Chapter Text
For a moment, there are scenes of victory. Of confetti, of raucous cheers, and of strong, joyous hugs. Of blinding lights and flashing cameras, grabbing hands, deafening sounds, and demanding shouts.
It should be overstimulating. It should be exhausting and scary. But it's not. That feeling of victory, knowing they won and they won it together, makes it worth it.
There’s reporters. They’re shouting for him, they want his attention. It’s all he’s ever dreamed of.
“Stan!”
“Stan Marsh!”
“Marsh!”
“Maaarsh!”
A kick to the shin. Folded arms, a frustrated expression bringing him back to reality.
“Ow! The fuck was that for, you dick?” Stan Marsh furrows his eyebrows, glaring at the offender.
Stan’s not on a podium, celebrating. He’s not holding up a trophy with his teammates, and no one is cheering for him. He’s seated on a bench in a cold, bland room - there are kits strewn around him and a hockey stick leaning next to him. The rest of the team has since left, presumably to begin running training drills.
The round, rosy-cheeked Clyde Donovan stares back. His arms are folded across his numbered chest.
“Practice’s starting. You daydreaming again?” He smirks, shifting to adjust his gloves and reaching for his helmet and stick.
“N-No! Fuck you, dude.” Stan musters an unconvincing chuckle. He grabs for his own helmet, pushing himself off the bench to follow Clyde to the rink. He does remember to grab his hockey stick. Sometimes, he finds himself so infatuated with dreams of success that he glides onto the ice missing gloves, pieces of his kit, and whatnot. His hockey stick is a frequently forgotten asset.
He likes Clyde, he really does. He likes all his teammates. They’re incomplete, but they’re like a family. They can tease each other endlessly, piss one another off, whatever; by the end of a training session, all would be forgotten.
They don’t take themselves too seriously. Of course they want to win. But what’s a win if there’s no fun along the way? Stan’s sure their close bond and electric connection are their greatest strengths, though he supposes that he’s no doctor or psychologist, just an ice hockey captain. What does he know, really? He just likes his team a lot.
“I can practically see clouds in your hair, man.” Clyde smirks. Stan rolls his eyes, scoffs, and nudges his teammate in the shoulder.
“Shut up. That's not even funny. I wasn’t daydreaming, I was getting my head in the game.” Stan taps his helmet, eyes wide, in a weak attempt to convince Clyde of his argument.
“Wow. We got a captain that can’t even think straight.” Clyde’s leaning against the rink border, breath billowing like clouds as he slides off his blade covers. Stan follows suit, laughing heartily.
“I can think straight. Straighter than, I don't know, a ruler. This season’s gonna be ours, dude, I promise.”
All Clyde does is scoff as he steps onto the ice.
Stan has always been quick to make promises. He’s known for being unreliable at keeping them - he's forgetful, an overachiever, a people-pleaser, even. But with a new season on the horizon, Stan’s more determined than ever to keep this promise to his team.
His first step back on the ice feels as natural as walking. It’s like he’s meant to be here, doing this for the rest of his days.
“Where the hell were you two? Sucking each other off?” Cartman’s voice floats closer as Stan skates towards his team. He snickers loudly, Stan’s smile falling into a tired frown.
Cartman’s the only member of the team he hasn’t missed. Stan can put up with him, but he’d be a liar if he said he liked him. It’s a shame that Cartman is such a valued asset to the team as goalkeeper, because his absence would surely be celebrated by all.
“Shut up.” Stan and Clyde speak in unison. They’re bored to death of Cartman’s hateful jabs.
“Stan has standards, you know.” Kenny slides up to the group, wrapping a warm arm around Stan’s middle. He’s grateful for the comfort, and the fact that his team can rally together against Cartman’s bullying.
“Mhm. Besides, your mom didn’t seem to complain when she was sucking me off last night.” Stan finishes with a sly smile as Cartman protests, his round face exploding into red as he stalks away. The others laugh at the sight, Tolkien soon skating up to the group to join them.
“I wish they’d kicked Cartman off the team with Kevin, y’know?” Tolkien nudges Stan’s shoulder as Kenny releases him to scrub away at overjoyed tears. His smile is kind, as always, but his brown eyes glint with mischief.
