects, thus earning themselves a nice job as plumbers or taxi drivers."
"I know!" Stan said, glaring at the older man. His glare soon died down, though, when the professor said noting, and Stan looked away, embarrassed. "It's just that… I have a lot on my mind lately."
The professor nodded. "I guessed as much. Well, we have counselors, and quite good ones, at that."
Stan chuckled. "I know, but it's not something a counselor can solve; only I can."
The professor nodded again. "I see," he said. "Well, I apologize for taking your precious time, Mister Marsh. You're free to go."
Stan nodded, smiling slightly, and then got on his feet and left.
Unfortunately, the ceiling was no different today than it was yesterday. He frowned, shifting his arms beneath his head to a more comfortable position. He wore a long sleeved shirt and long pants, wishing that it was summer so he could wear almost nothing. The summers here were hot, unlike in Colorado. He loved the feeling of almost nothing on your body. It was annoying, though, that it was too hot sometimes, and even the fan couldn't relieve the heat.
His room was like any other room in any cheap apartment, with a bed next to a red-brick wall, a narrow window and a small desk packed with notebooks and papers. His walls were decorated with posters of his favorite rock stars, and an old computer that he barely used was next to the door. Boring was the right word to describe this place.
Boring… just like what his life had become.
He sighed heavily, turning his head to look at the wooden drawer next to his bed. Along with his deodorant and the book he was currently reading, a framed picture sat on it. In it were himself, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman, smiling to the camera at their high school graduation prom. The memory was bitter. Kenny went with some girl he met the other day and didn't love at all, Kyle went with Bebe, all the while complaining at what a stupid and annoying bitch she was, and he himself went with… he forgot her name. Probably wasn't important. Cartman, as expected, had no date. It didn't seem to mind him, though.
That was their last picture together, and after the summer vacation that year they all went to their separated ways. He went to his current college with his scholarship, Kyle got to a top university, studying Mathematics, philosophy and some other subject with weird names. Kenny disappeared. South Park never suited him. Cartman, who was on his way to become a very successful business man, said he saw him in New-York once. In what condition, he refused to say. They could only guess.
Stan missed the old days, when they had no worries and only carted about fun. It always made him sad to think about the past, and even sadder to think about the future.
He felt… lonely.
He frowned. It's been months since he last spoke with Kyle; he had too much on his mind, forgetting about his best friend studying in another state. Maybe he should give him a call and see how he's doing…
He got up from his bed and went to his desk, rummaging in the drawers in search for the piece of paper Kyle gave him once, which had his phone number. A victorious smile spread on his lips when he pulled the paper out, crumpled and dirty. He picked up his phone, his heart beating fast for some reason, and dialed the number.
His smiled faded as seconds passed and the phone hadn't been picked up. He looked down, devastated, and hung up. Kyle was probably out, drinking and having fun with his new friends, not thinking even once about his best of friends, all alone in his room.
His back and head ached, he felt weak, and the circles around his eyes had a nasty color. The hospital was sickening, with the colors and the smells, with the crying and yells, with the little kids with fatal diseases, and the old people, who could barely remember their own names. He felt tired, but his eyes refused to close, just like they refused to for the past few days.
Only one left… and even he was hanging between life and death, falling deeper by the day to the bottomless pit of nothingness instead of rising up to the brightness of life above.
He blamed himself for it. They told him not to, but he really couldn't think of somebody else to blame. It's him they came to visit even though the weather was stormy, thus it was his fault they were in an accident.
He heard footsteps approaching and it hurt his ears. He looked up at the doctor coming his way, and his eyes went wide. The doctor was not looking straight at him. He knew what it meant. He stood up, paling, hoping that maybe there is a slight chance he's mistaken. The doctor stopped, looked at him and sighed, shaking his head. He knew what the doctor was about to say, he heard it twice for the past month. "I'm sorry, we tried our best, but there was nothing more we could do…"
Kyle Broflovski released a scream of anguish, allowing his tears to fall. No one was left.
His mother died on the spot, it took his father three weeks to give up, and now Ike.
And it was his entire fault.
He fell to his knees, sobbing. The doctor mumbled an apology and went away, leaving Kyle with his thoughts. The same doctor said all he had to say when his father died, and for Ike no words of condolence were left. He already sat Shiva (see notes in the end of the story) on his mother, shortly after on his father, and now on his little brother. Another funeral to arrange, another headstone to buy and more thirty days of mourning. The red beard on his face was itching, a painful reminder for the tragedy. He was hoping to get rid of it in a few weeks, but now… another month was in wait for him.
