South Park © Matt & Trey.

Alternating perspectives, yet again :) this is gonna be another long fic.

Pairings in the fic: many, many brief physical couplings (a lot of crack), some straight some gay (Stenny, Kebe, etc) but eventually Style, Crenny, Clybe.

Warnings: mentions of suicide and eating disorders

Stan's POV

Kyle's been washing his hands for an hour. An hour! I let out a loud, impatient groan even though I know he can't hear me from where he is. I'm sitting on his bed waiting for him to help me with my homework. I don't really get angry at his habits, but this one is pissing me off a lot lately. He even does it at my house!

I stand up and wander out of his room and into the hall. "Ky?" I say his name as I reach the closed bathroom door. No answer. There's just the sound of water running. "Kyle!" I shout this time, giving the door a few solid bangs.

"What is it?" His voice comes out robotic, as if he's mesmerized by something. Maybe it's the sound of the water, the movements of his hands… I don't fucking know.

"Get the hell out of there," I demand. "My parents want me home to eat at six. It's almost five now and you've been in there since I got here and I can hear the fucking sink tap."

"One second…" he murmurs hazily.

I let out a sigh and walk back into his room, flopping onto the bed. Hand washing isn't the only thing he obsesses over. His eating habits are messed up again. He makes his bed before he sleeps in it. He has to have all of his belongings in their exact places. His clothing is organized by colour and his books are arranged alphabetically. I don't know why he does it. I wonder what would happen if someone were to mess it up… not that I'd actually do it. I'm not that much of a dick. Cartman is, though and I'm sure the thought has crossed his mind on a few occasions. It all probably stems from the fact that he's a perfectionist. Everything needs to be clean and neat.

Ike once told me that Kyle takes really long showers, too. He said Kyle was once taking so long that Sheila made him go check to make sure he was all right. Apparently Kyle just stands under the nozzle and loofas his skin until it's red. Ike says he does it in almost a daze. He said that sometimes Sheila forces him out and he's in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I don't really understand it.

Kyle returns to his room a moment later, looking his typical self. His curly hair is tidily framing his face and his jeans and argyle sweater are spotless.

Unimpressed, I say, "Finally."

He dismisses the comment and opens up a math textbook. Kyle is in advanced math, naturally. Sometimes I think he's too smart for his own good… I wonder if there's such a thing. He's bilingual, too. He started studying Hebrew when he was thirteen, which made his parents pretty damn proud. He's fluent now. Sometimes I hear him speak it.

We've been spending a lot more time together lately. I feel kind of bad, but I think I've neglected him a lot during the past few years after my relationship with Wendy got serious. And by serious, I mean sexual… but two weeks ago, she dumped me. So that's all over. No more sex for Stan Marsh. Now everyone is saying she might be a lesbian. If it's true, I think I might feel a hell of a lot better about all this than I do right now. Then at least I would know that she didn't just dump me for another dude. I mean, if she's a lesbian then she clearly realized that she wants something I can't give her. If it's another guy… I'll just feel even more insecure.

Kyle has never had a girlfriend. He says he doesn't want one. I don't know why. Having a girlfriend is great. He doesn't really like being touched. I think that's probably because he likes staying clean and he's definitely smart enough to know that people are pretty filthy.

"Okay," he starts, opening to a page of impossible looking math equations. "Look here…"

At school the following day, I find Wendy at her locker. Her pin-straight, black hair is in a bun atop her head and she looks as good as ever. "Hey," I greet.

"Hey," she smiles prettily. We agreed to stay friends. It's kind of hard. It's so obvious that she has no feelings for me. I can't help but wonder when they started to disintegrate.

"I was wondering," I start, "if we could talk during lunch break."

She looks a little sympathetic and it makes me feel embarrassed. It's like she knows I'm still here drooling over her. "Sure, Stan. We can do that."

"Thanks," I say, forcing a smile.