“Don’t we all? He’s such an ass. But imagine having to replace a goalie and a right wing; we’d be fucked.” Clyde points out, “You can’t deny he’s fucking good at what he does.”
There’s a round of hesitant agreements. Cartman’s the best goalie around, and everyone knows it. Replacing him would be a wound they can’t afford to open. It’s catastrophic enough that Stan has no right wing to rely on - he can only pray that their first training session of the new season brings some hope for him.
Clapping hands echo across the ice, and the group turns to face the source. Cartman joins them, scowling, as their coach approaches. A boy, much smaller than them all trails behind their coach, a shock of black hair obscuring eyes trained on the ice. His kit is too new and too crisp; it looks stiff on his joints, and his helmet is too pristine.
The team whispers amongst themselves, confusion rising.
“Who the fuck is that?” Clyde whispers, “Are we gonna have to play with him?”
“No way,” Tolkien assures, “Surely not; he’s tiny. He’ll be ripped apart.”
They rally around Stan as he looks at them in complete dumbfoundedness. He has no answer to offer them, nothing that he’d be telling them in confidence, at the very least.
“Team,” their coach begins to address them, reaching a hand to push the boy forwards. He stumbles a little at the sudden action, but is quick to regain his balance and composure. Stan’s a little taken aback at the scene.
“This is Ike Broflovski. He’ll be your right wing going forward. Scouted him from the casual sessions - he’ll be under your wing for the next few months, Captain.” He motions to Stan. His mouth drops open slightly upon realising it's really Ike Broflovski.
Ike remains silent, offering his new team a small wave. His eyes widen when he catches sight of Stan, a small, toothy grin appearing. He’s about to speak, before he’s cut off by Cartman.
“Seriously? We drop Kyle and now we have to play with his retard brother? This is fucked up!” Cartman exclaims, pushing harshly past Stan and Kenny as if he were going to square up to Ike.
“Fuck off, Cartman.” Stan shoves back, harder than he would with any team member. He skates forwards towards Ike, scowling at a flailing Cartman before his expression morphs into a smile of its own.
“Ike! I didn’t even recognise you, man, you’re so tall now!” Stan offers his hand. Ike eagerly shakes it.
“I know!” Ike exclaims. Kenny skates up to them next, tackling Ike into a hug. They’re laughing, and Stan can’t help but join in.
“It’s been too long, man! How old are you now, dude, ten?” Kenny spins with Ike for a second before surrendering him, his smile splittingly wide.
“Not that long, dumbass. I’m thirteen.” Ike grumbles, reaching to adjust his helmet.
“Fuck, I remember you when you were five. That’s crazy.” Kenny’s skating circles around Ike and Stan now as he recounts these memories, eyeing Ike up and down as if he truly can’t believe it's him.
Stan sort of feels the same. It’s been years since he's seen Ike, let alone seen him play. He’s missed out on a lot, and he can’t help but be a little bitter about it.
“I didn’t know you still played.” Stan’s voice is lower as the others come to seek out Ike. They’re silent, judging and analysing every inch of him. Ike doesn’t falter under their pressing gaze.
“Mhmm. Mom still hates it.” Stan jumps a little at the mention of Mrs. Broflovski. It’s a name he hasn’t heard in a while, except in passing comments from his own mother.
“Tell your mom we’ll take care of you,” Stan nods. “Maybe she’ll be a bit less scared if she knows I’m captain.” It’s wishful thinking, at best. Captain or not, Stan’s unsure of his own reliability.
“Maybe.” Ike replies shortly.
Their coach claps once more, grabbing the attention of Stan and the team. He directs them to start their drills, with Stan leading them. Clyde slides up to him, looking less than pleased.
“Seriously? They’re gonna let Broflovski play with us? You’ve gotta do something about this, Marsh.”
Stan rolls his eyes. He begins to put some distance between him and Clyde, already disengaging.
“He’s fucking good, Clyde; you don’t get it. He was on that peewee team I used to help out with, and Kyle helped train him where he could.” Clyde doesn’t argue back, but Stan knows he remains unconvinced.
“Just wait ‘til we get properly into the season. You’ll see he’s good at what he does.”
Stan skates away without another word being spoken. As they begin to run through their routine drills, he gives instructions, encouragement, and corrections, adjusting to the responsibilities of a captain and determined to fill the skates of those that came before him.
