Authors Note: Had this idea and started writing and then couldn't stop. If I get reviews and people like it, I'll continue. Let me know. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park.
I Feel So:
I guess you can say that he used to be my hero. Most boys strive to be like their fathers, but I admired Stan far too much to want to be anything like my dad. And who wouldn't? Stan was handsome, and friendly, and… cool. He was brave and stood up for what he knew in his heart was good and right. He was honest and giving, sensitive and loving. He cared about animals and starving children in Nairobi. He kicked ass at Game Sphere. And best of all he was sane, when no one else made any goddamn sense. He was the leader, and my best friend.
It was December when I decided he was my hero. I was four, and I was the only one in preschool who wasn't eating home-baked cookies and singing Christmas carols with the teacher. They gave me a plastic dreidel and set me in the corner. And as I sat there, alone, watching all my friends talking about some fat dude I'd never heard of called Santa Clause, who somehow manages to break into people's houses by stuffing himself down chimneys, and all the presents this fat dude was going to bring them, I began to cry.
The teacher ignored me, and Cartman teased me for the first time in history. I'll never forget how scary he looked. A big blob of fat with beady, brown eyes, smiling an evil, heartless grin and pointing straight at me.
"Look everyone," He bellowed. "Jew boy's crying because he doesn't get any Christmas presents or cookies." Taking a huge bite out of his gingerbread man, he rubbed his tummy. "Mmm, it's so good. I can't believe how yummy these are."
I remember Wendy frowning, looking genuinely puzzled by this. "How come Kyle doesn't get any cookies?"
"Yeah, how come?" Kenny, nothing but a little ball of orange back then, backed her up.
"My mom told me it's because his family is dirty Jesus killers." Cartman sneered.
"It's not true," I sniffled. "I'm not a Jesus killer."
That's when it happened. Stan got up from the play time rug and toddled over to me. His wide blue eyes absorbed the hurt in mine and mirrored back compassion.
"It's alwight, Kyle," He soothed. "You can have my gingew-bwead cookie."
I wiped the snot from my nose with the back of my hand as a few more warm tears slipped down my cheeks. He looked like an angel standing there, his smile soft and his little hand outstretched with a giant, sugar covered cookie man curled in his fingers.
"Jews can't eat Christmas cookies!" Cartman protested.
"Can so, fat boy!" Stan shot back.
"Stanley, he's right." Ms. Claridge interjected. "Kyle's mom informed us that he is not to participate in any activities that go against his religion."
My eyes watered up a second time. Everyone was looking at me because I was different somehow, and back then I didn't understand it. Why couldn't I be part of this "Christmas" thing? What was wrong with me?
Stan looked from the teacher, to me, and finally down at his cookie. I thought for sure I was going to be abandon.
"Then I don't want a cookie, eithew!" Tossing the treat to the floor, his tan shoe with the brown teddy bear on the side smashed it into the carpet.
"What the-?" Cartman gasped, flabbergasted as he stared at the crumbled mess on the carpet. "Are you insane?" He screamed.
I looked up into Stan's face, returning his smile as he sat down next to me in my lonely little corner.
"I'm hewe fow you, dude." He promised. "You'we my best fwiend."
In the background, I could hear Cartman crying and wailing about the lost cookie, which made it all the more memorable. In that moment, the boy I had been sleeping next to during nap time, sharing my milk with, and chasing around the playground since September became a greater hero to me than fire men, super man, and even my dad could ever hope to be.
…So where is my hero now? He sure as shit isn't here, like he said he would be. The douche.
I knew this was going to happen. As sure as I know the sky is blue, penguins don't fly, and Cartman is a big, fat ass, I knew he wasn't going to show up. He's been doing this to me for the past month and I'm really getting sick of it. I'm beginning to wonder why we're even friends at all.
I look up from the curb where I'm sitting and into Stan's breathless, red face. He smiles at me, displaying a pearly row of perfect teeth and brushes a strand of hair from his eye.
Oh, yeah. That's why.
All he has to do is smile at me and I forgive him. Well, that's not gonna work this time, damnit. I'm really pissed off this time. And cold.
"Sorry I'm late, Dude. Wendy wouldn't stop talking. She really liked the bracelet I got her."
With an angry grunt, I pound my elbow onto my knee and slam my chin into my palm, making sure to look in the opposite direction he's standing.
