Cryle #1 (pt.1): New Hands

                                    

                                          
Artist credit: @ kvsagi on Tumblr
NOTE: Pt. 1 is exposition and does not contain smut :// It's split into 2 due to the high word count...
Pairing: Craig x Kyle (bottom)
Synopsis: Heartbroken and frustrated, Kyle seeks out something harder...
Words: 1,300 
TWs for pt. 1: Self-harm & implications of COCSA/grooming (*unrelated to Craig).
-> Upcoming [possible] TWs for pt. 2: BDSM, CNC, restraints, light knife-play, etc.
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Biting down on a bath towel to keep himself quiet, Kyle forces the hair straightener to his wrist. His whole body tenses and shakes as it sizzles and stings against his tender flesh. It makes the hairs on his arms raise, tears springing from his squeezed shut eyes, and his teeth ache from how hard he burrows them into the rough fabric. But still, he persists with the self-torture.
He's determined to do it over and over again, in 60-second intervals, in a slow trail of blistering lines down his left arm. Then, onto his right. However many burns and however long it took to silence his thoughts.
A sob rocks through him, making him lean forward, curling in on himself as he thinks of the conversation he'd had with Stan, around an hour ago now. The one that'd sent him running back down the street to his house and locking himself in the bathroom where he now spiraled.
It was worse because he had expected Stan to follow after him, to shout his name, to bang on the door, to threaten to call the cops for a welfare check if he didn't answer him about being "safe". The same shit he'd done during Kyle's previous episodes. But he didn't do any of those things this time.
Kyle had looked back, once, over his shoulder when he'd reached the Marsh'es front door.
It was like when a glass bottle rolls down stairs. It'd clink and crack here and there until, finally, there was one final slam before it was smashed completely.
That was his heart when he saw that his lover, his supposed "best friend", hadn't so much as budged from his seat on the couch. Instead, he'd just stared at him with slate gray, emotionally barren eyes.
Now, Kyle's breathing was terribly thin, and his chest ached, feeling as if it were being torn like paper with each sob and gasp. Weeping coughs and his need for air made him release the rag from his mouth.
Finally, he drops the flat iron from his grasp onto the floor. Not bothering to unplug it, he shoves the bathroom door open and stumbles into his bedroom before collapsing on his bed.
He feels so fucking stupid, and so, so used. In his love-stricken daze, he'd been impressively delusional. For 5 years, he had honestly believed that Stan would come around. That if he was just patient enough, good enough, the other would come to appreciate and want him seriously.
But buried underneath his blankets in the aftermath, no longer a rose-colored lacquer over his world, his memories begin revealing new meanings.
Kyle had started realizing his feelings towards boys as he hit puberty in middle school. In his confusion, he, of course, had entrusted his best friend with his secret first.
He remembered how safe and loved he felt when he'd come out. Stan had taken him into his arms and rubbed circles on his back, listening patiently as Kyle whispered the truth to him, between his tears.
And with that care in mind, he was never alarmed by the things that followed...
When Stan had offered to practice kissing with him, he'd seen it as a genuine, well-intentioned favor. He never questioned how it made no sense for them to continue on for so long. He never questioned the absolute secrecy, even with Kenny and Ike.