He finds himself gravitating towards Ike, offering advice in a quieter yet clear voice. He doesn’t want to give Clyde and Cartman any more ammunition.
“So, er, how are you finding it so far?” Stan’s a little unsure of his words, and Ike slows down, keeping up his exercises but in a manner that allows him to address Stan comfortably.
“Good, I guess. I mean, I only really know you, Kenny, and Cartman. And everyone’s so big, are you sure I can do this?” Ike looks a little troubled.
“I’m positive you’ll be perfect for this team, Ike. I’ve seen you play, and, like, you’re fucking incredible! And you had Kyle help train you, so…” Stan falters as Ike looks down, breaking their eye contact. “How… How is Kyle?” Stan’s voice shakes; it’s almost a whisper.
“He’s good. Great, even.” Ike replies in a clipped tone. It’s almost emotionless, completely unlike Ike. “He’s meant to be here today, watching me. Mom says he has to stay in on my practises to make sure I don’t get roughed up.” He chuckles slightly. Stan’s stomach turns.
“Where is he?” The sentence comes out almost robotically.
“Kyle? Oh, he got let off today. Had a big hospital checkup. He’ll pick me up when we’re done, though.”
“Oh.” Is all Stan can manage before he’s skating off, directing instructions to the rest of the team. His head feels like it's swimming, and he can’t seem to stop the sickening feeling rising in his gut.
Their coach takes over the rest of training once they’re finished with their warm-up drills. Stan still stays close to Ike, batting away Cartman's rude insults and making sure he’s not falling behind.
Ike’s more than capable of keeping up. He’s already turning heads of spectators, rink staff, and his own teammates. There’s moments where Clyde can only gawk at Ike’s impressive skillset, and Cartman still calls bullshit. He’s stubborn and crass when it comes to his torment of all the Broflovskis.
“Don’t rise to him,” Stan warns, “He’ll just be so much worse to you.”
Ike nods, eyes not reaching far enough to meet Stan’s.
“I know. Kyle always did.”
It’s a weird sentence, full of so much emotion yet devoid of it at all. It sounds almost defensive. Stan knows better than to press further, though.
He runs his drills, he jokes with his friends, he makes fun of Cartman. It’s a familiar, comfortable routine, but Ike is now a part of it. It throws everything off-balance.
Stan thinks it’s slightly scary, all things considered.
He likes the rush regardless. He likes Ike. He likes that they’re reconnecting, that they’re teammates.
The sick feeling around Ike hasn’t ceased, but it’s getting easier to ignore. Kyle isn’t mentioned again, and as per usual, all is forgotten by the time they step off the ice, sweating and aching. They’re all in high spirits - Ike is practically glowing as he takes off his helmet. Clyde and Tolkien have swarmed him, excitedly recounting his feats on the ice.
“He’s fucking loving it.” Kenny leans over to Stan when they seat themselves on the bench, beginning to peel off their kits and change back into their regular clothes.
“I know. He’s such a little shit.” Stan smirks. He catches sight of Cartman, sulking as he changes. It’s nothing new.
“Did he say anything? About…” Kenny’s voice drops once more, and he leans in closer, the pair still watching Ike become smothered by the two defenders.
“What? Oh. Fuck off, Ken.” Stan’s gaze falls to his skates, and he works on tugging them off with more force than needed.
“Lighten up, Stanley. You just need to have hope. Maybe this is an opportunity for you.” Stan’s skates finally come off, and he stuffs them into his bag. No covers, no cleaning. He’s frustrated.
“No, I need to think of the team. I’m not here for that. I just wanna be able to help Ike without having to think about it. And that includes you hassling me.”
Kenny frowns but doesn’t push the subject further. Stan is wound up, stuffing his kit away carelessly as he changes.
“You know I only want to see you happy, right?” Kenny’s expression is worried. The rest of the team has left now.
“I know. I know. I appreciate it, Ken.” Stan sighs. Kenny wraps him in a short hug, but Stan doesn’t return it.
He’s exhausted - from practice and from his own emotions. Kenny relinquishes him with a pat on the back and a reassuring smile, which Stan has the energy to return. He swings his bag over his back and leaves Kenny with a wave - an unspoken goodbye.
Stepping out of the building, a chill wraps its way around Stan’s body. It’s almost sharp on his burning skin, so he pulls his coat closer around himself.