"Is something wrong?" There's a frown in his voice as he sits next to me. The material of his shirt brushes my bare arm. It's chilly out, making it easy for me to feel the warmth of his body heat through the dark blue sweater. I fight off the shiver that rushes down my spine.
"Gee, Stan," I hiss with coated sarcasm. "What would make you think a thing like that?"
"Your ice-cream is melting all over your hand."
Glancing at the cone I've been holding, I watch some of the melted treat drip onto the sidewalk. "My ice-cream?"
"Yeah, Dude!" He swipes some of it out of the cone and sucks it off his finger. "That's Swiss Chocolate Swirl, how could you?"
"Swiss chocolate swirl!" My fingers squeeze into a fist around the cone, breaking through the now soggy texture and spraying its half melted insides on me, Stan, and the pavement. "Is that the only reason you think something's wrong?" I shout, now facing him completely.
He blinks at me, confused. God, he's so fucking stupid sometimes. I throw the remainder of the squished ice-cream cone at him.
"What about the fact that I've been sitting here for the past hour and twenty three minutes waiting for you, Stan!" I scream. "Ever think of that?"
"Kyle, come on." He begs on a tremendous sigh. "I told you that-"
"Yeah, I know! Wendy, Wendy, Wendy." I pout.
"Don't you "Kyle" me, you douche!" I'm so mad I'm shaking visibly.
His eyebrows furrow. "You're the one being a douche, you douche! Just because I ran a little late-"
"You didn't just run a little late, Stan!" I stand abruptly. My blood is boiling in my veins, pumping so much adrenalin that I can't sit still any longer. "You've been over an hour late every single time we've made plans ever since you got back together with Wendy The Skank!"
"Don't call her a skank, asshole!" He shoots up just as quickly as I had, challenging me with anger-fired eyes. "You're the one who got us back together in the first place, Kyle!"
"Because I wanted to see my best friend happy, not because I never wanted to see him at all!"
Tears form behind my eyes. Angry, heartbroken tears. But I blink and swallow them back, refusing to break down. Stan's expression softens.
"Dude," He stares deeply into my eyes. "I'm sorry, Ky." His hand finds my shoulder, resting there comfortably. "You're right. I shouldn't have kept you waiting."
Violently, I yank away from his touch. "I'm sorry, too."
I'm shaking against the cold, against the terror I feel in what I'm about to do. There's a lump in my throat and an ache in my heart. The wind kicks up, whipping around the dark bangs poking out of Stan's hat. His lips, parted slightly in concern, look pale and chapped from the dry, cold wind.
"What do you mean?"
My lower lip trembles as I stare at him. This boy that's been my hero forever. I want to hug him.
"I'm sorry I have to find a new best friend."
"No!" My voice is harsh, even to me. I tuck my hands under my arms, hugging myself. "I'm not going to sit around waiting for you anymore while you just forget about me, Stan."
He takes a step closer, his eyes penetrating mine so deeply I have to look away. "I could never forget about you, Kyle. You're my best friend, Dude." His hand finds me again, resting warm on my shoulder. "My super best friend."
The words swell into my heart, making me feel fuzzy inside. Swallowing, I find the courage to look up from my hard stare on his shoe. He smiles at me; His Stan smile, his hero smile. It's not insincere, but genuine and sweet, gently begging my pardon.
My resolve is melting, followed closely by my heart. I want to stay angry, but I can't. I can hold a grudge forever, but not against him, because I love him. Too much, some say, for my own good.
Slowly, my lips curl into a grin. In the next instant, I'm pulled close against him in one of those "manly" one-armed hugs. But before I can fully process the display of affection, he pulls away.
"Lets get you a new ice-cream."
Once again, all is forgiven.
An hour and forty minutes later, we're sitting in the middle of Stan's living room, pounding the buttons on his Game Sphere controllers.
I'm up on my knees, my body moving in the directions I want the game character to go and my tongue sticking out the side of my mouth in determination. Stan is reclining on the couch, the controller in his lap and a content expression on his face. His thumbs hit all the right buttons at just the right time, like a dance sequence he's practiced and perfected. Despite all my effort, my cussing, the threats and faces I'm making at the TV, I'm still losing.
"Damnit!" I howl, finally admitting defeat as I watch my players' gory death flash across the screen.
