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 Three: Resolve to Live

I can hear the steady sniffling of restrained tears in the nearby distance, separated by quiet whispers of desperation. Even without opening my eyes I know Wendy’s there, but I don’t move so as to no disrupt her from her moment with Stan. Yet it’s very painful kneeling in this position, and I know it’s only soon until I’ll have to stop this game of frozen statues.

I’m not sure when I had fallen asleep, nor do I know how long I had been by Stan’s side. His hand’s still clasped in mine, so I know he wasn’t exactly awake yet—and by the tone in Wendy’s voice, I can tell he was still in the state he had been in before, that he hadn’t woken up while I was asleep….

I wonder what would’ve happened if he had woke up while I had been asleep. Would he have found it odd to see me at his side like this? That it was, in fact, me who was kneeling by his side, and not Wendy? Maybe he didn’t regard Wendy as a very important person in his life anymore, especially after all the times she had dumped him… though that might just be wishful thinking. Still, even if I know Wendy’s wrong when she claims it’s her fault, maybe Stan would’ve preferred me instead of her….

…but maybe Stan would’ve preferred her over me?—what if Wendy wasn’t right, that Stan had done all of this because of me? After all, had I not been the one to choose academics over him? I had never really realized how… cruel it actually sounded, and I’m sure… I’m sure he probably hates me for it now.

The anger I now have for myself becomes so great that I throw myself off Stan’s bed, catching the eye of a very sullen Wendy. I disregard her, yet it’s at that moment when I can finally empathize with her feelings. Her distress last night, her hysteria…. I can feel that same anguish, that feeling of guilt, how much it pains fearing that you just might be the cause of everything….

“Kyle?” Wendy calls out soothingly (though hiccuping at the same time), and her voice alone is enough to try and set myself straight. All last night I had told her to be calm, and here she was, finally trying; and though I wasn’t sobbing like she was, I still had to follow my own word, to do my part in staying rational.

“Wendy,” I begin, “where’re Stan’s parents?”

She looks at me blankly. “Er… Randy and Sharon… I… I don’t know.” She hangs her head and turns away. “I’m sorry, Kyle, I know they told me, about an hour ago, but I was barely paying attention to them, and I know I should have, but—”

“Calm down,” I say over her voice, and her sentence remains unfinished. She’s breathing rapidly again, though I can’t tell if she’s on the verge of tears again… though it looks like she is. “It was just a curious question,” I assure her, “nothing big. Besides, you and I, we’re both still here, aren’t we?—we’ll take care of Stan while his parents are out.”

I try flashing a meaningful smile at her, but I think it ends up looking like a clumsy frown instead. Nevertheless it seems to give her enough hope, and as she seats herself down in the closest chair, I find myself doing the same.

There’s a mutual understanding between the two of us, me and Wendy. I never really thought about how much in common we had with each other, yet those similarities seemed so painstakingly obvious now. The two of us sitting, staring, jumping at the slightest bit of movement, minds far beyond the current room we were both presently in….

…worrying about someone dear to us….

But even as I stare at Stan’s bed with hopes raised much too high, I can begin feeling waves of sleep crashing upon my consciousness. I had barely slept last night, sleeping rather late and awakening much too early—and I doubt I had gotten much sleep from resting at Stan’s side; a glance at my watch confirms this.

But I want to stay awake; I don’t want to give into sleep…. I wanted to be there for Stan—not just in the room, but to actually be there, to actually have my conscious presence greet him when he wakes up….

“I think I might fall asleep,” I mutter quietly, attempting to warn Wendy of what’s about to happen. I don’t think she hears me, though, and with one last glance at the unmoving bed, I allow darkness and dreams to conquer me.

-

The brilliant rays of the sun, piercing through recently opened windows, are what wake me up.

For a second I expect to see the familiar scenery of my bedroom, the bookshelves of book, the desk of cluttered papers… but I don’t. Not to mention the… thing below me doesn’t feel anything like my bed. I would never sleep like this on my bed. And the ceiling’s too high, and—

This is a hospital room. I blink, as if my mind doesn’t believe the conclusion, but as I look around my conclusion is confirmed. It feels different, though; I can’t hear Wendy’s sobs or any of the Marsh parents—or anything, really. It’s a rather eerie silence, and it’s quite unnerving; I look around the room for something to break that noise, but this room’s entirely too empty to even make such a noise….

Too empty….

I stand up abruptly, mostly out of impulse. Wendy’s missing. Mrs. Marsh and Mr. Marsh are missing.

And so is Stan.

My insides begin to race, the adrenaline pumping through my system. Where am I?—where are they? Did someone move them?—maybe I was the one they moved?

Oh god… what if something’s happened to Stan?

The sudden thought doesn’t sink in immediately, and it’s only when I stare at the empty bed when it actually does. What if they’ve moved him to a surgery room, or, or… or something? I mean, where else would they take him? Unless he… unless he….

…died?

I gulped. But where would they take his body if he had died? Wouldn’t they leave him on the hospital bed for several moments?—and wouldn’t someone have woken me up if something had gone wrong?

