[ if someone had asked him six months ago who he thought he'd be spending most of his time with, his answer would have been kyle. obviously, right? they're best friends. why wouldn't they be together in six months, six years, forever? it seemed obvious then, anyway, but now he thinks he probably should have seen it coming, the inevitable fallout. it's not even that they aren't friends anymore, it's just ... things have changed. maybe stan's changed, maybe kyle; maybe both of them, ultimately. everything isn't like it was when they were kids, when real life didn't seem to have much consequence -- or, at least, nothing they couldn't work out after a week or so. kyle cares about college more than he cares about stan, too busy with extracurriculars and trying to beef up his resume to hang out, and then gets mad at stan for not caring about kyle's future, for not being more supportive, calling him selfish and unmotivated. eventually stan just stops, because what does he care, really? kyle can do whatever he wants without him if it's so important to him. ]
[ it reminds him of when they were kids, when guitar hero stardom was more important than having fun together. but stan came around, in the end. maybe too little, too late, but he came around. he's still waiting for kyle to see the light, to fuck up so badly he realizes he needs stan -- but the smart part of him knows that's probably never going to happen. kyle's never really needed stan. ]
[ stan only wishes he didn't need anybody. truth is, though, he doesn't really know who he is without someone else to tell him. sure, he's the quarterback, he's probably going to be prom king -- but what does that make him? all he has is useless high school superlatives and a family history of alcoholism. he thought about going to kenny, once, but he seemed to be hanging around craig most of the time, and craig tucker was the last person stan wanted anything to do with, indirectly or not. he's not even really sure why he ends up at gary's house (why he even remembers where it is) or why gary even lets him in or why, now that they've reconciled, he finds gary's company so comforting. ]
[ gary's family still seems to like him, too, despite everything stan said about their religion, despite the fact that he was, actually, an asshole. he almost wishes they would hate him a little, but they're all too nice for that, too forgiving -- and that's something stan's kind of missed. cartman doesn't stop with the jokes once he notices how often stan spends lunch with gary instead of everyone else, and mostly he only does it because stan ignores him, tells him to lay off, which really just encourages him. when are you gonna lick his balls, stan? where's your boyfriend, stan? i always knew you were a fag, stan. stan punches him one day (dude, what the fuck?!) because he deserves it. cartman actually tries to punch him back instead of crying like a baby, but butters manages to hold him back, somehow. they don't talk much after that. ]
[ sometimes, stan resorts to drinking again, but he finds gary is more intoxicating than any liquor, even on the bad days. on the worst days, gary pets his hair while stan pukes into the toilet, hums quiet, soothing hymns under his breath. stan isn't a religious person, not by far, and especially not after all the religious bullshit in his childhood, but gary gives him something to believe in. if everyone could be just a little more like gary harrison, the world would be a lot better place. kindness isn't a trait most residents of south park possess -- it's limited to the very rare, the very few, the only people strong enough to see through all the shit south park has to offer and still come out of it with a smile. stan thinks he could learn a lot from gary, about how to be a better person, about what life can offer him and what he wants from it. but, most days, he just wants gary. life seems a little less meaningless with him in it, a little less shitty. when he sees gary smile, it's like looking up at the sun, and the storm cloud constantly looming in stan's brain seems to dissipate, just for a moment. ]
[ they don't really talk about them. stan knows they're just friends (sometimes, he wants it to be more, but he knows how gary's religion feels about gay people, and he knows how much gary's religion means to him) -- that doesn't stop him from staring too long sometimes when gary isn't looking, noticing how long his eyelashes are, the line of his jaw, the shape of his mouth. maybe it's just out of curiosity, out of wonder, out of a desire for something he worships but can never know -- like pluto, always orbiting the warmth of gary harrison and never knowing what it's like to taste him, to feel him, to truly know what the sun is like -- that he does the unthinkable. (what? stan?) he shoves his history book off his lap and leans over, pressing his lips to gary's. it feels like heaven. ]
( despite the fact that he sort of wanted to, it goes against gary's nature to hold a grudge. he was never mad at stan, not really, never held any resentment towards him, or felt anything towards him other than the passionate want to befriend him, to smile and laugh with him the way he grew up watching stan smile and laugh with all his actual friends. when stan comes back into his life, gary greets him with a friendly, if worried, smile, a gentle wave, a pat on the back. they don't have to talk about it, but if stan wanted to, then gary would listen. it's what he's good at.