"Told you I was gonna kick your pathetic ass." He gloats, sounding totally pleased with himself.
Shrugging, I push up off my knees and fall back onto the couch next to him. "I'd rather you kick my ass virtually than for real."
"I'd never kick your ass, Kyle."
"I know," I agree, casting him a cheese smile. "You wouldn't be able to."
He gives me a look, raising a skeptical eyebrow high on his forehead. "What's that suppose to mean?" The artificial light from the overhead lamp reflects off his hair, creating a halo of shine around his head.
"It means; you may be able to kick my ass at some crappy video game, but we all know who'd win in a real fight."
I jounce my eyebrows at him and feel my stomach flip-flop when he returns my smile with a devilishly playful one. Tossing his controller to the ground, he turns onto his hands and knees, inching toward me. His eyebrows lower dangerously over his eyes, which are vibrant and dancing with mischief.
"We'll see about that." Suddenly he pounces on me, sending us both tumbling to the floor.
I yelp in surprise and fight back, though playfully. My heart's hammering in my chest and I feel warm. So, so warm. Jabbing him in the nuts with my knee, I manage to overpower him and straddle his lap. He takes a few swings at me with his fists, but I can't seem to grab a hold of them to stop the insanity. He looks like a baby wiggling around excitedly and it makes me laugh. But my victory is short lived. Lifting his legs, he flips over in a backward somersault, me still straddling his lap. My back hits the floor, nearly knocking the wind out of me.
I'm not about to give up that easily. As he scrambles to get away, I leap on top of him again, this time wrapping my legs around his neck and head.
"Kyle!" He whines, trying to pry them away.
A few soft grunts and gasps for air. "… No."
My thighs squeeze tighter. "Say uncle!"
He struggles silently for a few seconds, and then I feel twenty of his thirty-two teeth sink into the tender flesh of my inner thigh.
"Aaaah!" I wail, releasing my grasp and bucking him away from me with my feet. "You bastard!"
Stan falls away from me, snickering in boyish delight.
"You… you bit me!"
"Bit me!" I repeat.
"Uh huh." Chuckling, he flips me off.
I dive on top of him again. Sadly, I think I fell into a trap, because the moment I land on him, he twists my arm behind my back.
"Say uncle." He mocks.
"Bastard." I breathe.
He twists my arm tighter, making me moan in pain. My legs are on either side of him and I can feel the soft bulge in his pants against mine. Heat flushes my body. I lean forward, my breath hitting against his face as I try to free my arm.
Smiling, he jounces his eyebrows identical to the way I had earlier. "Uncle?"
A few more struggles, and I collapse onto his chest. "Uncle."
Chills tickle my spine as his hands falls away from my arm and slide down my sides. He smells good, like vanilla beans. I take a deep breath of the pleasant scent before sitting up and pulling my arm back around to the front of my body. His bangs fall softly over his forehead, the dark color contrasting against the cool blue of his eyes.
The doorbell chimes, making me jump, and in the next instant I'm thrown onto the floor as Stan makes a dash to answer it.
You'd think he had been waiting for the last orgasm in history to arrive on his doorstep tonight.
The hairs on my neck prickle at the sound of her high, overly feminine voice. So, I was right about the orgasm deal. I swallow to keep the urge to puke down.
"Hey, Babe." His voice is flooded with tenderness, making the situation all the more barf-arrific.
What the hell is she doing here, anyway? Hasn't she sucked the life out of him long enough today? For God's sake, it's mine turn to do some damn sucking!
Pausing, I realize the way my own thoughts sound and chuckle to myself.
"Sucking," I repeat, highly amused with myself. Most people have "blonde moments" or "senior moments". Lucky me, I have "Kenny moments".
"What's so funny?" Stan questions, now in the middle of the room. Wendy's arm is linked with his, her side pressing into him so there isn't a half inch of space between the two. Stan doesn't seem to mind. He's beaming like he just got his first erection.
Somehow, I'm irritated with his happiness and I don't know why. I shake my head, then stand from where I had been carelessly thrown aside. Like Cartman's old Snacky s'mores' boxes. Maybe that's all I am to him. An empty box of nothing because he's had his fill and found something that satisfies his cravings better.
"Kyle, I need a favor."