It's dark outside. Stan’s vision is illuminated by the rink’s blinding floodlights. His mom hasn’t arrived yet, and he’s freezing - he pulls his ungloved hands to his mouth to warm them up just a little.
Just beyond the floodlights, Stan catches sight of Ike. He’s standing outside a car; he recognises it as Mrs. Broflovski’s. Though it’s not her driving it, nor is it her currently standing over Ike, expression twisted in rage. A shock of ginger hair bounces as he quarrels, and his arms are folded defiantly across an olive sweater.
Stan swears his heart stops.
It's Kyle. He’d forgotten he’d be coming. He can hear Ike arguing back, though he can’t hear what either are saying.
He’s not really sure what he wants to hear, anyway. He thinks he knows what they’re fighting about.
He shifts, still gazing at the pair, still blowing on his frigid palms for any warmth he can. Kyle turns, his eyes locking with Stan’s.
Stan’s own eyes widen, and his hands fall from his face. They’re both staring, and it feels like time has stopped, but Kyle’s expression is growing madder and madder, and by the time Stan is able to offer a small wave, he’s slamming the car door and speeding away, Ike in tow.
His hand drops as the purr of the engine grows quiet, and there’s nothing left of Kyle but a hateful stare and the bang of a car door lingering in his memory.
Stan doesn’t know where he went wrong.
His mother pulls up at that moment, lighting up Stan’s disoriented face. He’s quick to run to the passenger side, shoving his bag and stick into the back.
“How was practice, Stanley?” Sharon is smiling - it's tired, almost defeated, but she’s smiling as if Stan is the first rays of summer sun. They pull out of the parking lot, Stan struggling with his seatbelt.
“O-Oh! It was good, Mom. Feels weird being captain, y’know?” He gazes wistfully out the window, his own reflection staring back longingly. “Ike joined the team, too. ‘S pretty cool. He’s still really good.”
“That’s nice.” Stan can tell by her tone that she wants to push for more, yet she doesn’t. He appreciates that about her.
“How’s Dad been tonight?” Stan asks, quieter. The silence is thick for a moment.
“Don’t you worry about him, Stanley,” Sharon scolds him lightly, “It’s all fine. Just… don’t be too loud when we get home.”
Stan nods, swallowing. He’s prepared for a warzone when they pull onto the drive. He guesses he’s sort of crazy for being glad to see Randy passed out on the couch in his own drunken stupor, but he knows that’s his version of normal now. He shirks off his shoes and drops his bag at the door, padding to the kitchen to meet Sharon. She hands him a plate of warm shepherd’s pie, leaning against the counter with a glass of water as Stan seats himself at the table to eat. Silence falls upon the kitchen, the only sounds being the muffled television and Stan’s cutlery against the plate.
He mutters a thank-you to Sharon as he goes to drop his plate in the sink. Before he leaves, Stan pulls her in for a quick hug, gripping her sweater almost desperately. She kisses his forehead and runs her hands gently across his back.
“It’ll be okay, sweetie,” She whispers in his ear, so quietly that he would’ve missed it if not for their proximity. “You focus on your hockey, yeah? You’re killing it, Captain.”
She releases him with a smile, and Stan has to fight to hold back tears as he climbs the stairs to his room. He breaks once he’s in the shower, his sobs cloaked by running water and cloudy steam.
By the time Stan crashes against his pillow, he’s all out of tears. His eyes are swollen and his nose is stuffy, and he can’t seem to get comfortable.
That night he dreams of flaming hair and confetti, and of a life where things don’t seem quite so shit.
The team’s next practice session can’t come sooner for Stan. A weekend at home with Randy is exhausting; Stan’s drained beyond belief and wants nothing more than to get back on the ice. He shuts the front door with a resounding slam - and only prays the force isn't enough to send their crumbling family collapsing into the dirt.
He kisses Sharon on the cheek in the parking lot, letting his arms ghost around her neck just a second longer than normal. He even walks faster than usual to the changing rooms; when he arrives, Ike is the only one there, almost fully kitted out and reading from a thick book.
“Hi.” Ike jumps, like he’d been expecting to be the only person there for a while longer.
“Oh, Stan, what’s up?” Ike smiles up at him. Stan moves to sit next to him on the bench, resting his head in his hands. It's clear to anyone that he’s exhausted.