He had to go back once again to his family home in Colorado and sit there for a week, but this time, no one will come to give their condolences. When his parents died, their work colleagues came and sat with him for awhile. Kyle wondered if maybe Ike's friends would come over, but decided against it. Ike had no friends… they all envied his brain, and he was bullied often. His own friends… he lost contact with Kenny, no one knew Cartman's number, and Stan… Stan was probably building his own life, and he didn't need Kyle to bring him back to their old and stinky town. This time no one will come, and he would sit alone for a week with his torn shirt and with his thoughts.
And then, when the week would come to end… he'd have to go back to school. Maybe… maybe he'd pay Stan a visit, see how he's doing. They haven't spoken in a long time, and Kyle needed someone to talk to. Stan would probably listen. Unwillingly, maybe, but he will listen.
Kyle wiped his eyes and sniffed, standing up. No use thinking about it now; he had a lot of things to take care of. He will decide in a week what to do.
Stan entered his room and kicked the door shut, wrapping his arms around his body. The rain caught him on the way to the apartment and he got soaked to the bone. His teeth chattered, and his lips and nails became a pale shade of blue. He took off his shirt, grabbed his towel and was about to get into the shower and get rid of the cold when he heard a knock on the door. It was weak, and for a moment he thought that maybe he was imagining things, but then the knock came again, louder this time. Stan cursed under his breath wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, hoping it wasn't one of his sex-friends that came to complain that he begun ignoring them. Grumbling, he opened the door. It took him a moment, but as he recognized the figure standing at his doorstep his eyes widened and he didn't notice his lips being separated slowly, his bottom lip slowly going down.
The man in front of him looked terrible: a beard grew from his cheeks and chin, his figure was hunched, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.
There were so many things Stan wanted to say, so many things he wanted to ask, but all that came out was: "what are you doing here?"
Kyle sniffed. "They're all gone…" he said quietly.
Stan cocked an eyebrow. "Who?" he asked, but before Kyle could give him an answer Stan spoke again: "wait!" he said, "don't stand out here, come on in! I'll brew you some tea to warm you up…"
Kyle nodded and followed Stan inside, sitting on his messed up bed. After a few minutes Stan returned with two cups filled with boiling tea in them and gave one to Kyle, grabbing a chair and sitting in front of him, looking at him expectedly. "You look terrible," he said. "What in the world happened to you?"
Kyle took a sip of his tea. "A car accident," he said and Stan had to strain his ears to figure out is words. "My mom, dad… even Ike… they all died…"
"Oh… oh God, Kyle, why didn't you tell me sooner? I would have come... to the funerals, to your house, anything! Why… when did this happen?"
"Ike died nine days ago," he said. "He was the last to…" he trailed off, refusing to look at Stan. "I didn't want to trouble you…" he finished.
"Idiot!" Stan yelled, standing up and almost spilling his tea, causing Kyle to look up at him in shock. "It wouldn't have been any trouble! Aren't we best friends?! Best friends should help each other in a time of need! How… how did you expect to get over it without your friends?" Stan felt tears choking his throat, and he gulped. For the past few days all he wanted was to meet Kyle, and now, when he finally meets him, his friend is devastated. "I would have come. You should have called…"
"Well, you didn't call me, either," Kyle said with anger in his voice.
"I tried," Stan replied. "About a week ago… you didn't pick up the phone."
"I was at the hospital!" Kyle said, his voice finally reaching normal notes. Then he looked away, ashamed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… I just feel so terrible-" his voice cracked and he wiped his eyes quickly, getting rid of the tears. "It was my fault, I shouldn't have invited them!" his arm did a lousy job at getting rid of the tears, and they fell down his cheeks while he whimpered quietly.
"Don't even think that!" Stan yelled, crouching so he could look at Kyle in the eye. He sat his cup on the floor and took Kyle's cup away as well. He laid his arms on his friend's shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. "It's none of your fault! You couldn't have known they would… get in an accident!" he said, choosing his words carefully.
"I knew the weather was bad!" Kyle sobbed. "I could have told them not to come! Now they're gone, everyone is gone! I feel so alone, Stan!" and before the black haired boy could resist, Kyle wrapped his arms around him and sobbed into his exposed chest. Stan felt the hairs of Kyle's beard touching his skin, and he bit his lip, fighting against his own tears. He rubbed his friend's back, telling him to calm down and that all would be okay.
Stan felt new emotions rising within him, and he tightened his hold at his friend, craving for his touch. He kissed his red hair lightly, rocking the both of them from side to side as if Kyle were a baby that needed to fall asleep. "Shh…" he whispered over and over again. "There, there now, it's okay. You can cry, let it all out…" and Kyle indeed cried harder. "You can stay here tonight," Stan said. "As long as you wish! You don't have to go back, stay here with me, and then we would be able to mend our lost friendship…"
"I need to go back," Kyle said. "I can't afford to miss any more classes-"
"Are you stupid or what?! Your family is… dead, and all you can think of is school?!" Stan yelled. Kyle had always been the "nerd", but this was beyond the limit!