Class is long and dull. I just want the day to end so I can find Wendy and get a little bit of closure. Kyle is sitting next to me, taking notes. His writing is tidy. When he makes a mistake, he lets out a sharp breath and erases the pencil marks. I watch him for a few minutes, watching the way his hand curves as he writes. He's always had these strange little habits. I never really understood them. They just get worse as the time goes on. At first it was simple things. He would tap light switches when entering or exiting a room. He would rattle knobs, as if he was always worried he forgot to lock the doors. He was always one for alphabetizing. All of his things have their own place in his room. Now, there's the hand washing. I wouldn't exactly call it a quirk.

After first period ends, I part ways with Kyle and make my way to my next class. The day continues slowly and I keep looking at the clock, as if I'm willing the time to speed ahead just for me so I can find out whether or not Wendy is a lesbian. It sounds pretty stupid, even when I say it in my head. Christ, I'm an idiot sometimes.

When lunch break finally starts, I rush back to Wendy's locker without bothering to stop at mine. "Hey," I say once I spot her, trying to play it cool.

"Hey, Stan," she greets, placing a few books in her locker. "So, what's up?"

"Er," I look around to make sure no one's listening. "I wanted to know why you broke up with me… People are saying it's because you're a lesbian… Well, are you a lesbian?"

"I don't think so?" she asks, looking mildly humoured. "Who knows, though? Sexuality can be incredibly fluid. Maybe I will fall for a girl someday."

Somehow that doesn't make me feel any better about the fact that she dumped me. "Oh," I mumble. This isn't going quite how I planned.

"I didn't dump you for another boy, if that's what you're wondering," she adds. "I just… I feel like we grew apart, Stan. I stopped feeling things for you and I let it go on for too long in hopes that I might fall for you again. It didn't happen. I suppose I was silly to think it would."

"Oh," I mumble once more. "When did you stop feeling things?"

"Last year," she admits. "We… We just have too much history, I thought that we might be able to go back to where we started but I know now that it was unrealistic for me to think like that."

"Well, shit," I murmur.

She shrugs her shoulders. "Now that you're single for the first time in almost eight years, experiment a little."

"Experiment?" I ask.

She nods. "Kiss your friends. Use your hand on a boy… I don't know. Be spontaneous. Be young. Explore yourself a bit. Don't be afraid to get a little crazy."

"Er… I don't think I'll be screwing around with any dudes in the near future, but thanks for the suggestion," I say with a nervous chuckle. "Is this the kind of thing you'll be doing?"

She shrugs her shoulders again. "Perhaps… I mean, we may as well experience as much as we can. Life is short. As long as you play safe, there's nothing wrong with getting curious."

"Yeah…" I trail off.

"I'm really sorry, Stan," she says softly, probably sensing my angst. I'm sure it'd be noticeable from a fifty mile radius.

"It's fine." My voice cracks, but I'm not going to cry. Hell no. I take a breath and force a smile. "Thanks for agreeing to talk."

She pats my arm in a friendly gesture. "Sure, Stan."

I wave and go to find my usual crew.

The school day ends and I feel like there's an even bigger hole in my chest. Closure, my ass.

Me and the guys are walking home now and Cartman is chortling as he tells us about his weekend. Or, more accurately, he's telling us about the poor girl he's manipulated into having sex with him. He's always been incredibly manipulative. He uses it for evil, of course.

Kyle looks like he's drowning Cartman out and Kenny is rolling his eyes at the fat ass. "You're such a fucking pig, Cartman," he sighs, the words come out muffled behind his parka hood.

"Says you," Cartman cackles. "Kinny, you're the pig. We all hear stories about you fuckin' whoever will spread their legs for yah. Girls… and guys. Desperate much?"

This catches my attention because I, for one, have not heard stories about the infamously insatiable lady's man Kenny McCormick getting naked with any dudes. I glance at Kyle, who just shrugs, not seeming all that interested in the potential tale of scandal.

"Shut up, big-tits," he retorts, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets for further warmth.

"Yeah, I heard about you and –" Cartman starts again, only to be cut off by Kenny.