No, I don’t think he’s dead. I push that thought out of my mind, but the worry is still there.

…so then, where is he?

I pace around the room. If he isn’t dead, and something’s not wrong with him, then… what could’ve happened to him? Or did hospitals randomly move patients to different rooms for no particular reason? Though, now that I’m on that thought, maybe they did move him…. After all, they had more patients to attend to, didn’t they? What if they relocated him for the convenience of another patient, what if—?

…but then, where was that patient?

I hang my head. If that wasn’t it, then what was…?

…maybe… maybe I really had been the one who had been moved….

A new feeling rushes over me—I’m not sure what it is, though. I stride to the door, looking at the room number, but it doesn’t ring any bells. I hadn’t exactly memorized Stan’s room number… although….

“Fifth door on the left….”

I crane my neck into the hallway. I think… I think the exit’s to my right, so I am on the left side…. But how many rooms were between there are here?

My mind does somersaults as I count the rooms. One… two… three….

This was only the fourth room on the left.

My heart jumps; I’m not sure where my energy comes from at that moment, my legs springing to life, my mind set on running, my feet actually doing the running…. One room to my left wouldn’t be hard to get to….

I actually miss the room, barely holding onto the room’s door frame. I think in the distance a doctor disapproves of my actions, but I don’t care. Taking a deep breath, I recompose my figure before properly entering the room.

I’m met with a tight embrace and a squeal, and the voice I’m met with sounds so different I’m confused as to who it is, initially.

“He woke up!” the voice shrieks at me, only tightening her grip on me.

It’s Wendy. But her voice is so full of happiness, so full of excitement… it strikes me as odd at first. Seeing her like this, seeing her not shedding tears… it’s as if something extraordinarily great had happened, something great enough for her to forget what she had been down about moments before….

And then it greets me, like a slap on the face. He’s awake! He actually woke up, all while I was asleep… in a random room….

“I’m sorry,” Wendy says, though her voice doesn’t sound it. “I’m sorry; I was just so excited that I forgot to wake you up, Kyle. Of course I think I might’ve freaked him out, but I was just so freaking happy….”

“Why was I there to begin with?” I ask curiously.

“You were dead asleep, Kyle—you slept right until lunch, when visiting hours end. So the nurse and I and another person—I don’t remember who—moved you into an empty room for the moment being, while they did their little checkup thingies, and then… he woke up while they were checking up on him, and when I was allowed inside I lost myself and totally forgot about you.”

“Oh.” I smile sheepishly. “That’s fine, I guess. I understand how happy you must’ve felt.” And she nods, jumping in spot, and clutching onto the front of my shirt once more.

Am I being too unemotional about this? I mean, Stan’s awake! Now I can ask him everything I wanted to ask him, everything that’s bugging my insides…. And yet, would he be okay with that? My vow… I’m sure making Stan relive everything, making him talk about things he doesn’t want to… I mean, he didn’t even want to survive, did he?—I couldn’t just walk up to him and demand answers out of him, could I?

A whole new idea washes over me—what’s he think of Wendy clutching onto me like this? Oh god… he might think we’ve gotten together behind his back, now. He gets pissed enough when I work on school projects with Wendy, if ever, but… what now? He’ll probably find this as the biggest betrayal of our friendship…! I hope he doesn’t think too badly of me….

Yet that thought doesn’t end the way I thought it would. “Wendy…?” I begin; “…Wendy, where’s Stan?”

Wendy nudges her head to the bathroom. “He’s in there right now. I hope he’s okay, though; I wanted to watch him in case he does something, but… you know, I’m a girl, and he’s a guy….”

“Oh,” I say quietly, and her reasoning sets in with me. “I’m a guy though!—I mean, not like I doubted it or anything, but… want me to check on him?”

Wendy lets go of me and nods only slightly; I take a breath before stepping toward the door.

But this is a hospital. I try to remind myself that hospitals wouldn’t leave sharp objects lying around or any medications… but there’s a sickening feeling inside of me, something that feels almost like he could be doing something he shouldn’t be doing….

I knock on the door. “Stan, you there?”

I get no answer.

“He’s been there for a while, now,” Wendy tells me. But how much was a ‘while’? “Almost an hour,” she adds, as if having read my mind.

“Stan?” I call again, knocking on the door again. “It’s Kyle, can you—?”

“I can hear you,” is his cold reply, and for a moment my eyes widen. What had I expecting?—that he’d be awake but not talk? I think it’s simply his voice that startles me. It sounds… fine. Angry… but fine. Yet regardless of what he sounds like, there’s a part of me that’s already celebrating, a part of me that’s glad there’s one more thing that tells me he’s going to be all right.

Yet even so, the anger in his voice… is that directed at me?

“Are you okay, then?” I ask, and again I get no response. “Stan, open this door—”

“It’s not locked,” Wendy tells me, and I turn to her, aghast. “Hospital doors don’t lock. It’s more of a safety precaution than—”

“Stan, if you won’t open this door, I fucking will!” There’s a silence around the room as I hear my voice echoing slightly. Since when had I been so angry? Perhaps it’s because of what Stan’s gotten himself into, and that I still haven’t figured out at least half of what’s been happening recently….

