Disclaimer: South Park ain't mine, bitchezzz.

Warning: One sided shonen ai/slash/yaoi/gay/battyboyizmz. Style.


Something Kyle had learned early on in life was that it was never fair.

He'd been born ginger, for starters. He'd also been born Jewish in the same town as Eric Cartman. He was always sick. He didn't like girls.

He had a few things to be thankful for, of course. Apart from Cartman, his friends were great. He always got top marks in school; his teachers said he'd make a great lawyer someday.

But he didn't like girls.

He didn't even like boys.

It was just him.


Sometimes it was better than others. Sometimes, he could sit around all day with the two of them, politely turning away whenever Wendy invaded her boyfriends mouth, tutting when they got a bit too... passionate.

Sometimes it was worse. Sometimes, he felt sick at the sight of them, and had to go home and sit in his room and just stare at his lime green walls, stare in complete and utter silence. His Mom would knock, she'd say "Kyle? Are you home?" and he'd ignore her because talking meant thinking.

Sometimes he thought he was over it. Really, he did. He'd go for days and days without thinking once about how sweet Stan looked when he had lost a game of Mario Kart, and yeah, he looked sweet, and he knew how gay that sounded, but he looked so distressed at his loss. He'd hug him for just a little too long, but he never moved away.

Then they'd go to bed, and at some point it had become okay to sleep at the same end, and it was fine for Kyle to put his arm over Stan's waist. He even moved closer sometimes. It was things like that that bought all the feelings rushing back, until he couldn't sleep, and he'd just lie awake, trying not to look at him, scanning the walls, inspecting the posters, counting his books, 73. Then he'd bury his head in his best friends shoulder and decide that he really didn't care that he was with Wendy; he was happy with this.

Sometimes he hated him. Everytime he and Wendy had an argument he wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and scream "You dick! Stop doing this to yourself!" Stop doing this to me!

Sometimes he thought Wendy was dangling Stan in front of him, taunting him, bullying him, even though he knew Wendy wasn't like that at all. She had won a battle she would never even know she was fighting. Most of the time, he hated her.

They were sitting on his bed, swearing and laughing at each others stupidity. They never really did anything when he stayed over.

"You're such a fucking douche," he smirked, sticking up his two fingers. Stan laughed and pounced, pinning him to the bed.

"Fuck you." They were just playing. It was what they always did.

But suddenly Kyle didn't feel like playing anymore. The reality of the situation hit him so hard that he lost his breath. Stan sat up on his lap, and then climbed off him completely as he began to shiver and cry.

"Kyle?" He couldn't answer. He couldn't stop shaking. He bit his lip hard enough to bleed and closed his eyes to keep back the tears. They refused to be containted. Maybe subconciously, he had wanted this.

"Kyle... are you okay?"

"N-no," he managed to sob, and he felt his best friends pyjama clad arms wrap round him tightly, pushing Kyle's wet face into his shoulder as Stan himself struggled for words. Maybe he knew what was coming, because he didn't ask what was wrong, or maybe he was just being a good friend and letting him chose whether to speak or not. He wasn't sure. Eventually, he said, "It'll be okay, Kyle."

"No. No it won't," he paused and took a shuddering breath, "it won't ever be okay. I think I love you, and I don't want to, but... please don't let me go yet."