goth is quirky

The sun is setting and Stan can’t see it in the distance. All he sees is a bright, yellow glow, mixed with purple and pink and orange and cyan and lavender and other colors he doesn’t know. He’s standing at the side of the lake, cold and away. But everything has always felt cold and away here in South Park.

Kyle comes next to him and Stan doesn’t look at him, isn’t even surprised. Kyle says, “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Stan says, pulls out his cigarette from between his lips. Offers it to Kyle.

“No thanks,” says Kyle. They’ve all smoked before, the four of them (Stan hates it when he thinks of them as this, but he does.) All of them had taken a fancy to it, but they’ve never admitted it to each other. Stan’s seen the symptoms, though—Kyle’s shaky hands, Cartman’s baggy eyes, Kenny’s impossible cheeriness even though he has nothing to be cheery about.

Stan’s always had shaky hands, baggy eyes, impossible cheeriness (when he’s around others, at least.) He says, “Suit yourself,” to Kyle before sticking the cigarette back in his mouth, inhaling, and then taking it out and pausing and then exhaling. He feels like he’s nothing, and it’s the greatest feeling in the world.

He looks at Kyle again. “You didn’t bring the booze,” he realizes, and Kyle scoffs.

“You expected me to listen to you? I’m not letting you get drunk on your ass again,” he says. He stans next to Stan, so that their elbows are touching. They’re the same height. Stan’s hood contrasts with Kyle’s mop of flaming red hair.

“What are we doing here?” Kyle asks. Stan thinks he’s talking about Stark’s Pond, but then Kyle says, “What are we doing with our lives?”

“Living it, I guess,” says Stan.

“You look scary with that jacket on,” Kyle says, and Stan chuckles and nudges him lightly.

“You’re not allowed to say that, I’m your best friend,” he says, and then they go quiet again.

“Remember when,” Kyle starts, and then stops. Starts again. “Remember when I turned ten, and thought everything was shit, too?”

“Yeah,” says Stan; that’s one day of his life he’ll never forget. He still doesn’t know if better or for worse, since Kyle had been the last: everyone had started moving onto work and things-that-mattered and stopped playing, and Kyle was still holding his toy trucks and looking to his GameCube. Stan had put up with the shit for him because, well, it was his best friend, but the instant Kyle had turned ten, he became one of them, now.

Kyle’s still one of them and Stan thinks he’s better at being one of them than anyone else. Stan can’t see Kyle; he can hear only the things Kyle says, see the things that he does. Not Kyle.

He supposes this is one of the side effects of smoking that no one warns you about.

Kyle says to him, “I was so glad I could understand what you were talking about,” and Stan says, “What?”

“You were,” says Kyle. “You were the first, and I finally got you.”

“What—no.” Stan shakes his head. “No, I was a cynical little shit, I was—”

“But you were right,” says Kyle. “And that’s all that matters. You were right all along and we just couldn’t see it.” He sighs and puts his hands in his pockets. “You were right.”

Stan doesn’t think that’s right because it’s not about that, it’s about being worth something and Stan doesn’t think he’s worth something. He doesn’t think much else is worth something but the thing that didn’t change about him when he changed was that he didn’t think Kyle was shit, and he doesn’t think Kyle can ever be shit even if he tried.

“Kyle,” Stan says, almost pleadingly; but Kyle just smiles at him and takes his hand and says, “I like this.” He steps sideways closer to Stan and gazes at the sun, as well. Stan wonders if Kyle knows he’s looking at himself.

Kyle sighs and his fingers tighten around Stan’s, and Stan squeezes back. His cigarette is burning at the end of his mouth, but Kyle’s grip stays tight around his hand.