“Nothing much, you?” Ike seems to pull a face, turning back to his book.
“Same, I guess. Unless you count lunatic brothers. He’s not fucking shut up about you all weekend.” Stan raises his head all too quickly, his attention suddenly focused on Ike.
“About me?” He’s pretending to be shocked, staring at Ike, begging him to carry on.
“Mhm.” Ike’s tone is curt, and Stan knows he’s not going to say anything more. He’s already said enough, even mentioning it. The last thing Stan wants is even more trouble for Ike.
He turns away with a sigh, tugging his bag onto his lap. The others begin to file in, then Kenny, with a bored expression on his face as Cartman traipses behind him; then Clyde and Tolkien, talking animatedly about a movie they’d seen over the weekend.
They all greet each other animatedly, and Stan already feels the fatigue lifting from his shoulders. Kenny hugs him tightly, almost sending the pair of them toppling into Ike.
Nobody’s mad or upset, and they never are. It's just how they function. Stan’s so eternally grateful that Ike gets to be a part of it now.
When Stan steps out on the ice, he feels eyes trained on him like daggers. The team spread out around him, chatting amongst themselves and paying no mind to their captain’s troubles.
Stan sees him, perched high in the stands. It’s the hair - always impossible to miss when he wasn’t covering it with an ushanka out of crippling insecurity.
Kyle doesn’t look back. His eyes are trained firmly on something not within the rink’s bounds, and his arms are folded stiffly across his chest. It’s clear he’d rather be anywhere but here.
Even if Stan tried to wave, Kyle wouldn’t see. He’d probably choose not to notice. Hesitantly, Stan turns his back, skating toward his team with an uneasy stomach.
Their coach arrives, and they run through their usual drills. Stan’s so distracted by Cartman’s whines and insults that he almost forgets about Kyle’s presence; it's only when he catches a blur of orange in his peripheral vision that the uneasy feeling rises once more.
It’s mostly subsided by the time that Stan pulls Ike over to one side of the rink, instructing the rest of the team to carry on their drills. He wants to see Ike’s full skillset without being distracted by his own responsibilities in a game setting, as well as those of his idiotic teammates.
“Now, you probably know we’re not too big on ice-fights.” Stan’s been watching over Ike for a while, offering input here and there, mostly observing. For now, they’re just talking about the team. “We’ll get into them, sure. But we mostly just try to leave them to Cartman.”
Ike lets out a small sigh.
“Good god, I think my mom'd faint if you were.” They both chuckle.
“Can’t let our precious Ike get hurt now, can we, bubbe?” Stan puts on a terrible impression of Sheila with a horrific Jersey accent and lunges to tackle Ike to the ice. The smaller boy screams, falling easily under Stan’s strength.
They’re laughing. They’re having fun, and everything is great. Ike lays on the ice, unable to contain his giggles over Stan’s amazingly bad impression.
Stan pulls himself to his feet, holding a hand out for Ike to grasp. They’re both red-cheeked and smiling as Ike looks out at the now-empty rink.
“Shit, they left without us!” he exclaims.
“Dicks.” Stan mutters under his breath, but he’s grinning. He grabs his and Ike’s sticks from where they were resting against the rink wall, tossing the latter’s to him with a neat, small throw.
His eyes move across the stands to where Kyle had previously perched, but now there’s no sign of him. He’s almost relieved, if not slightly saddened.
“Stan! You coming? Ike’s skating towards the gate, bellowing across the ice to a frozen Stan.
“Yeah, wait up!” He glides across the ice with expert speed, hopping out of the gate and greeting Ike with a playful punch.
"I've gotta grab a drink; take my stick for me?” He gestures toward the water fountain. Ike nods and takes Stan’s hockey stick, marching out of the changing room with far too much purpose packed into his tiny frame. He smiles, watching the sight fondly, before turning to seek out the water fountain.
Stan doesn’t register the sound of heavy boots marching toward him. He pushes up the cage on his helmet, moving to lean over the faucet as a rough hand grasps his shoulder and shoves him straight against the wall.
He bites back a yelp, eyes wide and hands rushing up to grasp the offending arm. Their grip is tight, all nails digging in and quivering slightly from the force. Stan follows it to where it connects to a slim body, then to a neck, and to a head.