"I don't have a choice!" Kyle yelled back. "School is all I have left now…"
"Not true!" Stan said, inching his face closer in an attempt to prove Kyle wrong. "I'm still here! You have me!" he said and caressed Kyle's cheek gently. His friend sniffed, falling silent. "Don't you ever, ever forget it…" Stan had to wipe his own eyes, his vision begging to blur from unshed tears.
"I'm so sorry, Stan," Kyle said.
"Sorry for what?" Stan asked, confused.
"That we became like this. We were always together, and now…"
Stan shook his head furiously. "You don't need to apologize. I'm to blame, as well. We can still rebuild our friendship, we can start now!" he hugged Kyle again. "It's not lost, Kyle. Nothing is lost…"
He never craved for any of his sex-friends, and now, suddenly, he was craving for Kyle. Is this what it meant being in love? Could one even fall inlove so quick?
Kyle hugged Stan back, burying his face in his chest. Stan kissed his head again, only that this time he didn't stop there: he went down to the forehead, then to the ear, then to the bridge of Kyle's nose… down and down until he got to his lips. His heart skipped a beat as he felt Kyle kissing him back, slowly pulling him on top of him. Stan pulled Kyle's shirt up, touching his chest. He rarely did this in the past whenever he had sex. Maybe this time it would really be… different. "What's the deal with the beard?" Stan asked between gasps for air.
"I'm not allowed to shave for thirty days…"
Stan smiled. "Doesn't matter," he said, "you look sexy in that…"
Kyle smiled back and resumed kissing him.
Stan figured he'd have to wait for another day to take the shower he planned on taking. Oh well, there are other ways to warm up…
The bright sunrays caused him to grumble and turn around. For the past week the sky had been clouded, and when he least wanted it the sun decided to shine through. Stan lifted his arms in order to lay it on his newest lover and love, only to find the bed empty. He opened his eyes and shot up, glancing around the room, catching Kyle just as he was about to leave. "Kyle!" he exclaimed, throwing the covers from above him. Kyle jumped at the voice and turned around, looking at Stan sadly. "Where are you going?" Stan asked.
Kyle looked away. "I'm sorry…" he said. "I didn't mean for this to happen... I- I don't know what came over me, and I… I'm so sorry, Stan…"
"So that's it?" Stan asked, his voice full with hurt, making Kyle cringe. "You used me so I could make you feel better and now you were about to leave without a word?!"
Kyle looked up, shocked. "I didn't use you! You used me, just like you used any other man you slept with!" he retorted.
"How can you say that?!" Stan yelled, standing up and not minding the fact that he was naked. "I love you, Kyle! Don't- don't just leave!"
"I'm sorry," Kyle said. "I don't feel the same way, I'm not… like you."
Stan fell silent and sat back on the bed, burying his head in his hands. "I can't believe this is happening," he mumbled. "I don't want it to end like this!"
"Me neither, Stan! I want us to still remain friends! If you still want it… I just don't want us to be… l-lovers."
"I can't believe you're capable of doing something like that…"
"I'm sorry, Stan, I really am… I don't know what came over me." Stan didn't reply. Kyle gulped. "I have to go now… you made me feel better, really, and I thank you for that. I'm sorry I did this to you." He opened the door, and when he didn't hear any word from Stan, he turned around to say one last thing to him. "I'll give you a call," he said.
"Don't bother," Stan mumbled.
"Please, don't do this, Stan…" Stan didn't say another word though, and Kyle sighed and left dejectedly.
When the door clicked shut, Stan burst out crying.
He figured that maybe… maybe he deserved it. Now he knows how all those men he fucked felt after he ignored them. They probably loved him, and he broke their hearts, and now it backfired. He looked out from the window and watched as Kyle got on the bus out of the city. His tears still fell, and he felt like a part of him left with his friend. There was only one way to get that part back.
Desperately he needed it…
He needed someone to love.
Author's Note: "Shiva" is what a Jewish person does when their parents or sibling or child dies. The mourning person has to sit for a week in the home of the deceased, and is not allowed to shower, look in the mirror, watch TV, etc. Also, they have to sit with a tear at their shirt. After the week is over, they need to stay in mourning for thirty days, and the guys are not allowed to shave… probably other stuff I don't know of. I never sat Shiva, and hopefully, never will soon…
Thank you, as always, for reading! Please review!