My eyes shift between the two. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think they were related. Though Wendy's eyes are a deeper cerulean, they share the same raven colored hair and attractive, angelic features. Something in my gut is warning me I'm not going to like whatever they're planning. In fact, I wish I could stick my fingers in my ears and go, "La La La La La!" so I don't have to hear it. Unfortunately, I'm no longer eight.
"… What?" I ask, carefully taking in their subtle grins. I hate to admit that Wendy is good for him. But it's true. There's a glow about him when they're together that's too hard to ignore and too painful to bare. I pull my eyes away so I don't have to look at it anymore. It's disgusting.
"Cover for me?"
Bile rises in my throat, burning my esophagus along the way. His words are pleading, soft, and I detect a hint of embarrassment there.
"Huh"?" I swallow and dare a glance into his eyes. They're apologetic.
"You know," His tongue darts out, nervously wetting his lips. "When my parents come home."
My stomach lurches and I almost spray the couple with my half digested dinner and ice-cream cone. His hopeful eyes only make my heart beat more painfully against my ribs, which suddenly feel like they've been sharpened to fine points. Lightheadedness wavers over me. I grab the arm of the couch to support myself, feeling my breath shallow.
"You're leaving?" My voice sounds weak and distant, like I didn't even speak it at all. I wish my lungs weren't so tight.
"…Well, yeah," Stan admits. His hand moves up to the back of his neck, rubbing absentmindedly. I want to wring it. "I mean, it's not like we were doing anything special," He continues, officially sinking my heart like a lost battleship. "We were just screwing around and then gonna go to sleep."
"I doubt you're gonna do anything with Wendy besides screw around and then go to sleep." I snap, feeling rage bottling up in my blood.
"Dude!" He shrieks, blatantly embarrassed at the remark.
He deserves it. Dickhole.
"I'm just gonna wait outside." Wendy decides, giving me a careful look before disappearing through the door.
"What the hell was that?" Stan raves the second it clicks shut.
"You talk about sex all the time." I shrug it off.
His eyebrows furrow, but it isn't scary. "Kenny talks about sex all the time. And yeah, maybe sometimes I join in, but you don't say shit like that in front of a chick."
"She's not a chick, she's Wendy." I attest, knowing full well I'm being a baby and not caring one bit. He hurt my feelings first.
"You're acting like a total dick. What is up?" I ignore him. "Kyle?"
"An hour and twenty-three minutes," I remind him. "I waited an hour and twenty-three minutes for you, and now you're just going to blow me off for her again?"
With a sigh, he rolls his eyes. "Oh no. Here we go again." I close my mouth, feeling suddenly like I'm gonna cry. "You're starting to sound like a nagging girlfriend, dude. We spent all evening together."
All evening. We had spent all of two hours together. Before, in the long, long ago, no one could get us apart. And now a few hours was "all evening" to him.
"Please, Kyle?" He asks again. "Every time I'm with her, one of our parents are hovering around. It's like they don't have anything better to do but annoy us or something. This is the only chance I have to just be alone with her and not worry about anyone else getting in the way."
I'm angry. And I'm hurt. And for the first time I just want him to go away. Keeping my head down, I blink back forming tears and give a nod.
"Thanks, dude." The smile is back in his voice, which only makes me feel worse. He pats my shoulder three times, and then he's out the door.
I fall back onto the couch, feeling numb and lonely all at once. The ending victory music from the game we'd been playing continues onward, repeating itself for God knows how long until Mr. and Mrs. Marsh walk through the door.
"Kyle?" Randy asks, but it's Sharon that approaches me first.
"Where's Stanley?" She questions.
My eyes move to hers. I should have gone up to Stan's room, got in bed, locked the door, and shouted that we were both in there asleep when they came knocking. I had said I would cover for him. A promise is a promise. But at the same time, I never said I promised. In fact, I never said anything. He just assumed.
"Kyle?" She pries again.
He ran off into the night with his slutty girlfriend, and now he's probably humping her like crazy, I want to say. Then he tried to make me lie about it. I know you're disappointed, because so am I. He used to be my hero and now he's just a giant douche. Ground him until he's eighty.
"He's already in bed," I explain. "I'm just picking up." Slipping to the floor, I begin to roll up the controllers.
"Oh. Well, that's really nice of you." Randy thanks me.
"Mmm." I acknowledge, feeling too broken for words. After finishing with the game and placing our milk glasses in the sink, I head up the stairs to Stan's room, to sleep in Stan's bed.