Title: Superman
Ships: StanKyle, StanWendy
Genres: Romance, Angst, Drama
Warnings: Slash, Dark Themes
Rating: Teen, at most
Summary: I wanted to be his Superman. I just didn't know how.

-

Chapter Two: Silent Comfort

It’s almost ten in the evening when a doctor, dressed in white, summons Stan’s parents for a brief talk.

“You’d better stay here,” says Mrs. Marsh. For a second I feel like ignoring her suggestion, to merely stand up and follow that doctor, perhaps even rush into Stan’s room alone—but instead I nod and remain seated. The ungodly time that’s passed has affected me much, though I’m not sure if it’s entirely enough to challenge authority.

Wendy, on the other hand… well….

“I wanna see him!” she shrieks, and it’s now my hand clutching to her arm. “Mrs. Marsh, let me go with you, let me just—”

“No,” she interjects, and she and Mr. Marsh head off to talk to the doctor.

Wendy is once again a mess. I pull on her arm, encouraging her to sit back down, but she’s trembling so hard I give up trying. At least she doesn’t stalk off after them, but she’s still causing many people around her to stare at us.

I don’t know what to do. Sure, I’ve resolved to try and understand people’s emotions better, but looking at a shaken Wendy doesn’t help me at all. In fact, making that vow is only making me even more cautious about what to say… and though seeing Wendy like this makes me guiltily pleased on the inside, I still don’t want to hurt her feelings.

“You’ll be able to see him soon,” I try reasoning, and she looks at me with such a foul stare. “I want to see him just as bad as you do, Wendy.”

She stares at me, and for a second I sink as far into the seat as I can manage. Frankly I’m scared of her; all this time I had thought that Stan was obsessed with Wendy, but it seems to be the other way around…. It might just be because Stan’s probably dying still, but… I had never seen her care so much about Stan before.
I wonder if Stan knows how troubled Wendy is over him. Maybe if he did know, he would feel somewhat better.

Thankfully her glare softens, and she returns to her seat. The people have turned their heads by now, the receptionists going back to their work; I’m sure they probably see this all the time. Yet as I feel Wendy’s head lean against my shoulder, I begin to wonder how many suicide attempts Hell’s Pass gets on a yearly basis….

Not much, I’d argue.

“You care for him a lot, don’t you?” Wendy mutters, and I nod automatically. “I’m scared for him, Kyle. I… don’t know what’ll happen if he… loses hope.”

I want to ask her something but I decide against it; I don’t want to trouble her too much. Yet even though I’m sure Stan’s reasons did not solely involve Wendy’s perpetual breakups with him, if it were, couldn’t Wendy just solve things by not breaking up with Stan to begin with?

Wendy, however, seems to be thinking the same thing. “I want him to live,” she says, “as I’m sure any friend would. But I… don’t want to be obligated in being his girlfriend just for the sake of him living.”

“It’ll only show how much you care for him,” I reply, though as soon as it comes out of my mouth, I realize that hadn’t been the wisest thing to say. She looks at me incredulously, eyes now wide, and I quickly apologize. “I didn’t mean it like that, seriously, Wendy. I just… my mind can’t think properly in the midst of everything that’s going on….”

“I get it,” she mutters, looking away once more. This whole people’s person thing doesn’t seem to be working for me…. “What would you do, Kyle?”

“Hm?” I turn my head to face her.

“If Stan liked you,” she begins, and I can feel my cheeks turning scarlet. “If Stan liked you to the point he’d rather kill himself than lose his best friend, would you go out with him?—to save his life, I mean.”

“If he were gay, you mean?” I ask, and she nods, as if that had been an obvious stipulation. “I-I… I’m not sure, Wendy. I guess I would.”

“Oh.” She gulps bitterly, and I can almost feel how sad my answer makes her feel. “I guess you’re much closer to him than I am, then.”

“Wendy, that’s not true,” I reason. “I’m nothing to him but a friend, one who happens to be close to him. But I don’t do him justice; I’ve never really paid attention to him before. Like, until now, I would never have thought that he’d be capable of… of….”

I don’t finish the sentence. Thankfully, to the rescue of both me and Wendy, Stan’s parents return, and by the look on their faces, things went well.

“He’s going to be all right,” Mrs. Marsh tells with a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Wendy exclaims, jumping out of her seat and giving Mrs. Marsh a rather stiff hug. “Is he all right? I wanna see him, I wanna see if he’s all right!”

At this, Mrs. Marsh shakes her head disapprovingly. “Wendy, he’s not seeing any visitors at the moment. We want to see him just as badly as you do, honestly, but they won’t even let his own parents visit him.”