“I…I’m going to find Mr. and Mrs. Marsh,” Wendy whispers, and before I can stop her she flies out the door. But that doesn’t make any sense; didn’t she say she wasn’t listening when they told her where they were going?

But my mind turns away from that. “Stan, open this—”

The door opens.

I’m not sure exactly what I had expected to see, but when I take a glance at the person in front of me, I find nothing different. Of course, he’s dressed in a hospital gown, and he’s gripping a frickin’ IV machine on wheels, which is probably connected to him in all sorts of places… but he’s fine. I’m still greeted with the same Stan I always knew, his bangs hanging over his left eye, his right, blue eye gazing piercingly back at me. There’s something cold in his expression, though, but I had expected as much—I hadn’t particularly imagined a happy-go-lucky Stan after what he’s done, after all.

“Stan…” but my voice trails off. I think my body knows what I’m supposed to be doing; I can feel my feet itching to step forward, my arms feeling rather light, as if wanting to be lifted, wanting to be wrapped around Stan….

But I remain still. My mind is in frenzy; what am I supposed to do? Would hugging Stan be too much?—what if he was too weak, what if I squeezed him too hard? And even if I did hug him, would he actually want it? Did he even want me anywhere near him?—his expression wasn’t the most welcoming of things, and suddenly I’m scared, scared that… that….

“Kyle…” he says slowly, and my eyes widen. He’s walking toward me, slowly, of course, and the sound that damned machine is making drives me out of focus. I try shaking that noise away, but the only thing that seems to be registering is that he’s walking toward me, his gaze still looking at mine.

“I… I….” I… what? What, exactly? At least he doesn’t hate me, but I don’t want that to change now. What should I say?—what should I do?—how should I react?

“I’m… sorry.” He stops in front of me, and for a second my mind goes blank. No, I don’t think a simple apology will do for me—but should I tell him that? Should I accept his apology—an apology he gave for a reason I didn’t even know yet—even if I didn’t really feel he deserved one?

But then, why was he apologizing? Okay, sure, maybe because he had almost killed himself, but… it’s not like I had told him to not do it. Of course, if I had known he was capable of attempting suicide, maybe I would’ve told him not to…. But on the contrary, it feels like I should be doing the apologizing, like I should be the one saying sorry….

“Go back to bed,” I mutter, placing an arm around him. “You need to rest—”

“I don’t want to sleep—”

“Fine, then don’t sleep. But at least get back to the bed. Standing won’t do you any good.” His right eye turns to me, and for a brief second I catch a glimpse of loneliness. Well, what I think is loneliness, anyway, but it’s definitely something I’ve never noticed there before. But he quickly turns away from me, and, with a slight nod, I help him toward his bed.

…not that he really needs that much help, since he’s walking faster than his grandfather did. But I still do it anyway, almost like a way of showing him I still care for him, in case he ever doubted it.

Once he’s on the bed, however, I step back and take a good look at him. I’ve only now realized the stitches on his right arm, the arm that had been under the blanket earlier…. I cringe at the sight, though I try remaining as still as possible, not wanting Stan to see me repulsed by what I’m seeing, but it seems I’ve failed because he looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

“I… all right. Stan, I’m gonna ask you straight-out, and I hope you give me an answer. Why’d you do it?”

He gives me a blank expression, and for a moment I feel as if I’d done something wrong.
And then, shortly afterward, I know I’ve done something wrong.

Me and my fucking mouth, my fucking impulsive actions, my… fuck, everything. Why the hell had I said that?—so much for understanding people, huh. And now Stan probably hates me more than he did before, which said a lot, since I’m sure that’s why he fucking decided to fucking kill himself….

He doesn’t stop looking at me, his face still as blank as ever. Maybe I could get over his mistake. Maybe I could… maybe I could ask a more proper question, something more fitting, more comfortable for him. After all he just got up, not even knowing he would ever see any of our faces again. I could understand at least that, couldn’t I?

Other than the one I had already asked, there’s only one other think that I seem able to think of, and it’s not even a question!—but I can’t say it, not if I wanted to make the tension between us a little less awkward, a little less painful for him. Yet I can’t think of anything; the same thing burns through me, and I almost feel tempted to say it anyway….

“Can you promise me something?”

I can both hear and feel the quavering tone in my voice, and inside I’m wondering yet again if I had done the right thing. But his reaction seems different this time; he blinks, sits up properly against the headboard, and looks at me expectantly.

“What.”

“Can you… can you promise me you…” but the words won’t come out of my mouth. Something inside me is frightened, scared that saying the rest will only result in something I don’t want happening. Yet it’s pointless to just leave him with that, leave him with a half-promise…. “Can you promise me you won’t… you won’t this again?”

I can hear the words fall off my lips, but I don’t hear his response. I think I’ve done the wrong thing again.
I can feel the sinking feeling in my stomach. I might’ve done the wrong thing again.
I can see that expressionless face of his once more.

I know I’ve done the wrong thing.

I close my eyes and turn away. I’ve fucked up everything… again.