Work Text:
Sometimes, it was sadness. Most times, actually. This deep, heart-wrenching, mind-numbing sort of sadness that yawned open in that gaping hole in Stan's heart every time he crossed his mind. The kind that made the boy want to curl onto the floor and do nothing but keep crying. It was all he could do. It came in waves and by the time Stan had sobbed every last tear that he'd had left in his body, he was left with nothing but exhaustion. Exhaustion and that persistent emptiness that tore at his stomach each time he glanced at that empty circular bed expecting to see a dog there, or grabbed a box of cereal from the kitchen, but fuck, there's his Milk-Bone treats right next to it and nobody to feed them to. Sparky wasn't going to hop up onto Stan's legs whenever he came home anymore, and he wasn't going to come along on the road trip that Stan's parents had been planning for the holidays. Sparky always got excited when they were bringing him along somewhere, even somewhere as mundane as Stark's Pond. He'd never be able to look into his eyes anymore. That feeling of something being missing, the goddamn vice grip that the sadness had on him - it hurt just as much as he'd expected it to. He was awake just yesterday, god fucking damnit. He was right there on that pink eyesore of a bed and sniffing and blinking and breathing and now Stan wasn't going to see that ever again and it hurt.
Other times, it was anger. Anger that Stan couldn't even direct towards himself which somehow felt even worse because he was used to being angry at himself. He was accustomed to blaming his problems inwardly and berating himself until he had the clarity to fix whatever it was he'd fucked up. That was normal. But this time, what was Stan supposed to be furious at? The world, coincidence? An accident that took his pet from him? There was no one to blame, and therefore nowhere for the boy to release that pain except for screaming into his pillow and throwing basketballs so hard the rim was starting to dent and crying into Kyle's shoulder, repeating "it's not fair, it's not fair" over and over again until the words lost all their meaning. The anger hurt worse than he'd expected it to, because it felt like it absorbed all his emotions until the only thing he had left to give everybody else was coldness. But how was he supposed to be warm when his friend was gone? Why was that fucking bed still sitting there on the floor with no Sparky laying in it? How was he supposed to protect his dog when he hadn't known what he was supposed to be protecting him from? Why did his chest ache so painfully, it felt like an actual wound?
The rest of the time, it was this small sense of hope. That wasn't showing up very often yet, because Stan kept feeling too lost and broken to feel anything positive. He hardly felt the need to eat anymore. But Sparky would've wanted him to eat well so he could have the energy to play with him, and also so that he could lick up any scraps that his owner might've dropped. Just a couple days ago, he remembered thinking that Sparky was getting a little chubby. So even though the mutt in his stupid pink scarf wasn't waiting there under the table with his eyes wide and tail wagging expectantly, Stan still ate. And when Shelly also took her grief out on him and hit him, skin stinging, just like she did when they were a little younger - he didn't have Sparky to sic on her anymore. Instead he had to turn around and grab her arm and stand up for himself, by himself, until his sister gave up and left him alone. And he had nothing to hold onto but the memory of how happy he was to find his dog safe and sound with Big Gay Al, years ago when he thought he'd lost Sparky forever. He hadn't treated him with the love he deserved at first because of how homo he was being. Stan didn't understand then. Love was what Stan had now, and he wished he could've given it all to his pup from the very beginning, before it was too late. But now he had to give that love to everyone around him, his best friends, and appreciate them being alive just as much as he wanted to appreciate Sparky when he was alive. And he had to give that love to himself too, because if he could speak to his dog, Stan figured that he'd probably hate nothing more than to see the boy angry and hurt and not taking care of himself like he was. So he tried to smile. Sparky liked his smile. And Stan, for now, just wanted his friend back so badly it was painful. But he could heal, for that gay little dog he loved so much. For him.