and anyway, it seems like stan could use someone to listen to him. grow up, he'd told him ages ago, and it seems like he has -- in the wrong directions, maybe, but up still. down into empty bottles of beer as some sort of reconciliation, some support system for a depression no one knows anything about, sitting in their star quarterback -- gary knows about it, now, knows what it's like when stan's at his wits end, when stan loses all hope.
that's where gary comes in, if there's anything he has a superfluous amount of, it's hope. and faith, in stan especially.
he thinks the world of stan, anyway, finds that despite his depression or perhaps in leu of it, gary thinks he's the strongest person he's ever known. now that he's less critical of the lifestyle gary lives, he's a joy to be around -- all the harrisons adore him, the drop of black hair on the sunnyside blondes they call home. he's fed, he's treated, he's loved, and that's the mormon way. hospitality for a friend in need. sometimes stan stays for family nights, but gary thinks he purposely avoids hanging out once he learns the family schedule -- jenny always asks where he is, they all do, and gary ruffles all their heads and says sometimes family needs a little distance. not for me, though. i love you guys.
that's all stan is at this point. family. visceral to the functionality of the harrison household. mrs. harrison will have him help with dessert, mr. harrison will attempt to do crossword puzzles with him by the fireplace -- the kids each have their joys they take from the beauty of stan marsh, and gary is weak to all of it. he loves watching stan, unsure of what to do in the face of kindness -- he loves watching stan open up, slowly, letting the goodness into he heart. more appropriately, he just likes watching stan, playing football, or chewing a pen cap while he works, or when he sits, quiet and calm, eyes closed with his face up cast to the sky.
he's had conversations with heavenly father about it. what does it mean to want to kiss a friend? a boy, at that.
heavenly father is as quiet as ever, but gary keeps praying. he searches the text, and they all come to the same conclusion: homosexuality is a sin.
not that he's a homosexual.
at least, not until stan kisses him, and the world stops turning for a second. is it bad if he says he doesn't think about heavenly father at all? or about mormonism? or sin? because that's what it feels like -- religion doesn't exist, for a second, not beyond stan's warm mouth lining his own, his body sturdy and strong against him. he's never kissed anyone before, but he's sure if he had it couldn't compare to this -- it feels like his touching the sun, like his body is thrumming too fast, like he can't breathe but he can't break away either, because it feels too good, too like the enlightenment heavenly father has never given him.
is this the sign? should he pursue? is that what father wants? is he just trying to excuse something inexcusable?
but how could this be sinful? stan is kind -- he's good, and he's beautiful, and he tastes like sunlight warm on gary's lips, and gary kisses him back after a second, a hand reaching up to cup the side of his neck, keep him tenderly there. it might be wrong -- his father in the living room would surely think so, but no one knows what stan marsh feels like, not like gary. there's nothing impure about how he feels, and no one can tell him otherwise -- at least not while they're kissing, and he's getting high off stan's breaths against him, the smell of him staining his clothes. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ it reminds him of when they were kids, when guitar hero stardom was more important than having fun together. but stan came around, in the end. maybe too little, too late, but he came around. he's still waiting for kyle to see the light, to fuck up so badly he realizes he needs stan -- but the smart part of him knows that's probably never going to happen. kyle's never really needed stan. ]
[ stan only wishes he didn't need anybody. truth is, though, he doesn't really know who he is without someone else to tell him. sure, he's the quarterback, he's probably going to be prom king -- but what does that make him? all he has is useless high school superlatives and a family history of alcoholism. he thought about going to kenny, once, but he seemed to be hanging around craig most of the time, and craig tucker was the last person stan wanted anything to do with, indirectly or not. he's not even really sure why he ends up at gary's house (why he even remembers where it is) or why gary even lets him in or why, now that they've reconciled, he finds gary's company so comforting. ]
[ gary's family still seems to like him, too, despite everything stan said about their religion, despite the fact that he was, actually, an asshole. he almost wishes they would hate him a little, but they're all too nice for that, too forgiving -- and that's something stan's kind of missed. cartman doesn't stop with the jokes once he notices how often stan spends lunch with gary instead of everyone else, and mostly he only does it because stan ignores him, tells him to lay off, which really just encourages him. when are you gonna lick his balls, stan? where's your boyfriend, stan? i always knew you were a fag, stan. stan punches him one day (dude, what the fuck?!) because he deserves it. cartman actually tries to punch him back instead of crying like a baby, but butters manages to hold him back, somehow. they don't talk much after that. ]