"I said shut up," he says warily. "You're such an ass."

Cartman doesn't press it any further and I don't bother prying. The four of us walk to Kyle's house, where we start brainstorming ideas for our upcoming English oral presentation. We have to do it on an influential writer and then we need to talk about their literary life and personal life. It's pretty dry and boring stuff, if you ask me.

When we arrive at Kyle's house, he swings open the door and announces, "I'm home!"

Sheila appears from the kitchen a moment later and greets us. "Welcome back," she says. "Hello, boys."

We all greet her in return and she asks us what we're up to. We tell her it's homework and our visit is of purely academic purpose. She seems satisfied with that, so we all shuffle upstairs.

"Any ideas?" Kyle asks us, sitting at his desk.

"I dunno," I shrug, flopping onto his bed with Kenny and Cartman.

"We could do Shakespeare?" he chuckles. "He's famous, but I don't think anyone is bold enough to study him."

"Dude," I state, "don't make me fuckin' hit you."

The corners of his lips quirk upward. "You wouldn't hit me," he says with a smile.

"Oh, really?" I challenge.

"Yes, really," he insists, not at all swayed.

"How can you be so sure?" I tease. Of course, he's right. I wouldn't hit Kyle. For one, I'm six feet tall and I've got a hell of a lot more muscle. And two… Well, he's Kyle! I wouldn't hit my best pal.

"Because I know you," he says.

"Yeah," I chuckle. I feel like I'm pretty two dimensional. What you see is what you get. I'm kind of an idiot, but I have a good heart. I know that much. Kyle, on the other hand, is a mystery – even to me. He has secrets. For some damned reason, I never knew it before now. I guess the majority of my time was really consumed by Wendy, not that she demanded it. I was the one clinging to her. Maybe this breakup won't be such a bad thing. I can get to know my best friend again.

Cartman cups his hands around his mouth and echoes, "Gay! Stop flirting with each other."

I roll my eyes and Kyle just snickers.

"Gonna get a room and make out a lil?" Cartman asks us, giving us both disdainful glances. "Want me and Kinny to give you guys a moment?"

"Ha-ha, Tits," I deadpan. "You're so funny."

"Ay! That's not my name!" the fat ass yells defensively.

A moment later, Sheila starts hollering for Kyle. With a sigh, he leaves his room.

"What's the bitch want?" Cartman asks.

"Probably to make sure we don't overstay our welcome," Kenny snorts. "She prefers that he spends his weekdays studying."

With a devious, little chuckle, Cartman stands up and wanders towards Kyle's carefully organized book shelf.

"Dude…" I sigh. "Don't touch any of his shit."

"Why?" he asks. "Think he'll get angry?"

"Probably," I say.

With a smug expression, he starts taking books and placing them between other books. "Thomas Mann?" he reads. "You can go before to Kerouac… And Nabokov… you'll go after Zimbardo… Ginsberg can go next to Murakami." He continues murmuring to himself. Bad as it sounds, I don't stop him because I'm also wondering what Kyle will do once he notices his alphabetized shelf is in disarray.

Cartman flops onto the floor and looks immensely proud of himself. Kyle returns a few minutes later and sits back down at his desk. "Which writer do you guys want to study?" he asks, only to be greeted with silence. He lets out an exasperated sigh and adds, "Come on, guys. I'm open for suggestions. I doubt you want me to just go ahead and pick." Kyle would probably pick the hardest piece of literature because he likes to show off his smarts.

"Let's do the Harry Potter books," Kenny says. "It'll be easy."

Kyle rolls his eyes. "Easy? Maybe," he starts, "but I'm sure there are already a few kids who will be talking about the Harry Potter series. Why don't we do Jane Austen, Mark Twain, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway or Charlotte Bronte?"

"I don't even know who those people are, dude," I admit.

He lets out a groan and saunters towards his book shelf. My heart starts palpitating as I wait for him to react. "Wait…" he murmurs to himself as he scans each shelf. "Wait…" he says again, as if he's hoping that it's not as it seems… but it is.

