ive recently discovered im bi, not aroace. and even so, this poem applies to me. i think its because it was bigger than aroaceness. it speaks about my feelings of not feeling belonging in queer or straight spaces. but id still like to revise this poem.
hi i'm writing my first south park ff. its style hanahaki
if anyone could read the first chapter while my ao3 account is getting approved i'd be so grateful.
Warnings: Cartman will be written to be antisemitic and some imagery is kind of nasty.
Please please criticize me on wording, pacing, or anything that may need to be reworked.
There's a certain annoyance when you notice your nose is more runny than usual, or the familiar mild, buzzing headache. For Kyle, looming sickness started with a scratchy throat, like something was lodged in there.
He clears his throat a couple times, coughs once to see if it goes away.
At lunch, Cartman recoils. “Dude, can you not? I don't want your germs all over me. What if I get jew-monia?” He chuckles at his own joke.
“You'll probably get pneumonia from inhaling all that food, fatass.” Kyle drinks from his thermos. The hot broth rushes down his throat but it hurts more to swallow.
“Gay bitch! You're the one drinking from a thermos. Kyle, you have to—” Kyle stops listening. He slowly screws the thermos lid on and off, hearing the metal scrape against each other.
Kyle's eyes dart from Cartman to Stan (eating carrot sticks), Stan to the window (a possible escape), the window to the lunch line (should he buy a cookie?), the lunch line to Tolkien (He's eating from a bento box like some pretentious rich kid), and Tolkien to Stan. Still eating carrot sticks.
The noise of the cafeteria blurs together, voices overlapping into something soft and shapeless.
Kyle screws the thermos shut and clears his throat. “I'm gonna buy a cookie from the lunch line,” he announces and leaves.
Stan protests. “If you stay, maybe Cartman'll start reciting Mein Ka—”
Kyle walks away, pocket stuffed with one hand and swinging his thermos in the other.
He passes the lunch line and leaves the cafeteria, only to be met with Wendy and Bebe on the floor. They exchange quiet greetings, and Kyle heads upstairs to his next class.
The thought of Wendy makes him nauseous.
In class, Kyle bounces his knee, rattling the desk. It’s stupid, the way he’s feeling. Stan seems fine whenever they hang out, but there’s still a wall between them. A plexi-glass wall that won’t let Kyle brush against Stan’s shoulders or hold his hand, even as friends.
Kyle coughs again, his throat burning. When he swallows, he feels a soft catch in his throat. Something small and leaf-like lands on his tongue after a forceful cough.
Kyle curiously moves it around with his tongue. It chews like a thick leaf of spinach. Kyle tries to recall eating anything other than soup. Before he can give it any more thought, his classmates file into their seats.
The classroom settles as Mr. Thompson launches into lecture. Kyle props his head up with one hand. His notes lay blank— he'll just snatch them from someone else.
“…and if you look at the diagram…”
Kyle tries to follow, he really does, but the words slide past him. Each sentence melts through the classroom. He swallows and winces.
“…important to remember…”
Kyle's eyes flick up to the clock— there's twenty minutes left.
The blinds are up, allowing sunlight to fill the room, warming Kyle like a blanket.
Kyle lowers his head. The desk is cool against his forehead. His throat burns when he swallows again, but it doesn't matter. The walls sigh, folding in and welcoming Kyle into sleep.
The dream starts with running. The air rips through Kyle's lungs making his breath ragged. He's running towards something. Maybe Stan? At least that's what it looks like.
The slippery ground beneath Kyle sinks under him, pulling him to hell. The sky presses down on Kyle's back.
“Stan?” he calls out. The familiar shape ahead shifts, flickers, and the distance between them stretches. Kyle can feel his heartbeat in every inch of his aching body as his feet slap against the ground.
“Stan!” he yells, and this time it echoes— Stan, Stan, Stan.
Kyle finally reaches him, but the figure's face strikes a deep, cold horror in his heart. That face has no mouth or nose; only eyes, shifting in shape and color. But somehow Kyle knows it's still Stan.
“What a relief,” Kyle rasps, reaching out to cup his hand in Stan's cheek. “I've been looking all over for—” He pauses. His hand passes through Stan's face like cold smoke.
“I've been thinking.”
Stan's voice vibrates, the sound echoing from everywhere. His piercing eyes glare at Kyle, looking directly at his bare soul.
Kyle stutters and shakes his head. “No. No, no, no, that's not—”
“I don't think I can do this anymore.”
The ground sinks under Kyle's weight. He looks up at Stan, who's now towering over him. The space between them stretches, forcing them farther and farther apart.
“I can't give you what you need.”
Every word hits Kyle like a hot blow, numbing his chest.
“That's not—” Kyle's voice falters, giving in to the white-hot pain. There's a deep ache in his entire torso. He sinks farther and farther below ground.