Stan feels like fainting when their eyes meet.
Kyle Broflovski, in all his fury. His eyes are sunken and angry, boring deep into Stan and not breaking contact. He leans forwards slightly to match Stan’s height - Kyle had always had just an inch or so on him, even in skates. He’s sure he could count every freckle on his cheeks, splayed out like a galaxy across his face.
“Don’t lay a hand on my brother like that again, Marsh.” Kyle’s voice has deepened in such a lovely way, but his words are so venomous and his tongue is barbed with toxic words. His tone leaves cuts in Stan’s heart. It’s so hate-filled, so furious, so unlike Kyle.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Kyle shoves him back and releases his vice grip before he can. He turns and stalks away, leaving Stan breathless against the wall. He still feels like there’s something keeping him pinned there, watching Kyle walk off, anger radiating off his shoulders, a slight limp in his right leg.
Stan’s too swept up by this confrontation to even think about getting water. He manages to reach up to unlatch his helmet, pulling it off and running a shaking hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
He’s trembling all over.
What did he ever do to provoke that? Stan wracks his brains as he finally moves, slowly, back to the changing rooms. All he can feel is Kyle’s touch ghosting over his shoulder and Kyle’s vile words down his ear. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he almost misses his teammates jumping up to swarm him.
Ike is most noticeably absent.
“Dude, you just missed that!” Clyde grabs onto Stan’s shoulders. He shakes him slightly, but it’s enough to make the place where Kyle shoved him so roughly flare up again. He shirks off Clyde’s hands, pushing past the small crowd to get to his bag.
His stick is laid neatly on the bench next to it.
“Stan? You okay?” Tolkien leans over, a worried expression etched onto his face.
“‘M fine.” Stan manages, tugging his shirt over his head. He’s upset, he’s confused, and he doesn’t want to talk to any of them. They won’t understand.
“Stan’s mad he missed out! Haha!” Cartman snorts, earning a glare from both Kenny and Tolkien.
“Fine then, Cartman, tell me! What the fuck did I miss out on that was just sooo cool!?” Stan’s growing visibly frustrated as he tosses his shirt on top of his bag, whipping around to stare the goalie down. His voice echoes painfully around the otherwise silent room.
“Your fucking boyfriend came in here, pissed the fuck off, and dragged Ike right out! It was so funny!” Cartman can’t seem to spit his words out, taking heaving breaths between them to hold back his laughter.
“We already told you, it’s not fucking funny, asshole.” Kenny’s teeth are gritted as his hand slides to rest on Stan’s arm. Tolkien nods firmly in agreement.
“Loosen up, Kenny, it was fucking hilarious! He was even dressed up like a fag!” Despite his words Cartman backs towards the door as murderous stares from Kenny and Tolkien train on him.
“Just shut up, Cartman. No-one’s in the fucking mood to listen to you.” Tolkien replies. Stan’s almost frozen, the rise and fall of his chest the only indication of his still being present.
“You guys are such assholes, honestly, no fucking fun at all. I’m going home.” He leaves, and Clyde is quick to follow, unsure of how to react amidst the tension.
Stan falls back onto the bench, hiding his face in his hands. He draws heavy, quick breaths. All Kenny and Tolkien can do is watch in concern.
“Stan, seriously, are you okay? Cartman’s gone now. You can talk to us.” Tolkien’s voice is unshaken and clear.
“‘M fucking fine.” It comes out a little more agitated than Stan intends. “Just tired. He just… pisses me off so fucking much, y’know?”
Stan’s unsure as to whether he’s referring to Cartman or Kyle at this point.
They sit in silence for a moment longer, before Tolkien announces his departure. Stan lifts his head to wave goodbye. It’s just him and Kenny now.
Stan finally moves to finish changing. He tugs off his skates, his padding, everything, and begins to pull on his regular clothes. He’s still quiet, and Kenny watches his every move.
“You talked to him, didn’t you?” Stan freezes. He hates how perceptive Kenny can be. He doesn’t want to think about Kyle right now.
“Not right now, Ken.” Stan’s voice is flat. “He’s turned into such a dick. I don’t wanna think about it.”
Kenny nods in understanding, and falls quiet again. He offers small smiles as support while Stan changes, though not much more. It leaves Stan alone with his thoughts. He hates that.