[ sometimes, stan resorts to drinking again, but he finds gary is more intoxicating than any liquor, even on the bad days. on the worst days, gary pets his hair while stan pukes into the toilet, hums quiet, soothing hymns under his breath. stan isn't a religious person, not by far, and especially not after all the religious bullshit in his childhood, but gary gives him something to believe in. if everyone could be just a little more like gary harrison, the world would be a lot better place. kindness isn't a trait most residents of south park possess -- it's limited to the very rare, the very few, the only people strong enough to see through all the shit south park has to offer and still come out of it with a smile. stan thinks he could learn a lot from gary, about how to be a better person, about what life can offer him and what he wants from it. but, most days, he just wants gary. life seems a little less meaningless with him in it, a little less shitty. when he sees gary smile, it's like looking up at the sun, and the storm cloud constantly looming in stan's brain seems to dissipate, just for a moment. ]
[ they don't really talk about them. stan knows they're just friends (sometimes, he wants it to be more, but he knows how gary's religion feels about gay people, and he knows how much gary's religion means to him) -- that doesn't stop him from staring too long sometimes when gary isn't looking, noticing how long his eyelashes are, the line of his jaw, the shape of his mouth. maybe it's just out of curiosity, out of wonder, out of a desire for something he worships but can never know -- like pluto, always orbiting the warmth of gary harrison and never knowing what it's like to taste him, to feel him, to truly know what the sun is like -- that he does the unthinkable. (what? stan?) he shoves his history book off his lap and leans over, pressing his lips to gary's. it feels like heaven. ]
no subject
and anyway, it seems like stan could use someone to listen to him. grow up, he'd told him ages ago, and it seems like he has -- in the wrong directions, maybe, but up still. down into empty bottles of beer as some sort of reconciliation, some support system for a depression no one knows anything about, sitting in their star quarterback -- gary knows about it, now, knows what it's like when stan's at his wits end, when stan loses all hope.
that's where gary comes in, if there's anything he has a superfluous amount of, it's hope. and faith, in stan especially.
he thinks the world of stan, anyway, finds that despite his depression or perhaps in leu of it, gary thinks he's the strongest person he's ever known. now that he's less critical of the lifestyle gary lives, he's a joy to be around -- all the harrisons adore him, the drop of black hair on the sunnyside blondes they call home. he's fed, he's treated, he's loved, and that's the mormon way. hospitality for a friend in need. sometimes stan stays for family nights, but gary thinks he purposely avoids hanging out once he learns the family schedule -- jenny always asks where he is, they all do, and gary ruffles all their heads and says sometimes family needs a little distance. not for me, though. i love you guys.
that's all stan is at this point. family. visceral to the functionality of the harrison household. mrs. harrison will have him help with dessert, mr. harrison will attempt to do crossword puzzles with him by the fireplace -- the kids each have their joys they take from the beauty of stan marsh, and gary is weak to all of it. he loves watching stan, unsure of what to do in the face of kindness -- he loves watching stan open up, slowly, letting the goodness into he heart. more appropriately, he just likes watching stan, playing football, or chewing a pen cap while he works, or when he sits, quiet and calm, eyes closed with his face up cast to the sky.
he's had conversations with heavenly father about it. what does it mean to want to kiss a friend? a boy, at that.
heavenly father is as quiet as ever, but gary keeps praying. he searches the text, and they all come to the same conclusion: homosexuality is a sin.
not that he's a homosexual.
at least, not until stan kisses him, and the world stops turning for a second. is it bad if he says he doesn't think about heavenly father at all? or about mormonism? or sin? because that's what it feels like -- religion doesn't exist, for a second, not beyond stan's warm mouth lining his own, his body sturdy and strong against him. he's never kissed anyone before, but he's sure if he had it couldn't compare to this -- it feels like his touching the sun, like his body is thrumming too fast, like he can't breathe but he can't break away either, because it feels too good, too like the enlightenment heavenly father has never given him.
is this the sign? should he pursue? is that what father wants? is he just trying to excuse something inexcusable?
but how could this be sinful? stan is kind -- he's good, and he's beautiful, and he tastes like sunlight warm on gary's lips, and gary kisses him back after a second, a hand reaching up to cup the side of his neck, keep him tenderly there. it might be wrong -- his father in the living room would surely think so, but no one knows what stan marsh feels like, not like gary. there's nothing impure about how he feels, and no one can tell him otherwise -- at least not while they're kissing, and he's getting high off stan's breaths against him, the smell of him staining his clothes. )