“Kyle.” His voice echoes from the distance, tired.
The walls around Kyle harden.
“Stan!”
The tiny speck in the distance that is Stan hesitates.
Kyle bangs his fist on the collapsing walls. “It’s not your job to decide for me! You can't just give up!” He strikes the walls again and again. “I love you! I'm still here. Tell me you love me. Tell me!”
Stan's shadow flickers and moves away.
The cracks in the wall rupture and the ground gives way.
He falls.
Kyle jerks upright with a sharp inhale, chair legs screeching against the floor.
For a second, the fluorescent lights are blinding. His heart’s hammering like he’s been running.
He blinks, trying to focus. The board is covered in vocabulary words and other notes. The teacher’s at the desk, packing up. Shit. Class is already over.
Kyle drags a hand down his face, waking himself up. He swallows carefully and winces. There’s a strange taste in his mouth, floral and bitter.
“Uh… you good?” Stan leans over to Kyle's desk.
Kyle closes his notebook and slips it into his bag.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “I just took a nap. Did you take notes?”
“I'll drop them off at your house.”
Kyle is hunched over his desk, pencil tapping against the paper.
The assignment sits half-finished in front of him. It's something he normally would’ve knocked out in twenty minutes, but he's been staring at the same paragraph for the last ten.
He's really trying to focus, but his mind comes back to what he coughed up in class. Where would a leaf come from? Kyle's throat itches, like something is stuck there.
The door creaks open behind him.
“Kyle?” His dad walks in casually. “You working on homework, buddy?”
Kyle doesn't turn around. “Yeah.”
Gerald Broflovski wanders, glancing around the room before settling his attention on Kyle’s desk.
“Wow, look at you, doing your assignments without being asked,” he jests. “This is a rare and beautiful moment. I should take a picture.”
Kyle rolls his eyes. “Don’t.”
Gerald chuckles and peers over his shoulder. “What’s this, English?”
“Yeah.”
“Mm. Very nice, very nice.”
Kyle nods. He clears his throat, trying to stifle a cough. The tickle hits the back of his throat. He swallows hard, but it doesn't work.
A dry cough slips out and he wheezes.
Gerald pauses. “You okay?”
“I’m fine—” he coughs “—it’s just—” cough cough—
He stops, thumping his fist to his chest.
Kyle straightens again, forcing his shoulders to relax.
“…see? It's all good.”
“That doesn't sound ‘all good,’ Kyle.” he says, stepping closer. “That sounds like you’re coming down with something.”
“I’m not,” Kyle protested. “It’s just a cough.”
Gerald frowns slightly, stroking his chin.
“You’ve been coughing a lot?”
“…not really,” he lies.
“Well, does anything else hurt?” he pushes. “Chest pain?”
Kyle pauses.
“…no.” He draws out the vowel sound. He does feel something, but there's no reasonable way to put words to it.
Gerald rubs the back of his neck, unsure what to do.
“Huh,” he says. “Maybe it’s allergies? Or dry air? You know, sometimes in the winter—”
“Look, it's nothing too bad. Don't think about it.” The words come out more desperately than Kyle means to.
“Should I go and get your mom?” he asks. “Sheila’s pretty good with this kind of stuff.”
“No.”
Gerald blinked. “Okay— um… alright then.”
“I mean it, Dad.” Kyle said, turning back to his desk. “Please don’t tell her.”
Gerald looks conflicted between voicing his concerns and respecting Kyle's wishes.
“…alright,” he says finally. “If you’re sure.”
“Don't worry, I’m sure,” Kyle says, not looking up from the paper.
Gerald lingers for a second, watching Kyle study.
“Okay,” he says. “Well… drink some water, at least. And if it gets worse, you tell me. Alright?”
“Sure.”
Gerald gives him one last uncertain look before heading for the door.
“Kyle?”
“Yeah?”
“…don’t try to be a hero about this stuff,” Gerald says. “There's really no point.”
“…I know.”
Gerald nods and steps out, closing the door behind him.
Kyle stares at his half-finished paragraph.
Then the cough comes back. Kyle hunches forward, fist pressed tight to his mouth, trying to keep it down. His chest jerks with it, breath catching, throat tightening around something that won’t come loose.
Another cough hits. He swallows and immediately regrets it, gagging slightly as whatever’s in his throat shifts. Kyle reaches blindly across his desk, knocking his pencil aside until his fingers catch the edge of a crumpled tissue.
He presses the tissue to his mouth and forces it—coughing and gagging. It slides up, slow and horrible, dragging against his throat.
Kyle spits into the tissue. He clenches his hand around the tissue, breathing heavily.
Then, he slowly peels it open: a slightly crumpled flower petal lies in the folds. The tissue is damp and warm.
Kyle crumples the tissue and tosses it in the wastebin. Hopefully it won’t happen again.
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