When Stan finishes changing, he picks up his bag and stick. He stands, quiet for a moment, eyebrows furrowed.
“I don’t know what I did, Kenny.” He bites his lip as Kenny stands up, reaching out to pull Stan into a hug.
“Don’t get upset. Shit changes. People grow. If Kyle wants to be a dick, he can be a dick. You just have to be a bigger person.” Stan’s hands grasp the back of Kenny’s parka, and presses his head further into his friend’s shoulder.
“You’re doing amazing, Stan. The best you have in a long time. You do what feels right. I’ll be with you for it all.” Kenny gives him a light squeeze before surrendering him, offering Stan a toothy smile.
“Thanks, Ken. That really helped.” Stan smiles back, though it’s sort of melancholy and empty. There’s a sadness seated just behind his eyes.
“As I always do. Anyway, see you at school?” Kenny’s heading towards the door, and Stan’s feet follow, eager to escape how suffocating the changing room had become over the course of the last few minutes.
“Yeah. See you.” They both go their separate ways - Kenny to meet Karen, and Stan to meet Sharon outside.
She’s already waiting today, and Stan’s grateful to collapse into the passenger seat beside her. Once again, their journey is spent mostly in silence, with Stan offering short, vague answers to her questions about practice.
Their conversation fizzles out after that. Stan’s eyes stay focused on the road as his final, usual question forms on his tongue; he’s scared to ask, as always, but this time more so.
“How’s Dad?”
Sharon doesn’t reply for a moment. Only the hum of the engine can be heard.
“He went out, sweetie. Don’t you worry about him tonight.”
Stan knows that, realistically, he should be relieved. No Randy means no arguments, no torrent, no drunken abuse, and no beer stench seeping into his nose. He doesn’t really feel anything other than contempt for his father anymore. Mostly just upset for Sharon.
Stan worries for her a lot. He worries for her vice grip on the steering wheel, the unusually clean house, the meal she serves him cold. He doesn’t complain, he never does - but he worries a lot.
He’ll easily admit that he’s scared. He’s scared of Randy and what he could do to Sharon. What he could do to Shelley. Not so much what he could do to Stan. Randy makes him feel powerless - like he’s got no strength from hockey, like he means absolutely nothing to him. Stan figures he could at least put his strength into protecting his mother and sister, but he’s unsure of how much fight he’d have left when the time comes that Randy turns his fists on him.
Stan moves through his nightly routine like a zombie. At the forefront of his mind is Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, and a hollow, empty feeling he can’t shake. His stomach feels like a pit that keeps crumbling away around the edge - the more Stan thinks of Kyle’s tight grip and vicious glare, the pit opens wider and he falls deeper into its despair.
By the time he awakens the next morning, Stan knows what he wants. He skips breakfast, almost impatient to get to the bus stop, stuffing his books into his bag with little care as he yells his goodbyes to Sharon.
Randy’s blacked out on the couch. Stan rolls his eyes at the sight - his deadbeat, waste-of-space father, too drunk and stupid to even drag himself up to bed.
He slams the door as he leaves. Stan knows it pisses Randy off, especially if he’s hungover. It’s exactly the reason he does it.
There are multiple times on the journey to the bus stop that Stan nearly trips. He’s so full of nervous energy that he walks a slight bit quicker, fumbling over his own feet and sending his pacing heart plummeting. For the first time in a long time, he’s grateful to see the yellow signpost buried within the roadside clearing.
Stan stands alone at the bus stop, rubbing his hands together for warmth. An anxious aura radiates off him as he looks for Kenny approaching, praying that his desires don’t sound completely ridiculous once verbalised.
Kenny arrives with an exhausted hum, slumping against Stan and closing his eyes. Stan’s restless, hardly able to keep still to support his friend. After a few moments, he decides to ignore his racing heart and take the plunge.
“I want to make things right with Kyle.” Stan stays looking ahead, mouth pressed into a straight line, gripping his backpack straps with a newfound determination.
Kenny barely moves; he just presses his face into the crook of Stan’s neck.
“You sure?” Stan nods. Kenny sighs.
“Okay. Just… please be careful.”
“I promise.” Stan wraps an arm around Kenny’s shoulders and the pair stand in silence, the words they wish to speak not quite reaching the tips of their tongues.