Disclaimer: South Park and it's characters are not mine.

Author's Note: Sorry for spelling and grammar mistakes, I'm not a native English speaker and I'm tired as hell…

Why Don't You Like the Flowers?

Do boys like flowers?

He may be one, but he truly did not know the answer to that question. He had not been given flowers too often, and when he had, he smiled awkwardly and said a quiet "thank you", putting the flowers in a vase and forgetting to add water. Sometimes he thought he did that on purpose, and only said he forgot to put in water as an excuse. Flowers were among the things that girls loved, not boys. He may have been what they call a "girly boy", or what people liked to name him: "a fag/pussy", but still, he could not find himself marveling at the beauty of flowers. He did not know what his lover thought of them, though.

Quite sad, when you think of it; here Stan spent seven years with the love of his life in the cozy, little, home they bought for themselves, and he still did not know what his love liked. Sure, he knew how to please him, but Kyle never once told him what he'd like to get as a present. Stan gave him CDs usually, or some hi-tech things like an MP3-Player, and Kyle used to always give him the same things. One may think it was boring, but they knew differently: it was not the present itself that mattered.

The memories pained him and made his heart sink as he stood in front of the shop, watching a young lady with a green apron watering the plants as she hummed a tune that sounded awfully familiar to him. It was their song - he remembered as the lady reached the chorus – and it pained him even more. His eyes scanned the flowers and he kept his mouth shut tight, fearing that if he would open it he'll start screaming at the top of his lungs. What would Kyle like? There were lilies and daisies and tulips and roses… he found it amazing he could remember the names, and he wondered what the rest of the flowers in the store were called. He goes through that same routine every year, and every year after spending an hour standing there and looking, he lets the worker pick a bouquet instead of him. Every year he found someone new working there, and that lady was no different. She wasn't there last year…

Maybe, this year, he should pick one by himself. After all, Kyle never seemed pleased…

"May I help you, sir?" the middle-aged lady asked, smiling, as she noticed that he had been standing there and not moving for a long time. As soon as she noticed his eyes, though, her smile disappeared and she looked away. She was not the first to do so…

"Tomorrow's the anniversary," he said, his voice holding no emotion, unlike his haunted eyes. "I- I need flowers…"

"Well," she said, suddenly sounding very unsure of herself, making sure to avoid his eyes. "What about some tulips and roses?"

He examined the two kinds of flowers and frowned. They were just… too colorful and mismatching. "Is there something less...?"

She understood him even without him ending the sentence. She went behind the counter and picked a bouquet of chrysanthemums with yellow flowers he did not know the name of between them. "How about this?" she asked. He was about to nod, but then shook his head and she lowered the bouquet, frowning.

"I'll pick," he said. "For once, I want to pick. He… he never likes the flowers I give him," he said and the smile returned to her face before she resumed watering the plants.

He took a few steps around the store, looking at the various buckets filled with various flowers, wondering which one Kyle would like. There was a bucket with small branches with little, white flowers on them, which he decided to use. To that, he decided, he'll add lilacs and the yellow flowers that the lady showed him with the latest bouquet he was presented to.

He acknowledged the lady about his pick and she frowned, probably thinking it could be better, but nevertheless wrapped it with transparent nylon and tied it with a red ribbon. "I hope he'll like it," she said as he gave her his credit card.

"I don't think he likes flowers," he said in reply before he could even think about it. "Boys don't like flowers."

"Why are you giving it to him, then?" she asked, returning the card with a receipt.

He shrugged and picked the bouquet from the counter. "I can't not to," he said. "If I won't, he wouldn't know I've even been there," she seemed puzzled, but said nothing. "Thank you," he said and turned around.

"Come any time!" she called back.


Anniversaries came once a year, yet to him, it was a year long event. When the dreaded day neared, usually a week before, he would walk the streets like a zombie, feeling as if he weren't a part of the town. Every sound reached his ears, from speeding cars to singing birds, and he envied the young people walking happily down the sidewalk. He used to be one of them…

A week before the anniversary he could not sleep, and when he did manage to, horrifying images haunted his dreams and caused him to scream and weep. He would wake up and look out of the window at the snow, which always seemed to fall, reaching out his hand to collect the frozen water into the palm of his hand and stopping as his fingers connected with the cold glass.

His room was stuffy- he spent there most of his days, simply sitting and staring out of the window with a blank expression. His parents came countless of times and tried to get him out and get him up on his feet again. It didn't help, but they never gave up. Kyle's parents came, too, occasionally, but even they could do nothing. "Kyle wouldn't want you to be like that," they said. "He hated it when someone was sad…"

How could he not be sad, though? Kyle had been taken away from him violently, without a warning, leaving him alone to mourn. People understood him during the first year, but when the first anniversary came and went, they told him that it was time to move on with his life.

"I can't!" he told them, tears springing to his eyes at the mere mention of it. "I can't! Not until he's happy!" then they would stare at him quizzically and go silent, saying no more. He knew that they didn't know how Kyle could be happy…

Kyle was dead.

Only Stan could see him, and only on the anniversary.

When a year passed and he and Kyle's parents went to visit the grave, Kyle appeared in front of him for the first time. When Sheila and Gerald left, Stan stood in front of the gravestone by himself, crying and becoming one with the scenery. He felt that someone was next to him, and an unexplained force made him look to his side and see who it was. He became paler than the snow.

There, almost invisible, stood Kyle, his eyes sad.

Stan didn't know how long he stood there, but at some point he reached forward and tried to touch his lover, but his hand came in tough with air. He screamed in shock and drew back his hand, suddenly feeling as if the snow he'd been standing in finally penetrated his skin and chilled his bones. Since that day on, Kyle's sad face haunted him, when he was awake or asleep.