Wendy seems to not like this idea at all; she begins trembling on the spot once more, and once more I take her into my arms.

“We’ll be able to see him tomorrow,” I assure her, looking to Stan’s mom. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, yes,” she replies. “They said things should be well by tomorrow.”

“See? Get that chance to sleep over it, Wendy. Then tomorrow you can see Stan, and by then you’ll have calmed down.” I give her a gentle pat on the back, and I take it as a good sign that she doesn’t recoil.

“O-okay, then.”

-

My watch beeps “6:00 a.m.” by the time I’m ready. And of course, I’m the only one who is.

Yesterday, when I had arrived home, my parents had informed me that we’d all visit Stan the next day. I had pleaded with her to make the visit early, despite my adopted brother Ike’s complaints, and though she seemed hesitant, she agreed to an early visit.

After all, Hell’s Pass’s visiting hours are from sunrise to sunset… excluding mealtimes. Leaving now would get me to Hell’s Pass shortly after sunrise.

But there’s no way I can leave. I don’t have a car I can drive, and walking would take forever. And it’s really pissing me off that no one in my family is ready to leave, even though we had already agreed to leave the house at an early time.

I wonder how Stan’s doing. Would he be conscious when I see him?—does he even know the magnitude of what he’s done? I wonder if, when he tried committing suicide, if it ever occurred to him what the consequences would be of him failing….

A horrible thought comes to me. Does he even want to live?

I gulp. What if he merely tries again the first chance he gets? Though I’m sure someone’s bound to enforce safety measures from now on, I’m still scared of what just might be the truth.

Maybe that was the fear Wendy had last night. Maybe she was scared he’d merely kill himself again unless something good happened in his life. Wait—no, that wasn’t a question; I know that’s what she was worried about. I know that was what she feared, for that exact reason, too.

My train of thought stops a brief moment to scold at Ike, who is only now awake. I think he wants to retort, seeing as he’s quite the Smart Alec, but he says nothing, merely walking by me and shutting himself in the bathroom.

…he probably knows I’m not in my right mind.

…where was I?
…I don’t remember.

I always thought that being worried for someone you cared for would feel so much different. But it doesn’t; it feels like it were just another asthma attack, just another injury from one of his baseball games. I know the basics of what he’s done, yet… it doesn’t seem to be registering properly, emotionally.

In the back of my mind, there’s worry. Worry that I’m being a horrible friend, worry that I’m not showing the emotions I should be showing, worry that I’m not feeling those emotions, as if I couldn’t care less about Stan. I keep convincing myself that I do care for Stan, yet there’s always that dreaded feeling.

“…start learning how to get over the past….”

I blink. That was what Wendy had said yesterday, except she had meant that for Stan…. But was that what I had done? Had I ignored Stan because he was my past?—because he was my best friend way back then, when cliques and social standards didn’t matter?

I shake my head in confusion. No, that can’t be it. It can’t be it—I refuse to believe that! Stan was my past, is my present, and will be my future! He’s my Super Best Friend!—there’s no way I’d ever leave him.

…yet my mind’s been all about convincing, lately. Convincing everyone things will be all right, convincing Wendy this hadn’t been her fault, convincing myself that I could be there for Wendy, for Mrs. Marsh, for Stan…. Who was I kidding?—am I even capable of doing things like that?

…is this me being pessimistic?—what happened to being optimistic, what happened to not formulating possibilities from the worst?

Thankfully enough my parents find me, saving me from my despair. Yet even as I pile into the family car, I can’t help but to question my abilities over and over again. Even as the car starts and drives off, my mind just keeps playing like a broken record….

“Kyle,” Ike mutters slowly, and I’m momentarily broken out of my train of thought.

“You’re not letting anyone down. You’re doing the best you can.”

I stare into the eyes of my adopted brother—he’s nothing like me. And I don’t mean that just physically; he’s so much smarter than I am, so much more attentive to those around him. How had he known I doubted my loyalties to my friends? How had he known I felt like I was failing something, failing someone?

…but I’m grateful anyway for the words he’s given me, so I bow my head and give him my thanks. Most people idolize people who’re older than them, someone more accomplished than themselves; but me, one of the people I wish I were more like is my brother. Unlike me, he actually notices when people have changed, even when they don’t mean for themselves to be noticed. It’s almost like he can read people’s minds, like he knows what people worry about when they look down—if I could do that, I could find out why Stan got himself in all this mess, why Stan did what he did….

I wonder… did the doctor ever inform Stan’s parents what he actually did? Though, I guess that isn’t my place to ask.

When we arrive at the hospital, Ike whispers something to me, under his breath, before leaving the car. “Don’t try doing things you know you can’t do.”