"Ky –" I start, but Cartman nudges me to shut me up. He wants to watch Kyle's panic unfold like the sadist he is.

"Wh-what did you do?" Kyle asks, stuttering the question like he is afraid of something. He approaches his shelf and frantically moves his fingers across each title. "This is wrong… this isn't…" he trails off and turns to us. "Who did this?"

Me and Kenny point to Cartman.

"Why?" he demands, breathing heavily.

"Because I thought it'd be funny… and I was right," Cartman laughs.

Kyle's eyebrows draw together and his jaw tightens. He turns around and stares back at the shelf of wrongly ordered books. Then he starts crying. Me and Kenny share a strange look, the room suddenly grows tense and uncomfortable. "Kyle," I say his name. I stand up and approach him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't fucking touch me!" he snaps and I recoil. He reaches forward and takes each book Cartman moved and puts them all back in their correct place. Then he lets out a quiet sigh, briskly wipes his eyes and turns around once more. "Don't ever do that again," he says to Cartman, giving him a hard punch in the shoulder. His voice is hard and stern and it's like his life depends on the alphabetization of these books. He looks flushed, probably from the crying, but he's also probably pretty embarrassed for getting so worked up over something that doesn't seem like such a big deal… I guess, for him, it is a big deal.

I think Cartman is just as taken aback as me and Kenny, because he has no witty retort this time. He just stays silent. "Christ…" he finally deadpans.

Kyle sits back down at his desk and crosses his legs. "We're doing our oral presentation on Mark Twain," he announces, not giving the rest of us a say in the matter.

The three of us simply nod.

For a few hours we obediently follow Kyle's orders. Well, Cartman gave him a bit of a hard time, but that's to be expected. Kyle chain-smokes for the duration, a habit I really wish he'd drop. Sheila eventually kicks us out, saying that they are having supper and that our parents probably want us home since it is getting late. I want to laugh. Liane is completely oblivious, Carol and Stuart don't care, and my own parents have been fighting too much to notice me. I think a divorce is in the near future… but I feel sick to my stomach when I think about it, so I don't let myself. If it happens, I'll force myself to deal with it. But until then, I'm trying hard not to hover. It's ironic. Kyle's parents are fucked up, but they're the most together these days.

"Kahl went mental earlier," Cartman mentions as the three of us walk down the street. "It was pretty screwed up… talk about being dramatic."

"Yeah," I murmur, "and it was all thanks to you."

"With a canon that loose, he'll land himself in the funny farm soon enough," Cartman says with certainty.

"No, he won't," I laugh. "Kyle might have some lingering issues, but he's definitely not going to end up in a nut house."

Cartman snickers. "He's been there twice. What's stopping him from going back?"

"The talking shit doesn't count," I mutter, recalling the infamous Mr. Hankey incident. Gross.

"But the second time… that counts," he says.

"He's better now," I insist.

"Is he really?" Kenny wonders and I just sigh, not wanting to think about it. It's hardly a pleasant memory.

We soon approach my house and I bid them a farewell as I turn into my driveway. I take a breath before opening the door and I'm immediately greeted with loud, angry voices. My parents are arguing in the kitchen. "I'm unhappy!" I hear my mom shout and my gut twists around in my stomach. I arrived just in time for the best part. I hang up my coat, kick off my boots and enter the living room.

Shelly is watching TV, looking completely disinterested in what is happening in the other room. I sit down beside her and ask, "If they get divorced, who are you going to live with?"

"Mom," she says without a hint of hesitation or thought. "Why?"

"I'm just wondering," I tell her. I don't know who I would choose to live with. I think it bothers Shelly, even though she doesn't act like it. I've noticed because she's nicer to me. I know it's not my size, because that hasn't stopped her before. I tower over her, but she still manages to get the upper hand. Nonetheless, she doesn't smack me as much as she used to and she doesn't yell as much. I guess my parents do all of the yelling these days.

