Of the Obsessed and Abused
A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California.
"None of us are saints."
-- Albert Fish
The cold, smooth surface was still, after nearly four years, the most relieving feeling in the world. Kyle Broflovski was able to spend hours at a time laying on the grave of Stan Marsh, with his head rested right atop the headstone. The cold touch to the side of his face held some sort of magic-- it was reassuring and it healed the habitual aching of his heart.
Four years ago, Kyle had his longtime lover and best friend taken away from him. Stan was discovered dead by Kyle, some two hours after he was choked to death. The murder was committed by a troubled twelve-year-old boy, who only wanted to somehow cure this mystery which radiated from his heart; he was unaware and confused by, what everyone later told him, was wrong.
Wrong? A word never puzzled Ike Broflovski so much before. What was so wrong? Was it his actions in itself, or were they all referring to what he was feeling?
The killing of Stan Marsh, was viewed by Ike as something maybe a little sad and maybe a little wrong in some respects, but it was also the most perfect action he could have ever committed. After all, if he hadn't done it, would Kyle have ever left Stan freely? No. If Kyle somehow did, Stan Marsh was such a hopeless romantic, he'd be heartbroken and would die an empty soul. No, Ike was doing Stan a favor. Stan died with hope in his heart. He died believing he would receive what he deeply wanted: to be reunited and have Kyle forever at his side. Is that wrong?
Brothers. Brothers can't be lovers, because it is wrong. That's what Ike was told. He was also told that he was too young. He was too young to understand. That advanced mind he had once been so acclaimed for and that had gotten him so far, was suddenly forgotten. The fact that his brain was the equivalent to that of someone several years older than him simply disappeared. Because now he was just a kid. And even more insulting, he was also "mentally ill." Who decided that he was no longer a genius, but a lunatic? That sudden twist with the labeling of who he was, was what appeared to be the true wrong, to Ike Broflovski.
Kyle's relaxing visit was interrupted by the sudden buzzing of his cell phone in his back pocket. "Hello?" he answered.
"Yes," he sat up abruptly, recognizing the voice on the other end as one of the nurses that cared for his brother. "What is it?"
"You're brother has insisted that I call you to let you know that you are, as of now, twenty-three--" she paused and Kyle was able to faintly hear the voice of Ike in the background. "Excuse me. Twenty-four minutes late to your scheduled meeting."
Kyle checked his wristwatch and indeed saw that his brother was right. "Oh crap. Sorry. Tell him I'm sorry. I'm on my way."
"He says he's sorry and he's on his way," the nurse relayed the message. "…Ike says it's okay."
"Bye. Thank you."
Ike sat alone in his small room. He disliked having to interact with the rest of the teenagers at the institute. He saw them as the truly insane ones. He wasn't crazy. They were. They deserved to be there. Not him.
He waited, sitting patiently on his bed, for his brother. Kyle visited him once a month for about two hours a visit. His parents visited him as well, but not as frequent. It was only due to the fact that the young teenager only wished for Kyle's visits. His parents' visits were only a nuisance; a reminder that they were people who were responsible for it all. If he was never adopted by them, Kyle and he would not be brothers. And none of this would be wrong.
When Kyle entered the room, he was shaking as always. Ike thought it was cute that Kyle was always afraid to start, no matter how many visits there had been over the course of four years. The redhead closed the door behind him and continued to walk to the bed and sit down beside his brother. "Hey."
Kyle stared at his hands which were folded neatly on his lap. "So how have you been?"
"Okay. Lonely," he said with a sigh, "but okay. You?"
"I miss you."
"…I miss you too," his voice shook as it always had when he said those words.
"I only have one more year here."
"Do you think… you think that when I get out, I can live with you instead of Mom and Dad?"
"Oh. I dunno, Ike. …I don't think so."
Ike was quiet for a while. "Oh."
"It just-- it wouldn't be in the best interest of things. It just wouldn't be… responsible of me."
"Oh." Ike's eyes fell on the camera above his room. The "hidden" thing that always restrained him. "Do you want to go play some chess?"
Kyle was hesitant, knowing what "chess" really referred to. He nodded. He let his brother gently take his hand and pull him up from the bed, and lead him out of the room. They entered the recreation room, with Ike still leading his brother by the hand. The now sixteen-year-old knew the way things worked in the hospital of which he was imprisoned. He spotted the rotating camera above the room, and as always timed it, so that when it turned the opposite way, he led his brother into the janitor closet, where they would have two minutes before they're absence would be noticed.
To anyone, whether friend or stranger, it was obvious that Kyle and Ike Broflovski were not related by blood. They were bound to one another by something much stronger.