And he’s gone.

I stare emptily at nowhere. Don’t try doing things I can’t do? I blink, and then, noticing my waiting parents, I get out of the car.

I can’t make sense out of what Ike’s referring to. Is he referring to my vow?—but he wouldn’t know about that. But then, if not that, then what? So far I’ve proven capable of helping Wendy…. And at the moment, I think that’s the only good thing I’ve actually done.

That idea, however quickly washes away from my short-term memory, as my parents seem to have led us away from the receptionist’s desk, away from all the waiting people, through a set of white doors, not brass….

“Fifth on the left,” my mom repeats to herself, and as we reach the door, I feel scared to enter. I hadn’t even thought about what Stan would look like—what if he had slash himself open?—would he have the stitches, still? I still didn’t even know how Stan landed himself in this place! For all I knew he was alive, but in a vegetative status….

“Come in,” Ike says encouragingly, popping his head out the door frame. “He’s all right. Really.”

I shut my eyes tightly, and, with a deep breath, I step inside.

I can feel myself relax, though only slightly. He’s not a mangled mess, at least—or what I can see of him, anyway. In fact, the only parts of him I can really see are his head, neck, and shoulders; everything else remains hidden under his blankets….

“Sheila,” Mrs. Marsh says weakly, who had previously been at Stan’s side. The two women embrace as my father gives Mr. Marsh a calm pat on the back. Mrs. Marsh is no longer trying to restrain herself, her tears staining my mom’s dark blouse, and Mr. Marsh only continues in being more silent than a stone.

“Kyle dear,” begins Mrs. Marsh, and I look to her direction. “Would you like a word with Stan alone?”

“Is he… can he hear me?”

She shook her head, and a sinking feeling sets in my stomach. “Randy and I have something to discuss with your parents, so we’ll be outside the door. But in case you... you know… in case you wanted a moment with Stan… before Wendy arrives….”

She doesn’t need to complete her sentence, and I merely watch as the adults leave the room. Now it’s just me and Ike….

“I’ll be going, too,” Ike said quickly under his breath, but I make a protest. “I insist,” he replies, and then he’s out the door, too.

It’s just me now. And Stan.

I walk slowly over to his side. His bangs are ridiculously long now, draping over the left side of his face, even covering his closed, left eye. He’s not wearing any eyeliner, mascara, or any other kind of face makeup, for that matter—which leads me to the assumption that they cleaned him up.

My first instinct is to check him for scars, but I’m afraid to lift that blanket. I’m scared to see what’s under there, if there’s some unknown, stitched slice on his arm, just waiting to be discovered…. It makes me want to examine him all the more, yet I don’t want to deal with it if I do see it….

In the end I just check on what I can see with the blankets on him. And when he seems fine, I relax a bit.

Mrs. Marsh’s words are still echoing in my mind, however. Should I talk to him? I begin to wonder; if a person is unconscious, can they still hear?—probably not. But there was still a chance, wasn’t there?

But talking to an unresponsive person seems pointless to me. Anything you ask won’t be answered; anything you say won’t be remembered. So what was the point?

…was this the thing Ike was telling me about?—to not do things I knew I couldn’t do? After all, I couldn’t talk to Stan, because… well….

No, that wasn’t it. I could talk to Stan; it was him who couldn’t talk back to me. So then, what was Ike trying to tell me?

I close my eyes and pause. But my mind seems distracted, more intent on deciding if I should talk to Stan. I try to think; why would Mrs. Marsh talk to him when he couldn’t talk back? Why would Wendy?

And then it hits me. It’s not for Stan’s sake, but for them. When they talk to him, they don’t expect an answer. It’s for their own sake, for their consolation, for their comfort. It’s to ease their pain, not Stan’s….

Maybe I am getting better with this whole people thing.

But now, as I open my eyes, I stare at the silent Stan. I know he’ll need me… but do I need him?

It feels automatic—I descend slowly to my knees, leaning over the side of his bed, and as I find his hand under the sheets I clasp them tightly with my own. I stare hard at his face, trains and trains full of questions running through my head, just waiting to be asked—but I say nothing.

After all, it’s not about him answering. It’s for my comfort, to ease the pains….

A bitter taste builds up in my throat, but I ignore it. I merely hold on tighter to his hand, staring at Stan as if my life depended on it, hoping he’d wake up.

I hear someone opening the door, but I don’t care. I lay my head on the bed, eyes still glancing upon my best friend, and close my eyes.

I can’t feel the pain. Simply knowing Stan’s by my side, simply knowing he’s all right… that’s all the comfort I need.