I close my eyes, squeezing them shut. The yelling continues. I think my mom is crying now. You can hear it in her voice. I stand up and approach the kitchen. "Are you guys going to get divorced?" I ask from the doorway. I don't think I want to find out my dad is gone when I'm getting ready for school or doing something completely mundane. I want to know. I need to know.

My mom looks at me with a face full of tearful sympathy. My dad just sighs, somewhat angrily. "We don't know yet," he says.

"You should just get it over with," I say tartly. "Mom's unhappy. That isn't going to change." I turn around and leave, running up the stairs and retreating to my room. I shrug off my jeans and put on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering to change my shirt. I sit on my bed and hug myself for many long minutes, trying hard to blank my mind but I can still hear them screaming at each other. "Fucking hell," I mumble. This sucks. I grab my phone from my nightstand and decide to text Kyle.

YOU: hey you busy?

He replies a few moments later, with perfect spelling and grammar –

KYLE B: No, I'm just doing a bit of reading. What's up?

YOU: my parents are at each others throats and its fucking infuriating

KYLE B: I'm sorry.

YOU: so am i

KYLE B: It isn't your fault. Don't blame yourself.

YOU: im trying not to but its hard and i keep wondering if it might be my fault

KYLE B: It's not. They have things they need to work through. It's between them.

I read the words over and over again and I can't help but wonder if Kyle is right. Maybe it's not my fault and maybe I should just go with the flow. I could probably learn a thing or two from Kenny. He's used to that kind of fighting. His parents fight all the time and he's doing all right. Well, I guess I'm using the term all right a bit loose in this case. Kenny has issues, just like the rest of us. He just doesn't cry over spilled milk. Maybe I shouldn't either. There's nothing I can do now.

I texted Kyle throughout much of the night and I couldn't help but wonder if he often stays up as late as 4AM. I know he likes to keep to his strict schedule, so he probably did it for my benefit. True friend, he is.

It's morning now. I saunter downstairs to find my dad sleeping on the sofa. My mom must've taken the bed. I let out a sigh and rub my temples as I walk into the kitchen to make myself breakfast.

I make a piece of toast and nibble on it for a few minutes before realizing I don't feel all that hungry. I sit down at the table and close my eyes, pressing my forehead to the wood. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not. I take a deep breath. And then I take another. And another. Then I open my eyes, having willed the lump in my throat away. I stand up and go back to my bedroom. I throw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt before running back downstairs. I zip up my jacket and tuck my pants into my boots. Grabbing my backpack, I leave without a word.

I don't typically look forward to school, but I'm sure it'll be a hell of a lot more pleasant than being at home right now. Seeing my dad on the sofa is just a big reminder that my parents hate each other. No kid wants to know that shit.

At school, I meet Kenny, Kyle and Cartman for English class. "We should meet up again after school," Kyle suggests. "I want to finish the project as early as possible. I started it last night –"

"Ky," I cut him off. "Don't do all the work yourself. We'll help out."

He presses his lips together to form a thin line. Kyle is a perfectionist. Because of this, he hates group work. It's no secret that Kenny is lazy, Cartman doesn't care, and I'm an idiot. It stresses him out. "I just want to do well," he says. "I need to."

"I know," I say softly. "And we will. We always do." It's true. Every time we do a group project together, we end up with an A. I think this is mainly due to Kyle constantly correcting everything we do. I guess I can't really talk because I let it happen, knowing it'll benefit me in the end.

"Yeah," he murmurs, sighing. "Yeah…"

"It'll be fine, Kyle," Kenny adds, patting his shoulder.

Kyle only brushes Kenny off and Cartman rolls his eyes at Kyle's constant worrying. "Fuckin' ginger Jew bitch," he mutters.

Kyle flips him off, eyes narrowing disdainfully. "Stupid cow."

The teacher walks in a moment later. "Silence," she wearily demands as she writes today's topic on the chalkboard.

I can already tell it's going to be yet another long and painful day.