Why wasn't he smiling?

If Kyle was not happy, then there was no reason Stan should be happy.

The same thing happened on the second anniversary, and his reaction had been the same. Kyle's face was the same, as well.

On the third year, Stan already knew what to expect. "Why aren't you smiling?" he asked the ghost, his voice quiet. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

The wind howled.

"Why did you have to leave!" he screamed, the tears freezing on his cheeks. "Why?" he whispered and fell to his knees, sobbing. Kyle already disappeared.

When he saw people talking to gravestones on television, he used to think it's ridiculous. The deceased could not hear them, and even if they could, then they probably knew everything that their loved ones said, if not more.

He became one of those people. He knew Kyle was watching. Kyle was standing there and watching him. Yet, unlike the people on the screen, Stan was not telling him about the events in his life, which became quite eventless since Kyle passed away. Stan was always asking questions, but never receiving answers.

He always brought him flowers, but Kyle was never smiling. "Don't you like them?" Stan asked. "They're blue, like your favorite color…"

The following year he brought a different color, but received the same expression. He was still hoping to find the right color, and every year he brought different kind of flowers. There was a time he even picked them himself from the garden in his parents' home. Kyle told him once he liked his mother's garden…

But Kyle was never pleased.

The day was like any other day. He came back from work and watched some television, munching on a sandwich. He knew that Kyle was supposed to work until late that day, that's why he wasn't worried even when the clock struck eleven. However, when he woke up the next morning and didn't find his boyfriend sleeping next to him, he became worried.

The phone rang about two hours later with the terrible news. From that point on, his life went downhill: He was fired from his job because he never arrived and he began living on welfare and his parents' money. On top of that, he felt lonely like never before.

The anniversaries came once a year, yet Stan visited Kyle's grave three times a year: on the anniversary of his death, the anniversary of the day they began living together, and on his birthday. He always brought flowers.

Kenny and Cartman never visited. Cartman lived his own life somewhere, and besides, he hated Kyle. Kenny was nowhere to be found. One day he sopped answering the phone, and Stan didn't hear from him since.

It was only the two of them left, and now, Kyle was gone, too.


Sheila and Gerald left a few minutes ago, and now Stan was standing by himself in front of the grave, caressing the white stone with his cold hand.

He felt the familiar presence and tuned around, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I knew you'd come," he said. "You always do…" his voice cracked as his eyes could contain the tears no longer.

"Why are you never smiling?" he asked, moving forward. Kyle didn't move an inch. "Why aren't you saying a word?"

It was hard to keep his eyes open with the amount of snow falling, and sometimes he wasn't able to see the ghost as his eyes narrowed against Mother Nature's attack. "I picked out the flowers myself this time," he said, smiling sadly. "I see you still don't like them…"

"-what do you want me to bring to you? I can't… I can't stand seeing you like that! Please, say something… please, smile!" He fell to his knees, the snow soaking his pants and the tears spilling out of his eyes. Yet Kyle remained silent, and the smile was nowhere to be seen. "What do you want me to do?" he sobbed. "I did everything for you! I devote my life to you, what else do you want me to do?" Suddenly, it seemed like Kyle was standing farther. "Do you want me to die? Do you want me to die and join you?" he asked, smiling. It felt weird to him, it wasn't often that he smiled. "I want to die," he said, "but your mom always says you wouldn't want that… is she right, Kyle? She never did truly understand you." Kyle seemed sadder. Stan quickly pulled out a pocketknife he brought along. Sometimes, the trees' branches fell on the gravestone and he had to cut them and throw them away. He pulled out the small metal knife and pressed it against his skin, not hard enough for it to get through. He looked up.

Kyle still wasn't smiling.

"I'm going to kill myself! Then you'd be happy, right? We could be together again!" he looked down, biting his bottom lip and trying to stop the shaking of his hand. His hand felt colder suddenly, and he noticed Kyle's transparent hand on his own. His other hand was where the knife was pressed lightly. Stan looked up and saw Kyle shaking his head slowly, his eyes hidden beneath his red locks of hair. He dropped the knife and held his face, sobbing uncontrollably. "Why don't you like the flowers?" he asked and coughed, the biting wind showing its signs. I can't bring you anything else, you even refused to receive my life!"

Kyle's hands caressed his cheeks, freezing them, and his pale lips connected with Stan's forehead. Stan shivered as the wind howled around them. "This isn't about the flowers, is it?" he asked as Kyle's ghostly hands left his face. "It's about me… you're disappointed…" he gulped and looked up, surprised to see Kyle smiling softly at him. "What do you want me to do?"

Kyle looked up at the sky above, and Stan found it almost sickening that the snow went right through him. "Don't leave!" Stan screamed, standing up. "Say something, damn it!"

Kyle slowly disappeared in front of his eyes, and he ran forward, trying to catch him yet failing miserably and falling down as his hand came right through. When he lifted his head from the layer of white, he was alone once again.

Kyle was smiling…

The problem was not with the flowers, it was with him! Kyle smiled… if Kyle was happy, maybe it was time for him to be happy too. Maybe it was time for him to move on. It is what Kyle wanted, apparently.

"Thank you," Stan whispered to the wind, wiping his eyes as he smiled and stood back up, turning to walk away. He could almost swear the wind replied.

"I love the flowers."


Author's Notes: Just something I felt like writing. I'm not sure how pleased I am with it, but... I love the ending.

This could serve as a lovely original! I think it will, too XD

Thank you for reading, and please, leave a review! Yes, that little, purple box down there…