So Far Away (stan x kyle)

Internal Conflict

      "Where have you been?" a familiar voice asks Stan as he walks into his living room, his heart jumping at the sound.

      "Missed you too, Mom," he mutters sarcastically, closing his front door. He didn't want to admit that Kyle leaving had hurt his feelings, but the pain was fresh and he could still feel it sizzling in the back of his throat as Sharon shook her head at him.

      "I was worried about you, Stanley," Sharon soughs, voice cracking under the weight of her exasperation. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

     Stan pulls his phone from his jacket and turns it on for a moment to check the time, the artificial glow blaring against his face as the only light in the caliginous room. "2A.M?" he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like he didn't just have to check to answer her question.

      "And you don't see a problem with that?" she asks, frustration rising in her voice.

      "I can't remember when you ever cared," he jaws apathetically. "It's not like this is the first time."

      "I'm... trying, Stanley," Sharon musters tearfully, forcing Stan from his attempt at stoicism.

      "Are you, Mom?" he rhetorizes, control over his voice slipping away from him as it rises in volume, hurt weighing on his words as he speaks. "Because you always say that. You always say that you're trying, a-and you're always making promises but you never keep them! You say you care, but you don't even say hi to me when I get home from school or ask me how my day was or anything, it's like you only care when I'm doing something wrong, and even then you barely notice most of the time!" The words just poured from his lips, anger and pain that had been building up suddenly spilling out of him. It felt like stitches were coming loose at his sides and everything became unbridled as he weakly fought to keep it contained. Exhaustion had begun to cement as the inanition and stress hit Stan, breaking his stance and forcing him to struggle to keep balance. "You won't even leave that asshole," he finishes, voice cracking as he fights to keep from crying. He moves his feet to go upstairs but gets a glance at his mother's upset and tired face in what's left of the moonlight. Something about her broken eyes forces Stan to fling himself towards his room, away from the guilt, as his own eyes begin to sting with tears.

     "I don't always like her, either," a voice says softly in the darkness of the hallway. "But she is trying."

     "Fuck off, Shelley, you don't get it," Stan hisses at her, wiping his face of any evidence that his stoic facade had cracked.

      "Why don't I?" She protests, gently grabbing his wrist to stop him from avoiding her question.

      "Because you can just leave if you want to. I'm fucking stuck here," he bites, prying his hand from her grip. The motion flares up the bruises around his wrist, making it harder to fight back the tears fogging his sight. Shelley sighs as Stan rushes into his bedroom, the once quiet night now screaming in his ears as he loses the battle against his feelings and they begin to pour from his eyes. This wouldn't have happened if Kyle hadn't looked at him like that, Stan rationalizes to himself. Why do those jade-green eyes affect him so much?

      He felt so alone in his bed. The sheets were still cold from lack of touch and against his rough hands, they felt so far away. Stan dragged his fingers against the drywall at his side but he just couldn't feel present. It reminded him of Kyle. Was this how he had felt, all those times he was lost in his head? It was awful.

      Kyle came home that night feeling out of it. He wiped off his sneakers in the grass and climbed the rope with what remained of his upper body strength. The motions felt robotic. Toss himself onto his bed, pull up the rope, untie it from his windowsill, tuck it away from view. He wasn't there, he was still in the eye of his thoughts. He barely felt his hands when they pulled off his shoes and dragged his sweatshirt from his torso. The short-sleeved shirt he wore underneath fit better and, as he got a glance at what stood in the mirror against his wall, he started to feel sick. Nausea and disgust set in as he failed to look away from his chest and waist, the scars on his arms making it so much harder to tolerate what he was faced with. Asphyxiating hopelessness chokes him as he crosses his arms and stares at his reflection, hairs standing up along his limbs. It's weird. Sometimes he can tolerate his reflection, sometimes it feels like something he can live with. Not today—not now. It feels so stupid, but the body, the face in the mirror—it doesn't feel like his. It can't be his. He just doesn't recognize it.